CHAPTER LIV.—TREATS OF A METAMORPHOSIS NOT DESCRIBED BY OVID.
“You were going to tell me some anecdote,” Laura observed as Leicester quitted the studio.
The Cicerone, who was a venerable-looking old man with grey hair and a thoroughly Italian cast of features, placed a chair for the lady before a view in Venice, at which she had not yet looked, and then resumed—
“Favorisca di sedersi la prego Signora. I was going to relate how the Signore whom I serve generously rescued me from ruin; but to do so I must trouble the Eccellenza with a few particulars of my own history. I was originally educated as a painter, but although I was a correct copyist, and possessed some skill in mixing colours, I had not the afflatus, the inexplicable, the divine gift of genius, which cannot be acquired. Look at these pictures,” he continued, warming into enthusiasm as lie pointed to the paintings from the “Giaour”; “in my prime I could execute better than that, my colouring was richer and smoother, my shades less hard and abrupt, though to acquire that skill had cost me fifteen years’ constant study; but alas! the mind was wanting. I could execute but I could not conceive—my pictures would never have entranced any one as you were entranced before those great soul-creations!” He paused, sighed deeply, then resumed: “So I grew poor, I had a wife and children to support, and I bent my pride to become a scene-painter at the Fenice Theatre. I worked there twenty long years, and then from over use my eyesight grew dim, and they discarded me. After that I was employed by the great painter of the day, Signore B—elli, to prepare canvas and mix colours for the young artists whom he instructed. A year and a half ago a pupil came to study with him—he was a stranger——”
“Of what country?” inquired Laura eagerly.
“I cannot inform the Signora. He speaks French, German, Italian, and very rarely English, equally well, but I do not think he is a fellow-countryman of mine. The other young artists who frequented B—elli’s studio would often tease me for sport, but the Signore was always kind, and would not permit them to do so when he was present. One day a pupil, who was finishing the drapery of a Madonna and Child, of which picture all the more important parts had been painted by B—elli himself, called to me to bring him some particular colour which he required—in my haste I stumbled and overthrew a flask of oil, which fell upon the not yet dry painting, entirely obliterating the features of the Madonna. Irritated at the difficulty into which I had plunged both him and myself, the student sprang up and seized me by the throat; in a moment the Signore Luigi interfered, and compressing the youth’s arm in his powerful grasp, forced him to release me.
“‘Remember, Carlo,’ he said gently, ‘Antonelli is an old man.’
“‘He has ruined himself and me!’ exclaimed the other, clasping his hands in despair; ‘B—elli will discharge him without doubt, and me he will refuse to instruct any longer.’
“‘Perhaps there is yet an alternative,’ urged the Signore Luigi; ‘B—elli will not return till to-morrow morning; much may be done in eighteen hours; I will strive to restore the face.’
“He immediately set to work; fortunately he paints with as much quickness as skill. When night drew near he dismissed us; through the long hours of darkness he laboured incessantly, pausing neither for sleep nor refreshment. With the earliest ray of dawn I was again at the studio: he was painting still, calm, earnest, grave, as is his wont, only appearing a little paler than usual; but such a work of art had grown beneath his hand, such a marvellous creation! the Madonna herself could not have appeared more lovely than was that heavenly face. It was completed ere B—elli arrived; when he beheld it he was amazed.
“What inspired hand has traced those features?” he demanded. The history was related to him. He once more examined the picture, then turning to the Signore, who stood near with folded arms, gazing on the other’s excitement with an air of cold indifference, he exclaimed in a tone of mingled admiration and rage, “Go, I can teach thee no longer; it is thou shouldst be the master.”
“The Signore took him at his word. He engaged these painting rooms, arranged with B—elli that I should accompany him, and is now the first painter in Italy as to talent, and when his execution is a little more perfected—ah! se ne saprà qualche cosa, we shall see how men will talk of him!”
“And the head was very lovely, was it? what style of face was it?” inquired Laura.
“How can I tell you? it was perfection, vi bisognava vederla,” was the enthusiastic reply. “Stay,” he continued, glancing at the clock, which now only wanted ten minutes to five; “I have an idea; there is yet time, but you must never relate that you have beheld it. Here, follow me;” and drawing out a key, he unlocked a door leading into a small apartment, comfortably though simply furnished, and fitted up with bookshelves somewhat after the fashion of an English study. “Ecco!” resumed Antonelli, “he has again sketched the head, but the subject is different. He will not allow me to place this picture in the studio, though it is such a gem I could sell it for a large price.”
As he spoke he drew back a curtain, and the light fell upon a small picture painted with greater care, and more elaborately finished than any which Laura had yet seen. It represented a girl of exquisite beauty in a kneeling attitude, with her arms flung sportively around the neck of a magnificent dog, her golden tresses falling over and mingling with the waves of his shaggy coat.
As Laura gazed her colour went and came quickly, and her eyes seemed to grow to the canvas: both girl and dog were portraits done to the life, and she recognised each of them immediately—her wild conjecture was then the truth!—her determination was instantly taken. Seating herself as if to examine the picture more nearly, she contrived by one or two artful questions to set the garrulous old man talking again, and forgetful of the flight of moments, drew him on to relate to her how the Signore had discovered that his youngest born, the son of his old age, possessed a talent for painting, and how the Signore was giving him lessons, and the talent was daily developing under such favourable circumstances, until the old man had begun to hope that the boy might succeed better than his father had done, and retrieve the shipwrecked fortunes of the Antonellis.
While he was yet in the midst of his recital the clock struck five, and almost at the same moment a quick, active footstep was heard bounding up the staircase, and the deep tones of a man’s voice exclaimed—
“Antonelli, Antonelli, dove sei buon amico?”
With a horror-stricken glance at his companion, the old man was about to rush precipitately out of the room, when Laura, quietly laying her hand upon his arm, said—
“There is nothing to be alarmed about! bisogna ch’io gli parli—tell the Signore that an old friend is waiting to see him.”
As she spoke a tall, graceful figure appeared at the door of the study, and stopped in amazement on perceiving how it was tenanted. In no way embarrassed by the situation in which she found herself, Laura rose from her seat with the same degree of quiet, courteous, self-possession with which she would have received a guest in her own drawing-room, and advancing towards the new-comer, said, holding out her hand—
“Your kindness will pardon the little stratagem by which I have sought to verify my conjecture, that in Signore Luigi I should have the pleasure of recognising an old friend.”
“Leave us, Antonelli,” exclaimed his employer sternly; then carefully closing the door, he turned towards his guest, and bowing coldly, inquired, “To what am I indebted for the honour of a visit from Mrs. Leicester?”
“To the fact that I was vain enough to fancy the pleasure I feel in meeting an old friend might be mutual; and that Mr. Arundel would not resent the liberty I have taken in disregarding the regulations of the famous Signore Luigi: if I am so unfortunate as to have committed a mistake, it is soon remedied,” she continued quickly, finding that Lewis—(as we have not intended any but the most transparent mystification in regard to the identity of the painter and our hero, we may as well call him by his proper name)—remained silent; as she spoke she rose and advanced towards the door. Her look and words recalled Lewis’s wandering thoughts; he took her hand, reconducted her to her seat, and then in a tone of deep feeling said—
“Forgive me! but you do not, cannot know the train of overpowering memories your sudden appearance called up; indeed I am glad again to look upon the face of an old friend, since you accord me the privilege of so considering you—glad as a two years’ exile from all who ever knew or cared for him can make a man.”
“Is it so long since you quitted England?” inquired Laura.
“It is,” was the reply. Lewis paused, and then continued: “I left England under circumstances which caused me great mental suffering—suffering which time and a complete change of scene could alone render less bitter. I travelled for five months, passing through Greece and visiting Constantinople; at the expiration of that period I wandered hither, my vigour of mind and body in great measure restored. The wonders of this country revived my enthusiasm for art; this, and the necessity of following some profession, led me to the idea of adopting the career of a painter. For a year I worked ten hours daily in the studio of Signore B—elli, at the end of that period I quitted him and commenced painting on my own account; hitherto my success has surpassed my most sanguine expectations, so that I trust I have at last hit upon my true vocation.”
“I am so delighted to hear it!” exclaimed Laura warmly; “but how is it we have seen nothing of you before—did you not hear of our arrival? we have been here more than a month!”
Lewis coloured, bit his lip, and then replied, “My recollections of England were so painful that I resolved, partly for that reason, partly that I might keep my mind free from any anxieties which could interfere with my devoting my faculties fully and entirely to my new profession, to avoid the society of the few English who were likely to come in my way; indeed, my only associates have been the young artists with whom I became acquainted in the studio of B—elli, and the family of the worthy old man who acts as my assistant.”
“But you will make us exceptions to the rule?” pleaded Laura; “Charles will be really hurt if you refuse to come to us.” Lewis paused, his impulse was to refuse, but there was a genuine kindness in Laura’s manner which vouched for her sincerity; had she been a man he would have adhered to his resolution, but it was not easy to say no to Laura.
“Forgive my apparent churlishness,” he began, “but may I ask whether you have any of—of your English friends staying with you?”
“Not at present; Charles and I are leading a quiet, humdrum Darby and Joan life, which need not alarm even your hermit-like habits. You must promise to dine with us to-morrow at six.”
“You are most good-natured to humour what must appear to you my absurd caprices,” replied Lewis, touched by her thoughtful kindness.
“But you will come?” she said, holding out her hand to him.
Lewis took it in his own, and pressed it warmly as he replied, “Nobody could resist such gentle pleading.”
At this moment the door was flung open, and Charles Leicester burst in, looking more puzzled, excited, and angry than he had ever been known to do in the previous course of his existence; while Antonelli, vociferating eagerly in Italian and broken English, was vainly endeavouring to detain him.
CHAPTER LV.—IS DECIDEDLY ORIGINAL, AS IT DISPLAYS MATRIMONY IN A MORE FAVOURABLE LIGHT THAN COURTSHIP.
The Honourable Charles Leicester was, take him all in all, about as easy-tempered a fellow as ever breathed; but when old Antonelli informed him that his young and pretty wife was closeted with a mysterious stranger, at the same time positively refusing to allow him to enter the apartment in which they were shut up together, even he considered that it was time to exert himself; so seizing the old man by the arm and swinging him round with a degree of energy which greatly discomposed that worthy cicerone, he threw open the door, and staring with an angry and bewildered gaze into the dimly-lighted room, discovered, to his horror and disgust, Laura quietly sitting with her hand clasped in that of a handsome young Italian, for such did Lewis at first sight appear. The period which had elapsed since Leicester had last seen him had produced so marked a change in his appearance, that meeting him for the first time under circumstances so utterly disconnected with all former associations, he might well deem he was addressing a total stranger. Lewis’s pale features had regained in a great degree their look of health, and exposure to a southern sun had converted the delicate complexion into a manly brown, while, having allowed his moustaches and even a short curly beard to grow, the lower part of his face was enveloped in a mass of glossy black hair; this, and the stern, thoughtful expression of his countenance, caused him to look at least five years older than he really was. He rose as Leicester entered and advanced a step towards him; then, seeing that the other did not in the slightest degree recognise him, he paused and exchanged a smiling glance with Laura as he marked Charley’s puzzled, angry expression.
Laura, entering thoroughly into the absurdity of the situation, determined to improve it to the uttermost; returning Lewis’s glance with a look into which she contrived to throw an amount of tenderness that by no means soothed her husband’s irritation, she began—
“Ah, Charles, let me introduce you; you will be delighted to hear that Signore Luigi has kindly promised to dine with us to-morrow.”
“The deuce he has!” muttered Leicester to himself; “he might have waited till I had asked him, I think;” then acknowledging the introduction by a freezing little bow, he continued aloud—
“Now, my dear Laura, we must really be going;” then crossing to the place where his wife was seated, he held out his arm with the evident intention of linking hers with it and walking her off forthwith.
But Laura clearly disapproved of such precipitation; for without showing the slightest disposition to move, she replied—
“Restrain your impatience a few minutes longer, Mr. Leicester. Having formed so agreeable an acquaintance,” she continued, glancing at Lewis, “you really must allow me time to prosecute it.”
It was not in Charles Leicester’s nature to be angry with any one for five minutes consecutively; with his wife, whom he idolised, it was utterly impossible; so, making up his mind that Luigi was a kind of lion, to be regarded in the light of an exhibition, and stared at and fed accordingly, and that Laura’s sudden fancy for him was only an instance of womanly caprice—“women always went mad about celebrities,” he knew—he made a short, penitent, civil speech, and then flung himself lazily into a chair, with a look of half-bored, half-sulky resignation, which, under the circumstances, was perfectly irresistible.
That his two companions found it so was evidenced by their simultaneously bursting into a hearty fit of laughter, increased to an alarming degree by the look of blank astonishment that came over Leicester’s face at their incomprehensible conduct.
As soon as Laura could recover breath she began, “Why, Charley, you dear, good-natured, stupid old thing! don’t you see who it is yet?”
At the same moment the Mysterious One approached him, saying, “Have you quite forgotten the existence of Lewis Arundel?”
For a moment Charley gazed in half-sceptical astonishment, and then seizing his hand, and shaking it as if he were anxious to make up for his dulness by dislocating his friend’s shoulder, he exclaimed, “My dear fellow, I’m delighted to see you—I really am quite ashamed of myself—but, ’pon my word, you’ve made yourself look so particularly unlike yourself, and the whole thing altogether is so very strange and unexpected, and more like an incident in a novel than a real bona-fide transaction of every-day life, that you must hold me excused. My dear Laura, I began to think you were gone out of your senses, and that I should have to procure a keeper for you. Why, Arundel, then you’ve turned out a genius after all, a second Michael Angelo, eh! I prophesied you would, if you remember, that day when you painted the cow?”
As he spoke he stooped to pick up his cane and gloves, which in the excitement of the discovery he had allowed to drop; consequently he did not perceive the effect his words had produced upon Lewis. Did he remember the incident to which Leicester had alluded? Would to heaven he could forget that which was branded on his memory as with a red-hot iron, the fact that on the day in question he had for the first time beheld Annie Grant! He turned pale—the blood seemed to rush back upon his heart, and oppress him with a feeling of suffocation—he was forced to lean against a table for support.
These signs of emotion were not lost upon Laura’s quick eye, and rising at the moment to divert her husband’s attention, she observed, “Now I have at length succeeded in enlightening your understanding, Charley dear, I am quite at your service.”
“Come along then,” was the reply; “you’ll dine with us to-morrow without fail, Signore Luigi, alias Arundel, you polyglot mystery. ’Pon my word, it’s the oddest coincidence I ever knew, exactly like a thing in a play, where everybody turns out to be somebody else. Come along, Laura; I must try and conciliate your old friend the cicerone, too, for I swung him round in my wrath most viciously; I hope I have not dislocated any of his venerable joints; I got the steam up to no end of a height, I can tell you, when I fancied I had lost my love. By-by, al piacer di rivederla, Signore.” Thus running on, Charley Leicester tucked his wife under his arm, and having handsomely rewarded Antonelli, departed.
In the course of their walk home, Laura, after her husband had again and again expressed his astonishment at the denouement which had just taken place, inquired, “You never clearly made out the reason why Mr. Arundel quitted Broadhurst, did you, Charley?”
“No! Bellefield hinted in his way, which gives one an impression without one’s exactly knowing what grounds one has for taking it up, that Arundel had misconducted himself in some manner; but the General’s letter quite contradicted such an idea, and spoke of him in the very highest terms. I thought nothing of what Bellefield said, for they never liked one another, and entre nous, I consider Belle behaved shamefully to him on one or two occasions.”
Laura paused for a minute in thought, and then inquired, “What did the remark you made about sketching a cow refer to?”
“Oh! did I never tell you that?” returned Charles, laughing; “the incident occurred on the occasion of his first introduction to the Grant family;” and then he proceeded to give her a full, true, and particular account of the interesting adventure, with which the reader is already acquainted. As he concluded, Laura observed—
“In fact, then, he beheld for the first time Annie Grant. Now I can guess why he turned pale when you referred to it: Charley, you must be very careful how you say anything about the Broadhurst party before him.”
“Eh! and wherefore, oh wise little woman, endowed with an unlimited power of seeing into milestones?” was the bantering reply.
“Well, if I tell you, you must promise never to mention the idea, for it is only an idea, to anybody till I give you leave,” returned Laura.
Charley compressed his lips, and went through a pantomimic representation of sewing them together.
“Nay, but I’m serious,” resumed Laura; “if I tell you, you must be careful, and not blunder it out in any of your absent fits; do you promise?”
“I’ll do more than promise,” returned her husband energetically; “I’ll swear by all
The heathen gods and goddesses,
Without skirts and bodices,
never to reveal to mortal ear the fatal secret—so let us have it!”
“Well then, if you must know, I suspect Mr. Arundel to have had better taste than you, and not to have escaped with a whole heart from the fascinations of Annie Grant.”
“Phew—!” replied Leicester, giving vent to a prolonged whistle indicative of intense surprise; “that is the state of the case, eh? then my allusion to the cow was just about the most unlucky topic I could have hit upon. I certainly have a genius for putting my foot in it, whenever circumstances afford an aperture for the insertion of that extremity. I should not wonder if that idea of yours, always supposing it to be correct, might explain his sudden departure from Broadhurst, and account for this strange freak of expatriating himself and starting as a second-hand modern Michael Angelo. I say, Laura, suppose the fancy should happen to be mutual, Bellefield may have had more cause for disliking Arundel than people were aware of.”
“She would never have accepted your brother if she knew that another loved her, and felt that she returned his affection; Annie is too good and true-hearted for that,” returned Laura warmly.
“Time will show,” replied Leicester. “I only hope it may not be so; for between Arundel and Belle I should not know how to act. Belle is my brother, and to Arundel’s good advice I shall always consider I am in great measure indebted for a certain plague of my life—(without whose plaguing the said life wouldn’t be worth having, all the same);—the only course I can take, if our suspicions prove true, will be to preserve a strict neutrality.”
“And how would you wish me to act, Charley dear?” inquired Laura, taking her husband’s fingers caressingly between her own soft, white little hands. “You know I can’t recommend Annie to marry your brother if she does not love him.”
“Follow the dictates of your own good sense and kind heart, darling, and you will be sure to do rightly. I have the most perfect confidence in you, and would not influence you one way or another, if I could.”
The tears rose to Laura’s eyes at this fresh proof of her husband’s affection; and as she reflected on what he had said in regard to Lewis’s share in bringing them together, she inwardly vowed that if ever it lay in her power to do him a similar good turn, she would not be slothful in advancing his interests.
True to his promise, Lewis dined with them the next day; by mutual consent all reference to the past was avoided, and no allusion made to any of the Broadhurst party. As soon as Lewis found this to be the case, a certain proud embarrassment observable in his manner disappeared; and yielding to the delight of again finding himself in congenial society, he unconsciously displayed his brilliant conversational powers—relating, with playful wit, or forcible and striking illustration, the adventures which had befallen him, and the scenery he had beheld in his late pedestrian tour, till Charles and Laura, who had only been acquainted with him when the cloud of his dependent position at Broadhurst hung over him and concealed his natural character beneath a veil of proud reserve, were equally delighted and astonished; and when, late in the evening, he took his departure, they vied with each other in performing a duet to his praise.
“He talks so well!” exclaimed Charley.
“He knows so much!” cried Laura.
“He has been everywhere,” continued the former.
“And done everything,” resumed the latter.
“He is so clever and epigrammatic,” urged the gentleman.
“And his descriptions of scenery are so poetical,” put in the lady.
“His figure is so striking,” said the master.
“And his face so handsome,” rejoined the mistress.
“What a pair of eyes he has!”
“And such a smile!”
“Then his moustaches and whiskers are irreproachable.”
“And his hands whiter than mine.”
“In fact, he is a stunner!” declared the baritone.
“Though I detest slang, I must confess that he is,” chimed in the soprano.
“If I were a woman I should be over head and ears in love with him,” suggested Charley.
“I am both the one and the other,” responded his wife, casting an arch glance at her spouse, as much as to say, “How do you like that?” which rebellious speech her lord and master punished by stopping her mouth with—the only remedy we believe ever to have been found effectual in such a case.
From that time forth Lewis became a constant visitor at the Palazzo Grassini, and at last completed his triumph over Laura’s affections by asking, as a favour, to be allowed to take a sketch of “Tarley”; “he wanted a study of a child’s head so much.” Then the sketch was pronounced so successful that nothing would serve but that it must be perpetuated in oils, and as the possibility of making “Tarley” sit still long enough for such a purpose did not exist unless Laura sat also, Lewis consented to paint them together, although he had hitherto steadily refused to take a portrait, in spite of large sums which had been offered him to do so.
Laura received a second epistle from Annie Grant postponing their visit for another fortnight. Her father had all along expected Miss Livingstone would accompany them as a matter of course; but when it came to the point that redoubtable spinster broke into open revolt, asserted her independence, nailed her colours to the mast, and determined upon death or victory. So resolute was she, that after a most obstinate engagement with sharp tongues, which followed upon two days of sulky silence, the General was forced to make terms and yield his own will to that of a woman; so Minerva remained behind to garrison Broadhurst. As, however, the General by no means approved of his daughter travelling without some female companion, the journey was very nearly being given up, when, at the last moment, a lady, the wife of an Austrian officer quartered at Venice, was discovered, who, seeking for an escort to enable her to join her husband, was only too happy to be allowed to accompany the Grant party. These delays, however, would necessarily retard their arrival for at least a fortnight. Days passed away; the picture (and a very pretty one it was) of the fair young mother and her little, rosy, merry child, advanced towards completion, and Lewis began to look forward with a feeling almost akin to regret, to the time when the sittings, and the agreeable, friendly conversations to which they gave rise, would be at an end.
Since he had quitted England his thoughts and feelings had undergone various and considerable changes; at first he had striven, in the excitement of active adventure, to banish recollection, and after a time he succeeded so far as to take a lively interest in all he saw. The revolutionary spirit, which has since produced such changes in modern Europe, was then beginning to show itself, and he witnessed the outbreak of a rather serious émeute in one of the German States, in which he contrived to get mixed up, and by these means he came in for a couple of day’s hard fighting, and a week of intense fatigue and excitement. This, paradoxical as it may appear, was of the greatest psychological assistance to him; it roused him effectually, and took him completely out of himself. The excitement was kept up for some little time longer, for, owing to the part which his old student associations had led him to take in the affair, he brought upon himself the suspicions of the Prussian government, and the next event of his tour was in fact a flight to save himself from arrest. During this period he was accompanied by a young German, who, much more deeply implicated in the affair than Lewis had been, dreaded that his capture might lead to his execution; and unwilling to atone for his patriotism with his life, he and his companion hurried from the scene of their exploits, experiencing innumerable dangers, difficulties, and hairbreadth escapes, ere they arrived at that sanctuary for political refugees, the city of the Sultan. Having by these means regained his energy and vigour of mind, Lewis applied himself heart and soul to the study of his new profession, and in the interest of the pursuit kept his powers, mental and bodily, so fully employed as to hold memory at bay, and to require neither society nor sympathy. But now a change had again come o’er him; he had in great measure mastered the difficulties of his art, he had solved the problem whether by his talent he could secure a competency for himself and those belonging to him; constant and indefatigable labour was no longer an obligation, and ere the Leicesters discovered him he had begun to feel, though he would scarcely acknowledge it even to himself, the want of those social ties from which, in his first frenzy of grief, he had voluntarily separated himself. In the society of the Leicesters he obtained exactly the amount of relaxation which he required—Laura appreciated and understood him, Charles, without understanding, liked him; while on his part, the lady’s society interested and soothed him, and that of her husband afforded him amusement and companionship.
As the day approached on which the Broadhurst party were expected to arrive, Laura became considerably perplexed as to how she might best break the matter to Lewis: she had once, by way of experiment, mentioned to her husband, in Lewis’s presence, the fact that she had received a letter from Broadhurst, and the start he gave at the name, the death-like paleness which overspread his countenance, the quivering lip, and clenched hand, told of such deep mental suffering, that, frightened at the effects she had produced, Laura immediately changed the subject and had never again ventured to allude to it.
The last sitting for the picture chanced to be fixed for the very morning before that on which the Grants were expected to arrive. Laura consulted her husband as to the affair: Charley stroked his chin, caressed his whiskers, gazed vacantly at himself in the chimney-glass, and then, putting on a look of sapient self-confidence, in regard to the reality whereof it was clear he entertained the strongest misgivings, he began in a thorough master-of-the-family tone—
“Why, it seems to me, my love, that the present is exactly one of those emergencies in which a woman’s tact is the very thing required. I should advise you to feel your way with great caution, very great caution, and when by this means you have ascertained the best method of breaking it to him, I should speak at once without any further hesitation, and—and——”
“I think you had better undertake the business yourself, Charley dear, as you seem to have such a clearly defined idea how to set about it,” interrupted Laura with a roguish smile.
“Not at all; by no means, my dear,” replied Charley, speaking with unwonted energy. “A—in fact, so strongly do I feel that a woman’s tact is the thing required, and that any interference of mine might ruin the whole affair, and, in short, bring about something very disagreeable, that I have made arrangements which will keep me from home during the whole morning, so as to leave you a clear field.”
“Oh, you dreadfully transparent old impostor! a child of five years old could see through you,” exclaimed Laura, laughing heartily at the detected look which instantly stole over her husband’s visage. “Now, if you don’t honestly confess that you have not an idea how to get over the difficulty,” she continued, “that you dread a scene with a true degree of masculine horror, and yet have not the most remote notion how to avoid one, I’ll ‘make arrangements which will take me from home all the morning,’ and leave you to flounder through the affair as best you can.”
“There is a vixen for you,” exclaimed Charley, appealing to society at large. “Poor Socrates! I always had a deep commiseration for his domestic annoyances when I read of them at school, but I little dreamed that I should live to have personal experience of the miseries of possessing a Xantippe;” then throwing himself into a mock-tragic attitude, he ejaculated, “Ungrateful woman! I leave you to your fate,” and shaking his fist at her, pressed his hand to his forehead, and rushed distractedly out of the room—in less than two minutes he lounged in again, drawing on his gloves. “What a bore tight gloves are!” he murmured feebly—“here, Laura!” so saying, he seated himself by his wife’s side, languidly holding out his hand, while with the most helpless air imaginable he allowed her to pull on the refractory gloves for him, which she did with a most amusing display of energy and perseverance.
“Voilà, Monsieur!” she said; “that herculean feat is accomplished. Have you aught else to command your slave?”
Charley regarded her with a look of affection as he replied, “What a blessing it is to have a good, clever little wife to do all the horrid things for one! Good-bye, my own! When you have done victimising Arundel with your alarming intelligence, ask him to dine with us to-day; I want particularly to talk to him. He knows the people here better than I do; but it strikes me the politics of the place are getting into a fix.”
So saying, he imprinted a kiss upon her brow, admired his hand in the new, well-fitting glove, and sauntered out of the apartment as listlessly as though he were walking in his sleep.
Punctual to his appointment, Lewis arrived, looking so handsome and animated that Laura felt doubly grieved at having to make a communication which she was persuaded would tend to renew the memory of a grief against which he appeared to have struggled with some degree of success. Her task was rendered the more difficult from the conviction that Lewis’s intercourse with her husband and herself had been of great service to him, by insensibly overcoming his misanthropic distaste to society. This intercourse, she feared, the tidings she was about to impart to him would effectually interrupt.
“Where is ‘Tarley’?” inquired Lewis, after exchanging salutations with “La Madre.”
“In the nursery, adorning for the sacrifice of his personal freedom during the period you may require him to remain en position.” answered Laura; “shall I ring for him?”
“May I fetch him myself? I promised him a ride on my back for good conduct at the last sitting, and he must not be disappointed,” urged Lewis in reply.
“Agreed—always promising that you take great care not to tumble the clean frock,” returned Laura with a gratified smile. “Who could believe that man was the same creature who used to look so stern, and cold, and proud?” she added mentally, as Lewis departed on his mission; “he has as much tenderness of nature as any woman. If he really does love Annie, and she can prefer Lord Bellefield, she deserves all the unhappiness such a choice will inevitably bring upon her; her greatest enemy can wish her nothing worse. Well, ‘Tarley,’ are you going to sit still and be good?” she continued, as that self-willed juvenile entered, seated in triumph upon Lewis’s shoulder, and grasping a lock of his horse’s ebon mane the better to preserve his balance.
“Tarley” having signified in the very smallest broken English his intention to keep the peace to the best of his little ability, the sitting began in good earnest, and terminated, as far as that young gentleman was concerned, in less than an hour, during which period, as he only tore his mamma’s gown once, made a hole in the sofa-cover, and had one violent fit of kicking, he may comparatively be considered (all things are comparative) to have kept his word. A few finishing touches still remained to complete Laura’s portrait, and these Lewis hastened to add. The conversation (originating in “Tarley’s” escapades) turned on education.
“The theory which I hold to be the true one is simple enough,” remarked Lewis; “the first thing to inculcate is—oblige me by turning a little more to the light—implicit obedience; that once acquired—rather more still—you may, as the mind develops, occasionally give a reason for your commands—you see my object is to get a clearer light on the left eye-brow—thank you; don’t move.”
“But that obedience, to be of much avail, should be founded on other feelings than mere fear of punishment,” returned Laura; “for that in sturdy minds produces obstinacy, in weak ones deceit and falsehood, and in both cases necessarily loses its effect as the pupil advances towards maturity. It always appears to me that in our conduct towards children we should strive to imitate (with reverence be it spoken) God’s dealings towards ourselves. We should teach them to love and trust us, and obedience based on affection and faith will surely never fail for time or for eternity. Then,” she continued, as Lewis, bending over his work, failed to reply, “I should endeavour to make their punishments appear as much as possible the natural consequences of their faults; for instance, I should allow them to experience to the uttermost the mental suffering caused by pride and anger, and in their cooler moments point out to them that it may be wise, as well as right, to suffer even injustice mildly, rather than bear the distress of mind a contrary line of conduct is sure to entail. I should impress upon them the evil of coveting by denying them the thing they so eagerly sought. In fact,” she added hastily, fancying from her companion’s silence that for some reason her conversation was distasteful to him, “I have a great many sapient, theoretical ideas in regard to education, but how they may turn out when I come to put them in practice remains to be proved.”
Lewis, who during the conclusion of this speech had been painting away as zealously as if his life depended upon his exertions, though a close observer might have remarked, by his downcast eye and quivering lip, the effect Laura’s words produced on him, replied earnestly—
“Would to Heaven all mothers felt as truly and wisely as you do about education; were children taught such principles of self-government as you propose, there would be fewer aching hearts among us.”
Having uttered these words and sighed deeply, he spoke no more until he had finished Laura’s portrait.
“There,” he said, “I need detain you no longer; with the exception of a few touches to the drapery, which I can do at my own rooms, the picture is completed.”
Laura approached and duly admired it, declaring the likeness of “Tarley” to be perfect, but feeling quite certain Lewis had flattered her terribly, at which little touch of woman’s nature the young artist smiled as he denied the accusation. And now the moment had arrived when Laura must break her intelligence to him as best she might. Her straightforward, simple nature disdained all subterfuge, and she began accordingly.
“There is a topic which, from a fear, perhaps uncalled for, of giving you pain, Charles and I have avoided, but which I am now compelled to mention to you. You asked me at our first meeting whether we were alone; after to-day we shall be so no longer, and the guests we expect are none other than your former pupil Walter, General Grant, and his daughter.” Laura had purposely placed herself in such a position that she could not see her companion’s features as she made this communication, and the only sign of agitation which met her ear was the sound of his quick and laboured breathing.
After a moment’s pause he said in a hurried, stem tone of voice, “I cannot meet them! it is impossible, I must leave this place directly.”
“Nay, that surely is unnecessary, no one here knows you but ourselves; you have only to resume your incognito, and in Signore Luigi, the Venetian painter, no one will recognise Lewis Arundel. We will keep your secret inviolably.”
“Can I rely on the discretion of Mr. Leicester?”
“Perfectly; if he knows you consider the matter important, he will remain silent as the grave.”
“Be it so then,” returned Lewis after a pause. Having paced up and down the room, he threw himself on a sofa, and covering his eyes with his hand, remained buried in painful thought.
Laura watched him with deep interest, till at length she could restrain the expression of her sympathy no longer.
“I must speak that which is in my mind,” she said earnestly. “I know that you are good and true-hearted, you can have done no wrong that you have cause to be ashamed of, why then do you fear to meet these people?”
Lewis started, raised his head, and flinging back his dark hair, exclaimed almost fiercely, “Did you say fear? I fear no living being! There is no man who can accuse me of evil-doing; my name is as spotless as your own pure soul.”
“Then why refuse to meet them?”
“Because I fear my own heart,” was the vehement reply, “because I have sworn never to meet her again till I have learned to look upon her with the indifference her weak fickleness deserves, and that,” he added bitterly, “will not be till grey hairs bring insensibility to woman’s love and such-like gilded toys, or till she has crushed out the last germs of my lingering madness by marrying the heartless scoundrel to whom she is engaged.” He paused, and then continued more calmly, “You ask me why I refuse to meet these people; hear the truth, and then judge for yourself whether I can meet them; nay, judge for me also if you will, for I am half-frenzied by the anguish I have suffered, and am as incapable to decide for myself in this affair as a child, such puppets are we to our loves and hates;” and then in eager, hurried accent he told her of his love for Annie Grant, his struggle for self-conquest, his signal failure, his fearful hope that she returned his affection, the parting, his confession to the General, the strange tidings he had learned in London, and then the cruel paralysing blow of Annie’s engagement, renewed the very day after he had left Broadhurst, believing on no slight grounds that she loved him and him only. All the burning sorrow, pent for two long years within his secret soul, he poured forth before her; and Laura listened with glowing cheeks and tearful eyes, and a growing resolve in her brave, pure heart to set aside all conventionalisms and every hollow form of society, and if Annie should but prove worthy of him, to labour with all the energy of her earnest nature to bring these young, sad, loving hearts together again.
CHAPTER LVI.—LEWIS ATTENDS AN EVENING PARTY, AND NARROWLY ESCAPES BEING “CUT” BY AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
“Now listen to me, and be good, and sensible, and tractable for once in your life,” exclaimed Laura, when Lewis’s agitation had in some degree subsided. “You appear to have acted with more than sufficient self-will and impetuosity all through this affair, and the result has not proved so satisfactory as to justify you in refusing a friend’s advice and assistance. Excuse my plain speaking,” she continued, with a frank smile which would have thawed the moroseness of the most churlish misanthrope who ever reversed the precepts of Christianity by hating his neighbour, “but I must either say all I think or be wholly silent. Besides, it is no kindness to hide the truth from you.”
“What would you have me do?” returned Lewis sadly. “Believe me, I reproach myself for my past folly more bitterly than you could do were you my worst enemy, instead of the gentle, zealous friend you are.”
“I would not have you at present do anything, more especially anything rash,” returned Laura, “but simply leave the matter in my hands.”
“Promise me——” began Lewis.
“I promise you I will do nothing which can in the smallest degree compromise your honour, or even your pride,” returned Laura, with the slightest possible degree of sarcasm in her tone; “beyond this I will promise you nothing, and if you have not sufficient faith to trust my friendship thus far, you are less worthy of it than I have deemed you.”
Lewis glanced with mingled surprise and admiration at the animated features of his spirited confidante. Accustomed to Rose’s calm, persuasive reasoning, and the half-earnest, half-playful, but wholly bewitching manners of sweet Annie Grant, Laura’s keen wit and fearless bearing surprised and pleased, while at the same time they insensibly influenced him. “I will trust you,” he said; “you have the strong sense and bold energy of a man’s mind united with all the gentleness and refinement which are woman’s especial attributes. I will and do trust you fully. But alas! dear friend,” he continued sorrowfully, “neither you nor any one else can remove the cause of my unhappiness. I will not attempt to deceive you or myself; despite my best endeavours to forget her I cannot, and I am miserable. I, who deemed myself so strong, am powerless to cast this affection from me; and though I despise her for her weak fickleness, though I scorn her for allowing herself to be contracted to that man of whom I never can bear to think as the brother of your kind-hearted, liberal-minded husband, I yet love her with the reasonless passion of an idiot.”
“You take too gloomy a view of the affair. She may not be so much to blame as you imagine; she may yet prove worthy of your affection,” urged Laura.
“Would to Heaven it could be so!” exclaimed Lewis vehemently. “You bid me consider the matter calmly and sensibly,” he continued, after a pause; “by doing so I perceive the hopes with which you would fain inspire me to be unreasonable and delusive. Facts speak for themselves, and as they remain unalterable, so must my grief. Either she does not return my affection, and is attached to her intended bridegroom, or, loving me, she has with the most culpable weakness allowed herself to be persuaded into an engagement with a man every way unworthy of her, to whom she is, to say the least, indifferent; and this, not in consequence of a lengthened persecution, but within twenty-four hours after I have left her, fondly deeming that had fate allowed me to ask her hand she would not have refused it.”
“It is very strange, very unaccountable,” returned Laura, musing, “so much so, indeed, that I feel sure we do not yet know the whole truth, and that there must be some way of explaining her conduct satisfactorily.”
Lewis shook his head mournfully.
“Farewell,” he said; “you will soon be able to judge for yourself, and will find that the view I take of the affair, gloomy as it may appear, is indeed the only true one.”
“You will dine with us to-day? Charles particularly wishes it; you must not refuse. Remember, it will be the last time for some weeks that I may have an opportunity of seeing you!” pleaded Laura.
“I do not know why I consent, except that it seems impossible to say no to you,” returned Lewis, unable to resist the influence of Laura’s sympathetic kindness. “You will find me but a dull companion,” he continued with a deep sigh, “for your intelligence has completely unmanned me.”
“We will take the chance of that,” replied Laura with an incredulous smile; and so, shaking hands, they parted.
The dinner passed off heavily enough. Lewis, despite his efforts to the contrary, appeared out of spirits and distrait. Charles, having been cautioned and tutored to the utmost extent of female foresight as to what he was to say and what to avoid, grew nervous and puzzle-pated; called Laura, Annie, and asked Lewis why he did not send for Miss Grant (meaning his, Lewis’s, sister Rose) to live with him and keep his house; by which blunders he provoked his wife to such a degree that she could have found in her heart to box his ears for him, without the smallest compunction. The arrival of “Tarley” and the dessert produced a marked improvement, that young gentleman being in the highest possible state of health and spirits, and influenced by a strong determination to partake of everything on the table, wine included, to ignore all established precedents as to eating jam by the intervention of a spoon, to consider walnuts appropriate missiles to throw at the company generally, and the cut-glass decanters in particular, to set maternal authority at defiance, as evinced by a resolution to pull off his left shoe and imbed it in orange marmalade, and in fact to do everything which appeared good in his eyes and naughty in those of his elders, and then and there to make a night of it. These little antics, at first amusing, and secretly patronised and fostered by Charles and Lewis, soon becoming tiresome, and at length unbearable, Laura asserted her prerogative, and disregarding much kicking and a hysterical affection, which was neither laughing nor crying, but a compound of the two, succeeded in carrying away her unruly offspring. When the gentlemen were left to themselves, Leicester, filling his glass and handing the bottle to Lewis, began—
“Do you mix much with the young men of the place, so as to judge of their political bias at all?”
“I am acquainted with some dozen, or more, young artists, though I do not enter much into their pursuits, from want of inclination; although, at first, they pressed me to belong to their clubs. I should say, however, judging from their conversation, that democratic principles were rife among them.”
“I fear so; indeed, from information we have received, I should not be surprised if some attempt were likely to be made to throw off the Austrian yoke.”
“Surely that would be great folly,” returned Lewis; “with the troops and resources the Governor, Count Palffy, has at his command, any popular tumult might easily be quelled. It is only from cowardice or inaction on the part of the authorities that any of these successes in Northern Italy have been achieved.”
“Ay, but inaction is just what I fear,” rejoined Leicester; “the Austrians will not believe in the amount of popular disaffection which exists; they will go on ignoring the danger till the moment at which it could be most successfully combated has escaped them. Not that I care very much about the matter; I am neither Trojan nor Tyrian; but I am anxious to gain some certainty as to the chance of a popular outbreak, that I may take measures to provide for the safety of Laura and the child: besides, I think you are aware we have some guests coming to us; had I known this sooner I should have written to them to postpone their visit till some more favourable opportunity.”
“I will investigate the matter,” returned Lewis eagerly, “and will communicate to you any information I may obtain; women should never be exposed to the chance of witnessing the horrors of street warfare.”
After conversing on this topic for some minutes longer, the gentlemen, being neither of them addicted to the practice of wine-bibbing, followed Laura to the drawing-room. Lewis appeared silent and depressed, and a gloom hung over the little party which no effort on the part of the hostess could dispel.
Soon after ten o’clock their guest rose to take leave.
“I shall send Charles to you very often; and if possible, without attracting attention, I shall occasionally come with him,” observed Laura; “so mind you are not to freeze up again into a marble misanthrope: I consider I have improved you vastly since you have been under my tuition, and I by no means desire to have laboured in vain.”
“You have shown me kindness which I may never be able to repay,” answered Lewis; “but to prove that I neither forget nor feel ungrateful for it, I will struggle against the faults you so justly reprobate: if I sometimes fail, you must remember that it is difficult to preserve a cheerful, easy manner with an aching heart, and so pardon me.”
Having taken a cordial leave of his host and hostess, and refused Charles’s offer of walking home with him, partly because he knew it would be an act of self-denial in his friend to relinquish his wife’s society, partly because he wished to be alone, Lewis quitted the Palazzo Grassini and strolled on in the direction of his own abode. As he passed under the Piazza of St. Mark, a particularly beautiful effect of moonlight on the opposite buildings struck him, and leaning against one of the columns, he paused to observe it. The place where he was standing was in deep shadow, and to any one approaching from the left his figure was invisible, the massive column effectually hiding it. Having thoroughly fixed in his recollection the appearance which had attracted him, and which he proposed to transfer to canvas, he was about to quit the Piazza when a figure wrapped in a dark mantle advanced with a quick yet stealthy tread.
As the new-comer approached the spot where Lewis was stationed a low whistle pierced the air, and immediately a second figure, also disguised in a dark robe, appeared from behind a pillar which had hitherto concealed him, and addressing the other, observed—
“You are late; I have waited for you.”
“The delay was unavoidable, Signor,” was the reply; “I was forced to wait myself for Paulo, as until I had seen him I could not bring you the password.”
“And what is it?” inquired the first speaker eagerly. The other glanced round with a suspicious air as he replied, “I Martiri di Cosenza.” *
* The brothers Bandiera, two youths of high Patrician Venetian descent, were denounced to the Austrian government, and shot as conspirators at Cosenza, June 25th, 1844.
“Good!” was the rejoinder; “and the place of meeting?”
“The great Hall of the Palazzo—iani,” naming one of the many ruined palaces which are to be found in Venice.
“Wisely chosen,” observed the first speaker, who appeared of a rank superior to that of his companion; “the time of meeting must be at hand?”
“If Vossignoria proceeds thither leisurely, the hour will strike as you reach the appointed rendezvous.”
“’Tis well,” was the reply. “Now leave me; we must not be seen together.”
The person addressed raised his cap as a token of respect, and turning, hurried from the spot—his confederate paused a moment as if in deliberation, and then strolled leisurely away in the direction of the Palazzo—iani. Lewis waited till the echoes of his retreating footsteps died away in the distance, then starting in the direction of his own dwelling, he walked with rapid strides till he reached the corner of one of the less-frequented streets; having done so, he struck down it, running at a pace which few could have kept up with till he approached his own house, when he again moderated his speed. Letting himself in with a private key, he entered his sitting-room, took a brace of small pistols from a drawer, loaded them carefully, and concealing them in a breast-pocket, flung a dark cloak over his shoulders and again quitted the room. His determination was taken. Accident having put him in possession of the time and place of some secret meeting, as well as the pass-word which he doubted not would ensure his admission, his love of adventure occasioned him instantly to resolve to be present at it. The assembly was doubtless of a political nature, and besides gratifying his taste for excitement, he might obtain some information in regard to the probability of a popular insurrection, and thus satisfy Leicester’s anxiety for the safety of his wife and child—in which (though Lewis would not own the motive even to himself) might be involved that of Annie Grant. That the expedition he projected was a dangerous one he was well aware, but he trusted to chance and to his own tact and presence of mind to save him from discovery, and in case of these failing him, he possessed the pistols as a last resource. Twenty minutes’ brisk walking brought him beneath the walls of the Palazzo.
Pausing under the shadow of the building, he waited till he had seen two or three persons, carefully muffled up, proceeding in a particular direction. Conjecturing from their appearance and evident desire to escape observation that they were bound on the same errand as himself, he followed with a quick but noiseless step the next man who passed. This person walked on rapidly till he reached a small archway; here he stopped and looked round, as if to assure himself that he was not followed, when, perceiving Lewis, he seemed embarrassed, and after a moment’s deliberation, during which he scrutinised the young artist’s figure narrowly, he stationed himself in the centre of the path, as if to intercept Lewis’s further progress. As he approached the stranger advanced a step to meet him, observing in Italian—
“The Signor walks late, and chooses a strange path; may I venture to inquire his object in so doing?”
“The same as your own,” returned Lewis sternly; adding in a tone of command, “We are too late already, lead the way.”
The person thus addressed, in whom, from a slight peculiarity in his accent, Lewis recognised him who had appeared the inferior of the two speakers whose conversation he had overheard in the Piazza of St. Mark, seemed for a moment undecided how to act; and then, either deceived by Lewis’s manner, or purposing to postpone any further investigation till he should obtain the assistance of the other conspirators, he passed through the archway, and turning abruptly to the right hand, ran up a flight of stone steps terminated by a low door closely studded with large iron nail heads. Giving a low whistle, some one from within partially opened the door and the stranger entered, followed by Lewis. The moment he had done so, the door was shut and bolted behind him, and he found himself in total darkness; at the same instant he felt his arms pinioned by a powerful grasp, while a gruff voice exclaimed—
“Give the pass-word!”
“I Martiri di Cosenza,” replied Lewis firmly.
“Proceed,” was the rejoinder, as the grasp was removed from his arms, and the light of a dark lantern was thrown along the narrow stone passage in which Lewis now found himself. Having traversed this, a second door opened at his approach, a rush of cold air streamed upon him, and he found himself in a large dimly-lighted chamber, in which were assembled somewhere about thirty persons, who were gathered round a long table, at the upper end of which stood a man, who, with his arm extended, and his whole bearing indicative of strong excitement, was addressing the meeting. Drawing the collar of his cloak more over his face, and choosing a spot where the shadow of one of the heavy columns which supported the roof served in some measure to conceal him, Lewis joined the group. As he did so, the speaker, glancing with flashing eyes round the assembly, exclaimed—
“We are resolved, then—the cup is full to overflowing—we will bow no longer beneath the yoke of foreign tyrants. Our brethren in Milan have set us a glorious example—the accursed Austrian already trembles before their valour. Italy has shaken off her lethargy;—we have only to be true to ourselves and to the glorious cause, and liberty awaits our efforts.”
A subdued murmur of consent and approbation ran through the assembly, and the speaker continued—
“Thus agreed, then, it only remains for us to act, and our first duty is to succour those who have suffered for our sakes. Those heroes, those martyrs to the cause of the Venetian people, Daniel Manin and Niccolo Tommaseo, languish in an unjust imprisonment; we will demand their liberation, and that with a voice that shall force the tyrants to listen—the voice of an awakened and indignant nation.”
As the speaker ceased, amidst a subdued buzz of approbation, a man in the dress of an artisan arose, and rolling his fierce blood-shot eyes around the assembly, exclaimed—
“Yes, brothers, we will liberate our brave compatriots—Manin and Tommaseo shall be set free to aid in the struggle for our liberty; but we must do more, Venice must rise and cast out those foreign butchers. A blow must be dealt which shall strike terror into their coward hearts; a blow which shall prove to them the fate they may expect, if they dare to oppress and withstand a people struggling for their freedom. And on whom can it so justly fall as on the arch-tyrant, sold hand and soul to Austria, thirsting only for vengeance and for murder—the base persecutor Marinovich?”
He paused; there was a moment’s silence, and then a low whisper went round the assembly, “Death to Marinovich!” There was again a pause, and then men began to communicate with one another in deep muttered tones. After a short interval the first speaker, who had been writing rapidly, arose, and again addressing them, said—
“We are, then, agreed; and our first act shall be the liberation of Manin and Tommaseo. It is time that we disperse as silently and cautiously as may be; we must creep now that we may soar hereafter.”
In order not to interrupt the thread of our narrative, we have described the proceedings as they occurred—we must now revert to Lewis. During the delivery of the first speech he observed that the man who had addressed him as he entered, and who appeared a tall, muscular young fellow, had contrived to place himself by his side, and was regarding him from time to time with looks of mistrust and suspicion. At the proposal for the assassination of Colonel Marinovich, the commandant at the Arsenal, a man who, though a strict disciplinarian, Lewis knew by report to be a brave and gallant officer, he had been unable to repress some slight sign of disapprobation. As he did so he perceived a scowl pass across the features of his watcher, who took the opportunity of drawing yet nearer to him, while an accidental movement revealed the unpleasant fact that he held in his hand a naked stiletto. As the president ended his final address, Lewis, who had kept his eye fixed on the features of his dangerous neighbour, felt convinced that the man only awaited the termination of the business proceedings to denounce him to his fellow-conspirators. With his usual coolness and decision in moments of danger, Lewis saw that his only chance of safety lay in taking the initiative; accordingly, catching the man’s eye, he fixed on him a piercing glance, as he said in a stern whisper—
“The first word you utter aloud you are a dead man;” at the same moment he presented the muzzle of a pistol within an inch of his ear. The man started slightly and attempted to increase the distance between them, but Lewis laid an iron grasp on his collar and detained him; having stood for a moment irresolute, he said, in the same low whisper in which Lewis had addressed him—
“You are an Austrian spy.”
“I am not,” returned Lewis; “I am an Englishman.”
The other again started, regarded him fixedly, and then resumed—
“Swear by all you hold sacred never to reveal that which you have learned to-night.”
“I will swear nothing, except to blow out your brains if you attempt to speak or move without my permission,” was the stern, uncompromising rejoinder.
The stranger’s lip quivered and his grasp tightened on the stiletto, but he caught the glance of Lewis’s flashing eyes and felt that he was in earnest, and that his life hung upon a thread. The members of the secret association were by this time noiselessly gliding away in parties of two and three, and Lewis, fearing if he remained too long he might attract the attention of the president, who still continued writing at the table, determined to depart; accordingly, he said in a low whisper—
“Now we will go—precede me; but if I observe you attempt, by word or sign, to betray me, that moment I shoot you like a dog.”
The stranger, who seemed by this time sullenly to have resigned himself to his fate, or possibly to be reserving his strength for the execution of some scheme which he had devised for the future, obeyed in silence, and left the vault closely followed by Lewis, who still retained a firm grasp of his collar, although the ample folds of his cloak prevented the fact from being observed. In this manner they reached the door at the top of the stairs, and here were stationed two brawny-limbed, ruffianly-looking fellows, who acted in the double capacity of porter and sentry. Their attention, however, appeared solely directed to prevent the intrusion of any unwelcome visitant, the advisability of refusing egress to any one who had already passed their scrutiny never seeming to occur to them. This Lewis felt to be the deciding moment of his fate; once outside the gate he would be in comparative safety. Pressing the muzzle of the pistol against the back of his companion’s neck by way of a gentle hint, he muttered, “Remember!”
The young man shuddered slightly as the cold iron touched him, but made no reply. As they reached the gateway, the janitor stationed on the left side, addressing Lewis’s companion, made some inquiry in a low voice. Glancing round appealingly, as if to indicate that he was forced, even for their common safety, to reply, he spoke a few words in a dialect Lewis did not comprehend, when the gate-keeper respectfully held the wicket open and they passed out. And now once again Lewis felt that he was a free man, and he inwardly congratulated himself on having escaped so great peril, which congratulations were, as the event proved, somewhat premature.
Having descended the steps, Lewis loosened his hold on the stranger’s collar, saying carelessly, as he replaced his pistol in his breast—
“There, young gentleman; thanks to your prudence and my precaution of bringing a brace of pistols with me, I have drawn my head out of the lion’s mouth without having it bitten off for my pains. But now I want to have a little serious conversation with you.”
“Wait till we are further from the Palazzo—iani, then,” was the reply, in a voice that yet trembled from excitement or some other deep emotion; “we may be overheard; keep more in the shade of the buildings.”
Suspecting no treachery, Lewis complied. Scarcely had he done so, however, when he fancied he heard a stealthy footstep following him, and turning abruptly, found himself face to face with a tall, savage-looking ruffian, who, armed with a naked stiletto, was evidently meditating mischief. Confused by his sudden motion, the fellow stood for a moment irresolute; not so his intended victim. The path along which he had been proceeding followed the course of one of the smaller rii or canals by which Venice is in so many directions intersected. Availing himself of this circumstance, Lewis rolled his cloak round his arm and sprang upon his assailant, parrying, with the shield thus constituted, a hasty and ineffectual stab which the other made at him. Foiled in his attempt, the ruffian drew back to avoid Lewis’s onset, thereby approaching incautiously too near the bank of the canal. His antagonist was not slow to perceive the opportunity thus afforded him. Following up his retreating foe so as to prevent him from turning to perceive his danger, he waited till the man reached the brink of the canal, then stretching out his foot, he tripped him up, and parrying a second stab as he had done the former one, pushed him over the bank, which at that part was somewhat steep. A heavy fall and a loud splash in the water announced that his stratagem had succeeded, but at the same moment he felt his throat compressed by a powerful grasp, a naked stiletto flashed before him, and the eyes of the young conspirator, burning with hatred and revenge, glared at him through the darkness with the ferocity of those of some savage animal. Up to this point Lewis’s courage and self-possession had never for a moment failed him, but now a strange, wild idea occurred to him, and a horrible dread suddenly overwhelmed him: his senses reeled, his limbs trembled, and for the first time in his life he experienced the mental agony of fear. Instinctively he seized the uplifted wrist of his assailant, and gazed with starting eye-balls at his face, on which the cold moonlight streamed. Yes! there could be no doubt: in the features of the being with whom he was engaged in deadly conflict he recognised a dark, shadowy, but most unmistakable resemblance to Hardy the poacher. Was it incipient madness, or was he thus horribly to be convinced of the reality of tales which he had hitherto deemed the mere drivellings of superstition?—could the dead indeed rise from their graves to seek vengeance on their slayers?
As these thoughts flashed meteor-like through his brain, his antagonist made a violent but ineffectual effort to free his wrist, and this action in great measure restored Lewis’s self-possession. Ghosts had not thews and sinews, and even in that moment of peril a flush of shame at his childish terror spread over his brow, and the impulse seemed to rend redoubled vigour to his frame. Consequently the struggle, though severe, was short. Superior in strength to his assailant, Lewis, having succeeded in wresting the dagger from his grasp, hurled it into the canal, leaving him completely unarmed and at his mercy. The stranger was the first to speak. Folding his arms across his breast with an air of dogged resolution, he said, speaking for the first time in English, and without the slightest foreign accent—
“You were wrong to throw away that weapon; it would have done your work as effectually and more silently than the pistol.”
“You consider your life as forfeit, then?” inquired Lewis.
“I expect you to do by me as I would have done by you,” was the concise reply.
“I am no assassin,” returned Lewis coldly; “and that reminds me of your worthy associate. You engaged my attention, so that I am ignorant whether he sank or swam.”
“Never fear for honest Jacopo,” was the answer; “he follows the calling of a gondolier when his stiletto is not in requisition, and can swim like a fish. Look yonder; he has gained the shore, and is even now watching us.”
As he spoke, Lewis observed a tall figure crouching under a projecting portion of the bank of the canal.
“He will not molest you further,” continued his late antagonist; “once foiled in his spring, like the tiger, he will not renew the attack. Had he slain you I should have paid him five zwanzigers; as it is, the poor fellow will only get his ducking for his pains.”
“Why did he follow us?” asked Lewis.
“When you entered I gave him a hint not to let you pass on your return; had he attempted to stop you, however, I believed you would shoot me, therefore, thinking I could obtain your death or capture without losing my own life, I gave him a glance by which he knew he was not to interrupt you. He then asked me in the thieves’ patois of this place what he was to do, and I told him to follow us, as you were a spy. You know the rest.”
Lewis paused for a moment, and then said abruptly, “You are an Englishman?”
“I am.”
“You will accompany me to my rooms,” rejoined Lewis; “I would question you further.”
“For what purpose?”
“That you will learn at the fitting time,” returned Lewis.
“What if I refuse?”
“I will summon the police, and if you attempt to escape, I will shoot you through the head,” was the stern rejoinder.
“I will go with you,” replied the stranger; “but I warn you I will not be arrested: my liberty is dear to me, my life I hold cheap—so cheap that even now, unarmed as I am, and unequal to you in muscular strength, I am tempted again to rush on you and try the chances of a death-struggle.”
“I would advise you not to do so,” returned Lewis calmly; “besides,” he added, “I may be more disposed to befriend you than you are aware of—it is with no hostile purpose I thus force you to accompany me, believe me.”
“I will trust you,” was the reply. “Your looks and words have, I know not why, a strange power over me—you must possess the gift of the Malocchio, which these Italians believe in—it was your glance, far more than your pistol, which kept me silent in the chamber of meeting.”
During almost the whole of this conversation they had been walking side by side in the direction of the street in which Lewis’s studio was situated, and in another five minutes they reached it.
“Have I your word of honour that you will not again attempt my life, or seek to escape till our interview is concluded?” asked Lewis.
“You have,” was the concise reply.
“Follow me, then,” continued Lewis; and drawing a key from his pocket, he unfastened the door, entered, closed it again, and accompanied by the stranger, led the way through the painting-room into his study.