“You remember aright!” interrupted John Manning. “My wife is the living image of the Venetian woman for whose beauty Marco Manin was one day stabbed in the back with a glass stiletto, and Giovanni Manin fled from the place of his birth and never saw it again. It is idle to fight against the stars in their courses. We met here in the New World, she and I, as they met in the Old World so long ago—and the end is the same. It was to be—it was to be!”
Laurence Laughton gave a swift glance at his friend’s wife to see what effect these words might have on her, and he was startled to detect on her face the same enigmatic smile which was the chief memory he had retained of the Venetian picture. Truly the likeness between the painting and the wife of his friend was marvellous; and Laurence tried to shake off a morbid wonder whether there might be any obscure and inscrutable survival from one generation to another across the seas and across the years.
“If you remember the picture,” said John Manning, “perhaps you remember the quaint goblet of Venetian glass I bought the same day?”
“Of course I do,” said Larry, glad to get Manning started on a topic of talk a little less personal.
“Perhaps you know what has become of it?” asked Manning.
“I can answer ‘of course’ to that, too,” replied Larry, “because I have it here.”
“Here?”
“Here—in a little square box, in the hall,” answered Larry. “I had it in my trunk, you know, when we took passage on the Vanderbilt at Havre that May morning. I forgot to give it to you in the hurry of landing, and I haven’t had a chance since. This is the first time I have seen you for nearly three years. I found the box this morning, and I thought you might like to have it again, so I brought it up.”
John Manning rang the bell at the head of his bed. The black crone answered it, and soon returned with the little square box. Manning impatiently broke the seals and cords that bound its cover and began eagerly to release the goblet from the cotton and tissue paper in which it had been carefully swathed and bandaged. Mrs. Manning, though her moods were subtler and more intense, showed an anxiety to see the goblet quite as feverish as her husband’s. In a minute the last wrapping was twisted off and the full beauty of the Venetian glass was revealed to them. Assuredly no praise was too loud for its delicate and exquisite workmanship.
“Does Mrs. Manning know the story of the goblet?” asked Larry; “has she been told of the peculiar virtue ascribed to it?”