“Yes, sir, she is an English yacht, the 'Firefly,' and her late owner was an English baronet, whose name I have written down in my pocket-book.”
The Captain took the note-book from the young officer's hand, and, after reading the name, said, “If I mistake not, this is the same person that once was so well known in London life. Most of the present company must have heard of the rich and eccentric Sir Dudley Broughton.”
A low groan broke from me, and I turned my eyes slowly and stealthily towards the end of the table, where the Marchesa sat. Not a word, not the faintest sound, had issued from her lips; but she sat still and motionless, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes staring straight before her. The pallor of her features was that of death itself; and, indeed, the rigid contour of the cheeks and the firm tension of the muscles gave no evidence of life.
“You are ill, Madame la Marchesa,” said a gentleman who sat beside her; but as she made no reply, several now turned towards her, to press their attentions and suggest advice. She never spoke,—indeed, she seemed not to hear them,—but sat with her head erect, and her arms rigidly stretched out on either side, motionless as a statue.
The shocking incident that had occurred, and the discussion which followed it, were sufficient to account for this sudden attack in one whose nervous temperament was so finely strung; but as she showed no signs of recovering consciousness, nor gave the slightest indication of rallying, it was decided at once that she should be conveyed to shore, where in her own house medical aid might be had recourse to.
I was one of those who assisted to carry her to the boat, and sat beside her afterwards, and held her hand in mine; but she never recognized me; her hand, too, was cold and clammy, and the fingers felt rigid and cramped. The stern, impressive look of her features, the cold stare of her fixed eyes, were terrible to behold,—far more so than even the workings of mere bodily sufferings.
During the passage to the shore, at the landing itself, and on our way to the Palazzo, she remained in the same state; nor did she ever evince any trait of consciousness till she reached the foot of the great staircase, where a crowd of servants, in the richest liveries, awaited to offer their services. Then suddenly she moved her head from side to side, regarding the crowd with a glance of wild and terrific meaning; she raised her hand to her brow, and passed it slowly across her forehead. For an instant it seemed as if the lethargic paroxysm was about to pass away, for her features softened into a look of calm but melancholy beauty. This, too, glided away, and her mouth settled into a hard and rigid smile. It was the last change of all, for she had become an idiot!
From that hour forth she never spoke again! she never knew those about her, neither missing them while absent, nor recognizing them when they reappeared. She had none of the childish wilfulness of others in her sad condition, nor did she show the likings and dislikings they usually manifest; and thus she lingered on to her death.
Of her secret I was the sole depositary; and from that hour to this, in which I write, it has never escaped my lips.