Chapter Fifty Four.A Terrible Tableau.And treason it was—treason and surprise—almost instantaneously followed by the capture of the whole band of brigands!First thepagliattahuts were surrounded, and then the house of the chief himself. There was a crowd of men, upon whose persons, despite the darkness, could be seen the bright glitter of arms. There was light enough from the stars and the chamber he had lately quitted to show Corvino that his quarters were completely enfiladed by dark shadowy forms, each holding in his hand a gun, pistol, or sword.At the same instant was the strife going on among thepagliatta—stray shots and groans, mingled with, profane exclamations that came from the mouths of men dragged suddenly out of their beds, and scarce conscious of the cause of their quick awakening. It was a strife soon brought to its close—even before their chief could take part in it.During a long career of crime, it was the first time Corvino had ever suffered surprise—the first for him to feel something like despair. And at the very moment, too, when he was indulging in a delightful dream of triumph!Who could have brought this calamity upon him? Who was the traitor? There must have been treason, else how could his sentinels have been cheated? Who could have had acquaintance with the secret wolf-signal?There was no time for him to reflect. Thoughts of vengeance must be postponed. It was a question of self-preservation; for the brigand chief found himself reduced to this.His first impulse was to rush out, and take part in the fight raging between his band and those who had so mysteriously assailed it. But the conflict was scarce entered upon before it was over. It was less a strife than a capture; a seizing of men in their shirts, who surrendered without striking a blow. Even the thundering voice of their chief could not arouse his yawning partisans to the spirit required for a struggle.It was but an ordinary instinct that impelled him to shut the door, and rush back to the room he had quitted, determined to defend himself to the death.His first thought was putting out the light. His second, how could the darkness avail him? Sooner or later other lights would be procured—candles or torches; or, if not, his assailants need only wait till morning—now near at hand. It could only be a suspension of his fate—at best, a respite of two or three hours. All at once came an idea, offering a chance, not for triumph, but safety. There was a way by which he might still save his life. Let the light burn! Let his assailants see inside the house! Let them look upon the tableau that had just suggested itself to his imagination!Quick as thought that tableau was formed, in the centre of the room already illuminated. It consisted of two figures—himself and Lucetta Torreani.The young girl was in front; the brigand, as a background, behind her. His left arm encircled her waist, with his hand clutching a stiletto, whose point was turned towards her heart! His right arm, still resting in the sling, was powerless to hold her. But he had contrived a strange way of keeping her in her place. His teeth were seen closed upon a coil of her hair!Outside were the spectators of this singular picture, excited, angry, two of them almost mad. One was the brother of her who formed the female figure in it—the other Henry Harding. Either would have rushed through the window, but the bars forbade them; and although both carried guns and pistols, they dared not discharge them. They stood with a score of others, almost within touching distance of the outlaw; and yet dared not stretch forth a hand, either for his capture or destruction. They were compelled to listen to the parley, which at that moment he had commenced making.“Signori,” he said, taking his teeth out of the young girl’s hair, but still keeping the plait close to his lips, “I’m not going to make a long speech. I see you’re impatient, and might not care to listen to it. You want my blood; you are thirsting for it. I am in your power, and you can take it. But if I am to die, so shall Lucetta Torreani. Yes; she dies along with me. Stir but a finger, any one of you; either draw a trigger, or make a movement to come inside, and that moment my poniard pierces her breast!”The spectators stood silent, their breathing suppressed, and their eyes angrily gleaming upon the speaker.“Don’t mistake what I’ve said for an idle threat,” he continued. “’Tis no time for talking nonsense. I know that my life is forfeit to the laws, and that you would show me about as much mercy as you would a trapped wolf. Be it so; but in killing your wolf, you won’t save your lamb. No!Sangue di Madonna! She shall suffer along with me. If I can’t have her in life, I shall in death!”The expression upon the brute’s face, as he gave utterance to the threat, was revolting in its very earnestness. No one, who saw it, doubted his intention to do as he said. In fact, a movement at that instant made by him caused a vivid apprehension that he was about to carry out his threat; and the spectators stood transfixed, as if the blood had become frozen in their veins. But no; he was only preparing for further parley.“What do you want us to do?” inquired Rossi, the leader of the victorious Revolutionists. “I suppose you know who we are. You see we are not the soldiers of the Pope?”“Cospetto!” exclaimed the bandit, with a scornful toss of the head, “a child could have told that. I had no fear of seeing the bravebersaglieriof his Holiness here. They don’t relish the air of these remote mountains! That’s how you’ve been able to surprise us. Enough,signori. I know who you are; and now for my proposal.”“Well, what is it?” demanded several of the spectators, chafing with impatience at the continued talk, and indignant at seeing the young lady still trembling in the bandit’s embrace. “Let us hear what you have to propose.”“Absolute freedom for myself, and such of my men as you have captured. Those you have killed may remain with you; and I hope you will give them Christian burial. And if any have escaped, they can take their chances; I don’t stipulate for them. For myself and comrades, who are your prisoners, I demand release, and a promise that we shall not be pursued. Do you agree to it?”The leaders outside turned to one another, and commenced discussing the proposal. It was painful to think of accepting such terms, letting the red-handed criminals escape. They had long been the terror of the district, committing outrages of every conceivable kind. Now that they were captured, and could be rooted out, it would be a shame, a disgrace to the Revolutionists—whose natural enemies the bandits had always been—to let them go free again, afterwards to recommence their depredations. Thus spoke several of the party.On the other side, there was the danger in which stood the young lady—the absolute certainty that she would be sacrificed.It is needless to say that Luigi Torreani, Henry Harding, and several others, urged the acceptance of the proposal, as also the chief Rossi.“And if we comply with your demands, what then?” asked the latter.“What then! Why, the signorina shall be given up. That is all you want, I suppose?”“Are you ready to give her up now?”“Oh no!” returned the brigand with a scornful laugh; “that would be delivering up the goods before they are paid for. We bandits don’t make such loose bargains.”“Then what do you require us to do?”“You must withdraw your men to the top of the ridge, where the pass leads out northward. Mine, set free, shall go up to that on the south. We can then see one another. You, signor, can yourself remain here with me, and receive the captive. You have nothing to fear, seeing that I have but one hand, and that a lame one. On your part I must have a promise that there shall be no treason.”“I am willing to give it,” responded Rossi, thesignoraddressed, and who felt he was speaking the sentiment of his followers. “It must be in the form of an oath.”“Agreed. I am ready to take it, now.”“No; not till we have daylight. We must postpone it till the morning. It is near, and you won’t have long to wait.”This was true enough. The scheme could not be carried out in the darkness, without risking treason on one side or the other. Both parties could perceive this.“Meanwhile,” continued the bandit, “I must put out the light inside here, else you may contemplate stealing a march on me by trying to get in from behind. I don’t intend to let you surround me; and in the darkness I shall be safe. So,buono notte, signori!”A fresh thrill of apprehension ran through the veins of the spectators. More especially was this felt by Luigi Torreani and his English friend. The thought of the young girl being left alone in the darkness—alone with the brutal ruffian, even though they were themselves close by—filled them with horrible fears. Once more they were racking their brains for some plan to prevent such a perilous compromise. But they could not think of any that did not also compromise the safety of Lucetta. They had their guns cocked, ready to shoot Corvino down, had a chance presented itself. But there came none; his body was screened by that of the girl—a shot ill-aimed, and she only might receive it.Half frantic, they saw the bandit stoop towards the lamp, with the intention of extinguishing it. Before he could succeed, a third personage appeared upon the scene—a form that darted quickly through the door behind.It was a woman of wild aspect, in whose hand could be seen a stiletto glittering under the dim light. With a spring like that of an enraged tigress, she placed herself close behind the bandit; and, uttering a quick angry cry, plunged the poniard into his side.Relaxing his grasp upon the girl, he turned round to defend himself; but almost on the instant staggered back against the wall.His captive, finding herself released, glided instinctively towards the window. But it was not the intention of the murderess she should escape; and with the bloody poignard still grasped in her hand, she sprang quickly after.Fortunately her intended victim had got close up to the bars, and was protected by a score of gun-barrels and sword-blades thrust through—among them the sword that had been snatched from Guardiola.A volley was succeeded by an interval of deep silence inside the room. When the smoke cleared away, two dead bodies were seen lying upon the floor; which, under the light of the lamp, could be distinguished as those of Corvino and his murderess.Lucetta Torreani was saved!
And treason it was—treason and surprise—almost instantaneously followed by the capture of the whole band of brigands!
First thepagliattahuts were surrounded, and then the house of the chief himself. There was a crowd of men, upon whose persons, despite the darkness, could be seen the bright glitter of arms. There was light enough from the stars and the chamber he had lately quitted to show Corvino that his quarters were completely enfiladed by dark shadowy forms, each holding in his hand a gun, pistol, or sword.
At the same instant was the strife going on among thepagliatta—stray shots and groans, mingled with, profane exclamations that came from the mouths of men dragged suddenly out of their beds, and scarce conscious of the cause of their quick awakening. It was a strife soon brought to its close—even before their chief could take part in it.
During a long career of crime, it was the first time Corvino had ever suffered surprise—the first for him to feel something like despair. And at the very moment, too, when he was indulging in a delightful dream of triumph!
Who could have brought this calamity upon him? Who was the traitor? There must have been treason, else how could his sentinels have been cheated? Who could have had acquaintance with the secret wolf-signal?
There was no time for him to reflect. Thoughts of vengeance must be postponed. It was a question of self-preservation; for the brigand chief found himself reduced to this.
His first impulse was to rush out, and take part in the fight raging between his band and those who had so mysteriously assailed it. But the conflict was scarce entered upon before it was over. It was less a strife than a capture; a seizing of men in their shirts, who surrendered without striking a blow. Even the thundering voice of their chief could not arouse his yawning partisans to the spirit required for a struggle.
It was but an ordinary instinct that impelled him to shut the door, and rush back to the room he had quitted, determined to defend himself to the death.
His first thought was putting out the light. His second, how could the darkness avail him? Sooner or later other lights would be procured—candles or torches; or, if not, his assailants need only wait till morning—now near at hand. It could only be a suspension of his fate—at best, a respite of two or three hours. All at once came an idea, offering a chance, not for triumph, but safety. There was a way by which he might still save his life. Let the light burn! Let his assailants see inside the house! Let them look upon the tableau that had just suggested itself to his imagination!
Quick as thought that tableau was formed, in the centre of the room already illuminated. It consisted of two figures—himself and Lucetta Torreani.
The young girl was in front; the brigand, as a background, behind her. His left arm encircled her waist, with his hand clutching a stiletto, whose point was turned towards her heart! His right arm, still resting in the sling, was powerless to hold her. But he had contrived a strange way of keeping her in her place. His teeth were seen closed upon a coil of her hair!
Outside were the spectators of this singular picture, excited, angry, two of them almost mad. One was the brother of her who formed the female figure in it—the other Henry Harding. Either would have rushed through the window, but the bars forbade them; and although both carried guns and pistols, they dared not discharge them. They stood with a score of others, almost within touching distance of the outlaw; and yet dared not stretch forth a hand, either for his capture or destruction. They were compelled to listen to the parley, which at that moment he had commenced making.
“Signori,” he said, taking his teeth out of the young girl’s hair, but still keeping the plait close to his lips, “I’m not going to make a long speech. I see you’re impatient, and might not care to listen to it. You want my blood; you are thirsting for it. I am in your power, and you can take it. But if I am to die, so shall Lucetta Torreani. Yes; she dies along with me. Stir but a finger, any one of you; either draw a trigger, or make a movement to come inside, and that moment my poniard pierces her breast!”
The spectators stood silent, their breathing suppressed, and their eyes angrily gleaming upon the speaker.
“Don’t mistake what I’ve said for an idle threat,” he continued. “’Tis no time for talking nonsense. I know that my life is forfeit to the laws, and that you would show me about as much mercy as you would a trapped wolf. Be it so; but in killing your wolf, you won’t save your lamb. No!Sangue di Madonna! She shall suffer along with me. If I can’t have her in life, I shall in death!”
The expression upon the brute’s face, as he gave utterance to the threat, was revolting in its very earnestness. No one, who saw it, doubted his intention to do as he said. In fact, a movement at that instant made by him caused a vivid apprehension that he was about to carry out his threat; and the spectators stood transfixed, as if the blood had become frozen in their veins. But no; he was only preparing for further parley.
“What do you want us to do?” inquired Rossi, the leader of the victorious Revolutionists. “I suppose you know who we are. You see we are not the soldiers of the Pope?”
“Cospetto!” exclaimed the bandit, with a scornful toss of the head, “a child could have told that. I had no fear of seeing the bravebersaglieriof his Holiness here. They don’t relish the air of these remote mountains! That’s how you’ve been able to surprise us. Enough,signori. I know who you are; and now for my proposal.”
“Well, what is it?” demanded several of the spectators, chafing with impatience at the continued talk, and indignant at seeing the young lady still trembling in the bandit’s embrace. “Let us hear what you have to propose.”
“Absolute freedom for myself, and such of my men as you have captured. Those you have killed may remain with you; and I hope you will give them Christian burial. And if any have escaped, they can take their chances; I don’t stipulate for them. For myself and comrades, who are your prisoners, I demand release, and a promise that we shall not be pursued. Do you agree to it?”
The leaders outside turned to one another, and commenced discussing the proposal. It was painful to think of accepting such terms, letting the red-handed criminals escape. They had long been the terror of the district, committing outrages of every conceivable kind. Now that they were captured, and could be rooted out, it would be a shame, a disgrace to the Revolutionists—whose natural enemies the bandits had always been—to let them go free again, afterwards to recommence their depredations. Thus spoke several of the party.
On the other side, there was the danger in which stood the young lady—the absolute certainty that she would be sacrificed.
It is needless to say that Luigi Torreani, Henry Harding, and several others, urged the acceptance of the proposal, as also the chief Rossi.
“And if we comply with your demands, what then?” asked the latter.
“What then! Why, the signorina shall be given up. That is all you want, I suppose?”
“Are you ready to give her up now?”
“Oh no!” returned the brigand with a scornful laugh; “that would be delivering up the goods before they are paid for. We bandits don’t make such loose bargains.”
“Then what do you require us to do?”
“You must withdraw your men to the top of the ridge, where the pass leads out northward. Mine, set free, shall go up to that on the south. We can then see one another. You, signor, can yourself remain here with me, and receive the captive. You have nothing to fear, seeing that I have but one hand, and that a lame one. On your part I must have a promise that there shall be no treason.”
“I am willing to give it,” responded Rossi, thesignoraddressed, and who felt he was speaking the sentiment of his followers. “It must be in the form of an oath.”
“Agreed. I am ready to take it, now.”
“No; not till we have daylight. We must postpone it till the morning. It is near, and you won’t have long to wait.”
This was true enough. The scheme could not be carried out in the darkness, without risking treason on one side or the other. Both parties could perceive this.
“Meanwhile,” continued the bandit, “I must put out the light inside here, else you may contemplate stealing a march on me by trying to get in from behind. I don’t intend to let you surround me; and in the darkness I shall be safe. So,buono notte, signori!”
A fresh thrill of apprehension ran through the veins of the spectators. More especially was this felt by Luigi Torreani and his English friend. The thought of the young girl being left alone in the darkness—alone with the brutal ruffian, even though they were themselves close by—filled them with horrible fears. Once more they were racking their brains for some plan to prevent such a perilous compromise. But they could not think of any that did not also compromise the safety of Lucetta. They had their guns cocked, ready to shoot Corvino down, had a chance presented itself. But there came none; his body was screened by that of the girl—a shot ill-aimed, and she only might receive it.
Half frantic, they saw the bandit stoop towards the lamp, with the intention of extinguishing it. Before he could succeed, a third personage appeared upon the scene—a form that darted quickly through the door behind.
It was a woman of wild aspect, in whose hand could be seen a stiletto glittering under the dim light. With a spring like that of an enraged tigress, she placed herself close behind the bandit; and, uttering a quick angry cry, plunged the poniard into his side.
Relaxing his grasp upon the girl, he turned round to defend himself; but almost on the instant staggered back against the wall.
His captive, finding herself released, glided instinctively towards the window. But it was not the intention of the murderess she should escape; and with the bloody poignard still grasped in her hand, she sprang quickly after.
Fortunately her intended victim had got close up to the bars, and was protected by a score of gun-barrels and sword-blades thrust through—among them the sword that had been snatched from Guardiola.
A volley was succeeded by an interval of deep silence inside the room. When the smoke cleared away, two dead bodies were seen lying upon the floor; which, under the light of the lamp, could be distinguished as those of Corvino and his murderess.
Lucetta Torreani was saved!
Chapter Fifty Five.The Roman Republic.“Long live the Roman Republic!”Such was the cry resounding through the streets of Rome in the year 1849; and among the voices vociferating it were those of Luigi Torreani and Henry Harding.But while the young Englishman was helping the cause of freedom abroad, older Englishmen at home were plotting its destruction. At that time a Secret Convention was sittingen permanence, composed of representatives from most of the crowned heads in Europe; its purpose being to arrange ways and means by which the spark of Liberty should be trodden out, wherever it should show itself.In Hungary it had flared up into a brilliant flame: short-lived; for by the aid of Russian bayonets it was soon stifled. The same result had followed in France—the ends and means being slightly different. Diplomacy again exerted its influence; and backed by British gold—secretly but profusely spent—succeeded in placing upon the Presidential chair a man foresworn to change that chair into a throne. And with this same corrupting metal, and the sinister influence derived from a great historic name, he was but too sure of success. Then a President in name—an Emperor in embryo—encouraged by the secret assistance of the other crowned heads, he was soon to have France at his feet.It only required a trick to disfranchise the two millions of Houses, and then the French Assembly would be sufficiently conservative to transform the Republic into an Empire! There was still danger to be apprehended from theblouses.How was this grand disfranchisement to be effected?An astute diplomacy easily supplied the answer: “Let England snub the French ambassador. Let France recall him. Let there be a pretended attitude of mutual hostility, and while that is maintained the Assembly can take its measures.”The counsel was followed. The minister was snubbed and recalled. Then while the British bull-dog was barking at Dover, and the Gallic cock crowing at Calais, the betrayedblouses, with angry faces turned towards England, instead of having their eyes upon their own National Assembly, were by this packed parliament speedily stripped of the privilege of voting.In Hungary the game had been more open; though there, as in France, Liberty fell by the basest of all betrayals.And again, in Baden the same foul play, though there the Secret Convention decided to settle it by the sword. The perjured King of Prussia was the man called upon to wield it, and his hireling soldiers proved too strong for the patriots of the Schwarzwald.Once more, at the eleventh hour, another spark of that eternal flame of freedom appeared in an unexpected quarter—the very hotbed of despotism, political and religious—in the ancient city of Rome. And again sat the Secret Convention: an eminent English diplomate the most active of its members—he of all others the most successful cajoler of peoples—he whose long career had been a succession of betrayals. He has gone hence without witnessing their exposure. For all that, history will one day expose them.Once more then sat the Secret Conclave; and once more went forth the edict for this fresh spark of Liberty, that had sprung up in agonised Italy, to be stifled like the rest. There was no need to use artifice. Slight strategy would suffice for an enemy so insignificant.It was merely a graceful concession to Catholic Christendom, to make it a pretence of restoring the Pope. The Republic would have been crushed all the same if the Pope had gone to purgatory. The sword was again invoked, and it became a question of who was to wield it. English soldiers could not be sent, for England was a Protestant country, and the thing would have looked queer. But English gold was easily convertible into French soldiers, whose sovereign had no such scruples; and these hirelings were selected to restore the Pope. By them it was ostensibly done; but the act was equally due to the other crowned heads; and its direction specially to the British, diplomate of whom we have spoken. History holds the indisputable proof.Poor Mazzini, and Saffi, and Aurelli! If there had not been a voice in all Rome against you—in all Italy—you could not have triumphed!The decree had gone forth for your destruction. Your doom had been pre-ordained, and was pronounced in the very hour of your victory; even while the streets of Rome, cleared of the rotten rubbish of despotism, were ringing with that regenerating shout, “Long live the Republic!” For three months did it resound through thestradiof the classic city—the city of the Caesars and Colonnas. It was heard upon bastion and battlement, from behind battery and barricade, amidst scenes of heroic strife that recalled the days of Horatius. It was heard in the eloquent speeches of Mazzini—in the exciting war-cry of Garibaldi!All in vain! Three short months—and it was heard no more. The Republic was overthrown, less by bayonets than by betrayal; but the rule of the bayonet succeeded, andChasseurandZouave,SpahiandTurco—all ruffians of the truest type—from that day to this have stood guard over the fettered limbs of Roman liberty.In these troublous times, of three months’ duration, Luigi Torreani took part with the Republic. So did his friend, the young Englishman. So, too, did Luigi’s father; for thesindico, shortly after the affair with the brigands, had transferred his household gods to the city, which then promised a safe retreat from the insecurity he had long experienced.But with the Republic at an end, and despotism once more triumphant, Rome itself was only safe for the foes of freedom. As Francesco Torreani was not one of these, another move became necessary. In what direction was it to be made? There was no part of Italy that offered an asylum. The Austrians still held Venice. Carlo Alberto had been beaten in the north, and the brigand’s king ruled the Neapolitans with a rod of iron. Turn which way he would, there was no home on Italian soil for a suspected patriot.Like men similarly situated, his thoughts turned towards the New World; and, not long after, a bark sailed down the Tyrrhenian Sea, and on through the Straits of Gades, bearing him and his to the shores of a far western land.
“Long live the Roman Republic!”
Such was the cry resounding through the streets of Rome in the year 1849; and among the voices vociferating it were those of Luigi Torreani and Henry Harding.
But while the young Englishman was helping the cause of freedom abroad, older Englishmen at home were plotting its destruction. At that time a Secret Convention was sittingen permanence, composed of representatives from most of the crowned heads in Europe; its purpose being to arrange ways and means by which the spark of Liberty should be trodden out, wherever it should show itself.
In Hungary it had flared up into a brilliant flame: short-lived; for by the aid of Russian bayonets it was soon stifled. The same result had followed in France—the ends and means being slightly different. Diplomacy again exerted its influence; and backed by British gold—secretly but profusely spent—succeeded in placing upon the Presidential chair a man foresworn to change that chair into a throne. And with this same corrupting metal, and the sinister influence derived from a great historic name, he was but too sure of success. Then a President in name—an Emperor in embryo—encouraged by the secret assistance of the other crowned heads, he was soon to have France at his feet.
It only required a trick to disfranchise the two millions of Houses, and then the French Assembly would be sufficiently conservative to transform the Republic into an Empire! There was still danger to be apprehended from theblouses.
How was this grand disfranchisement to be effected?
An astute diplomacy easily supplied the answer: “Let England snub the French ambassador. Let France recall him. Let there be a pretended attitude of mutual hostility, and while that is maintained the Assembly can take its measures.”
The counsel was followed. The minister was snubbed and recalled. Then while the British bull-dog was barking at Dover, and the Gallic cock crowing at Calais, the betrayedblouses, with angry faces turned towards England, instead of having their eyes upon their own National Assembly, were by this packed parliament speedily stripped of the privilege of voting.
In Hungary the game had been more open; though there, as in France, Liberty fell by the basest of all betrayals.
And again, in Baden the same foul play, though there the Secret Convention decided to settle it by the sword. The perjured King of Prussia was the man called upon to wield it, and his hireling soldiers proved too strong for the patriots of the Schwarzwald.
Once more, at the eleventh hour, another spark of that eternal flame of freedom appeared in an unexpected quarter—the very hotbed of despotism, political and religious—in the ancient city of Rome. And again sat the Secret Convention: an eminent English diplomate the most active of its members—he of all others the most successful cajoler of peoples—he whose long career had been a succession of betrayals. He has gone hence without witnessing their exposure. For all that, history will one day expose them.
Once more then sat the Secret Conclave; and once more went forth the edict for this fresh spark of Liberty, that had sprung up in agonised Italy, to be stifled like the rest. There was no need to use artifice. Slight strategy would suffice for an enemy so insignificant.
It was merely a graceful concession to Catholic Christendom, to make it a pretence of restoring the Pope. The Republic would have been crushed all the same if the Pope had gone to purgatory. The sword was again invoked, and it became a question of who was to wield it. English soldiers could not be sent, for England was a Protestant country, and the thing would have looked queer. But English gold was easily convertible into French soldiers, whose sovereign had no such scruples; and these hirelings were selected to restore the Pope. By them it was ostensibly done; but the act was equally due to the other crowned heads; and its direction specially to the British, diplomate of whom we have spoken. History holds the indisputable proof.
Poor Mazzini, and Saffi, and Aurelli! If there had not been a voice in all Rome against you—in all Italy—you could not have triumphed!
The decree had gone forth for your destruction. Your doom had been pre-ordained, and was pronounced in the very hour of your victory; even while the streets of Rome, cleared of the rotten rubbish of despotism, were ringing with that regenerating shout, “Long live the Republic!” For three months did it resound through thestradiof the classic city—the city of the Caesars and Colonnas. It was heard upon bastion and battlement, from behind battery and barricade, amidst scenes of heroic strife that recalled the days of Horatius. It was heard in the eloquent speeches of Mazzini—in the exciting war-cry of Garibaldi!
All in vain! Three short months—and it was heard no more. The Republic was overthrown, less by bayonets than by betrayal; but the rule of the bayonet succeeded, andChasseurandZouave,SpahiandTurco—all ruffians of the truest type—from that day to this have stood guard over the fettered limbs of Roman liberty.
In these troublous times, of three months’ duration, Luigi Torreani took part with the Republic. So did his friend, the young Englishman. So, too, did Luigi’s father; for thesindico, shortly after the affair with the brigands, had transferred his household gods to the city, which then promised a safe retreat from the insecurity he had long experienced.
But with the Republic at an end, and despotism once more triumphant, Rome itself was only safe for the foes of freedom. As Francesco Torreani was not one of these, another move became necessary. In what direction was it to be made? There was no part of Italy that offered an asylum. The Austrians still held Venice. Carlo Alberto had been beaten in the north, and the brigand’s king ruled the Neapolitans with a rod of iron. Turn which way he would, there was no home on Italian soil for a suspected patriot.
Like men similarly situated, his thoughts turned towards the New World; and, not long after, a bark sailed down the Tyrrhenian Sea, and on through the Straits of Gades, bearing him and his to the shores of a far western land.
Chapter Fifty Six.Number Nine, Strada Volturno.General Harding was not slow in transacting the business that carried him to London. It was too important to admit of delay. Even the old lawyer acknowledged this, after reading the quaint letter of the brigand, and scrutinising its still more quaint enclosure.Mr Lawson’s Italian tour had given him experience to comprehend the case—peculiar as it was—as also enabling him to recommend the steps necessary to be taken.Five thousand pounds could not well be entrusted to the post; nor yet the management of such a delicate affair—in reality, not a matter of mere fingers and hands, but of life and death. Even a confidential clerk seemed scarce fit for the occasion; and after a short conference between the lawyer and his client, it was determined that the son of the former—Lawson fits—should go to Rome and place himself en rapport with “Signor Jacopi.” Who Signor Jacopi was could only be guessed at: in all likelihood, that strange specimen of humanity who had presented himself at Beechwood Park, with a reckless indifference either to kicking or incarceration.The first train for Dover carried young Lawson en route for Rome, with a portmanteau containing five thousand pounds in gold coin, stamped with the graceful head of England’s young Queen.He thus went fully armed for an interview with Signor Jacopi.Rome was reached, in due course, by rail and steam; and, within the ten days stipulated for in the letter of the brigand, the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer might have been seen with a heavy bag in hand perambulating the streets of the Eternal City, and inquiring for theStrada Volturno.He found the place in some disorder. Instead of the cowled monks and sleek silken-robed cardinals usually seen there—instead of grandgalantuomosand gaily-dressed ladies—with here and there a sprinkling of impertinentsbirriandgendarmerie—he met men brave, of bold aspect—honest withal—bearded, belted, in costumes half civic, half military, armed to the teeth, and evidently masters of the situation.He was not astonished to hear from these men the occasional cry, “Long live the Roman Republic!” He had been prepared for this before leaving England; and it was only by a well-attested passport that he had been enabled to pass their lines and set foot upon the pavement of the seven-hilled city, at that moment threatened with siege.Once in its streets, however, he no longer met any obstruction; and, without loss of time, he commenced searching for Signor Jacopi.He had very little difficulty in finding theStrada Volturno, and still less the domicile numbered 9. The men with long beards, and pistols stuck in their belts, were not morose, nor yet ill-disposed to the answering of his questions. They seemed rather to take a pleasure in directing him, with that hearty readiness that marks the intercourse of those who have been engaged in a successful revolution. He did not ask for the residence of Signor Jacopi; only for the street and the number. Once at the door, it would be time enough to pronounce the name of the mysterious individual to whom he was about to deliver a load of golden coins. He had been constantly changing them from arm to arm, and they had almost dragged his elbows out of joint. Without further difficulty than this, he at length reached theStrada Volturno—a paltry street as it proved—and discovered at Number 9 the residence of Signor Jacopi.He needed not to inquire. There could be no mistake as to the owner of the domicile. His name was lettered upon the door, “Signor Jacopi.” The door was close shut and bolted, as if Signor Jacopi could only be seen with some difficulty. The London solicitor knocked, and waited for its opening.He was, not without some curiosity to make the acquaintance of a member of the fraternity whose practice was of such a peculiar kind; who could demand payment of five thousand pounds, and get it without any appeal to a court—either to judge or jury. So unlike the practice of Lincoln’s Inn!The door was at length opened—not until the knock was repeated; a hag, who appeared at least seventy years old, being the tardy janitrix. But this need not dismay a solicitor of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She was no doubt the housekeeper of the premises.“Does Signor Jacopi live here?” asked the young English lawyer; who, having accompanied his father on the Italian tour, was able to make his inquiries comprehensible.“No,” was the laconic response.“No! His name is on the door.”“Ah, true!” responded the old woman, with something like a sigh. “They haven’t taken it off yet. It’s no business of mine. I’m only here to take care of the house.”“Do you mean that the Signor Jacopi doesn’t live here any longer?”“E cosi! What a question to ask! You are jesting, signor.”“Jesting! No; I am in earnest—never more so in my life. I have important business with him.”“Business with Signor Jacopi!Madonna Virgine!” added the old woman, in a tone of consternation, and making the sign of the Cross.“Certainly I have. And what is there strange in it?”“Business with a dead man! That’s strange, is it not?”“Dead! Do you mean to say that Signor Jacopi is dead?”“Si, signor; surely you know that? Don’t everybody know that he was killed in the outbreak—the very first day; knocked down, and then taken up again, and then hanged upon a lamp, because they said he was one of the—Oh, signor, I can’t tell you what they said about him. I only know they killed him; and he’s dead; and I’ve been put here to keep the house. That’s all I know about it.”The young Lincoln’s Inn lawyer let his bag of gold drop heavily upon the doorstep. He felt that he had come to Rome upon an idle errand.And an idle errand it proved. All he could learn of the Signor Jacopi was, that this individual was an Algerine Jew, who had settled in the Holy City and embraced the Holy Faith; that he had practised law—that department of it which in London would have entitled him to the appellation of a “thieves’ lawyer;” that, furthermore, he was accustomed to long and mysterious absences from his office; but where, or wherefore, there was none to tell, since no one could be found who professed intimacy with him.In consequence of some unexplained act, he had made himself obnoxious to the mob—during the first hours of the revolutionary outbreak—and had fallen a victim to their fury. These, and a few other like facts, were all that the London lawyer could learn about his professional brother of Rome. But not one item of information to assist him in the errand upon which he had been sent to the Eternal City.
General Harding was not slow in transacting the business that carried him to London. It was too important to admit of delay. Even the old lawyer acknowledged this, after reading the quaint letter of the brigand, and scrutinising its still more quaint enclosure.
Mr Lawson’s Italian tour had given him experience to comprehend the case—peculiar as it was—as also enabling him to recommend the steps necessary to be taken.
Five thousand pounds could not well be entrusted to the post; nor yet the management of such a delicate affair—in reality, not a matter of mere fingers and hands, but of life and death. Even a confidential clerk seemed scarce fit for the occasion; and after a short conference between the lawyer and his client, it was determined that the son of the former—Lawson fits—should go to Rome and place himself en rapport with “Signor Jacopi.” Who Signor Jacopi was could only be guessed at: in all likelihood, that strange specimen of humanity who had presented himself at Beechwood Park, with a reckless indifference either to kicking or incarceration.
The first train for Dover carried young Lawson en route for Rome, with a portmanteau containing five thousand pounds in gold coin, stamped with the graceful head of England’s young Queen.
He thus went fully armed for an interview with Signor Jacopi.
Rome was reached, in due course, by rail and steam; and, within the ten days stipulated for in the letter of the brigand, the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer might have been seen with a heavy bag in hand perambulating the streets of the Eternal City, and inquiring for theStrada Volturno.
He found the place in some disorder. Instead of the cowled monks and sleek silken-robed cardinals usually seen there—instead of grandgalantuomosand gaily-dressed ladies—with here and there a sprinkling of impertinentsbirriandgendarmerie—he met men brave, of bold aspect—honest withal—bearded, belted, in costumes half civic, half military, armed to the teeth, and evidently masters of the situation.
He was not astonished to hear from these men the occasional cry, “Long live the Roman Republic!” He had been prepared for this before leaving England; and it was only by a well-attested passport that he had been enabled to pass their lines and set foot upon the pavement of the seven-hilled city, at that moment threatened with siege.
Once in its streets, however, he no longer met any obstruction; and, without loss of time, he commenced searching for Signor Jacopi.
He had very little difficulty in finding theStrada Volturno, and still less the domicile numbered 9. The men with long beards, and pistols stuck in their belts, were not morose, nor yet ill-disposed to the answering of his questions. They seemed rather to take a pleasure in directing him, with that hearty readiness that marks the intercourse of those who have been engaged in a successful revolution. He did not ask for the residence of Signor Jacopi; only for the street and the number. Once at the door, it would be time enough to pronounce the name of the mysterious individual to whom he was about to deliver a load of golden coins. He had been constantly changing them from arm to arm, and they had almost dragged his elbows out of joint. Without further difficulty than this, he at length reached theStrada Volturno—a paltry street as it proved—and discovered at Number 9 the residence of Signor Jacopi.
He needed not to inquire. There could be no mistake as to the owner of the domicile. His name was lettered upon the door, “Signor Jacopi.” The door was close shut and bolted, as if Signor Jacopi could only be seen with some difficulty. The London solicitor knocked, and waited for its opening.
He was, not without some curiosity to make the acquaintance of a member of the fraternity whose practice was of such a peculiar kind; who could demand payment of five thousand pounds, and get it without any appeal to a court—either to judge or jury. So unlike the practice of Lincoln’s Inn!
The door was at length opened—not until the knock was repeated; a hag, who appeared at least seventy years old, being the tardy janitrix. But this need not dismay a solicitor of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She was no doubt the housekeeper of the premises.
“Does Signor Jacopi live here?” asked the young English lawyer; who, having accompanied his father on the Italian tour, was able to make his inquiries comprehensible.
“No,” was the laconic response.
“No! His name is on the door.”
“Ah, true!” responded the old woman, with something like a sigh. “They haven’t taken it off yet. It’s no business of mine. I’m only here to take care of the house.”
“Do you mean that the Signor Jacopi doesn’t live here any longer?”
“E cosi! What a question to ask! You are jesting, signor.”
“Jesting! No; I am in earnest—never more so in my life. I have important business with him.”
“Business with Signor Jacopi!Madonna Virgine!” added the old woman, in a tone of consternation, and making the sign of the Cross.
“Certainly I have. And what is there strange in it?”
“Business with a dead man! That’s strange, is it not?”
“Dead! Do you mean to say that Signor Jacopi is dead?”
“Si, signor; surely you know that? Don’t everybody know that he was killed in the outbreak—the very first day; knocked down, and then taken up again, and then hanged upon a lamp, because they said he was one of the—Oh, signor, I can’t tell you what they said about him. I only know they killed him; and he’s dead; and I’ve been put here to keep the house. That’s all I know about it.”
The young Lincoln’s Inn lawyer let his bag of gold drop heavily upon the doorstep. He felt that he had come to Rome upon an idle errand.
And an idle errand it proved. All he could learn of the Signor Jacopi was, that this individual was an Algerine Jew, who had settled in the Holy City and embraced the Holy Faith; that he had practised law—that department of it which in London would have entitled him to the appellation of a “thieves’ lawyer;” that, furthermore, he was accustomed to long and mysterious absences from his office; but where, or wherefore, there was none to tell, since no one could be found who professed intimacy with him.
In consequence of some unexplained act, he had made himself obnoxious to the mob—during the first hours of the revolutionary outbreak—and had fallen a victim to their fury. These, and a few other like facts, were all that the London lawyer could learn about his professional brother of Rome. But not one item of information to assist him in the errand upon which he had been sent to the Eternal City.
Chapter Fifty Seven.A Fruitless Search.What was the next thing to be done? This was the inquiry which Lawson junior put to himself, as he sat reflecting in hislocanda.Should he go back to London, carrying his bag of sovereigns untouched, and along with it the news of the failure of his mission? This course might be fatal in its consequences. The letter of the brigand chief, which of course he had brought with him, plainly stated the conditions. After ten days from its date the hand of Henry Harding would be sent to his father, enclosed as had been the finger. Nine of these had already elapsed. Only one intervened. And now that the go-between, Jacopi, was no longer in existence, how was he to communicate with those who had threatened the horrible amputation? “A band of brigands on the Neapolitan frontier—about fifty miles from Rome.” This extract from Henry Harding’s first letter was all the clue he had to guide him to the whereabouts of the bandits. But the description might apply to the whole frontier, from the Tyrrhenian to the north-western angle of the Abruzzi—a line that, from all that he could learn, contained as many bands of brigands as there were leagues in its extent. For the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer to make a tour along it, discover the locality of each band, and ascertain which of them held his young countryman in captivity, might possibly have been done at the hourly risk of being made captive himself. But even if successful in the search, it could not be accomplished in time.In thinking it over, Lawson junior felt himself in a dilemma. Never in his life had his father’s firm undertaken such a case. It bristled with difficulties, or, to speak more correctly, impossibilities.What was he to do? He bethought himself of the application that had been made to the Foreign Office in Downing Street, and the promises there given to communicate with the Papal Government. Had these promises been kept? Had any action been taken in the matter? He rushed to the Vatican to inquire. But the Vatican was now a thing of the past—therégimeof Rome was now in Republican hands. And, to his inquiries made in official quarters, he could only obtain the answer, that nothing was known of the matter.Besides, the new rulers were too busy with their own affairs to take any interest in his. What was the liberty of one person to that of a whole nation, threatened by the approach of the two allied armies—Neapolitan and French—now hastening towards Rome for the destruction of the Republic? Every one was busy upon the barricades. There was no time to spare for the chastisement of a score or two of brigands.The representative of Lawson and Son was terribly perplexed as to his course of action. It would be no use writing to London for instructions. His communication could not reach in time. Perhaps by the same steamer that would carry his letter, another might be despatched with a packet containing the bloody hand of Henry Harding. It would be a fearful consummation. But how was it to be shunned? He could think of no means; and to wait for a return letter of advice from England seemed like abandoning the captive to his fate. Still there was no help for it; and he commenced writing the letter—in firm belief that the return post would bring him the sad news of the brigands having carried out their atrocious threat. It was less with the hope of hindering this, than the other menace of a still more terrible event, that induced him to indite the letter. Before he had finished writing it, a new idea came into his mind, causing him to desist. What if his letter should be miscarried? In such times could the post be relied upon? Besides, why write at all? Why not go himself? He would reach London as soon as a letter could; and a matter of such importance should not be entrusted to chance. Further reflection convinced him that he had best go back; and, tearing up the unfinished despatch, he at once set out on his return to London.He had some difficulty in getting through the lines set against the approach of the hostile forces, that were every hour expected to arrive before the gates of Rome. But gold, with a good English passport, smoothed the way; and he at length succeeded in reaching Civita Vecchia, from which the steamer transported him to Marseilles.Not much was gained by the return of the emissary to England. Fresh inquiries were made at the lodgings formerly occupied by the Italian artist; but no new facts were elicited. Of his later residence there was nothing known.There could be nothing done but to despatch the junior partner once more to Rome; and to Rome he went. But not to enter it. The Holy City was now besieged by the hireling host of France, acting under Oudinot; and the London lawyer had to stay outside. He was thus deprived of the chance of prosecuting his inquiries. Twice were the invaders repulsed, amidst scenes of carnage, in which the streets of Rome ran blood—the blood of her gallant Republican defenders, led by that now world-renowned chief, Garibaldi, who in this struggle first made himself conspicuous on the page of European history.But the unequal conflict could not last; the Republicans were defeated by a base betrayal. When at length the French took possession of the city, the London solicitor became free to renew his search. He then succeeded in discovering that a young Englishman had been captured by a band of brigands under a noted chief named Corvino; that he had afterwards made his escape from them; that the band had been nearly annihilated, and its chief killed by a party of Republican volunteers; that his late captive, acting along with the latter, had returned with them to the town of Val di Orno, and thence proceeded to Rome, in the defence of which city he was supposed to have taken part. Whether he fell, among the slain Revolutionists in the carnage that ensued, there was no one who could tell. This appeared to have been his fate; since, beyond the fact of his having returned to Rome along with the Revolutionists, no trace of him could be discovered.Even thus far General Harding did not live to learn the history of his son. From the day on which that epistle had been put into his hands—the one containing the hideous enclosure—his life had been one continuous misery. It became intensified on the return of young Lawson to announce the failure of his first attempt. From that hour the General lived in a state of excitement bordering upon insanity. He trembled at each post, expecting by it an epistle with more painful details—and a still more horrible packet. He even fancied that the second parcel might have miscarried, and the third would be that containing his son’s head!The ghastly apprehension, acting upon his excited imagination, threw him into a brain fever. From this he only recovered to linger a few days in a state of bodily prostration, and die accusing himself of having killed his son. With this self-reproach he departed from life. It could hardly have been a conviction, since the last words spoken by him were instructions to his solicitor, Mr Lawson, that the search was to be continued, regardless of cost, until his son’s fate should be ascertained; and, if dead, that the body should be sought for, brought home, and buried beside his own.What were to be the conditions if he were found living no one knew, except Mr Lawson; but that there were conditions might well be supposed.The solicitor faithfully carried out the instructions of the deceased General; and expended a large sum, that had been left him for prosecuting the search, both upon agents and advertisements.It was all to no purpose. Beyond what had already been discovered at Rome, Mr Lawson could get no further intelligence of Henry Harding—whether living or dead—and in due time the emissaries were dismissed, and the advertising abandoned.
What was the next thing to be done? This was the inquiry which Lawson junior put to himself, as he sat reflecting in hislocanda.
Should he go back to London, carrying his bag of sovereigns untouched, and along with it the news of the failure of his mission? This course might be fatal in its consequences. The letter of the brigand chief, which of course he had brought with him, plainly stated the conditions. After ten days from its date the hand of Henry Harding would be sent to his father, enclosed as had been the finger. Nine of these had already elapsed. Only one intervened. And now that the go-between, Jacopi, was no longer in existence, how was he to communicate with those who had threatened the horrible amputation? “A band of brigands on the Neapolitan frontier—about fifty miles from Rome.” This extract from Henry Harding’s first letter was all the clue he had to guide him to the whereabouts of the bandits. But the description might apply to the whole frontier, from the Tyrrhenian to the north-western angle of the Abruzzi—a line that, from all that he could learn, contained as many bands of brigands as there were leagues in its extent. For the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer to make a tour along it, discover the locality of each band, and ascertain which of them held his young countryman in captivity, might possibly have been done at the hourly risk of being made captive himself. But even if successful in the search, it could not be accomplished in time.
In thinking it over, Lawson junior felt himself in a dilemma. Never in his life had his father’s firm undertaken such a case. It bristled with difficulties, or, to speak more correctly, impossibilities.
What was he to do? He bethought himself of the application that had been made to the Foreign Office in Downing Street, and the promises there given to communicate with the Papal Government. Had these promises been kept? Had any action been taken in the matter? He rushed to the Vatican to inquire. But the Vatican was now a thing of the past—therégimeof Rome was now in Republican hands. And, to his inquiries made in official quarters, he could only obtain the answer, that nothing was known of the matter.
Besides, the new rulers were too busy with their own affairs to take any interest in his. What was the liberty of one person to that of a whole nation, threatened by the approach of the two allied armies—Neapolitan and French—now hastening towards Rome for the destruction of the Republic? Every one was busy upon the barricades. There was no time to spare for the chastisement of a score or two of brigands.
The representative of Lawson and Son was terribly perplexed as to his course of action. It would be no use writing to London for instructions. His communication could not reach in time. Perhaps by the same steamer that would carry his letter, another might be despatched with a packet containing the bloody hand of Henry Harding. It would be a fearful consummation. But how was it to be shunned? He could think of no means; and to wait for a return letter of advice from England seemed like abandoning the captive to his fate. Still there was no help for it; and he commenced writing the letter—in firm belief that the return post would bring him the sad news of the brigands having carried out their atrocious threat. It was less with the hope of hindering this, than the other menace of a still more terrible event, that induced him to indite the letter. Before he had finished writing it, a new idea came into his mind, causing him to desist. What if his letter should be miscarried? In such times could the post be relied upon? Besides, why write at all? Why not go himself? He would reach London as soon as a letter could; and a matter of such importance should not be entrusted to chance. Further reflection convinced him that he had best go back; and, tearing up the unfinished despatch, he at once set out on his return to London.
He had some difficulty in getting through the lines set against the approach of the hostile forces, that were every hour expected to arrive before the gates of Rome. But gold, with a good English passport, smoothed the way; and he at length succeeded in reaching Civita Vecchia, from which the steamer transported him to Marseilles.
Not much was gained by the return of the emissary to England. Fresh inquiries were made at the lodgings formerly occupied by the Italian artist; but no new facts were elicited. Of his later residence there was nothing known.
There could be nothing done but to despatch the junior partner once more to Rome; and to Rome he went. But not to enter it. The Holy City was now besieged by the hireling host of France, acting under Oudinot; and the London lawyer had to stay outside. He was thus deprived of the chance of prosecuting his inquiries. Twice were the invaders repulsed, amidst scenes of carnage, in which the streets of Rome ran blood—the blood of her gallant Republican defenders, led by that now world-renowned chief, Garibaldi, who in this struggle first made himself conspicuous on the page of European history.
But the unequal conflict could not last; the Republicans were defeated by a base betrayal. When at length the French took possession of the city, the London solicitor became free to renew his search. He then succeeded in discovering that a young Englishman had been captured by a band of brigands under a noted chief named Corvino; that he had afterwards made his escape from them; that the band had been nearly annihilated, and its chief killed by a party of Republican volunteers; that his late captive, acting along with the latter, had returned with them to the town of Val di Orno, and thence proceeded to Rome, in the defence of which city he was supposed to have taken part. Whether he fell, among the slain Revolutionists in the carnage that ensued, there was no one who could tell. This appeared to have been his fate; since, beyond the fact of his having returned to Rome along with the Revolutionists, no trace of him could be discovered.
Even thus far General Harding did not live to learn the history of his son. From the day on which that epistle had been put into his hands—the one containing the hideous enclosure—his life had been one continuous misery. It became intensified on the return of young Lawson to announce the failure of his first attempt. From that hour the General lived in a state of excitement bordering upon insanity. He trembled at each post, expecting by it an epistle with more painful details—and a still more horrible packet. He even fancied that the second parcel might have miscarried, and the third would be that containing his son’s head!
The ghastly apprehension, acting upon his excited imagination, threw him into a brain fever. From this he only recovered to linger a few days in a state of bodily prostration, and die accusing himself of having killed his son. With this self-reproach he departed from life. It could hardly have been a conviction, since the last words spoken by him were instructions to his solicitor, Mr Lawson, that the search was to be continued, regardless of cost, until his son’s fate should be ascertained; and, if dead, that the body should be sought for, brought home, and buried beside his own.
What were to be the conditions if he were found living no one knew, except Mr Lawson; but that there were conditions might well be supposed.
The solicitor faithfully carried out the instructions of the deceased General; and expended a large sum, that had been left him for prosecuting the search, both upon agents and advertisements.
It was all to no purpose. Beyond what had already been discovered at Rome, Mr Lawson could get no further intelligence of Henry Harding—whether living or dead—and in due time the emissaries were dismissed, and the advertising abandoned.
Chapter Fifty Eight.The New Squire of Beechwood.On the death of General Harding, his son Nigel became master of Beechwood, and soon after—almost indecently soon—the husband, though not the master, of Belle Mainwaring.To the former, no one thought of questioning his claim. He was the eldest son; and, as most people now believed, the only one. The report that the younger had met his death among the Revolutionists of Rome soon got abroad, and was generally credited. But even had it been supposed that he was living, one-half the world knew no better than that General Harding’s estate was entailed; and that, therefore, Nigel was entitled as the heir. If the other half wanted to know better, and would take the trouble to inquire of Mr Woolet—the new solicitor to the estate—that gentleman could assure them of the soundness of his client’s title, by reference to a document of a certain date, which he kept in a large tin case conspicuously lettered. The case itself had the honour of the most conspicuous position upon his shelves; so that no client could commune with Mr Woolet without seeing that he was alongside the solicitor who had in his custody the title deeds, and other legal documents, of Nigel Harding, Esq, Beechwood Park, Bucks. So said the lettering on the case. About the ownership of the property, then, there was no question or dispute. In times past there had been a talk about its having been divided between the brothers. Afterwards came out the will, leaving all to the elder; and, now that the younger had disappeared, and was deemed dead, the point was no longer discussed.Indeed, remembrance of the latter was almost dead. He had been already more than twelve months out of sight; and, with such associates as he used to keep, out of sight is soon out of mind. He was remembered as a generous, somewhat reckless youth, not likely to make much way in the world—either to fame or fortune.But he was now dead; that was an end of him; and his brother Nigel was looked upon as one of the luckiest fellows in England, as also one of the most prosperous squires in the shire of Buckingham.He was, at all events, likely to be one of the most conspicuous; for the husband of Belle Mainwaring could not be hidden under a cloud. If he should choose to lead an unsocial life, she was not the lady to become the companion of his solitude; and it was not long before he made this discovery. The tranquillity of Beechwood Park ceased upon the same day that Miss Belle Mainwaring became the mistress of its mansion; and the drowsy solemnity of its old trees, hitherto disturbed only by the cawing of the rook, or the soft cooing of the wood-quest, was now constantly assailed by the sound of human voices, gay and jocund.Under the rule of its new mistress—forsheruled—Beechwood Park became the centre of festivities; while theéliteof the neighbourhood were only too happy to accept of its hospitalities, as they would those of a retired knacker, provided he could dispense them with sufficient profuseness.But neither in the host nor hostess of the Beechwood was there any question of retired knacker; and everything was thereforeen règle: select parties for out-door sports—archery in summer—hunting spreads in winter—dining and dancing at all seasons of the year.Belle Mainwaring had obtained the reward of her great beauty, as her mother the recompense of her consummate skill; for the widow of the Indian colonel had found a snug corner in the establishment of her son-in-law. It was not shared either by the sister of the late proprietor. The spinster aunt had disappeared previous to the nuptials of Nigel. She was still knitting that eternal stocking; but in a humble abode proportioned to the allowance left by her brother’s will. Her chair was now occupied by the widow Mainwaring, though not set in a corner.And so for a period of years passed the gay, grand life at Beechwood Park; while the outside world took part in it, or looked on admiringly—not a few feeling envy. How could it be otherwise, where two young people, both gifted with good looks—for Nigel Harding was far from being personally plain—lived in the enjoyment of so many advantages—property, position—in short, everything that should make life desirable?The world is not very discriminative; else it might have seen, under all this apparent joy, something that resembled sorrow.I did, though not at Beechwood Park, since after my unfortunatecontretempsat the county ball, I was not likely to have the opportunity. But there were other houses still open to me; and at these I not unfrequently came in contact with the distinguished couple, as also the interesting individual to whom I had been indebted for getting my namescratchedfrom the dancing-card. And the more I now saw, the more I felt thankful for that lucky deliverance. Perhaps but for it, I should have been one of the broken-hearted bees who, with scorched and shrivelled wings, still continued to buzz around Belle Mainwaring—long after she became a wife.It may have been some thought connected with these that caused the cloud I observed on the brow of Nigel Harding—as now and then a fierce flashing in his eyes, that betrayed his semi-oriental origin. I could not tell; nor did I indeed care, as I had never much respect for the man. I was, perhaps, more observant of his wife; and speculated a little more profoundly as to the cause of the cloud on her brow, to me equally apparent. Amidst her gaiety I observed traces of abstraction—even when flattery was being poured into her ear. On her part there appeared to be no jealousy. On the contrary, the presence of her husband only seemed to givedégoûtto her, his absence relief. All this I could easily perceive, and guess at the reason. That short conversation I had heard under theDeodarawas sufficiently expletive; and I knew that Nigel Harding had married a woman who, in the true sense of the word, would never be his wife. Love him she certainly could not, and did not. But it was not certain that she could not and did not love another. On the contrary, I was certain that shedid. Who that other was I cannot confidently say, though I had many and varied surmises. At times I thought it might be the man she had so cruelly jilted; at other times I fancied it one who, with less cruelty, but like firmness, would have rejectedher.The last time I saw Miss Belle Mainwaring—I forget, she was then Mrs Nigel Harding—was under circumstances that might be called peculiar. It was at the close of a quiet dinner party, given by a country squire, on the borders of Bucks. I had repossessed myself of my night-wrapper, and stood upon the doorstep, to await the coming up of the carriage that was to transport me to the railway station, and which the squire’s hall-porter had already summoned upon the “Sweep.” As I stood awaiting my turn, there drew up before me an equipage of elegant appearance: two splendid horses in front, a splendid coachman on the box, and an equally resplendent footman beside him. Gold glittered on the liveries of the lacqueys, while a coat of arms glistened on the panel of the door. It was a turn-out in striking contrast with my own modest “trap” that had closed up behind it.“Whose carriage?” was the mental inquiry I was making, when the stentorian voice of the hall-porter undesignedly gave me the answer. It was the carriage of Nigel Harding.At the same instant this gentleman came out, closely followed by his wife.I stood aside to give them passage.He entered the carriage first, as if forced in by command. The lady, resplendent in sable robes—it was winter—placed her foot upon the step to follow. At that moment the horses, already pawing the gravel with impatience, made a false start forward. They were suddenly checked by the coachman; but the lady staggering, would have gone to the ground, but for my person interposed to prevent her. By a mere mechanical act of politeness, I had stretched forth my arms, between which sank Mrs Nigel Harding.“You of all men!” muttered she, in a tone I could not easily forget, and which conveyed to my ear less of gratitude than reproach. Then breaking off, and transferring her spleen to the peccant Jehu, she flounced into the carriage, and was whirled off out of my sight.What astonished me still more was the behaviour of her husband. I saw his face, as the carriage drove off, projected out of its open window. By the light of the lamp I could perceive that there was a black look upon it; but, instead of on the coachman, his eyes appeared to be directed towards myself, as though I had been the cause of the accident! Certainly he did not seem grateful for my voluntary act of politeness.It was five years before I saw either again. I had almost, if not altogether, forgotten them, when a circumstance, occurring many thousand miles away, returned to my recollection the young squire of Beechwood Park, and of course along with him his wife.The circumstance to which I allude was not only strange, but of serious consequence to several of the characters who have figured in this tale; among others, to Nigel Harding and his lady. Better for these last if it had never occurred.
On the death of General Harding, his son Nigel became master of Beechwood, and soon after—almost indecently soon—the husband, though not the master, of Belle Mainwaring.
To the former, no one thought of questioning his claim. He was the eldest son; and, as most people now believed, the only one. The report that the younger had met his death among the Revolutionists of Rome soon got abroad, and was generally credited. But even had it been supposed that he was living, one-half the world knew no better than that General Harding’s estate was entailed; and that, therefore, Nigel was entitled as the heir. If the other half wanted to know better, and would take the trouble to inquire of Mr Woolet—the new solicitor to the estate—that gentleman could assure them of the soundness of his client’s title, by reference to a document of a certain date, which he kept in a large tin case conspicuously lettered. The case itself had the honour of the most conspicuous position upon his shelves; so that no client could commune with Mr Woolet without seeing that he was alongside the solicitor who had in his custody the title deeds, and other legal documents, of Nigel Harding, Esq, Beechwood Park, Bucks. So said the lettering on the case. About the ownership of the property, then, there was no question or dispute. In times past there had been a talk about its having been divided between the brothers. Afterwards came out the will, leaving all to the elder; and, now that the younger had disappeared, and was deemed dead, the point was no longer discussed.
Indeed, remembrance of the latter was almost dead. He had been already more than twelve months out of sight; and, with such associates as he used to keep, out of sight is soon out of mind. He was remembered as a generous, somewhat reckless youth, not likely to make much way in the world—either to fame or fortune.
But he was now dead; that was an end of him; and his brother Nigel was looked upon as one of the luckiest fellows in England, as also one of the most prosperous squires in the shire of Buckingham.
He was, at all events, likely to be one of the most conspicuous; for the husband of Belle Mainwaring could not be hidden under a cloud. If he should choose to lead an unsocial life, she was not the lady to become the companion of his solitude; and it was not long before he made this discovery. The tranquillity of Beechwood Park ceased upon the same day that Miss Belle Mainwaring became the mistress of its mansion; and the drowsy solemnity of its old trees, hitherto disturbed only by the cawing of the rook, or the soft cooing of the wood-quest, was now constantly assailed by the sound of human voices, gay and jocund.
Under the rule of its new mistress—forsheruled—Beechwood Park became the centre of festivities; while theéliteof the neighbourhood were only too happy to accept of its hospitalities, as they would those of a retired knacker, provided he could dispense them with sufficient profuseness.
But neither in the host nor hostess of the Beechwood was there any question of retired knacker; and everything was thereforeen règle: select parties for out-door sports—archery in summer—hunting spreads in winter—dining and dancing at all seasons of the year.
Belle Mainwaring had obtained the reward of her great beauty, as her mother the recompense of her consummate skill; for the widow of the Indian colonel had found a snug corner in the establishment of her son-in-law. It was not shared either by the sister of the late proprietor. The spinster aunt had disappeared previous to the nuptials of Nigel. She was still knitting that eternal stocking; but in a humble abode proportioned to the allowance left by her brother’s will. Her chair was now occupied by the widow Mainwaring, though not set in a corner.
And so for a period of years passed the gay, grand life at Beechwood Park; while the outside world took part in it, or looked on admiringly—not a few feeling envy. How could it be otherwise, where two young people, both gifted with good looks—for Nigel Harding was far from being personally plain—lived in the enjoyment of so many advantages—property, position—in short, everything that should make life desirable?
The world is not very discriminative; else it might have seen, under all this apparent joy, something that resembled sorrow.
I did, though not at Beechwood Park, since after my unfortunatecontretempsat the county ball, I was not likely to have the opportunity. But there were other houses still open to me; and at these I not unfrequently came in contact with the distinguished couple, as also the interesting individual to whom I had been indebted for getting my namescratchedfrom the dancing-card. And the more I now saw, the more I felt thankful for that lucky deliverance. Perhaps but for it, I should have been one of the broken-hearted bees who, with scorched and shrivelled wings, still continued to buzz around Belle Mainwaring—long after she became a wife.
It may have been some thought connected with these that caused the cloud I observed on the brow of Nigel Harding—as now and then a fierce flashing in his eyes, that betrayed his semi-oriental origin. I could not tell; nor did I indeed care, as I had never much respect for the man. I was, perhaps, more observant of his wife; and speculated a little more profoundly as to the cause of the cloud on her brow, to me equally apparent. Amidst her gaiety I observed traces of abstraction—even when flattery was being poured into her ear. On her part there appeared to be no jealousy. On the contrary, the presence of her husband only seemed to givedégoûtto her, his absence relief. All this I could easily perceive, and guess at the reason. That short conversation I had heard under theDeodarawas sufficiently expletive; and I knew that Nigel Harding had married a woman who, in the true sense of the word, would never be his wife. Love him she certainly could not, and did not. But it was not certain that she could not and did not love another. On the contrary, I was certain that shedid. Who that other was I cannot confidently say, though I had many and varied surmises. At times I thought it might be the man she had so cruelly jilted; at other times I fancied it one who, with less cruelty, but like firmness, would have rejectedher.
The last time I saw Miss Belle Mainwaring—I forget, she was then Mrs Nigel Harding—was under circumstances that might be called peculiar. It was at the close of a quiet dinner party, given by a country squire, on the borders of Bucks. I had repossessed myself of my night-wrapper, and stood upon the doorstep, to await the coming up of the carriage that was to transport me to the railway station, and which the squire’s hall-porter had already summoned upon the “Sweep.” As I stood awaiting my turn, there drew up before me an equipage of elegant appearance: two splendid horses in front, a splendid coachman on the box, and an equally resplendent footman beside him. Gold glittered on the liveries of the lacqueys, while a coat of arms glistened on the panel of the door. It was a turn-out in striking contrast with my own modest “trap” that had closed up behind it.
“Whose carriage?” was the mental inquiry I was making, when the stentorian voice of the hall-porter undesignedly gave me the answer. It was the carriage of Nigel Harding.
At the same instant this gentleman came out, closely followed by his wife.
I stood aside to give them passage.
He entered the carriage first, as if forced in by command. The lady, resplendent in sable robes—it was winter—placed her foot upon the step to follow. At that moment the horses, already pawing the gravel with impatience, made a false start forward. They were suddenly checked by the coachman; but the lady staggering, would have gone to the ground, but for my person interposed to prevent her. By a mere mechanical act of politeness, I had stretched forth my arms, between which sank Mrs Nigel Harding.
“You of all men!” muttered she, in a tone I could not easily forget, and which conveyed to my ear less of gratitude than reproach. Then breaking off, and transferring her spleen to the peccant Jehu, she flounced into the carriage, and was whirled off out of my sight.
What astonished me still more was the behaviour of her husband. I saw his face, as the carriage drove off, projected out of its open window. By the light of the lamp I could perceive that there was a black look upon it; but, instead of on the coachman, his eyes appeared to be directed towards myself, as though I had been the cause of the accident! Certainly he did not seem grateful for my voluntary act of politeness.
It was five years before I saw either again. I had almost, if not altogether, forgotten them, when a circumstance, occurring many thousand miles away, returned to my recollection the young squire of Beechwood Park, and of course along with him his wife.
The circumstance to which I allude was not only strange, but of serious consequence to several of the characters who have figured in this tale; among others, to Nigel Harding and his lady. Better for these last if it had never occurred.
Chapter Fifty Nine.In the Campo.Five years spent in foreign travel, confined to the continent of America, found me in the southern division of it—on the banks of the River La Plata.Choice and chance combining—a little business with the prospect of a large amount of pleasure—had conducted me into the Argentine Republic; and the same had carried me into one of its upper provinces, bordering upon the Parana.I was journeying through thecampoabout twenty miles north of Rosario, from which place I had taken my departure. My object was to reach theestanciaof an English colonist—an old college friend—who had established himself as a cattle-breeder and wool-grower some fifty miles from Rosario.I went on horseback, and alone. I had failed in engaging a guide; but, knowing that my friend’s house stood near the banks of the river, I fancied there could be no difficulty in finding it. There were otherestanciasalong the route; sparsely scattered, it is true; but still thick enough to give me a chance of inquiring the way. Besides, the river itself should guide me to a certain extent; at all events, it would keep me from going many miles astray. My horse was an excellent roadster; and I was expecting to do the fifty miles—a mere bagatelle to a South American steed—before sunset. And in all likelihood I should have succeeded, if in the kingdom of animated nature there had been no such creature as abiscacha. But, unluckily, there is—an animal whose habit is to honeycomb thecampowith holes, in places forming most treacherous traps for the traveller’s horse. In one of these, while traversing a stretch ofpampa, my steed was imprudent enough to plant his hoof; when first sinking, and then stumbling, he rolled over upon the plain; and, of course, his rider along with him. The rider was but slightly injured, but the horse very seriously. On getting him upon his feet, I found he could scarce stand—much less carry me the thirty miles that still separated us from my friend’sestancia. He had injured one of his forelegs, and was just able to limp after me as I led him from the spot. I felt that I had got into a dilemma, and would have to walk the rest of the way, besides making a second day of it. Perhaps not, I reflected, on seeing before me, at no great distance, some signs of a habitation.There was a clump of trees, most of which appeared to be peaches. This of itself would not have proved the proximity of a dwelling, for in many parts of the Argentine territory the peach-trees grow wild. But I saw something more;—a bit of white wall gleaming through the green foliage, with something like smoke ascending. Around all was a stretch of stockade fence, indicating an enclosure.Turning directly towards it, I led on my lame horse, in the hope of the chance to exchange him for one better able to bear me to the end of the journey.Even if I could not make such an exchange, it would be wiser to leave him, and proceed onward afoot.On approaching a little nearer to the place, I could see that it promised at least a shelter for my crippled quadruped; and getting still closer, I began to indulge the hope of being able to obtain a remount.The house gradually becoming disclosed, through the shrubbery by which it was beset, if not a grand mansion, had all the appearance of a well-to-doestancia. There was a comfortable dwelling, with verandah in front, in style not unlike an Italian villa; and at the back were out-buildings, apparently in good repair, standing inside an enclosure. There were enough of these to predicate a stable containing a spare horse.With the one belonging to me, I was soon standing before a gate. It was that of a railedparterrethat fronted the dwelling.I made my presence known by striking the butt-end of my whip against the rails.Whilst waiting for an answer to my summons, I took a survey of the place.It did not exactly resemble the dwelling of aCriollo, or native. There was evidence of care about the garden and the rose-trellised verandah, that bespoke European culture. The owner might be English, French, German, or Italian; for, in the Argentine Provinces, all are allowed to colonise without prejudice or distinction. Which nationality would respond to my summons? With curious interest I awaited to see.I was not kept very long. A man, who appeared to issue from behind the house, came forward to the gate. His thick black head and eagle glance, with white teeth, and nose prominently aquiline, were all Italian. An organ upon his abdomen, and a monkey upon his shoulder, would not more unquestionably have declared his national origin. I knew it before he opened his lips to put the interrogatory, “Chi è, signore?”Despite the man’s blackness, there was nothing forbidding in his aspect. On the contrary, the impression made upon me was that I had fallen among good Samaritans. As the luck would have it, I could talk Italian, or at least “smatter” it, so as to be understood.“My horse!” I said, pointing to the quadruped, which stood with his forefoot suspended six inches from the ground; “he has had an accident, as you see; and can carry me no further. I am desirous of leaving him in your care until I can send for him. I shall pay you for the trouble, and perhaps,” I continued, nodding towards the buildings at the back, “you would have no objection to lend me a nag in his place? Anything capable of carrying me to the house of a friend farther on.”The man looked at me for a moment with a puzzled air—then at my horse—and then back at myself—and at length turned his eyes toward the house, as if from it he designed drawing the inspiration of his answer.He could scarce have sought it at a shrine more like the celestial.As I stood to catch his reply, the door of the dwelling was opened from within, and a woman stepped forth into the verandah—a creature who might have been mistaken for an angel; but still only a woman, and for that not the less beautiful. Coming forward to the trellis, and looking through the roses, that appeared to form a chaplet around her brow, she repeated the question already asked by the man, adding to it his own name—for to him was the interrogatory directed—“Chi è, Tommaso?”Tommaso in answer gave a literal translation of what I had said to him; and then waited for instructions.“Tell the stranger,” responded the sweet voice from the verandah, “tell him he can leave his horse, and have another to continue his journey. But if he will come inside, and wait till my husband returns home, he is welcome. Perhaps that would be the best thing, Tommaso!”Tommaso thought it would; and, I need scarce say, I quite agreed with him.The man took the horse out of my hands, and led him towards the stable.I was left free to enter the house; and, availing myself of the gracious invitation, I stepped straight across the threshold, and was soon seated inside—in converse with one of the most charming creatures it had ever been my privilege to speak with.
Five years spent in foreign travel, confined to the continent of America, found me in the southern division of it—on the banks of the River La Plata.
Choice and chance combining—a little business with the prospect of a large amount of pleasure—had conducted me into the Argentine Republic; and the same had carried me into one of its upper provinces, bordering upon the Parana.
I was journeying through thecampoabout twenty miles north of Rosario, from which place I had taken my departure. My object was to reach theestanciaof an English colonist—an old college friend—who had established himself as a cattle-breeder and wool-grower some fifty miles from Rosario.
I went on horseback, and alone. I had failed in engaging a guide; but, knowing that my friend’s house stood near the banks of the river, I fancied there could be no difficulty in finding it. There were otherestanciasalong the route; sparsely scattered, it is true; but still thick enough to give me a chance of inquiring the way. Besides, the river itself should guide me to a certain extent; at all events, it would keep me from going many miles astray. My horse was an excellent roadster; and I was expecting to do the fifty miles—a mere bagatelle to a South American steed—before sunset. And in all likelihood I should have succeeded, if in the kingdom of animated nature there had been no such creature as abiscacha. But, unluckily, there is—an animal whose habit is to honeycomb thecampowith holes, in places forming most treacherous traps for the traveller’s horse. In one of these, while traversing a stretch ofpampa, my steed was imprudent enough to plant his hoof; when first sinking, and then stumbling, he rolled over upon the plain; and, of course, his rider along with him. The rider was but slightly injured, but the horse very seriously. On getting him upon his feet, I found he could scarce stand—much less carry me the thirty miles that still separated us from my friend’sestancia. He had injured one of his forelegs, and was just able to limp after me as I led him from the spot. I felt that I had got into a dilemma, and would have to walk the rest of the way, besides making a second day of it. Perhaps not, I reflected, on seeing before me, at no great distance, some signs of a habitation.
There was a clump of trees, most of which appeared to be peaches. This of itself would not have proved the proximity of a dwelling, for in many parts of the Argentine territory the peach-trees grow wild. But I saw something more;—a bit of white wall gleaming through the green foliage, with something like smoke ascending. Around all was a stretch of stockade fence, indicating an enclosure.
Turning directly towards it, I led on my lame horse, in the hope of the chance to exchange him for one better able to bear me to the end of the journey.
Even if I could not make such an exchange, it would be wiser to leave him, and proceed onward afoot.
On approaching a little nearer to the place, I could see that it promised at least a shelter for my crippled quadruped; and getting still closer, I began to indulge the hope of being able to obtain a remount.
The house gradually becoming disclosed, through the shrubbery by which it was beset, if not a grand mansion, had all the appearance of a well-to-doestancia. There was a comfortable dwelling, with verandah in front, in style not unlike an Italian villa; and at the back were out-buildings, apparently in good repair, standing inside an enclosure. There were enough of these to predicate a stable containing a spare horse.
With the one belonging to me, I was soon standing before a gate. It was that of a railedparterrethat fronted the dwelling.
I made my presence known by striking the butt-end of my whip against the rails.
Whilst waiting for an answer to my summons, I took a survey of the place.
It did not exactly resemble the dwelling of aCriollo, or native. There was evidence of care about the garden and the rose-trellised verandah, that bespoke European culture. The owner might be English, French, German, or Italian; for, in the Argentine Provinces, all are allowed to colonise without prejudice or distinction. Which nationality would respond to my summons? With curious interest I awaited to see.
I was not kept very long. A man, who appeared to issue from behind the house, came forward to the gate. His thick black head and eagle glance, with white teeth, and nose prominently aquiline, were all Italian. An organ upon his abdomen, and a monkey upon his shoulder, would not more unquestionably have declared his national origin. I knew it before he opened his lips to put the interrogatory, “Chi è, signore?”
Despite the man’s blackness, there was nothing forbidding in his aspect. On the contrary, the impression made upon me was that I had fallen among good Samaritans. As the luck would have it, I could talk Italian, or at least “smatter” it, so as to be understood.
“My horse!” I said, pointing to the quadruped, which stood with his forefoot suspended six inches from the ground; “he has had an accident, as you see; and can carry me no further. I am desirous of leaving him in your care until I can send for him. I shall pay you for the trouble, and perhaps,” I continued, nodding towards the buildings at the back, “you would have no objection to lend me a nag in his place? Anything capable of carrying me to the house of a friend farther on.”
The man looked at me for a moment with a puzzled air—then at my horse—and then back at myself—and at length turned his eyes toward the house, as if from it he designed drawing the inspiration of his answer.
He could scarce have sought it at a shrine more like the celestial.
As I stood to catch his reply, the door of the dwelling was opened from within, and a woman stepped forth into the verandah—a creature who might have been mistaken for an angel; but still only a woman, and for that not the less beautiful. Coming forward to the trellis, and looking through the roses, that appeared to form a chaplet around her brow, she repeated the question already asked by the man, adding to it his own name—for to him was the interrogatory directed—“Chi è, Tommaso?”
Tommaso in answer gave a literal translation of what I had said to him; and then waited for instructions.
“Tell the stranger,” responded the sweet voice from the verandah, “tell him he can leave his horse, and have another to continue his journey. But if he will come inside, and wait till my husband returns home, he is welcome. Perhaps that would be the best thing, Tommaso!”
Tommaso thought it would; and, I need scarce say, I quite agreed with him.
The man took the horse out of my hands, and led him towards the stable.
I was left free to enter the house; and, availing myself of the gracious invitation, I stepped straight across the threshold, and was soon seated inside—in converse with one of the most charming creatures it had ever been my privilege to speak with.