CHAPTER LXVI. SEDLEY'S NOTES.
Julia found herself unable to come down to dinner, and Mr. Sedley had to confess that he had overtaxed her strength and imposed too far upon her zeal. “To tell truth,” added he, “I forgot she was not a colleague. So shrewd and purpose-like were all her remarks, such aptitude she displayed in rejecting what was valueless, and such acuteness in retaining all that was really important, it went clean out of my head that I was not dealing with a brother of the craft, instead of a very charming and beautiful young lady.”
“And you really have fallen upon papers of importance?” asked Nelly, eagerly; for Julia had already, in answer to the same question, said, “Mr. Sedley has pledged me to silence.”
“Of the last importance, Miss Bramleigh.” He paused for an instant, and then added, “I am well aware that I see nothing but friends, almost members of one family, around this table, but the habits of my calling impose reserve; and, besides, I am unwilling to make revelations until, by certain inquiries, I can affirm that they may be relied on.”
“Oh, Mr. Sedley, if you have a gleam—even a gleam—of hope, do give it us. Don't you think our long-suffering and patience have made us worthy of it?”
“Stop, Nelly,” cried Augustus, “I will have no appeals of this kind. Mr. Sedley knows our anxieties, and if he does not yield to them he has his own good reasons.”
“I don't see that,” broke in Jack. “We are not asking to hear our neighbor's secrets, and I take it we are of an age to be intrusted with our own.”
“You speak sharply, sir,” said Sedley, “but you speak well. I would only observe that the most careful and cautious people have been known to write letters, very confidential letters, which somehow get bruited about, so that clews are discovered and inferences traced which not unfrequently have given the most serious difficulties to those engaged in inquiry.”
“Have no fears on that score, Mr. Sedley,” said Jack. “There are no four people in Europe at this moment with fewer correspondents. I believe I might say that the roof of this house covers our whole world.”
“Jack is right, there,” added Augustus. “If we don't write to the 'Times' or the 'Post,' I don't see to whom we are to tell our news.”
“George has n't even a pulpit here to expound us from,” cried Jack, laughingly.
“You have an undoubted right to know what is strictly your own concern. The only question is, shall I be best consulting your interests by telling it?”
“Out with it, by all means,” said Jack. “The servants have left the room now, and here we are in close committee.”
Sedley looked towards Augustus, who replied by a gesture of assent; and the lawyer, taking his spectacles from his pocket, said, “I shall simply read you the entry of my notebook. Much of it will surprise, and much more gratify you; but let me entreat that if you have any doubts to resolve or questions to put, you will reserve them till I have finished. I will only say that for everything I shall state as fact there appears to me to be abundant proofs, and where I mention what is simply conjecture I will say so. You remember my condition, then? I am not to be interrupted.”
“Agreed,” cried Jack, as though replying for the most probable defaulter. “I 'll not utter a word, and the others are all discretion.”
“The case is this,” said Sedley. “Montague Bramleigh, of Cossenden Manor, married Enrichetta, daughter of Giacomo Lami, the painter. The marriage was celebrated at the village church of Portshandon, and duly registered. They separated soon after,—she retiring to Holland with her father, who had compromised himself in the Irish rebellion of '98. A son was born to this marriage, christened and registered in the Protestant church at Louvain as Godfrey Lami Bramleigh. To his christening Bramleigh was entreated to come; but under various pretexts he excused himself, and sent a costly present for the occasion. His letters, however, breathed nothing but affection, and fully recognized the boy as his son and his heir. Captain Bramleigh is, I know, impatient at the length of these details, but I can't help it. Indignant at the treatment of his daughter, Lami sent back the gift with a letter of insulting meaning. Several letters were interchanged of anger and recrimination; and Enrichetta, whose health had long been failing, sunk under the suffering of her desertion, and died. Lami left Holland, and repaired to Germany, carrying the child with him. He was also accompanied by a younger daughter, Carlotta, who, at the time I refer to, might have been sixteen or seventeen years of age. Lami held no intercourse with Bramleigh from this date, nor, so far as we know, did Bramleigh take measures to learn about the child,—how he grew up, or where he was. Amongst the intimates of Lami's family was a man whose name is not unfamiliar to newspaper readers of some thirty or forty years back,—a man who had figured in various conspiracies, and contrived to escape scathless where his associates had paid the last penalty of their crimes. This man became the suitor of Carlotta, and won her affections, although Giacomo neither liked nor trusted Niccolo Baldassare—”
“Stop, there,” cried Jack, rising, and leaning eagerly across the table. “Say that name again.”
“Niccolo Baldassare.”
“My old companion,—my comrade at the galleys,” exclaimed Jack; “we were locked to each other, wrist and ankle, for eight months.”
“He lives, then?”
“I should think he does. The old beggar is as stout and hale as any one here. I can't guess his age; but I'll answer for his vigor.”
“This will be all important hereafter,” said Sedley, making a note. “Now to my narrative. From Lami, Baldassare learned the story of Enrichetta's unhappy marriage and death, and heard how the child, then a playful little boy of three years or so, was the rightful heir of a vast fortune,—a claim the grandfather firmly resolved to prosecute at some future day. The hope was, however, not destined to sustain him, for the boy caught a fever and died. His burial-place is mentioned, and his age, four years.”
“So that,” cried Augustus, “the claim became extinct with him?”
“Of course; for though Montague Bramleigh re-married, it was not till six years after his first wife's death.”
“And our rights are unassailable?” cried Nelly, wildly.
“Your estates are safe; at least, they will be safe.”
“And who is Pracontal de Bramleigh?” asked Jack.
“I will tell you. Baldassare succeeded in winning Carlotta' s heart, and persuaded her to elope with him. She did so, carrying with her all the presents Bramleigh had formerly given to her sister,—some rings of great price, and an old watch with the Bramleigh arms in brilliants, among the number. But these were not all. She also took the letters and documents that established her marriage, and a copy of the registration. I must hasten on, for I see impatience on every side. He broke the heart of this poor girl, who died, and was buried with her little boy, in the same grave, leaving old Lami desolate and childless. By another marriage, and by a wife still living, Marie Pracontal, Baldassare had a son; and he bethought him, armed as he was with papers and documents, to prefer the claim to the Bramleigh estates for this youth; and had even the audacity to ask Lami's assistance to the fraud, and to threaten him with his vengeance if he betrayed him.
“So perfectly propped was the pretension by circumstances of actual events,—Niccolo knew everything,—that Bramleigh not only sent several sums of money to stifle the demand, but actually despatched a confidential person abroad to see the claimant, and make some compromise with him; for it is abundantly evident that Montague Bramleigh only dreaded the scandal and the éclat such a story would create, and had no fears for the title to his estates, he all along believing that there were circumstances in the marriage with Enrichetta which would show it to be illegal, and the issue consequently illegitimate.”
“I must say, I think our respected grandfather,” said Augustus, gravely, “does not figure handsomely in this story.”
“With the single exception of old Lami,” cried Jack, “they were a set of rascals,—every man of them.”
“And is this the way you speak of your dear friend Niccolo Baldassare?” asked Nelly.
“He was a capital fellow at the galleys; but I suspect he 'd prove a very shady acquaintance in more correct company.”
“And, Mr. Sedley, do you really say that all this can be proven?” cried Nelly. “Do you believe it all yourself?”
“Every word of it. I shall test most of it within a few days. I have already telegraphed to London for one of the clever investigators of registries and records. I have ample means of tracing most of the events I need. These papers of old Lami's are full of small details; they form a closer biography than most men leave behind them.”
“There was, however, a marriage of my grandfather with Enrichetta Lami?” asked Augustus.
“We give them that,” cried the lawyer, who fancied himself already instructing counsel. “We contest nothing,—notice, registry, witnesses, all are as legal as they could wish. The girl was Mrs. Bramleigh, and her son, Montague Bramleigh's heir. Death, however, carried away both, and the claim fell with them. That these people will risk a trial now is more than I can believe; but if they should, we will be prepared for them. They shall be indicted before they leave the court, and Count Pracontal de Bramleigh be put in the dock for forgery.”
“No such thing, Sedley!” broke in Bramleigh, with an energy very rare with him. “I am well inclined to believe that this young man was no party to the fraud,—he has been duped throughout; nor can I forget the handsome terms he extended to us when our fortune looked darkest.”
“A generosity on which late events have thrown a very ugly light,” muttered Sedley.
“My brother is right. I 'll be sworn he is,” cried Jack. “We should be utterly unworthy of the good luck that has befallen us, if the first use we made of it was to crush another.”
“If your doctrines were to prevail, sir, it would be a very puzzling world to live in,” said Sedley, sharply.
“We 'd manage to get on with fewer lawyers, anyway.”
“Mr. Sedley,” said Nelly, mildly, “we are all too happy and too gratified for this unlooked-for deliverance to have a thought for what is to cause suffering anywhere. Let us, I entreat you, have the full enjoyment of this great happiness.”
“Then we are probably to include the notable Mr. Cutbill in this act of indemnity?” said Sedley, sneeringly.
“I should think we would, sir,” replied Jack. “Without the notable Mr. Cutbill's aid we should never have chanced on those papers you have just quoted to us.”
“Has he been housebreaking again?” asked Sedley, with a grin.
“I protest,” interposed Bramleigh, “if the good fairy who has been so beneficent to us were only to see us sparring and wrangling in this fashion, she might well think fit to withdraw her gift.”
“Oh, here's Julia,” cried Nelly; “and all will go right now.”
“Well,” said Julia, “has any one moved the thanks of the house to Mr. Sedley; for if not, I 'm quite ready to do it. I have my speech prepared.”
“Move! move!” cried several, together.
“I first intend to have a little dinner,” said she; “but I have ordered it in the small dining-room; and you are perfectly welcome, any or all of you, to keep me company, if you like.”
To follow the conversation that ensued would be little more than again to go over a story which we feel has been already impressed with tiresome reiteration on the reader. Whatever had failed in Sedley's narrative, Julia's ready wit and quick intelligence had supplied by conjecture, and they talked on till late into the night, bright gleams of future projects shooting like meteors across the placid heaven of their enjoyment, and making all bright around them.
Before they parted it was arranged that each should take his separate share of the inquiry; for there were registries to be searched, dates confirmed in several places; and while L'Estrange was to set out for Louvain, and Jack for Savoy, Sedley himself took charge of the weightier question to discover St. Michel, and prove the burial of Godfrey Bramleigh.
CHAPTER LXVII. A WAYFARER
When the time came for the several members of the family at the villa to set out on the search after evidence, Jack, whose reluctance to leave home—he called it “home”—increased with every day, induced Cutbill to go in his stead, a change which even Mr. Sedley himself was forced to admit was not detrimental to the public service.
Cutbill's mission was to Aix, in Savoy, to see and confer with Marie Pracontal, the first wife of Baldassare. He arrived in the nick of time; for only on that same morning had Baldassare himself entered the town, in his galley-slave uniform, to claim his wife and ask recognition amongst his fellow-townsmen. The house where she lived was besieged by a crowd, all more or less eager in asserting the woman's cause, and denouncing the pretensions of a fellow covered with crimes, and pronounced dead to all civil rights. Amid execrations and insults, with threats of even worse, Baldassare stood on a chair in the street, in the act of addressing the multitude, as Cutbill drew nigh. The imperturbable self-possession, the cool courage of the man—who dared to brave public opinion in this fashion, and demand a hearing for what in reality was nothing but a deliberate insult to the people around him whose lives he knew, and whose various social derelictions he was all familiar with—was positively astounding. “I have often thought of you, good people,” said he, “while at the galleys; and I made a vow to myself that the first act of my escape, if ever I should escape, should be to visit this place and thank you for every great lesson I have learned in life. It was here, in this place, I committed my first theft. It was yonder in that church I first essayed sacrilege. It was you, amiable and gentle people, who gave me four associates who betrayed each other, and who died on the drop or by the guillotine, with the courage worthy of Aix; and it was from you I received that pearl of wives who is now married to a third husband, and denies the decent rights of hospitality to her first.”
This outrage was now unbearable; a rush was made at him, and he fell amongst the crowd, who had torn him limb from limb but for the intervention of the police, who were driven to defend him with fixed bayonets. “A warm reception, I must say,” cried the fellow, as they led him away, bleeding and bruised, to the jail.
It was not a difficult task for Cutbill to obtain from Marie Pracontal the details he sought for. Smarting under the insults and scandal she had been exposed to on the day before, she revealed everything, and signed in due form a procès verbal drawn up by a notary of the place, of her marriage with Baldassare, the birth of her son Anatole with the dates of his birth and baptism, and gave up, besides, some letters which he had written while at the naval school of Genoa. What became of him afterwards she knew not, nor, indeed, seemed to care. The cruelties of the father had poisoned her mind against the son, and she showed no interest in his fate, and wished not to hear of him.
Cutbill left Aix on the third day, and was slowly strolling up the Mont Cenis pass in front of his horses, when he overtook the very galley-slave he had seen addressing the crowd at Aix. “I thought they had sent you over the frontier into France, my friend,” said Cutbill, accosting him like an old acquaintance.
“So they did; but I gave them the slip at Culoz, and doubled back. I have business at Rome, and could n't endure that roundabout way by Marseilles.”
“Will you smoke? May I offer you a cigar?”
“My best thanks,” said he, touching his cap politely. “They smashed my pipe, those good people down there. Like all villagers, they resent free speech, but they 'd have learned something had they listened to me.”
“Perhaps your frankness was excessive.”
“Ha! you were there, then? Well, it was what Diderot calls self-sacrificing sincerity; but all men who travel much and mix with varied classes of mankind, fall into this habit. In becoming cosmopolitan you lose in politeness.”
“Signor Baldassare, your conversation interests me much. Will you accept a seat in my carriage over the mountain, and give me the benefit of your society?”
“It is I that am honored, sir,” said he, removing his cap, and bowing low. “There is nothing so distinctively well bred as the courtesy of a man in your condition to one in mine.”
“But you are no stranger to me.”
“Indeed! I remarked you called me by my name; but I'm not aware that you know more of me.”
“I can afford to rival your own candor, and confess I know a great deal about you.”
“Then you have read a very checkered page, sir. What an admirable cigar. You import these, I'd wager?”
“No, but it comes to the same. I buy them in bond, and pay the duty.”
“Yours is the only country to live in, sir. It has been the dream of my life to pass my last days in England.”
“Why not do so? I can't imagine that Aix will prefer any strong claims in preference.”
“No, I don't care for Aix, though it is pretty, and I have passed some days of happy tranquillity on that little Lac de Bourges; but to return: to what fortunate circumstance am I indebted for the knowledge you possess of my biography?”
“You have been a very interesting subject to me for some time back. First of all, I ought to say that I enjoy the pleasure of your son's acquaintance.”
“A charming young man, I am told,” said he, puffing out a long column of smoke.
“And without flattery, I repeat it,—a charming young man, good-looking, accomplished, high-spirited and brave.”
“You delight me, sir. What a misfortune for the poor fellow that his antecedents have not been more favorable; but you see, Mr.———”
“Cutbill is my name.”
“Mr. Cutbill, you see that I have not only had a great many irons in the fire through life, but occasionally it has happened to me that I took hold of them by the hot ends.”
“And burned your fingers?”
“And burned my fingers.”
They walked on some steps in silence, when Baldassare said,—
“Where, may I ask, did you last see my son?”
“I saw him last in Ireland, about four months ago. We travelled over together from England, and I visited a place called Castello, in his company,—the seat of the Bramleigh family.”
“Then you know his object in having gone there? You know who he is, what he represents, what he claims?”
“I know the whole story by heart.”
“Will you favor me with your version of it?”
“With pleasure; but here is the carriage. Let us get in, for the narrative is somewhat long and complicated.”
“Before you begin, sir, one question: where is my son now? is he at Rome?”
“He is; he arrived there on Tuesday last.”
“That is enough,—excuse my interrupting,—I am now at your orders.”
The reader will readily excuse me if I do not follow Mr. Cutbill in his story, which he told at full length, and with what showed a perfect knowledge of all the circumstances. It is true he was so far disingenuous that he did not confess the claim had ever created alarm to the minds of the Bramleighs. There were certain difficulties, he admitted, and no small expense incurred in obtaining information abroad, and proving, as it was distinctly proved, that no issue of Montague Bramleigh had survived, and that the pretensions of Pracontal were totally groundless.
“And your visit to Savoy was on this very business?” asked Baldassare.
“You are right; a small detail was wanting which I was able to supply.”
“And how does Anatole bear the discovery?”
“He has not heard of it; he is at Rome, paying court to an English lady of rank to whom he hopes to be married.”
“And how will he bear it; in what spirit will he meet the blow?”
“From what I have seen of him, I 'd say he 'd stand up nobly under misfortune, and not less so here, that I know he firmly believed in his right; he was no party to the fraud.”
“These frauds, as you call them, succeed every day, and when they occur in high places we have more courteous names to call them by. What say you to the empire in France?”
“I'll not discuss that question with you; it takes too wide a range.”
“Anatole must bethink him of some other livelihood now, that's clear. I mean to tell him so.”
“You intend to see him—to speak with him?”
“What, sir, do you doubt it? Is it because my wife rejects me that I am to be lost to the ties of parental affection?” He said this with a coarse and undisguised mockery, and then, suddenly changing to a tone of earnestness, added, “We shall have to link our fortunes now, and there are not many men who can give an adventurer such counsels as I can.”
“From what I know of the Bramleighs, they would willingly befriend him if they knew how, or in what way to do it.”
“Nothing easier. All men's professions can be brought to an easy test,—so long as money exists.”
“Let me know where to write to you, and I will see what can be done.”
“Or, rather, let me have your address, for my whereabouts is somewhat uncertain.”
Cutbill wrote his name and Cattaro on a slip of paper, and the old fellow smiled grimly, and said, “Ah! that was your clew, then, to this discovery. I knew Giacomo died there, but it was a most unlikely spot to track him to. Nothing but chance, the merest chance, could have led to it?”
This he said interrogatively; but Cutbill made no reply.
“You don't care to imitate my frankness, sir; and I am not surprised at it. It is only a fellow who has worn rags for years that does n't fear nakedness. Is my son travelling alone, or has he a companion?”
“He had a companion some short time back; but I do not know if they are together now.”
“I shall learn all that at Rome.”
“And have you no fears to be seen there? Will the authorities not meddle with you?”
“Far from it. It is the one state in Europe where men like myself enjoy liberty. They often need us,—they fear us always.”
Cutbill was silent for some time. He seemed like one revolving some project in his mind, but unable to decide on what he should do. At last he said,—
“You remember a young Englishman who made his escape from Ischia last June?”
“To be sure I do,—my comrade.”
“You will be astonished to know he was a Bramleigh,—a brother of the owner of the estate.”
“It was so like my luck to have trusted him,” said the other, bitterly.
“You are wrong there. He was always your friend,—he is so at this moment. I have heard him talk of you with great kindliness.”
A careless shrug of the shoulders was the reply.
“Tell him from me,” said he, with a savage grin, “that Onofrio,—don't forget the name,—Onofrio is dead. We threw him over the cliff the night we broke the jail. There, let me write it for you,” said he, taking the pencil from Cutbill's hand, and writing the word Onofrio in a large bold character.
“Keep that pencil-case, will you, as a souvenir?” said Cutbill.
“Give me ten francs instead, and I'll remember you when I pay for my dinner,” said he, with a grating laugh; and he took the handful of loose silver Cutbill offered him, and thrust it into his pocket. “Is n't that Souza we see in the valley there? Yes; I remember it well. I'll go no further with you—there's a police-station where I had trouble once. I 'll take the cross-path here that leads down to the Pinarola Road. I thank you heartily. I wanted a little good-nature much when you overtook me. Goodbye.”
He leaped from the carriage as he spoke, and crossing the little embankment of the road, descended a steep slope, and was out of sight almost in an instant.
CHAPTER LXVIII. A MEETING AND A PARTING
In the same room where Pracontal and Longworth had parted in anger, the two men, reconciled and once more friends, sat over their dessert and a cigar. The handsome reparation Pracontal had offered in a letter had been frankly and generously met, and it is probable that their friendship was only the more strongly ratified by the incident.
They were both dressed with unusual care, for Lady Augusta “received” a few intimate friends on that evening, and Pracontal was to be presented to them in his quality of accepted suitor.
“I think,” said Longworth, laughingly, “it is the sort of ordeal most Englishmen would feel very awkward in. You are trotted out for the inspection of a critical public, who are to declare what they think of your eyes and your whiskers, if they augur well of your temper, and whether, on the whole, you are the sort of person to whom a woman might confide her fate and future.”
“You talk as if I were to be sent before a jury and risk a sentence,” said Pracontal, with a slight irritation in his tone.
“It is something very like it.”
“And I say, there is no resemblance whatever.”
“Don't you remember what Lord Byron in one of his letters says of a memorable drive through Ravenna one evening, where he was presented as the accepted?—There's that hang-dog rascal that followed us through the gardens of the Vatican this morning, there he is again, sitting directly in front of our window, and staring at us.”
“Well, I take it those benches were placed there for fellows to rest on who had few arm-chairs at home.”
“I don't think, in all my experience of humanity, I ever saw a face that revolted me more. He is n't ugly, but there is something in the expression so intensely wicked, that mockery of all goodness, that Retsch puts into Mephistopheles; it actually thrills me.”
“I don't see that—there is even drollery in the mouth.”
“Yes, diabolic humor, certainly. Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“Did n't you see that when I lifted my glass to my lips, he made a pantomime of drinking too, and bowed to me, as though in salutation?”
“I knew there was fun in the fellow. Let us call him over and speak to him.”
“No, no, Pracontal; do not, I beseech you. I feel an aversion towards him that I cannot explain. The rascal poisons the very claret I 'm drinking just by glancing at me.”
“You are seldom so whimsical.”
“Would n't you say the fellow knew we were talking of him? See he is smiling now; if that infernal grin can be called a smile.”
“I declare, I will have him over here; now don't go, sit down like a good fellow; there's no man understands character better than yourself, and I am positively curious to see how you will read this man on a closer inspection.”
“He does not interest, he merely disgusts, me.”
Pracontal arose, drew nigh the window, and waved his napkin in sign to the man, who at once got up from his seat, and slowly, and half indolently, came over to the window. He was dressed in a sort of gray uniform of jacket and trousers, and wore a kerchief on his head for a cap, a costume which certainly in no degree contributed to lessen the unfavorable impression his face imparted, for there was in his look a mixture of furtiveness and ferocity positively appalling.
“Do you like him better now?” asked Longworth, in English.
And the fellow grinned at the words.
“You understand English, eh?” asked Pracontal.
“Ay, I know most modern languages.”
“What nation are you?”
“A Savoyard.”
“Whence do you come now?”
“From the galleys at Ischia.”
“Frank that, anyhow,” cried Longworth. “Were you under sentence there?”
“Yes, for life.”
“For what offence?”
“For a score that I committed, and twice as many that I failed in.”
“Murder, assassination?”
He nodded.
“Let us hear about some of them,” said Pracontal, with interest.
“I don't talk of these things; they are bygones, and I 'd as soon forget them.”
“And do you fancy they 'll be forgotten up there,” said Pracontal, pointing upwards as he spoke.
“What do you know about 'up there,'” said he, sternly, “more than myself? Are not your vague words, 'up there,' the proof that it 's as much a mystery to you as to me?”
“Don't get into theology with him, or you 'll have to listen to more blasphemy than you bargain for,” whispered Longworth; and whether the fellow overheard or merely guessed the meaning of the words, he grinned diabolically, and said,—
“Yes, leave that question there.”
“Are you not afraid of the police, my friend?” asked Longworth. “Is it not in their power to send you back to those you have escaped from?”
“They might with another, but the Cardinal Secretary knows me. I have told him I have some business to do at Rome, and want only a day or two to do it, and he knows I will keep my word.”
“My faith, you are a very conscientious galley-slave!” cried Pracontal. “Are you hungry?” and he took a large piece of bread from the sideboard and handed it to him. The man bowed, took the bread, and laid it beside him on the window-board.
“And so you and Antonelli are good friends?” said Longworth sneeringly.
“I did not say so. I only said he knew me, and knew me to be a man of my word.”
“And how could a Cardinal know—” when he got thus far he felt the unfairness of saying what he was about to utter, and stopped, but the man took up the words with perfect calmness, and said:—
“The best and the purest people in this world will now and then have to deal with the lowest and the worst, just as men will drink dirty water when they are parched with thirst.”
“Is it some outlying debt of vengeance, an old vendetta, detains you here?” asked Longworth.
“I wouldn't call it that,” replied he, slowly, “but I'd not be surprised if it took something of that shape, after all.”
“And do you know any other great folk?” asked Pracontal, with a laugh. “Are you acquainted with the Pope?”
“No, I have never spoken to him. I know the French envoy here, the Marquis de Caderousse. I know Field-Marshall Kleinkoff. I know Brassieri—the Italian spy—they call him the Duke of Brassieri.”
“That is to say, you have seen them as they drove by on the Corso, or walked on the Pincian?” said Longworth.
“No, that would not be acquaintance. When I said 'know' I meant it.”
“Just as you know my friend here, and know me perhaps?” said Pracontal.
“Not only him, but you,” said the fellow, with a fierce determination.
“Me, know me? what do you know about me?”
“Everything,” and now he drew himself up, and stared at him defiantly.
“I declare I wonder at you, Anatole,” whispered Longworth. “Don't you know the game of menace and insolence these rascals play at?” And again the fellow seemed to divine what passed, for he said:—
“Your friend is wrong this time. I am not the cheat he thinks me.”
“Tell me something you know about me,” said Pracontal, smiling; and he filled a goblet with wine, and handed it to him.
The other, however, made a gesture of refusal, and coldly said,—“What shall it be about? I 'll answer any question you put to me.”
“What is he about to do?” cried Longworth. “What great step in life is he on the eve of taking?”
“Oh, I'm not a fortune teller,” said the man, roughly; “though I could tell you that he's not to be married to this rich Englishwoman. That fine bubble is burst already.”
Pracontal tried to laugh, but he could not; and it was with difficulty he could thunder out,—“Servants' stories and lackeys' talk!”
“No such thing, sir. I deal as little with these people as yourself. You seem to think me an impostor; but I tell you I am less of a cheat than either of you. Ay, sir, than you, who play fine gentlemen, mi Lordo, here in Italy, but whose father was a land-steward; or than you—”
“What of me—what of me?” cried Pracontal, whose intense eagerness now mastered every other emotion.
“You I who cannot tell who or what you are, who have a dozen names, and no right to any of them; and who, though you have your initials burned in gunpowder in the bend of your arm, have no other baptismal registry. Ah! do I know you now?” cried he, as Pracontal sank upon a seat, covered with a cold sweat and fainting.
“This is some rascally trick. It is some private act of hate. Keep him in talk till I fetch a gendarme.” Longworth whispered this, and left the room.
“Bad counsel that he has given you,” said the man. “My advice is better. Get away from this at once—get away before he returns. There's only shame and disgrace before you now.”
He moved over to where Pracontal was seated, and placing his mouth close to his ear, whispered some words slowly and deliberately.
“And are you Niccolo Baldassare?” muttered Pracontal.
“Come with me, and learn all,” said the man, moving to the door; “for I will not wait to be arrested and made a town talk.”
Pracontal arose and followed him.
The old man walked with a firm and rapid step. He descended the stairs that led to the Piazza del Popolo, crossed the wide piazza, and issued from the gate out upon the Campagna, and skirting the ancient wall, was soon lost to view among the straggling hovels which cluster at intervals beneath the ramparts. Pracontal continued to walk behind him, his head sunk on his bosom, and his steps listless and uncertain, like one walking in sleep. Neither were seen more after that night.
CHAPTER LXIX. THE LAST OF ALL.
All the emissaries had returned to the villa except Sedley, who found himself obliged to revisit England suddenly, but from whom came a few lines of telegram, stating that the “case of Pracontal de Bramleigh v. Bramleigh had been struck out of the cause list; Kelson a heavy loser, having made large advances to plaintiff.”
“Was n't it like the old fox to add this about his colleague? As if any of us cared about Kelson, or thought of him!”
“Good fortune is very selfish, I really believe,” said Nelly. “We have done nothing but talk of ourselves, our interests, and our intentions for the last four days, and the worst of it is we don't seem tired of doing so yet.”
“It would be a niggardly thing to deny us that pleasure, seeing what we have passed through to reach it,” cried Jack.
“Who 'll write to Marion with the news?” said Augustus.
“Not I,” said Jack; “or if I do it will be to sign myself 'late Sam Rogers.'”
“If George accepts the embassy chaplaincy,” said Julia, “he can convey the tidings by word of mouth.”
“To guess by his dreary face,” said Jack, “one would say he had really closed with that proposal. What's the matter, old fellow; has the general joy here not warmed your heart?”
L'Estrange, pale and red alternately, blundered out a few scarcely coherent words; and Julia, who well knew what feelings were agitating him, and how the hopes that adversity had favored might be dashed, now that a brighter fortune had dawned, came quickly to his rescue, and said, “I see what George is thinking of. George is wondering when we shall all be as happy and as united again, as we have been here, under this dear old roof.”
“But why should we not?” broke in Augustus. “I mean to keep the anniversary of our meeting here, and assemble you all every year at this place. Perhaps I have forgotten to tell you that I am the owner of the villa. I have signed the contract this morning.”
A cry of joy—almost a cheer—greeted this announcement, and Augustus went on,—
“My ferns, and my green beetles, and my sea anemones, as Nelly enumerates them, can all be prosecuted here, and I purpose to remain and live here.”
“And Castello?”
“Jack will go and live at Castello,” continued he. “I have interceded with a lady of my acquaintance”—he did not glance at Julia, but she blushed as he spoke—“to keep a certain green room, with a little stair out of it down to the garden, for me when I go there. Beyond that I reserve nothing.”
“We 'll only half value the gift without you, old fellow,” said Jack, as he passed his arm around her, and drew her fondly towards him.
“As one of the uninstructed public,” interposed Cutbill, “I desire to ask, who are meant by 'We'?”
A half insolent toss of the head from Julia, meant specially for the speaker, was, however, seen by the others, who could not help laughing at it heartily.
“I think the uninstructed public should have a little deference for those who know more,” broke in Jack, tartly, for he resented hotly whatever seemed to annoy Julia.
“Tom Cutbill is shunted off the line, I see,” said Cutbill, mournfully.
“If he were,” cried Augustus, “we should be about the most worthless set of people living. We owe him much, and like him even more.”
“Now, that's what I call handsome,” resumed Cutbill, “and if it was n't a moment when you are all thinking of things a precious sight more interesting than T. C, I 'd ask permission to return my acknowledgments in a speech.”
“Oh, don't make a speech, Mr. Cutbill,” said Julia.
“No, ma'am, I'll reserve myself till I return thanks for the bridesmaids.”
“Will no one suppress him?” said Julia, in a whisper.
“Oh, I am so glad you are to live at Castello, dearest,” said Nelly, as she drew Julia to her, and kissed her. “You are just the châtelaine to become it.”
“There is such a thing as losing one's head, Nelly, out of sheer delight, and when I think I shall soon be one of you I run this risk; but tell me, dearest”—and here she whispered her lowest—“why is not our joy perfect? Why is poor George to be left out of all this happiness?”
“You must ask him that,” muttered she, hiding her head on the other's shoulder.
“And may I, dearest?” cried Julia, rapturously. “Oh, Nelly, if there be one joy in the world I would prize above all it would be to know you were doubly my sister—doubly bound to me in affection. See, darling, see—even as we are speaking—George and your brother have walked away together. Oh, can it be—can it be? Yes, dearest,” cried she, throwing her arms around her; “your brother is holding him by the hand, and the tears are falling along George's cheek; his happiness is assured, and you are his own.”
Nelly's chest heaved violently, and two low deep sobs burst from her, but her face was buried in Julia's bosom, and she never uttered a word. And thus Julia led her gently away down one of the lonely alleys of the garden, till they were lost to sight.
Lovers are proverbially the very worst of company for the outer world, nor is it easy to say which is more intolerable—their rapture or their reserve. The overweening selfishness of the tender passion conciliates no sympathy; very fortunately, it is quite indifferent to it. If it were not all-sufficing, it would not be that glorious delirium that believes the present to be eternal, and sees a world peopled only by two.
What should we gain, therefore, if we loitered in such company? They would not tell us their secrets—they would not care to hear ours. Let it be enough to say that, after some dark and anxious days in life, fortune once more shone out on those whom we saw so prosperous when first we met them. If they were not very brilliant nor very good, they were probably—with defects of temper and shortcomings in high resolve—pretty much like the best of those we know in life. Augustus, with a certain small vanity that tormented him into thinking that he had a lesson to read to the world, and that he was a much finer creature than he seemed or looked, was really a generously minded and warm-hearted fellow, who loved his neighbor—meaning his brother or his sister—a great deal better than himself.
Nelly was about as good as—I don't think better than—nineteen out of every twenty honestly brought-up girls, who, not seduced by the luxuries of a very prosperous condition, come early to feel and to know what money can and what it cannot do.
Jack had many defects of hot temper and hastiness, but on the whole was a fine, sailor-like fellow, carrying with him through life the dashing hardihood that he would have displayed in a breach or on a boarding, and thus occasionally exuberant, where smaller and weaker traits would have sufficed. Such men, from time to time, make troublesome first lieutenants, but women do not dislike them, and there is an impression abroad that they make good husbands, and that all the bluster they employ towards the world subsides into the mildest possible murmur beside the domestic hearthrug.
Marion was not much more or much less than we have seen her; and though she became, by the great and distinguished services of her husband, a countess, she was not without a strange sentiment of envy for a certain small vicarage in Herts, where rosy children romped before the latticed porch, beneath which sat a very blooming and beautiful mother, and worked as her husband read for her. A very simple little home sketch; but it was the page of a life where all harmonized and all went smoothly on: one of those lives of small ambitions and humble pleasures which are nearer Paradise than anything this world gives us.
Temple Bramleigh was a secretary of legation, and lived to see himself—in the uniformity of his manuscript, the precision of his docketing, and the exactness of his sealing wax—the pet of “the Office.” Acolytes who swung incense before permanent secretaries, or held up the vestments of chief clerks, and who heard the words which drop from the high priests of foolscap, declared Temple was a rising man; and with a brother-in-law in the Lords, and a brother rich enough to contest a seat in the Lower House, one whose future pointed to a high post and no small distinction: for, happily for us, we live in an age where self-assertion is as insufficient in public life as self-righteousness in religion, and our merits are always best cared for by imputed holiness.
The story of this volume is of the Bramleighs, and I must not presume to suppose that my reader interests himself in the fate of those secondary personages who figure in the picture. Lady Augusta, however, deserves a passing mention, but perhaps her own words will be more descriptive than any of mine; and I cannot better conclude than with the letter she wrote to Nelly, and which ran thus:—
“Villa Altieri, Rome.
“Dearest Child,—How shall I ever convey to you one-half the transport, the joy, the ecstasy I am filled with by this glorious news! There is no longer a question of law or scandal or exposure. Your estates are your own, and your dear name stands forth untarnished and splendid as it has ever done. It is only as I bethink me of what you and dearest Augustus and darling Jack must have gone through that I spare you the narrative of my own sufferings, my days of sorrow, my nights of crying. It was indeed a terrific trial to us all, and those horrid stories of hair turning white from grief made me rush to the glass every morning at daybreak with a degree of terror that I know well I shall never be able to throw off for many a year; for I can assure you, dearest, that the washes are a mistake, and most pernicious! They are made of what chemists call Ethiops mineral, which is as explosive as nitro-glycerine; and once penetrating the pores, the head becomes, as Doctor Robertson says, a 'charged shell.' Can you fancy anything as horrible? Incipient grayness is best treated with silver powder, which, when the eyelashes are properly darkened at the base, gives a very charming lustre to the expression. On no account use gold powder.
“It was a Mr. Longworth, a neighbor of yours, whom you don't know, brought me the first news; but it was soon all over Rome, for his father—I mean Pracontal's—was formerly much employed by Antonelli, and came here with the tidings that the mine had exploded, and blown up only themselves. A very dreadful man his father, with a sabre scar down the cheek, and deep marks of manacles on his wrists and ankles; but would n't take money from the Cardinal, nor anything but a passport. And they went away, so the police say, on foot, P. dressed in some horrid coarse clothes like his father; and oh, darling, how handsome he was, and how distinguished-looking! It was young France, if you like; but, after all, don't we all like the Boulevard de Ghent better than the Faubourg St. Germain? He was very witty, too; that is, he was a master of a language where wit comes easy, and could season talk with those nice little flatteries which, like fioriture in singing, heighten the charm, but never impair the force of the melody. And then, how he sang! Imagine Mario in a boudoir with a cottage piano accompaniment, and then you have it. It is very hard to know anything about men, but, so far as I can see, he was not a cheat; he believed the whole stupid story, and fancied that there had been a painter called Lami, and a beautiful creature who married somebody and was the mother of somebody else. He almost made me believe it, too; that is, it bored me ineffably, and I used to doze over it, and when I awoke I was n't quite sure whether I dreamed he was a man of fortune or that such was a fact. Do you think he 'll shoot himself? I hope he 'll not shoot himself. It would throw such a lasting gloom over the whole incident that one could never fall back upon it in memory without deep sorrow; but men are so essentially selfish I don't think that this consideration would weigh with him.
“Some malicious people here circulated a story that he had made me an offer of marriage, and that I had accepted it. Just as they said some months ago that I had gone over to Rome, and here I am still, as the police-sheet calls me, a 'Widow and a Protestant.' My character for eccentricity exposes me naturally to these kinds of scandal; but, on the other hand, it saves me from the trouble of refuting or denying them. So that I shall take no notice whatever either of my conversion or my marriage, and the dear world—never ill-natured when it is useless—will at last accept the fact, small and insignificant though it be, just as creditors take half a crown in the pound after a bankruptcy.
“And now, dearest, is it too soon, is it too importunate, or is it too indelicate to tell your brother that, though I'm the most ethereal of creatures, I require to eat occasionally, and that, though I am continually reproved for the lowness of my dresses, I still do wear some clothes. In a word, dearest, I am in dire poverty, and to give me simply a thousand a year is to say, be a casual pauper. No one—my worst enemy—and I suppose I have a few who hate and would despitefully use me—can say I am extravagant. The necessaries of life, as they are called, are the costly things, and these are what I can perfectly well dispense with. I want its elegancies, its refinements, and these one has so cheaply. What, for instance, is the cost of the bouquet on your dinner-table? Certainly not more than one of your entrées; and it is infinitely more charming and more pleasure-giving. My coffee costs me no more out of Sèvres than out of a white mug with a lip like a milk-pail; and will you tell me that the Mocha is the same in the one as the other? What I want is that life should be picturesque, that its elegancies should so surround one that its coarser, grosser elements be kept out of sight; and this is a cheap philosophy. My little villa here—and nothing can be smaller—affords it; but come and see dearest—that is the true way—come and see how I live. If ever there was an existence of simple pleasures it is mine. I never receive in the morning—I study. I either read improving books—I 'll show you some of them—or I converse with Monsignore Galloni. We talk theology and mundane things at times, and we play besique, and we flirt a little; but not as you would understand flirtation. It is as though a light zephyr stirred the leaves of the affections and shook out the perfume, but never detached a blossom nor injured a bud. Monsignore is an adept at this game; so serious, and yet so tender, so spiritual, and at the same time so compassionate to poor weak human nature—which, by the way, he understands in its conflicts with itself, its motives, and its struggles, as none of your laymen do. Not but poor Pracontal had a very ingenious turn, and could reconcile much that coarser minds would have called discrepant and contradictory.
“So that, dearest, with less than three thousand, or two five hundred, I must positively go to jail. It has occurred to me that, if none care to go over to that house in Ireland, I might as well live there, at least for the two or three months in the year that the odious climate permits. As to the people, I know they would dote on me. I feel for them very much, and I have learned out here the true chords their natures respond to. What do you say to this plan? Would it not be ecstasy if you agreed to share it? The cheapness of Ireland is a proverb. I had a grand-uncle who once was Viceroy there, and his letters show that he only spent a third of his official income.
“I 'd like to do this, too, if I only knew what my official income was. Ask Gusty this question, and kiss every one that ought to be kissed, and give them loves innumerable, and believe me ever your 'Doting mamma' (or mamina, that is prettier),
“Augusta Bramleigh.
“I shall write to Marion to-morrow. It will not be as easy a task as this letter; but I have done even more difficult ones. So they are saying now that Culduff's promotion was a mere mistake; that there never was such a man as Sam Rogers at all—no case—no indemnity—no escape—no anything. Oh, dear me, as Monsignore says, what rest have our feet once we leave total incredulity?”
THE END.