When the vines were stripped of their clusters, and the ploughed fields stood bare and brown in the autumnal sun—when the fig trees lost their leaves, and their white branches took on that peculiarly gaunt appearance which characterises them as soon as the wintry winds begin to blow—a solitary traveller plodded wearily across the Lombardy plains, asking, as he went, for the road that would lead him to the village and monastery of San Stefano.
He arrived at his destination on an evening late in November. It was between five and six o'clock when he came to the little, white village, nestling in a cleft of the hills, with the monastery on a slope behind it. There was a background of mountainous country—green, and grey, and purple—with solemn, white heights behind, stretching far into the crystal clearness of the sky. As the traveller reached the village he looked up to those white forms, and saw them transfigured in the evening light. The sky behind them changed to rose colour, to purple, violet, even to delicate pale green and golden, and, when the daylight had faded, an afterglow tinged the snowy summit with a roseate flush more tenderly ethereal than the tint of an oleander blossom, as transient as a gleam of April sunshine, or the changing light upon a summer sea. Then a dead whiteness succeeded; the day was gone, and, quick as lightning, the stars began to quiver in the blueness of the sky.
The lights in the cottage windows gleamed not inhospitably, but the traveller passed them by. His errand was to the monastery of San Stefano, for there he fancied that he should find a friend. He had no reason to feel sure about it, but he was in a mental region where reason had little sway. He was governed by vague impulses and instincts which he did not care to controvert. He was faint, footsore, and weary, but he would not pause until he had reached the monastery gates.
He rang the bell with a trembling hand. Its clangour startled him, and nearly made him fly from the place. If he had been less weak at that moment he would have turned away; as it was, he leaned against the high, white wall with an intolerable sense of discomfort and fatigue. When the porter came and looked out, it took him several minutes to discern, through the gathering darkness, the worn figure in waiting beside the gate.
"I have come a long distance," stammered the traveller, in answer to the porter's exclamation. "I want rest and food. I was told by one of you—one who was called Brother Dino, I believe—that you gave hospitality to travellers——"
"Come in, amico," said the porter, genially. "No explanations are needed when one comes to San Stefano. So you know our Brother Dino, do you? He is here again now, after two or three years in Paris. A fine scholar, they say, and a credit to the monastery. Come to the guest-room and I will tell him that you are here."
To this monologue the stranger answered not a word. The porter had meanwhile allowed him to enter, and fastened the gate once more. He then led the way up a garden path to a second door, swinging his lantern and jingling his keys as he went. The traveller followed slowly; his battered felt hat was drawn low over his forehead, his garments, torn and travel-stained, gave the porter an impression that his pockets were not too well filled, and that he might even be glad of a little employment on the farm which the Brothers of San Stefano were so successful in cultivating. His tone was nonetheless cheery and polite as he ushered the stranger into a long panelled room, where a single oil-lamp threw a vague, uncertain light upon the tessellated floor and plain oak furniture.
"You would like some polenta?" he said, as the wearied man sank into one of the wooden chairs with an air of complete exhaustion. "Or some of our good red wine? I will see about it directly. The signor can repose here until I return; I will fetch one of the Reverend Fathers by-and-bye, but they are all at Benediction at this moment."
"I want to see Brother Dino," said the stranger, lifting his head. And then the porter changed his mind about the station of the visitor.
That slightly imperious tone, the impatient glance of the dark eye, the unmistakably foreign accent, convinced him that he had to do with one of the tourists—English or American signori—who occasionally paid a visit to San Stefano. The porter himself was a lay-brother, and prided himself on his knowledge of the world. He answered courteously that Brother Dino should be informed, and then withdrew to provide the refreshment of which the stranger evidently stood in need.
Brother Dino was not long in coming. He entered quickly, with a look of subdued expectation upon his face. A flash of joy and recognition leaped into his eyes as he beheld the wayworn figure in one of the antique carved oak chairs. His hands, which had been crossed and hidden in the wide sleeves of the habit that he wore, went out to the stranger with a gesture of welcome and delight.
"Mr. Luttrell!" he exclaimed. "You are here already at San Stefano! We shall welcome you warmly, Mr. Luttrell!"
The name seemed wonderfully familiar to his tongue. Brian, who had risen, held out his hands also, and the young monk caught them in his own; but Brian's gesture was an involuntary one, conveying more of apprehension than of greeting.
"Not that name," he said, breathlessly. "Call me by any other that you please, but not that. Brian Luttrell is dead."
Brother Dino shivered slightly, as if a cold breath of air had passed through the ill-lighted room, but he held Brian's hands with a still warmer pressure, and looked steadily into his haggard, hollow eyes.
"What shall I call you, then, my brother?" he said, gently.
"I have thought of a name," replied Brian, in curiously uncertain, faltering tones; "it will harm nobody to take it, because he is dead, too. Remember, my name is Stretton—John Stretton, an Englishman—and a beggar."
Therewith he loosed his hands from Brother Dino's clasp, uttered a short laugh—it was a moan rather than a laugh, however—and fell like a stone into the Italian's arms. Dino supported him for a moment, then laid him flat upon the floor, and was about to summon help, when, turning, he came face to face with the Prior, Padre Cristoforo.
Thirteen years had passed since Padre Cristoforo brought the friendless boy from Turin to the monastery amongst the pleasant hills. Those thirteen years had apparently transformed the smiling, graceful lad into a pale, grave-faced, young monk, whose every word and action seemed to be subordinated to the authority of the ecclesiastics with whom he lived. Time had thrown into strong relief the keenly intellectual contour of his head and face; it had hollowed his temples and tempered the ardour of those young, brave eyes; but there was more beauty of outline and sweetness of expression than had been visible even in the charming boyish face that had won all hearts when he came to San Stefano at ten years old.
Thirteen years had changed Father Cristoforo but little. His tonsured head showed a fringe of greyer hairs, and his face was a little more blanched and wrinkled than it used to be; but the bland smile, the polished manner, the look of profound sagacity, were all the same. He gave one glance to Dino, one glance to the prostrate form upon the floor, and took in the situation without a moment's delay.
"Fetch Father Paolo," he said, after inspecting Brian's face and lifting his nerveless hand; "and return with him yourself. We may want you."
Father Paolo, the monk who took charge of the infirmary, soon arrived, and gave it as his opinion that the stranger was suffering from no ordinary fainting-fit, but from an affection of the brain. A bed was prepared for him in the infirmary, and a lay-brother appointed to attend upon him. Brian Luttrell could not have fallen ill in a place where he would receive more tender care.
It was not until the sick man was laid in his bed that Father Cristoforo spoke again to Dino, who was standing a little behind him, holding a lamp. The rays of light fell full upon Brian's death-like face, and on the black and white crucifix that hung above his bed on the yellow wall. Dino's face was in deep shadow when the Prior turned and addressed him.
"What was he saying when I came in? That his name was John—John——"
"John Stretton, an Englishman," answered Dino, in an unmoved voice. "An Englishman and a beggar."
Padre Christoforo did an unusual thing. He took the lamp from Brother Dino's hand and threw the light suddenly upon the young man's impassive countenance. Dino raised his great, serious eyes to the Prior's face, and then dropped them to the ground. Otherwise not a muscle of his face moved. He was the living image of submission.
"Have you seen him before?" said Padre Cristoforo.
"Twice, Reverend Father. Once on the boat between Cologne and Mainz; and once, for a moment only, in the quadrangle of the Cathedral at Mainz."
"And then did he bear his present name?"
For a moment Dino's mouth twitched uneasily. A faint colour crept into his cheeks. "Reverend Father," he said, hesitatingly, "I did not ask his name."
The priest raised the lamp to the level of his head, and again looked penetratingly into his pupil's face. There was a touch of wonder, of pity, perhaps also of some displeasure, expressed in this fixed gaze. It lasted so long that Dino turned a little pale, although he did not flinch beneath it. Finally, the Prior lowered the lamp, gave it back to him, and walked away in silence, with his head lowered and his hands behind his back. Dino followed to light him down the dark corridors, and at the door of the Prior's cell, fell on his knees, as the custom was in the monastery, to receive the Prior's blessing. But, either from forgetfulness or some other reason which passed unexplained, Padre Cristoforo entered and closed the door behind him, without noticing the young man's kneeling figure. It was the first time such an omission had occurred since Dino came to San Stefano. Was it merely an omission and not a punishment? Dino had, for the first time in his life, evaded a plain answer to a question, and concealed from Padre Cristoforo something which Padre Cristoforo would certainly have thought that he ought to know. Had Padre Cristoforo divined the truth?
According to the notions current amongst Italians, and particularly amongst many members of their church, Dino felt himself justified in equivocating in a case where absolute truth would not have served his purpose. His conscience did not reproach him for want of truthfulness, but it did for want of confidence in Padre Cristoforo. For he loved Padre Cristoforo; and Padre Cristoforo loved him.
Brian Luttrell's illness was a long and severe one. He lay insensible for some time, and awoke to wild delirium, which lasted for many days. The Brothers of San Stefano nursed him with the greatest care, and it was observable that the Prior himself spent a good deal of time in the patient's room, and showed unusual interest in his progress towards recovery. The Prior understood English; but if he had hoped to gather any information concerning Brian's history from the ravings of his delirium he was mistaken. Brian's mind ran upon the incidents of his childhood, upon the tour that he had made with his father when he was a boy, upon his school-days; not upon the sad and tragic events with which he had been connected. He scarcely ever mentioned the names of his mother or brother. Like Falstaff, when he lay a-dying, be "babbled of green fields," and nothing more.
At one time he grew better: then he had a relapse, and was very near death indeed; but at last the power of youth re-asserted itself, and he came slowly back to life once more. But it was as a man who had been in another world; who had faced the bitterness of death and the darkness of the grave.
He was as much startled when he looked at himself for the first time in a looking-glass as a girl who has lost her beauty after a virulent attack of small-pox. Not that he had ever had much beauty to boast of; but the look of youth and hope which had once brightened his eyes was gone; his cheeks were sunken, his temples hollow, his features drawn and pinched with bodily pain and weakness. And—greatest change perhaps of all—his hair had turned from brown to grey; an alteration so striking and visible that, as he put down the little mirror which had been brought to him, he murmured to himself, with a bitter smile—"My own mother would not know me now." And then he turned his face away from the light, and lay silent and motionless for so long a space of time that the lay-brother who waited on him thought that he was sleeping.
When he rose from his bed and was able to sit in the sunny garden or the cloisters, spring had come in all its tender glow of beauty, and sent a thrill of fresh life through the sick man's veins.
Nature had always been dear to Brian. He loved the sights and sounds of country life. The hills, the waving trees, tranquil skies and running water calmed and refreshed his jaded brain and harrassed nerves. The broad fields, crimsoning with anemones, purpling with hyacinth and auricula; the fresh green of the fig trees, the lovely tendrils of the newly shooting vines even the sight of the oxen with their patient eyes, and the homely, feathered creatures of the farmyard, clucking and strutting at the sandalled feet of the black-robed, silent, lay-brothers who brought them food—all these things acted like an anodyne upon Brian's stricken heart. There was a life beside that of feeling; a life of passive, peaceful repose; the life of "stocks and stones," and happy, unresponsive things, amidst which he could learn to bear his burden patiently.
He saw little of Dino during his illness; but, as soon as he was able to go into the garden, Dino was permitted to accompany him. It was plain from his manner that no unwillingness on his own part kept him away. The English stranger had evidently a great attraction for him; he waited upon his movements and followed him, silently and affectionately, like a dog whose whole heart has been given to its master. Brian felt the charm of this devotion, but was too weak to speculate concerning its cause. He was conscious of the same kind of attraction towards Dino; he knew not why, but he found it pleasant to have Dino at his side, to lean on his arm as they went down the garden path together, to listen to the young Italian's musical accents as he read aloud at the evening hour. But what was the secret of that indefinable mutual attraction, that almost magnetic power, which one seemed to possess over the other, Brian Luttrell could not tell. Perhaps Dino knew.
This friendship did not pass unobserved. It was quietly, gently, fostered by the Prior, whose keen eyes were everywhere, and seemed to see everything at once. He it was who dispensed Dino from his usual duties that he might attend upon the English guest, who smiled benignly when he met them together in the cloister, who dropped a word or two expressive of his pleasure that Dino should have an opportunity of practising his knowledge of the English tongue. Dino could speak English with tolerable fluency, although with a strong foreign accent.
But the quiet state of affairs did not last very long. As Brian's strength returned he grew restless and uneasy; and at length one day he sent a formal request to the Prior that he might speak to him alone. Padre Cristoforo replied by coming at once to the guest-chamber, which Brian occupied in the daytime, and by asking in his usual mild and kindly way what he could do for him.
The guest-room was a bare enough place, but the window commanded a fine view of the wide plain on which the monastery looked down. The blinds were open, for the morning was deliciously cool, and the shadows of the leaves that clustered round the lattice played in the glow of sunshine on the floor. Brian was standing as the Prior entered the room; his wasted figure, worn face, and grey hairs made him a striking sight in that abode of peace and solitary quietness. It was as though some unquiet visitant from another world had strayed into an Italian Arcadia. But, as a matter of fact, Brian was probably less worldly in thought and aspiration at that moment than the serene-browed priest who stood before him and looked him in the face with such benignant friendly, interest.
"You wished to see me, my son?" he began, gently.
"I am ashamed to trouble you," said Brian. "But I felt that I ought to speak to you as soon as possible. I am growing strong enough to continue my journey—and I must not trespass on your hospitality any longer."
"Your strength is not very great as yet," said the Prior, courteously. "Pray take a seat, Mr. Stretton. We are only too pleased to keep you with us as long as you will do us the honour to remain, and I think it is decidedly against your own interests to travel at present."
Brian stammered out an acknowledgment of the Prior's kindness. He was evidently embarrassed, even painfully so; and Padre Cristoforo found himself watching the young man with some surprise and curiosity. What was it that troubled this young Englishman?
Brian at last uttered the words that he had wished to say.
"If I remained here," he said, colouring vividly with a sensitiveness springing from the reduced physical condition to which he had been brought by his long illness; "if I remained here I should ask you whether I could do any work for you—whether I could teach any of your pupils English or music. I am a poor man; I have no prospects. I would as soon live in Italy as in England—at any rate for a time."
The Prior looked at him steadily; his deeply-veined hand grasped the arm of his wooden chair, a slight flush rose to his forehead. It was in a perfectly calm and unconstrained voice, however, that he made answer.
"It is quite possible that we might find work of the kind you mention, signor—if you require it."
There was a subdued accent of inquiry in the last four words. Brian laughed a little, and put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew out four gold pieces and a few little Swiss and Italian coins.
"You see these, Father?" he said, holding them out in the palm of his hand. "They constitute my fortune, and they are due to the institution that has sheltered me so kindly and nursed me back to life and health. I have vowed these coins to your alms-box; when they are given, I shall make a fresh start in the world—as the architect of my own fortunes."
"You will then be penniless!" said the priest, in rather a curious tone.
"Entirely so."
There was a short silence. Brian's fingers played idly with the coins, but he was not thinking about them; his dreamy eyes revealed that his thoughts were very far away. Padre Cristoforo was biting his forefinger and knitting his brows—two signs of unusual perturbation of mind with him. Presently, however, his brow cleared; he smoothed his gown over his knees two or three times, coughed once or twice, and then addressed himself to Brian with all his accustomed urbanity.
"Our Order is a rich one," he said, with a smile, "and one that can well afford to entertain strangers. I will not tell you to make no gifts, for we know that it is very blessed to give—more blessed than to receive. I think it quite possible that we can give you such work as you desire. But before I do so, I think I am justified in asking you with what object you take it?"
"With what object? A very simple one—to earn my daily bread."
"And why," said the priest leaning forward and speaking in a lower voice—"why should your father's son need to earn his daily bread in a little Italian village?"
Again Brian's face changed colour.
"My father's son?" he repeated, vaguely. The coins fell to the ground; he sat up and looked at the Prior suspiciously. "What do you know about my father?" he said. "What do you know about me?"
The Prior pushed back his chair. A little smile played upon his shrewd, yet kindly face. The Englishman was easier to manage than he had expected to find him, and Father Cristoforo was unquestionably relieved in his mind.
"I do not know much about you," he said, "but I have reason to believe that your name is not Stretton—that you were recently travelling under the name of Brian Luttrell, and that you have a special interest in the village of San Stefano. Is that not true, my friend?"
"Yes," said Brian slowly. "It is true."
The Prior's face wore an expression of mild triumph. He was evidently prepared to be questioned, and was somewhat surprised when Brian turned to him gravely and addressed him in cold and serious tones.
"Reverend Father," he said, "I am ignorant of the way in which you have possessed yourself of my secret, but, before a word more is spoken, let me tell you at once that it is a secret which must be kept strictly and sacredly between ourselves, unless great trouble is to ensue. It is absolutely necessary now that Brian Luttrell should be—dead."
"What has Brian Luttrell done," asked the Prior, "that he should be ashamed of his own name?"
"Ashamed!" said Brian, haughtily; "I never for one moment said that I was ashamed of it; but——"
He turned in his chair and looked out of the window. A new thought occurred to him. Probably Padre Cristoforo knew the history of every one who had lived in San Stefano during the last few years. Perhaps he might assist Brian in his search for the truth. At any rate, as Padre Cristoforo already knew his name, it would do nobody any harm if he confided in him a little further, and told him something of the story which Mrs. Luttrell had told to him.
Meanwhile, Padre Cristoforo watched him keenly as a cat watches a mouse, though without the malice of a cat. The Prior wished Brian no harm. But, for the good of his Order, he wished very much that he could lay hands, either through Brian or through Dino, upon that fine estate of which he had dreamt for the last thirteen years.
"Father Cristoforo," Brian's haggard, dark eyes looked anxiously into the priest's subtilely twinkling orbs, "will you tell me how you learnt my true name?"
He could not bear to cast a doubt upon Dino's good faith, and the Prior divined his reason for the question.
"Rest assured, my dear sir, that I learnt it accidentally," he said, with a soothing smile. "I happened to be entering the door when our young friend Dino recognised you. I heard you tell him to call you by the name of Stretton; I also heard you say that Brian Luttrell was dead."
"Ah!" sighed Brian, scarcely above his breath. "I thought that Dino could not have betrayed me."
He did not mean the Prior to hear his words; but they were heard and understood. "Signor," said the Padre, with an inflection of hurt feeling in his voice, "Mr. Stretton, or Mr. Luttrell, however you choose to term yourself, Dino is a man of honour, and will never betray a trust reposed in him. I could answer for Dino with my very life."
"I know—I was sure of it!" cried Brian.
"But, signor, do you think it is right or wise to imperil the future and the reputation of a young man like Dino—without friends, without home, without a name, entirely dependent upon us and our provision for him—by making him the depository of secrets which he keeps against his conscience and against the rule of the Order in which he lives? Brother Dino has told me nothing; he even evaded a question which he thought that you would not wish him to answer; but, he has acted wrongly, and will suffer if he is led into further concealment. Need I say more?"
"He shall not suffer through me," said Brian, impetuously. "I ought to have known better. But I was not myself; I don't remember what I said. I was surprised and relieved when I came to myself and found you all calling me Mr. Stretton. I never thought of laying any burden upon Dino."
"You will do well, then," said the Prior, approvingly, "if you do not speak of the matter to him at all. He is bound to mention it if questioned, and I presume you do not want to make it known."
"No, I do not. But I thought that he was bound only to mention matters that concerned himself; not those of other people," said Brian, with more hardihood than the priest had expected of him.
Padre Cristoforo smiled, and made a little motion with his hand, as much as to say that there were many things which an Englishman and a heretic could not be expected to know. "Dino is in a state of pupilage," he said, slightly, finding that Brian seemed to expect an answer; "the rules which bind him are very strict. But—if you will allow me to advert once more to your proposed change of name and residence—I suppose that it is not indiscreet to remark that your friends in England—or Scotland—will doubtless be anxious about your place of abode at present?"
"I do not think so," said Brian, in a low tone. "I believe that they think me dead."
"Why so?"
"Perhaps you did not hear in your quiet monastery, Father, of a party of travellers who perished in an avalanche last November? Two guides, a porter, and an Englishman, whose body was never recovered. I was that Englishman."
"I heard of the accident," said Padre Cristoforo, briefly, nodding his head. "So you escaped, signor? You must have had strong limbs and stout sinews—or else you must have been attended by some special providential care—to escape, when those three skilled mountaineers were lost on the mountain side."
"On ne meurt pas quand la mort est la délivrance," quoted Brian, with a bitter laugh. "You may be quite sure that if I had been at the height of felicity and good fortune, it would have needed but a false step, or a slight chill, or a stray shot—a stray shot! oh, my God! If only some stray shot had come to me—not to my brother—my brother——"
They were the first tears that he had shed since the beginning of his illness. The sudden memory of his brother's fate proved too much for him in his present state of bodily weakness. He bowed his head on his hands and wept.
A curiously soft expression stole into the Prior's face. He looked at Brian once or twice and seemed as if he wished to say some pitying word, but, in point of fact, no word of consolation occurred to him. He was very sorry for Brian, whose story was perfectly familiar to him; but he knew very well that Brian's grief was not one to which words could bring comfort. He waited silently, therefore, until the mood had passed, and the young man lifted up his heavy eyes and quivering lips with a faint attempt at a smile, which was sadder than those passionate sobs had been.
"I must ask pardon," he said, somewhat confusedly. "I did not know that I was so weak. I will go to my room."
"Let me delay you for one moment," said the Prior, confronting him with kindly authority. "It has needed little penetration, signor, to discover that you have lately passed through some great sorrow; I am now more sure of it than ever. I would not intrude upon your confidence, but I ask you to remember that I wish to be your friend—that there are reasons why I should take a special interest in you and your family, and that, humble as I am, I may be of use to you and yours."
Brian stopped short and looked at him. "Me and mine!" he repeated to himself. "Me and mine! What do you know of us?"
"I will be frank with you," said the priest. "Thirteen years ago a document of a rather remarkable nature was placed in my hands affecting the Luttrell family. In this paper the writer declared that she, as the nurse of Mrs. Luttrell's children, had substituted her own child for a boy called Brian Luttrell, and had carried off the true Brian to her mother, a woman named Assunta Naldi. The nurse, Vincenza, died and left this paper in the hands of her mother, who, after much hesitation, confided the secret to me."
Brian took a step nearer to the Prior. "What right have you had to keep this matter secret so long?" he demanded.
"Say, rather, what right had I to disturb an honourable family with an assertion that is incapable of proof?"
"Then why did you tell me now?"
"Because you know it already."
Brian seated himself and leaned back in his chair, with his eyes still fixed upon the Prior's face.
"Why do you think that I know it?" he said.
"Because," said Padre Cristoforo, raising his long forefinger, and emphasising every fresh point with a convincing jerk, "because you have come to San Stefano. You would never have come here unless you wanted to find out the truth. Because you have changed your name. You would have had no reason to abandon the name of Luttrell unless you were not sure of your right to bear it. Because you spoke of Vincenza in your delirium. Do I need more proofs?"
There was another proof which he did not mention. He had found Mrs. Luttrell's letter to Brian amongst the sick man's clothes, and had carefully perused it before locking it up with the rest of the stranger's possessions. It was characteristic of the man that, during the last few years, he had set himself steadily to work to master the English language by the aid of every English book or English-speaking traveller that came in his way. He had succeeded wonderfully well, and no one but himself knew for what purpose that arduous task had been undertaken. He found his accomplishment useful; he had thought it particularly useful when he read Mrs. Luttrell's letter. But naturally he did not say so to Brian.
"You are right," said Brian, in a low voice. "But you say it is incapable of proof. She—my mother—I mean Mrs. Luttrell—says so, too."
"If it were capable of proof," said the Prior, softly, "should you contest the matter?"
"Yes," Brian answered, with an angry flash of his eyes, "if I had been in England, and any such claimant appeared, I would have fought the ground to the last inch! Not for the sake of the estates—I have given those up easily enough—but for my father's sake. I would not lightly give up my claim to call him father; he never doubted once that I was his son."
"He never doubted?"
"I am sure he never did."
"But Mrs. Luttrell——"
"God help me, yes! But she thinks also that I meant to take my brother's life."
It needed but a few words of inquiry to lead Brian to tell the story of his brother's death. The Prior knew it well enough; he had made it his business to ascertain the history of the Luttrell family during the past few years; but he listened with the gentle and sympathetic interest which had often given him so strong a hold over men's hearts and lives. He was a master in the art of influencing younger men; he had the subtle instinct which told him exactly what to say and how far to go, when to speak and when to be silent; and Brian, with no motive for concealment, now that his name was once known, was like a child in the Prior's hands.
In return for his confidence, Padre Cristoforo told him the substance of his interview with old Assunta, and of the confession written by Vincenza. But when Brian asked to see this paper the Prior shook his head.
"I have not got it here," he said. "It was certainly preserved, by the desire of some in authority, but it was not thought to afford sufficient testimony."
"What was wanting?"
"I cannot tell you precisely what was wanting; but, amongst other matters, there is the fact that this Vincenza made a directly opposite statement, which counterbalances this one."
"Then you have two written statements, contradicting each other? You might as well throw them both into the fire," said Brian, with some irritation. "Who is the 'authority' who preserves them? Can I not present myself to him and demand a sight of the documents?"
"Under what name, and for what reason, would you ask to see them?"
Brian winced; he had for the moment forgotten what his own hand had done.
"I could still prove my identity," he said, looking down. "But, no; I will not. I did not lose myself upon the mountain-side because of this mystery about my birth, but because I wanted to escape my mother's reproaches and the burden of Richard's inheritance. Nothing will induce me to go back to Scotland. To all intents and purposes, I am dead."
"Then," said the Prior, "since that is your resolution—your wise resolution, let me say—I will tell you frankly what my reading of the riddle has been, and what, I think, Vincenza did. It is my belief that Mrs. Luttrell's child died, and was buried under the name of Vincenza's child."
"You, too, then—you believe that I am not a Luttrell?"
"If the truth could ever be ascertained, which I do not think it will be, I believe that this would turn out to be the case. The key of the whole matter lies in the fact that Vincenza had twins. One of these children was sent to the grandmother in the country; one was nursed in the village of San Stefano. A fever had broken out in the village, and Vincenza's charge—the little Brian Luttrell—died. She immediately changed the dead child for her own, being wishful to escape the blame of carelessness, and retain her place; also to gain for her own child the advantages of wealth and position. The two boys, who have now grown to manhood, are brothers; children, of one mother; and Brian Luttrell—a baby boy of some four months old—sleeps, as his mother declares, in the graveyard of San Stefano."
"Why did the nurse confess only a half-truth, then?"
"She wanted to get absolution; and yet she did not want to injure the prospects of her child, I suppose. At the worst, she thought that one boy would be substituted for another. The woman was foolish—and wicked," said the Prior, with a grain of impatient contempt in his tone; "and the more foolish that she did not observe that she was outwitting herself—trying to cheat God as well as man."
"Then—you think—that I——"
"That you are the son of an Italian gardener and his wife. Courage, my son; it might have been worse. But I know nothing positively; I have constructed a theory out of Vincenza's self-contradictions; it may be true; it may be false. Of one thing I would remind you; that as you have given up your position in England and Scotland, you have no responsibility in the matter. You have done exactly what the law would have required you to do had it been proved that you were Vincenza's son."
"But the other child—the boy who was sent to his grandmother? What became of him?"
The Prior looked at him in silence for a little time before he spoke. "How do you feel towards him?" he said, finally. "Are you prepared to treat him as a brother or not?"
Brian averted his face. "I have had but one brother," he said, shortly. "I cannot expect to find another—especially when I am not sure that he is of my blood or I of his."
"In any case he is your foster-brother. I should like you to meet him."
"Does he know the story?"
"He does."
"And is prepared to welcome me as a brother?" said Brian, with a bitter but agitated laugh. "Where is he? I will see him if you like."
He had risen to his feet, and stood with his arms crossed, his brow knitted, his mouth firmly set. There was something hard in his face, something defiant in his attitude, which caused the Prior to add a word of remonstrance. "It is not his fault," he said, "any more than it is yours. You need not be enemies; it is my object to make you friends."
"Let me see him," repeated Brian gloomily. "I do not wish to be his enemy. I do not promise to be his friend." |
"I will send him to you," said the Prior. "Wait here till he comes."
He left Brian alone; and the young man, thinking it likely that | he would be undisturbed for sometime to come, bent his face upon his hands, and tried to [missing word] his position. The strange tangle of circumstances in which he found himself involved would never be easy of adjustment; he wished with all his heart that he had refused the Prior's offer to make his foster-brother known to him, but it was too late now. Was it too late? Could he not send for Padre Cristoforo, and beg him to leave the Italian peasant in his own quiet home, ignorant of Brian's visit to the place where he was born? He would do it; and then he would leave San Stefano for ever; it was not yet too late.
He lifted up his head and rose to his feet. He was not alone in the room. To his surprise he saw before him his friend, Dino.
"You have come from Padre Cristoforo, have you?" said Brian, quickly and impetuously. He took no notice of the young man's manifest agitation and discomfort, which would have been clear to anybody less pre-occupied than Brian, at that moment. "Tell him from me that there is no need for me to see the man that he spoke of—that I do not wish to meet him. He will understand what I mean."
A change, like that produced by a sudden electric shock, passed over Dino's face. His hands fell to his sides. They had been outstretched before, as if in greeting.
"You do not want to see him?" he repeated.
"I will not see him," said Brian, harshly, almost violently. "Weak as I am, I'll go straight out of the house and village sooner than meet him. Why does he want to see me? I have nothing to give him now."
Long afterwards he remembered the look on Dino's face. Pain, regret, yearning affection, seemed to struggle for the mastery; his eyes were filled with tears, his lips were pale. But he said nothing. He went away from the room, and took the message that had been given him to the Prior.
Brian felt that he had perhaps been selfish, but he consoled himself with the thought that the peasant lad would gain nothing by a meeting with him, and that such an embarrassing interview, as it must necessarily be, would be a pain to them both.
But he did not know that the foster-brother (brother or foster-brother, which could it be?) was sobbing on the floor of the Prior's cell, in a passion of vehement grief at Brian's rejection of Padre Cristoforo's proposition. He would scarcely have understood that grief if he had seen it. He would have found it difficult to realise that the boy, Dino, had grown from childhood with a strong but suppressed belief in his mother's strange story, and yet, that, as soon as he saw Brian Luttrell, his heart had gone out to him with the passionate tenderness that he had waited all his life to bestow upon a brother.
"Take it not so much to heart, Dino," said the Prior, looking down at him compassionately. "It was not to be expected that he would welcome the news. Thou art a fool, little one, to grieve over his coldness. Come, these are a girl's tears, and thou should'st be a man by now."
The words were caressingly spoken, but they failed of their effect. Dino did not look up.
"For one reason," said the Prior, in a colder tone, half to himself and half to the novice, "I am glad that he has not seen you. Your course will, perhaps, be the easier. Because, Dino, although I may believe my theory to be the correct one, and that you and our guest are both the children of Vincenza Vasari, yet it is a theory which is as difficult to prove as any other; and our good friend, the Cardinal, who was here last week, you know, chooses to take the other view."
"What other view, Reverend Father?" said Dino.
"The view that you are, indeed, Brian Luttrell, and not Vincenza's son."
"But—you said—that it was impossible to prove——"
"I think so, my dear son. But the Cardinal does not agree with me. We shall hear from him further. I believe it is the general opinion at Rome that you ought to be sent to Scotland in order to claim your position and the Luttrell estates. The case might at any rate be tried."
Dino rose now, pale and trembling.
"I do not want a position. I do not want to claim anything. I want to be a monk," he said.
"You are not a monk yet," returned the Prior, calmly. "And it may not be your vocation to take the vows upon you. Now, do you see why you have been prevented from taking them hitherto? You may be called upon to act as a layman: to claim the estates, fight the battle with these Scotch heretics and come back to us a wealthy man! And in that case, you will act as a pious layman should do, and devote a portion of your wealth to Holy Church. But I do not say you would be successful; I think myself that you have little chance of success. Only let us feel that you are our obedient child, as you used to be."
"I will do anything you wish," cried Dino, passionately, "so long as I bring no unhappiness upon others. I do not wish to be rich at Brian's expense."
"He has renounced his birthright," said the Prior. "You will not have to fight him, my tender-hearted Dino. You will have a much harder foe—a woman. The estate has passed into the hands of a Miss Elizabeth Murray."
An elderly English artist, with carefully-trimmed grey hair, a gold-rimmed eye-glass, and a velvet coat which was a little too hot as well as a little too picturesque for the occasion, had got into difficulties with his sketching apparatus on the banks of a lovely little river in North Italy. He had been followed for some distance by several children, who had never once ceased to whine for alms; and he had tried all arts in the hope of getting rid of them, and all in vain. He had thrown small coins to them; they had picked them up and clamoured only the more loudly; he had threatened them with his sketching umbrella, whereat they had screamed and run away, only to return in the space of five seconds with derisive laughter and hands outstretched more greedily than ever. When he reached the spot where he intended to make a sketch, his tormentors felt that they had him at their mercy. They swarmed round him, they peeped under his umbrella, they even threw one or two small stones at his back; and when, in desperation, their victim sprang up and turned upon them, they made a wild dash at his umbrella, which sent it into the stream, far beyond the worthy artist's reach. Then they took to their heels, leaving the good man to contemplate wofully the fate of his umbrella. It had drifted to the middle of the stream, had there been caught by a stone and a tuft of weed, and seemed destined to complete destruction. He tried to arrest its course, but could not reach it, and nearly over-balanced himself in the attempt; then he sat down upon the bank and gave vent to an ejaculation of mild impatience—"Oh, dear, dear, dear me! I wish Elizabeth were here."
It was so small a catastrophe, after all, and yet it called up a look of each unmistakable vexation to that naturally tranquil and abstracted countenance, that a spectator of the scene repressed a smile which had risen to his lips and came to the rescue.
"Can I be of any assistance to you, sir?" he said.
The artist gave a violent start. He had not previously seen the speaker, who had been lying on the grass at a few yards' distance, screened from sight by an intervening clump of brushwood. He came forward and stood by the water, looking at the opened umbrella.
"I think I could get it," he said. "The water is very shallow."
"But—my dear sir—pray do not trouble yourself; it is entirely unnecessary. I do not wish to give the slightest inconvenience," stammered the Englishman, secretly relieved, but very much embarrassed at the same time. "Pray, be careful—it's very wet. Good Heaven!" The last exclamation was caused by the fact that the new-comer had calmly divested himself of his boots and socks and was stepping into the water. "Indeed, it's scarcely worth the trouble that you are taking."
"It is not much trouble to wade for a minute or two in this deliciously cool water," said the stranger, with a smile, as he returned from his expedition, umbrella in hand. "There, I think you will find it uninjured. It's a wonder that it was not broken. You would have been inconvenienced without it on this hot day."
He raised his hat slightly as he spoke and moved away. The artist received another shock. This young man—for he moved with the strength and lightness of one still young, and his face was a young face, too—this young man had grey hair—perfectly grey. There was not a black thread amongst it. For one moment the artist was so much astonished that he nearly forgot to thank the stranger for the service that he had rendered him.
"One moment," he said, hurriedly. "Pray allow me to thank you. I am very much obliged to you. You don't know how great a service you have done me. If I can be of any use to you in any way——"
"It was a very trifling service," said the young man, courteously. "I wish it had been my good fortune to do you a greater one. This was nothing."
"Foreign!" murmured the artist to himself, as the stranger returned to his lair behind the thicket, where he seemed to be occupying himself in putting on his socks and boots once more. "No Englishman would have answered in that way. I wish he had not disappeared so quickly. I should like to have made a sketch of his head. Hum! I shall not sketch much to-day, I fancy."
He shut up his paint-box with an air of resolution, and walked leisurely to the spot where the young man was completing his toilet. "I ought perhaps to explain," he began, with an air which he fancied was Machiavellian in its simplicity, "that the loss of that umbrella would have been a serious matter to me. It might have entailed another and more serious loss—the loss of my liberty."
The young man looked up with a puzzled and slightly doubtful expression. "I beg your pardon," he said. "The loss of——"
"The loss of my liberty," said the Englishman, in a louder and rather triumphant tone of voice. "The fact is, my dear sir, that I have a very tender and careful wife, and an equally tender and careful daughter and niece, who have so little confidence in my power of caring for my own safety that they have at various times threatened to accompany me in all my sketching expeditions. Now, if I came home to them and confessed that I had been attacked by a troop of savage Italian children, who tossed my umbrella into the river, do you think I should ever be allowed to venture out alone again?"
The young man smiled, with a look of comprehension.
"Can I be of any further use to you?" he said. "Can I walk back to the town with you, or carry any of your things?"
"You can be of very great use to me, indeed," said the gentleman, opening his sketch-book in a great hurry, and then producing a card from some concealed pocket in his velvet coat. "I'm an artist—allow me to introduce myself—my name is Heron; you would be of the very greatest use to me if you would allow me to—to make a sketch of your head for a picture that I am doing just now. It is the very thing—if you will excuse the liberty that I am taking——"
He had his pencil ready, but he faltered a little as he saw the sudden change which came over his new acquaintance's face at the sound of his proposition. The young man flushed to his temples, and then turned suddenly pale. He did not speak, but Mr. Heron inferred offence from his silence, and became exceedingly profuse in his apologies.
"It is of no consequence," said the stranger, breaking in upon Mr. Heron's incoherent sentences with some abruptness. "I was merely surprised for the moment; and, after all—I think I must ask you to excuse me; I have a great dislike—a sort of nervous dislike—to sitting for a portrait. I would rather that you did not sketch me, if you please."
"Oh, certainly, certainly; I am only sorry that I mentioned it," said Mr. Heron, more formally than usual. He was a little vexed at his own precipitation, and also by the way in which his request had been received. For a few moments there was a somewhat awkward silence, during which the young man stood with his eyes cast down, apparently absorbed in thought. "A striking face," thought Mr. Heron to himself, being greatly attracted by the appearance of his new friend; "all the more picturesque on account of that curious grey hair. I wonder what his history has been." Then he spoke aloud and in a kindlier tone. "I will accept your offer of help," he said, "and ask you to walk back with me to the town, if you are going that way. I came by a short cut, which I am quite sure that I shall never remember."
The young man awoke from his apparently sad meditations; his fine, dark eyes were lightened by a grateful smile as he looked at Mr. Heron. It seemed as though he were glad that something had been suggested that he could do. But the smile was succeeded by a still more settled look of gloom.
"I must introduce myself," he said. "I have no card with me—perhaps this will do as well." He held out the book that he had been reading; it was a copy of Horace'sOdes, bound in vellum. On the fly-leaf, a name had been scrawled in pencil—John Stretton. Mr. Heron glanced at it through his eye-glass, nodded pleasantly, and regarded his new friend with increased respect.
"You're a scholar, I see," he said, good-humouredly, as they strolled leisurely towards the little town in which he had told John Stretton that he was staying; "or else you would not bring Horace out with you into the fields on a sunshiny day like this. I have forgotten almost all my classical lore. To tell the truth, Mr. Stretton, I never found it very much good to me; but I suppose all boys have got to have a certain amount of it drilled into them——?" He stopped short in an interrogative manner.
"I suppose so," said Stretton, without a smile. His eyes were bent on the ground; there was a joyless contraction of his delicate, dark brows. It was with an evident effort that he suddenly looked up and spoke. "I have an interest in such subjects. I am trying to find pupils myself—or, at least, I hope to find some when I return to England in a week or two. I think," he added with a half-laugh, "that I am a pretty good classic—good enough, at least, to teach small boys!"
"I dare say, I dare say," said Mr. Heron, hastily. He looked as if he would like to put another question or two, then turned away, muttered something inaudible, and started off upon a totally different subject, about which he laid down the law with unaccustomed volubility and decision. Stretton listened, assented now and then, but took care to say little in reply. A sudden turn in the road brought them close to a fine, old building, grey with age, but stately still, at the sight of which Mr. Heron became silent and slackened his pace.
"A magnificent old place," said Stretton, looking up at it as his companion paused before the gateway.
"Picturesque, but not very waterproof," said Mr. Heron, with a dismal air of conviction. "It is what they call the Villa Venturi. There are some charming bits of colour about it, but I am not sure that it is the best possible residence."
"You are residing here?"
"For the present—yes. You must come in and see the banqueting-hall and the terrace; you must, indeed. My wife will be delighted to thank you herself—for the rescue of the umbrella!" and Mr. Heron laughed quietly below his breath. "Yes, yes"—as Stretton showed symptoms of refusing—"I can take no denial. After your long, hot walk with me, you must come in and rest, if it is but for half-an-hour. You do not know what pleasure it gives me to have a chat with some one like yourself, who can properly appreciate the influence of the Renaissance upon Italian art."
Stretton yielded rather than listen to any more of such gross and open flattery. He followed Mr. Heron under the gateway into a paved courtyard, flanked on three sides by out-buildings and a clock tower, and on the fourth by the house itself. Mr. Heron led the way through some dark, cool passages, expatiating as he went upon the architecture of the building; finally they entered a small but pleasant little room, where he offered his guest a seat, and ordered refreshments to be set before him.
"I am afraid that everyone is out," Mr. Heron said, after opening and shutting the doors of two or three rooms in succession, and returning to Stretton with rather a discomfited countenance. "The afternoon is growing cool, you see, and they have gone for a drive. However, you can have a look at the terrace and the banqueting-hall while it's still light, and we shall hope for the pleasure of your company at some other time when my wife is at home, Mr. Stretton, if you are staying near us."
"You are very kind," murmured Stretton. "But I fear that I must proceed with my journey to-morrow. I ought not to stay—I must not——"
He broke off abruptly. Mr. Heron forgot his good manners, and stared at him in surprise. There was something a little odd about this grey-haired young man after all. But, after a pause, the stranger seemed to recover his self-possession, and repeated his excuses more intelligibly. Mr. Heron was sorry to hear of his probable departure.
They wandered round the garden together. It was a pleasant place, with terraced walks and shady alcoves, so quaint and trim that it might well have passed for that fair garden to which Boccaccio's fine ladies and gallant cavaliers fled when the plague raged in Florence, or for the scene on which the hapless Francesca looked when she read the story of Lancelot that led to her own undoing. Some such fancies as these passed through the crannies of Stretton's mind while he seemed to be listening to Mr. Heron's mildly-pedantic allocutions, and absorbed in the consideration of mediæval art. Mr. Heron was in raptures with his listener.
"Oh, by-the-bye," said the artist, suddenly, as they paused beside one of the windows on the terrace, "if I may trouble you to wait here a minute, I will go and fetch the sketch I have made of the garden from this point. You will excuse me for a moment. Won't you go inside the house? The window is open—go in, if you like."
He disappeared into another portion of the house, leaving Stretton somewhat amused by his host's unceremonious demeanour. He did not accept the invitation; he leaned against the wall rather languidly, as though fatigued by his long walk, and tried to make friends with a beautiful peacock which seemed to expect him to feed it, and yet was half-afraid to approach.
As he waited, a gentle sound, of which he had been conscious ever since he halted close to the window, rose more distinctly upon his ear. It was the sound of a voice engaged in some sort of monotonous reading or reciting, and it seemed first to advance to the window near which he stood and then to recede. He soon discovered that it was accompanied by a soft but regular footfall. It was plain that somebody—some woman, evidently—was pacing the floor of the room to which this window belonged, and that she was repeating poetry, either to herself or to some silent listener. As she came near the window, Stretton heard the words of an old ballad with which he was himself familiar—