CHAPTER LIII. A RAINY NIGHT AT SEA.
The absurd demand preferred by Lady Augusta in her letter to Marion was a step taken without any authority from Pracontal, and actually without his knowledge. On the discovery of the adhering pages of the journal, and their long consideration of the singular memorandum that they found within, Pracontal carried away the book to Longworth to show him the passage and ask what importance he might attach to its contents.
Longworth was certainly struck by the minute particularity with which an exact place was indicated. There was a rough pen sketch of the Flora, and a spot marked by a cross at the base of the pedestal, with the words, “Here will be found the books.” Lower down on the same page was written, “These volumes, which I did not obtain without difficulty, and which were too cumbrous to carry away, I have deposited in this safe place, and the time may come when they will be of value.—G. L.”
“Now,” said Longworth, after some minutes of deep thought, “Lami was a man engaged in every imaginable conspiracy. There was not a state in Europe, apparently, where he was not, to some extent, compromised. These books he refers to may be the records of some secret society, and he may have stored them there as a security against the lukewarmness or the treachery of men whose fate might be imperilled by certain documents. Looking to the character of Lami, his intense devotion to these schemes, and his crafty nature and the Italian forethought which seems always to have marked whatever he did, I half incline to this impression. Then, on the other hand, you remember, Pracontal, when we went over to Portshandon to inquire about the registry books, we heard that they had all been stolen or destroyed by the rebels in '98?”
“Yes. I remember that well. I had not attached any importance to the fact; but I remember how much Kelson was disconcerted and put out by the intelligence, and how he continually repeated, 'This is no accident; this is no accident.'”
“It would be a rare piece of fortune if they were the church books, and that they contained a formal registry of the marriage.”
“But who doubts it?”
“Say rather, my dear friend, why should any one believe it? Just think for one moment who Montague Bramleigh was, what was his station and his fortune, and then remember the interval that separated him from the Italian painter—a man of a certain ability, doubtless. Is it the most likely thing in the world that if the young Englishman fell in love with the beautiful Italian, that he would have sacrificed his whole ambition in life to his passion? Is it not far more probable, in fact, that no marriage whatever united them? Come, come, Pracontal, this is not, now at least, a matter to grow sulky over; you cannot be angry or indignant at my frankness, and you 'll not shoot me for this slur on your grandmother's fair reputation.”
“I certainly think that with nothing better than a theory to support it, you might have spared her memory this aspersion.”
“If I had imagined you could not talk of it as unconcernedly as myself, I assure you I would never have spoken about it.”
“You see now, however, that you have mistaken me—that you have read me rather as one of your own people than as a Frenchman,” said the other, warmly.
“I certainly see that I must not speak to you with frankness, and I shall use caution not to offend you by candor.”
“This is not enough, sir,” said the Frenchman, rising and staring angrily at him.
“What is not enough?” said Longworth, with a perfect composure.
“Not enough for apology, sir; not enough as amende for an unwarrantable and insolent calumny.”
“You are getting angry at the sound of your own voice, Pracontal. I now tell you that I never meant—never could have meant—to offend you. You came to me for a counsel which I could only give by speaking freely what was in my mind. This is surely enough for explanation.”
“Then let it all be forgotten at once,” cried the other, warmly.
“I 'll not go that far,” said Longworth, in the same calm tone as before. “You have accepted my explanation; you have recognized what one moment of justice must have convinced you of—that I had no intention to wound your feelings. There is certainly, however, no reason in the world why I should expose my own to any unnecessary injury. I have escaped a peril; I have no wish to incur another of the same sort.”
“I don't think I understand you,” said Pracontal, quickly. “Do you mean we should quarrel?”
“By no means.”
“That we should separate, then?”
“Certainly.”
The Frenchman became pale, and suddenly his face flushed till it was deep crimson, and his eyes flashed with fire. The effort to be calm was almost a strain beyond his strength; but he succeeded, and in a voice scarcely above a whisper, he said, “I am deeply in your debt. I cannot say how deeply. My lawyer, however, does know, and I will confer with him.”
“This is a matter of small consequence, and does not press: besides, I beg you will not let it trouble you.”
The measured coldness with which these words were spoken seemed to jar painfully on Pracontal's temper, for he snatched his hat from the table, and with a hurried “Adieu—adieu, then,” left the room. The carriages of the hotel were waiting in the courtyard to convey the travellers to the station.
“Where is the train starting for?” asked he of a waiter.
“For Civita, sir.”
“Step up to my room, then, and throw my clothes into a portmanteau—enough for a few days. I shall have time to write a note, I suppose?”
“Ample, sir. You have forty minutes yet.” Pracontal opened his writing-desk and wrote a few lines to Lady Augusta, to tell how a telegram had just called him away—it might be to Paris, perhaps London. He would be back within ten days, and explain all. He wished he might have her leave to write, but he had not a moment left him to ask the permission. Should he risk the liberty? What if it might displease her? He was every way unfortunate; nor, in all the days of a life of changes and vicissitudes, did he remember a sadder moment than this in which he wrote himself her devoted servant, A. Pracontal de Bramleigh. This done, he jumped into a carriage, and just reached the train in time to start for Civita.
There was little of exaggeration when he said he had never known greater misery and depression than he now felt. The thought of that last meeting with Longworth overwhelmed him with sorrow. When we bear in mind how slowly and gradually the edifice of friendship is built up; how many of our prejudices have often to be overcome; how much of self-education is effected in the process; the thought that all this labor of time and feeling should be cast to the winds at once for a word of passion or a hasty expression, is humiliating to a degree. Pracontal had set great store by Longworth's friendship for him. He had accepted great favors at his hand; but so kindly and so gracefully conferred as to double the obligations by the delicacy with which they were bestowed. And this was the man whose good feeling for him he had outraged and insulted beyond recall. “If it had been an open quarrel between us, I could have stood his fire and shown him how thoroughly I knew myself in the wrong; but his cold disdain is more than I can bear. And what was it all about? How my old comrades would laugh if they heard that I had quarrelled with my best friend. Ah, my grandmother's reputation! Ma foi, how much more importance one often attaches to a word than to what it represents!” Thus angry with himself, mocking the very pretensions on which he had assumed to reprehend his friend, and actually ridiculing his own conduct, he embarked from Marseilles to hasten over to England, and entreat Kelson to discharge the money obligation which yet bound him to Longworth.
It was a rough night at sea, and the packet so crowded by passengers that Pracontal was driven to pass the night on deck. In the haste of departure he had not provided himself with overcoats or rugs, and was but ill-suited to stand the severity of a night of cold cutting wind and occasional drifts of hail. To keep himself warm he walked the deck for hours, pacing rapidly to and fro: perhaps not sorry at heart that physical discomfort compelled him to dwell less on the internal griefs that preyed upon him. One solitary passenger besides himself had sought the deck, and he had rolled himself in a multiplicity of warm wrappers, and lay snugly under the shelter of the binnacle—a capacious tarpaulin cloak surmounting all his other integuments.
Pracontal's campaigning experiences had taught him that the next best thing to being well cloaked oneself is to lie near the man that is so; and thus, seeing that the traveller was fast asleep, he stretched himself under his lee, and even made free to draw a corner of the heavy tarpaulin over him.
“I say,” cried the stranger, on discovering a neighbor; “I say, old fellow, you are coming it a bit too free and easy. You've stripped the covering off my legs.”
“A thousand pardons,” rejoined Pracontal. “I forgot to take my rugs and wraps with me; and I am shivering with cold. I have not even an overcoat.”
The tone—so evidently that of a gentleman, and the slight touch of a foreign accent—apparently at once conciliated the stranger, for he said, “I have enough and to spare; spread this blanket over you; and here 's a cushion for a pillow.”
These courtesies, accepted frankly as offered, soon led them to talk together; and the two men speedily found themselves chatting away like old acquaintances.
“I am puzzling myself,” said the stranger at last, “to find out are you an Englishman, who has lived long abroad, or are you a foreigner?”
“Is my English so good as that?” asked Pracontal, laughing.
“The very best I ever heard from any not a born Briton.”
“Well, I'm a Frenchman—or a half Frenchman—with some Italian and some English blood, too, in me.”
“Ah! I knew you must have had a dash of John Bull in you. No man ever spoke such English as yours without it.”
“Well, but my English temperament goes two generations back. I don't believe my father was ever in England.”
With this opening they talked away about national traits and peculiarities: the Frenchman with all the tact and acuteness travel and much intercourse with life conferred; and the other with the especial shrewdness that marks a Londoner. “How did you guess I was a Cockney?” asked he, laughingly. “I don't take liberties with my H 's.”
“If you had, it's not likely I'd have known it,” said Pracontal. “But your reference to town, the fidelity with which you clung to what London would think of this, or say to that, made me suspect you to be a Londoner; and I see I was right.”
“After all, you Frenchmen are just as full of Paris.”
“Because Paris epitomizes France, and France is the greatest of all countries.”
“I 'll not stand that. I deny it in toto.”
“Well, I'll not open the question now, or maybe you'd make me give up this blanket.”
“No. I 'll have the matter out on fair grounds. Keep the blanket, but just let me hear on what grounds you claim precedence for France before England.”
“I'm too unlucky in matters of dispute to-day,” said Pracontal, sadly, “to open a new discussion. I quarrelled with, perhaps, the best friend I had in the world this morning for a mere nothing; and though there is little fear that anything we could say to each other now would provoke ill feeling between us, I 'll run no risks.”
“By Jove! it must be Scotch blood is in you. I never heard of such caution!”
“No, I believe my English connection is regular Saxon. When a man has been in the newspapers in England, he need not affect secrecy or caution in talking of himself. I figured in a trial lately; I don't know if you read the cause. It was tried in Ireland—Count Bramleigh de Pracontal against Bramleigh.”
“What, are you Pracontal?” cried the stranger, starting to a sitting posture. “Yes. Why are you so much interested?”
“Because I have seen the place. I have been over the property in dispute, and the question naturally interests me.”
“Ha! you know Castello, then?”
“Castello, or Bishop's Folly. I know it best by the latter name.”
“And whom am I speaking to?” said Pracontal; “for as you know me, perhaps I have some right to ask this.”
“My name is Cutbill; and now that you've heard it, you're nothing the wiser.”
“You probably know the Bramleighs?”
“Every one of them; Augustus, the eldest, I am intimate with.”
“It's not my fault that I have no acquaintance with him. I desired it much; and Lady Augusta conveyed my wish to Mr. Bramleigh, but he declined. I don't know on what grounds; but he refused to meet me, and we have never seen each other.”
“If I don't greatly mistake, you ought to have met. I hope it may not be yet too late.”
“Ah, but it is! We are en pleine guerre now, and the battle must be fought out. It is he, and not I, would leave the matter to this issue. I was for a compromise; I would have accepted an arrangement; I was unwilling to overthrow a whole family and consign them to ruin. They might have made their own terms with me; but no, they preferred to defy me. They determined I should be a mere pretender. They gave me no alternative; and I fight because there is no retreat open to me.”
“And yet if you knew Bramleigh—”
“Mon cher, he would not give me the chance; he repulsed the offer I made; he would not touch the hand I held out to him.”
“I am told that the judge declared that he never tried a cause where the defendant displayed a more honorable line of conduct.”
“That is all true. Kelson, my lawyer, said that everything they did was straightforward and creditable; but he said, too, don't go near them, don't encourage any acquaintance with them, or some sort of arrangement will be patched up which will leave everything unsettled to another generation—when all may become once more litigated with less light to guide a decision and far less chance of obtaining evidence.”
“Never mind the lawyers, Count, never mind the lawyers. Use your own good sense, and your own generous instincts; place yourself—in idea—in Bramleigh's position, and ask yourself could you act more handsomely than he has done? and then bethink you, what is the proper way to meet such conduct.”
“It's all too late for this now; don't ask me why, but take my word for it, it is too late.”
“It's never too late to do the right thing, though it may cost a man some pain to own he is changing his mind.”
“It's not that; it's not that,” said the other, peevishly, “though I cannot explain to you why or how.”
“I don't want to hear secrets,” said Cutbill, bluntly; “all the more that you and I are strangers to each other. I don't think either of us has had a good look at the other's face yet.”
“I've seen yours, and I don't distrust it,” said the Frenchman.
“Good-night, then, there's a civil speech to go to sleep over,” and so saying, he rolled over to the other side, and drew his blanket over his head.
Pracontal lay a long time awake, thinking of the strange companion he had chanced upon, and that still stranger amount of intimacy that had grown up between them. “I suppose,” muttered he to himself, “I must be the most indiscreet fellow in the world; but after all, what have I said that he has not read in the newspapers, or may not read next week or the week after? I know how Kelson would condemn me for this careless habit of talking of myself and my affairs to the first man I meet on a railroad or a steamer; but I must be what nature made me, and after all, if I show too much of my hand, I gain something by learning what the bystanders say of it.”
It was not till nigh daybreak that he dropped off to sleep; and when he awoke it was to see Mr. Cutbill with a large bowl of hot coffee in one hand, and a roll in the other, making an early breakfast; a very rueful figure, too, was he—as, black with smoke and coal-dust, he propped himself against the binnacle, and gazed out over the waste of waters.
“You are a good sailor, I see, and don't fear sea-sickness,” said Praoontal.
“Don't I? that's all you know of it; but I take everything they bring me. There's a rasher on its way to me now, if I survive this.”
“I'm for a basin of cold water and coarse towels,” said the other, rising.
“That's two points in your favor towards having English blood in you,” said Cutbill, gravely, for already his qualms were returning; “when a fellow tells you he cares for soap, he can't be out and out a Frenchman.” This speech was delivered with great difficulty, and when it was done he rolled over and covered himself up, over face and head, and spoke no more.
CHAPTER LIV. THE LETTER BAG.
“What a mail-bag!” cried Nelly, as she threw several letters on the breakfast-table; the same breakfast-table being laid under a spreading vine, all draped and festooned with a gorgeous clematis.
“I declare,” said Augustus, “I'd rather look out yonder, over the blue gulf of Cattaro, than see all the post could bring me.”
“This is for you,” said Nelly, handing a letter to L'Estrange.
He reddened as he took it; not that he knew either the writing or the seal, but that terrible consciousness which besets the poor man in life leads him always to regard the unknown as pregnant with misfortune: and so he pocketed his letter, to read it when alone and unobserved.
“Here's Cutbill again. I don't think I care for more Cutbill,” said Bramleigh; “and here's Sedley; Sedley will keep. This is from Marion.”
“Oh, let us hear Marion by all means,” said Nelly. “May I read her, Gusty?” He nodded, and she broke the envelope. “Ten lines and a postscript. She's positively expansive this time:—
“'Victoria, Naples. “'My dear Gusty,—Our discreet and delicate stepmother has written to ask me to intercede with you to permit M. Pracontal to pull down part of the house at Castello, to search for some family papers. I have replied that her demand is both impracticable and indecent. Be sure that you make a like answer if she addresses you personally. We mean to leave this soon; but are not yet certain in what direction. We have been shamefully treated, after having brought this troublesome and difficult negotiation to a successful end. We shall withdraw our proxy. “'Yours ever, in much affection, “'Marion Culduff.
“'P. S.—You have heard, I suppose, that Culduff has presented L'Estrange to a living. It's not in a hunting county, so that he will not be exposed to temptation; nor are there any idle young men, and Julia may also enjoy security. Do you know where they are?'”
They laughed long and heartily over this postscript. Indeed, it amused them to such a degree that they forgot all the preceding part of the letter. As to the fact of the presentation, none believed it. Read by the light of Cutbill's former letter, it was plain enough that it was only one of those pious frauds which diplomacy deals in as largely as Popery. Marion, they were sure, supposed she was recording a fact; but her comments on the fact were what amused them most.
“I wonder am I a flirt?” said Julia, gravely.
“I wonder am I a vicar?” said George; and once more the laughter broke out fresh and hearty.
“Let us have Cutbill now, Nelly. It will be in a different strain. He 's lengthy, too. He not only writes on four, but six sides of note paper this time.”
“'Dear Bramleigh,—You will be astonished to hear that I travelled back to England with Count Pracontal or Pracontal de Bramleigh, or whatever his name be—a right good fellow, frank, straightforward, and, so far as I see, honest. We hit it off wonderfully together, and became such good friends that I took him down to my little crib at Bayswater,—an attention, I suspect, not ill timed, as he does not seem flush of money. He told me the whole story of his claim, and the way he came first to know that he had a claim. It was all discovered by a book, a sort of manuscript journal of his great grandfather's, every entry of which he, Pracontal, believes to be true as the Bible. He does not remember ever to have seen his father, though he may have done so before he was put to the Naval School at Genoa. Of his mother, he knows nothing. From all I have seen of him, I 'd say that you and he have only to meet to become warm and attached friends; and it's a thousand pities you should leave to law and lawyers what a little forbearance, and a little patience, and a disposition to behave generously on each side might have settled at once and forever.
“'In this journal that I mentioned there were two pages gummed together, by accident or design, and on one of these was a sketch of a female figure in a great wreath of flowers, standing on a sort of pedestal, on which was written,—“Behind this stone I have deposited books or documents.” I 'm not sure of the exact words, for they were in Italian, and it was all I could do to master the meaning of the inscription. Now, Pracontal was so convinced that these papers have some great bearing on his claim, that he asked me to write to you to beg permission to make a search for them under the painting at Castello, of which this rough sketch is evidently a study. I own to you I feel little of that confidence that he reposes in this matter. I do not believe in the existence of the papers, nor see how, if there were any, that they could be of consequence. But his mind was so full of it, and he was so persistent in saying, “If I thought this old journal could mislead me, I 'd cease to believe my right to be as good as I now regard it,” that I thought I could not do better, in your interest, than to take him with me to Sedley's, to see what that shrewd old fox would say to him. P. agreed at once to go; and, what pleased me much, never thought of communicating with his lawyer nor asking his advice on the step.
“'Though I took the precaution to call on Sedley, and tell him what sort of man P. was, and how prudent it would be to hear him with a show of frankness and cordiality, that hard old dog was as stern and as unbending as if he was dealing with a housebreaker. He said he had no instructions from you to make this concession; that, though he himself attached not the slightest importance to any paper that might be found, were he to be consulted, he would unquestionably refuse this permission; that Mr. Bramleigh knew his rights too well to be disposed to encourage persons in frivolous litigation; and that the coming trial would scatter these absurd pretensions to the winds, and convince M. Pracontal and his friends that it would be better to address himself seriously to the business of life than pass his existence in prosecuting a hopeless and impossible claim.
“'I was much provoked at the sort of lecturing tone the old man assumed, and struck with astonishment at the good temper and good breeding with which the other took it. Only once he showed a slight touch of resentment, when he said, “Have a care, sir, that, while disparaging my pretensions, you suffer nothing to escape you that shall reflect on the honor of those who belong to me. I will overlook everything that relates to me. I will pardon nothing that insults their memory.” This finished the interview, and we took our leave. “We have not gained much by this step,” said Pracontal, laughing, as we left the house. “Will you now consent to write to Mr. Bramleigh, for I don't believe he would refuse my request?” I told him I would take a night to think over it, and on the same evening came a telegram from Ireland to say that some strange discoveries were just being made in the Lisconnor mine; that a most valuable “lode” had been artificially closed up, and that a great fraud had been practised to depreciate the value of the mine, and throw it into the market as a damaged concern, while its real worth was considerable. They desired me to go over at once and report, and Pracontal, knowing that I should be only a few miles from Bishop's Folly, to which he clings with an attachment almost incredible, determined to accompany me.
“'I have no means of even guessing how long I may be detained in Ireland—possibly some weeks; at all events let me have a line to say you will give me this permission. I say, “give me” because I shall strictly confine the investigation to the limits I myself think requisite, and in reality use the search as one means of testing what importance may attach to this journal, on which Pracontal relies so implicitly; and in the event of the failure—that I foresee and would risk a bet upon—I would employ the disappointment as a useful agent in dissuading Pracontal from farther pursuit.
“'I strongly urge you, therefore, not to withhold this permission. It seems rash to say that a man ought to furnish his antagonist with a weapon to fight him; but you have always declared you want nothing but an honest, fair contest, wherein the best man should win. You have also said to me that you often doubted your own actual sincerity. You can test it now, and by a touchstone that cannot deceive. If you say to Pracontal, “There's the key, go in freely; there is nothing to hide—nothing to fear,” you will do more to strengthen the ground you stand on than by all the eloquence of your lawyer; and if I know anything of this Frenchman, he is not the man to make an ill requital to such a generous confidence. Whatever you decide on, reply at once. I have no time for more, but will take my letter with me and add a line when I reach Ireland.
“'Liscownor, Friday Night
“'They were quite right; there was a most audacious fraud concocted, and a few days will enable me to expose it thoroughly. I 'm glad Lord Culduff had nothing to say to it, but more for your sake than his. The L'Estranges are safe; they'll have every shilling of their money, and with a premium, too.'”
Nelly laid down the letter and looked over to where George and his sister sat, still and motionless. It was a moment of deep feeling and intense relief, but none could utter a word. At last Julia said,—
“What a deal of kindness there is in that man, and how hard we felt it to believe it, just because he was vulgar. I declare I believe we must be more vulgar still to attach so much to form and so little to fact.”
“There is but one line more,” said Nelly, turning over the page.
“'Pracontal has lost all his spirits. He has been over to see a place belonging to a Mr. Longworth here, and has come back so sad and depressed as though the visit had renewed some great sorrow. We have not gone to Bishop's Folly yet, but mean to drive over there to-morrow. Once more, write to me.
“'Yours ever,
“'T. Cutbill.'”
“I shall not give this permission,” said Bramleigh, thoughtfully. “Sedley's opinion is decidedly adverse, and I shall abide by it.”
Now, though he said these words with an air of apparent determination, he spoke in reality to provoke discussion and hear what others might say. None, however, spoke, and he waited some minutes.
“I wish you would say if you agree with me,” cried he at last.
“I suspect very few would give the permission,” said Julia, “but that you are one of that few I believe also.”
“Yes, Gusty,” said Nelly. “Refuse it, and what becomes of that fair spirit in which you have so often said you desired to meet this issue?”
“What does George say?” asked Bramleigh. “Let's hear the Church.”
“Well,” said L'Estrange, in that hesitating, uncertain way he usually spoke in, “if a man were to say to me, 'I think I gave you a sovereign too much in change just now. Will you search your purse, and see if I'm not right?' I suppose I'd do so.”
“And of course you mean that if the restitution rose to giving back some thousands a year, it would be all the same?” said Julia.
“It would be harder to do, perhaps—of course; I mean—but I hope I could do it.”
“And I,” said Bramleigh, in a tone that vibrated with feeling, “I hoped a few days back that no test to my honesty or my sincerity would have been too much for me—that all I asked or cared for was that the truth should prevail—I find myself now prevaricating with myself, hair-splitting, and asking have I a right to do this, that, or t'other? I declare to heaven, when a man takes refuge in that self-put question, 'Have I the right to do something that inclination tells me not to do?' he is nearer a contemptible action than he knows of. And is there not one here will say that I ought, or ought not, to refuse this request?”
“I do not suppose such a request was ever made before,” said L'Estrange. “There lies the real difficulty of deciding what one should do.”
“Here's a note from Mr. Sedley,” cried Nelly. “Is it not possible that it may contain something that will guide us?”
“By all means read Sedley,” said Bramleigh. And she opened and read:—
“'Dear Sir,—
“'A Mr. Cutbill presented himself to me here last week, alleging he was an old and intimate friend of yours, and showing unquestionable signs of being well acquainted with your affairs. He was accompanied by M. Pracontal, and came to request permission to make searches at Castello for certain documents which he declared to be of great importance to the establishment of his claim. I will not stop to say what I thought, or indeed said, of such a proposal, exceeding in effrontery anything I had ever listened to.
“'Of course I not only refused this permission, but declared I would immediately write to you, imploring you, on no account or through any persuasion, to yield to it.
“'They left me, and apparently so disconcerted and dissuaded by my reception that I did not believe it necessary to address you on the subject. To my amazement, however, I learn from Kelson this morning that they actually did gain entrance to the house, and, by means which I have not yet ascertained, prosecuted the search they desired, and actually discovered the church registers of Portshandon, in one page of which is the entry of the marriage of Montague Bramleigh and Enrichetta Lami, with the name of the officiating clergyman and the attendant witnesses. Kelson forwards me a copy of this, while inviting me to inspect the original. My first step, however, has been to take measures to proceed against these persons for robbery; and I have sent over one of my clerks to Ireland to obtain due information as to the events that occurred, and to institute proceedings immediately. I do not believe that they committed a burglary, but it was a felonious entry all the same.
“'The important fact, however, lies in this act of registration, which, however fraudulently obtained, will be formidable evidence on a trial. You are certainly not happy in your choice of friends, if this Mr. Cutbill be one of them; but I hope no false sentiment will induce you to step between this man and his just punishment. He has done you an irreparable mischief, and by means the most shameful and inexcusable. I call the mischief irreparable, since, looking to the line of argument adopted by our leading counsel on the last trial, the case chiefly turned on the discredit that attached to this act of marriage. I cannot therefore exaggerate the mischief this discovery has brought us. You must come over at once. The delay incurred by letter-writing, and the impossibility of profiting by any new turn events may take, renders your presence here essential, and without it I declare I cannot accept any further responsibility in this case.
“'A very flippant note from Mr. Cutbill has just reached me. He narrates the fact of the discovered books, and says, “It is not too late for B. to make terms. Send for him at once, and say that Count P. has no desire to push him to the wall.” It is very hard to stomach this man's impertinence, but I hesitate now as to what course to take regarding him. Let me hear by telegraph that you are coming over: for I repeat that I will not engage myself to assume the full responsibility of the case, or take any decisive step without your sanction.'
“What could Cutbill mean by such conduct?” cried Nelly. “Do you understand it at all, Gusty?” Bramleigh merely shook his head in token of negative.
“It all came of the man's meddlesome disposition,” said Julia.” The mischievous people of the world are not the malevolent—they only do harm with an object: but the meddling creatures are at it day and night, scattering seeds of trouble out of very idleness.”
“Ju 's right,” said George; but in such a tone of habitual approval that set all the rest laughing.
“I need not discuss the question of permitting the search,” said Bramleigh; “these gentlemen have saved me that. The only point now open is, shall I go over to England or not?”
“Go by all means,” said Julia, eagerly. “Mr. Sedley's advice cannot be gainsaid.”
“But it seems to me our case is lost,” said he, as his eyes turned to Nelly, whose face expressed deep sorrow.
“I fear so,” said she, in a faint whisper.
“Then why ask me to leave this, and throw myself into a hopeless contest? Why am I, to quit this spot, where I have found peace and contentment, to encounter the struggle that, even with all my conviction of failure, will still move me to hope and expectancy?”
“Just because a brave soldier fights even after defeat seems certain,” said Julia. “More than one battle has been won from those who had already despatched news of their victory.”
“You may laugh at me, if you like,” said L'Estrange, “but Julia is right there.” And they did laugh, and the laughter was so far good that it relieved the terrible tension of their nerves, and rallied them back to ease and quietude.
“I see,” said Bramleigh, “that you all think I ought to go over to England; and though none of you can know what it will cost me in feeling, I will go.”
“There's a messenger from the Podestà of Cattaro waiting all this time, Gusty, to know about this English sailor they have arrested. The authorities desire to learn if you will take him off their hands.”
“George is my vice-consul. He shall deal with him,” said Bramleigh, laughing, “for as the steamer touches at two o'clock, I shall be run sharp to catch her. If any one will help me to pack, I 'll be more than grateful.”
“We'll do it in a committee of the whole house,” said Julia, “for when a man's trunk is once corded he never goes back of his journey.”
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.