JEALOUSY.
Lord Hawbury had come to Rome for the sole purpose of watching over
his friend Scone Dacres. But he had not found it so easy to do so. His
friend kept by himself more than he used to, and for several days
Hawbury had seen nothing of him. Once while with the ladies he had met
him, and noticed the sadness and the gloom of his brow. He saw by this
that he was still a prey to those feelings the exhibition of which had
alarmed him at Naples, and made him resolve to accompany him here.
A few days afterward, while Hawbury was in his room, his friend
entered. Hawbury arose and greeted him with unfeigned joy.
"Well, old man," he said, "you've kept yourself close, too. What have
you been doing with yourself? I've only had one glimpse of you for an
age. Doing Rome, hey? Antiquities, arts, churches, palaces, and all
that sort of thing, I suppose. Come now, old boy, sit down and give an
account of yourself. Have a weed? Here's Bass in prime order. Light
up, my dear fellow, and let me look at you as you compose your manly
form for a friendly smoke. And don't speak till you feel inclined."
Dacres took his seat with a melancholy smile, and selecting a cigar,
lighted it, and smoked in silence for some time.
"Who was that Zouave fellow?" he asked at length: "the fellow that I
saw riding by the carriage the other day?"
"That--oh, an old friend of mine. He's an American named Gunn. He's
joined the Papal Zouaves from some whim, and a deuced good thing it is
for them to get hold of such a man. I happened to call one day, and
found him with the ladies."
"The ladies--ah!" and Dacres's eyes lighted up with a bad, hard light.
"I suppose he's another of those precious cavaliers--the scum of all
lands--that dance attendance on my charming wife."
"Oh, see here now, my dear fellow, really now," said Hawbury, "none of
that, you know. This fellow is a friend of _mine_, and one of the best
fellows I ever saw. You'd like him, old chap. He'd suit you."
"Yes, and suit my wife better," said Dacres, bitterly.
"Oh, come now, really, my dear boy, you're completely out. He don't
know your wife at all. It's the other one, you know. Don't be jealous,
now, if I tell you."
"Jealous!"
"Yes. I know your weakness, you know; but this is an old affair. I
don't want to violate confidence, but--"
Dacres looked hard at his friend and breathed heavily. He was
evidently much excited.
"But what?" he said, hoarsely.
"Well, you know, it's an old affair. It's the young one, you
know--Miss Fay. He rather affects her, you know. That's about it."
"Miss Fay?"
"Yes; your child-angel, you know. But it's an older affair than yours;
it is, really; so don't be giving way, man. Besides, his claims on her
are as great as yours; yes, greater too. By Jove!"
"Miss Fay! Oh, is that all?" said Dacres, who, with a sigh of infinite
relief, shook off all his late excitement, and became cool once more.
Hawbury noted this very thoughtfully.
"You see," said Dacres, "that terrible wife of mine is so cursedly
beautiful and fascinating, and so infernally fond of admiration, that
she keeps no end of fellows tagging at her heels. And so I didn't know
but that this was some new admirer. Oh, she's a deep one! Her new
style, which she has been cultivating for ten years, has made her look
like an angel of light. Why, there's the very light of heaven in her
eyes, and in her face there is nothing, I swear, but gentleness and
purity and peace. Oh, had she but been what she now seems! Oh, if even
now I could but believe this, I would even now fling my memories to
the winds, and I'd lie down in the dust and let her trample on me, if
she would only give me that tender and gentle love that now lurks in
her face. Good Heavens! can such a change be possible? No; it's
impossible! It can't be! Don't I know her? Can't I remember her? Is my
memory all a dream? No, it's real; and it's marked deep by this scar
that I wear. Never till that scar is obliterated can that woman
change."
Dacres had been speaking, as he often did now, half to himself; and as
he ended he rubbed his hand over the place where the scar lay, as
though to soothe the inflammation that arose from the rush of angry
blood to his head.
"Well, dear boy, I can only say I wish from my heart that her nature
was like her face. She's no favorite of mine, for your story has made
me look on her with your eyes, and I never have spoken to her except
in the most distant way; but I must say I think her face has in it a
good deal of that gentleness which you mention. Miss Fay treats her
quite like an elder sister, and is deuced fond of her, too. I can see
that. So she can't be very fiendish to her. Like loves like, you know,
and the one that the child-angel loves ought to be a little of an
angel herself, oughtn't she?"
Dacres was silent for a long time.
"There's that confounded Italian," said he, "dangling forever at her
heels--the devil that saved her life. He must be her accepted lover,
you know. He goes out riding beside the carriage."
"Well, really, my dear fellow, she doesn't seem overjoyed by his
attentions."
"Oh, that's her art. She's so infernally deep. Do you think she'd let
the world see her feelings? Never. Slimy, Sir, and cold and subtle and
venomous and treacherous--a beautiful serpent. Aha! isn't that the way
to hit her off? Yes, a beautiful, malignant, venomous serpent, with
fascination in her eyes, and death and anguish in her bite. But she
shall find out yet that others are not without power. Confound her!"
"Well, now, by Jove! old boy, I think the very best thing you can do
is to go away somewhere, and get rid of these troubles."
"Go away! Can I go away from my own thoughts? Hawbury, the trouble is
in my own heart. I must keep near her. There's that Italian devil. He
shall not have her. I'll watch them, as I have watched them, till I
find a chance for revenge."
"You have watched them, then?" asked Hawbury, in great surprise.
"Yes, both of them. I've seen the Italian prowling about where she
lives. I've seen her on her balcony, evidently watching for him."
"But have you seen any thing more? This is only your fancy."
"Fancy! Didn't I see her herself standing on the balcony looking down.
I was concealed by the shadow of a fountain, and she couldn't see me.
She turned her face, and I saw it in that soft, sweet, gentle beauty
which she has cultivated so wonderfully. I swear it seemed like the
face of an angel, and I could have worshiped it. If she could have
seen my face in that thick shadow she would have thought I was an
adorer of hers, like the Italian--ha, ha!--instead of a pursuer, and
an enemy."
"Well, I'll be hanged if I can tell myself which you are, old boy;
but, at any rate, I'm glad to be able to state that your trouble will
soon be over."
"How's that?"
"She's going away."
"Going away!"
"Yes."
"She! going away! where?"
"Back to England."
"Back to England! why, she's just come here. What's that for?"
"I don't know. I only know they're all going home. Well, you know,
holy week's over, and there is no object for them to stay longer."
"Going away! going away!" replied Dacres, slowly. "Who told you?"
"Miss Fay."
"Oh, I don't believe it."
"There's no doubt about it, my dear boy. Miss Fay told me explicitly.
She said they were going in a carriage by the way of Civita
Castellana."
"What are they going that way for? What nonsense! I don't believe it."
"Oh, it's a fact. Besides, they evidently don't want it to be known."
"What's that?" asked Dacres, eagerly.
"I say they don't seem to want it to be known. Miss Fay told me in her
childish way, and I saw that Mrs. Willoughby looked vexed, and tried
to stop her."
"Tried to stop her! Ah! Who were there? Were you calling?"
"Oh no--it was yesterday morning. I was riding, and, to my surprise,
met them. They were driving--Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Fay, you
know--so I chatted with them a few moments, or rather with Miss Fay,
and hoped I would see them again soon, at some _fête_ or other, when
she told me this."
"And my wife tried to stop her?"
"Yes."
"And looked vexed?"
"Yes."
"Then it was some secret of _hers_. _She_ has some reason for keeping
dark. The other has none. Aha! don't I understand her? She wants to
keep it from _me_. She knows you're my friend, and was vexed that you
should know. Aha! she dreads my presence. She knows I'm on her track.
She wants to get away with her Italian--away from my sight. Aha! the
tables are turned at last. Aha! my lady. Now we'll see. Now take your
Italian and fly, and see how far you can get away from me. Take him,
and see if you can hold him. Aha! my angel face, my mild, soft eyes of
love, but devil's heart--can not I understand it all? I see through
it. I've watched, you. Wait till you see Scone Dacres on your track!"
"What's that? You don't really mean it?" cried Hawbury.
"Yes, I do."
"Will you follow her?"
"Yes, I will."
"What for? For a vague fancy of your jealous mind?"
"It isn't a fancy; it's a certainty. I've seen the Italian dogging
her, dodging about her house, and riding with her. I've seen her
looking very much as if she were expecting him at her balcony. Is all
that nothing? She's seen me, and feels conscience-stricken, and longs
to get away where she may be free from the terror of my presence. But
I'll track her. I'll strike at her--at her heart, too; for I will
strike through the Italian."
"By Jove!"
"I will, I swear!" cried Dacres, gloomily.
"You're mad, Dacres. You imagine all this. You're like a madman in a
dream."
"It's no dream. I'll follow her. I'll track her."
"Then, by Jove, you'll have to take me with you, old boy! I see you're
not fit to take care of yourself. I'll have to go and keep you from
harm."
"You won't keep me from harm, old chap," said Dacres, more gently;
"but I'd be glad if you would go. So come along."
"I will, by Jove!"
[Illustration: "I WATCHED HIM."]