“CUT” BY AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
“Now listen to me, and be good, and sensible, and tractable for once in
your life,” exclaimed Laura, when Lewis’s agitation had in some degree
subsided. “You appear to have acted with more than sufficient self-will
and impetuosity all through this affair, and the result has not proved
so satisfactory as to justify you in refusing a friend’s advice and
assistance. Excuse my plain speaking,” she continued, with a frank smile
which would have thawed the moroseness of the most churlish misanthrope
who ever reversed the precepts of Christianity by hating his neighbour,
“but I must either say all I think or be wholly silent. Besides, it is
no kindness to hide the truth from you.”
“What would you have me do?” returned Lewis sadly. “Believe me, I
reproach myself for my past folly more bitterly than you could do were
you my worst enemy, instead of the gentle, zealous friend you are.”
“I would not have you at present do anything, more especially anything
rash,” returned Laura, “but simply leave the matter in my hands.”
“Promise me----” began Lewis.
“I promise you I will do nothing which can in the smallest degree
compromise your honour, or even your pride,” returned Laura, with the
slightest possible degree of sarcasm in her tone; “beyond this I will
promise you nothing, and if you have not sufficient faith to trust my
friendship thus far, you are less worthy of it than I have deemed you.”
Lewis glanced with mingled surprise and admiration at the animated
features of his spirited confidante. Accustomed to Rose’s calm,
persuasive reasoning, and the half-earnest, half-playful, but wholly
bewitching manners of sweet Annie Grant, Laura’s keen wit and fearless
bearing surprised and pleased, while at the same time they insensibly
influenced him. “I _will_ trust you,” he said; “you have the strong
sense and bold energy of a man’s mind united with all the gentleness and
refinement which are woman’s especial attributes. I will and do trust
you fully. But alas! dear friend,” he continued sorrowfully, “neither
you nor any one else can remove the cause of my unhappiness. I will not
attempt to deceive you or myself; despite my best endeavours to forget
her I cannot, and I am miserable. I, who deemed myself so strong, am
powerless to cast this affection from me; and though I despise her
for her weak fickleness, though I scorn her for allowing herself to be
contracted to that man of whom I never can bear to think as the brother
of your kind-hearted, liberal-minded husband, I yet love her with the
reasonless passion of an idiot.”
“You take too gloomy a view of the affair. She may not be so much to
blame as you imagine; she may yet prove worthy of your affection,” urged
Laura.
“Would to Heaven it could be so!” exclaimed Lewis vehemently. “You
bid me consider the matter calmly and sensibly,” he continued, after
a pause; “by doing so I perceive the hopes with which you would fain
inspire me to be unreasonable and delusive. Facts speak for themselves,
and as they remain unalterable, so must my grief. Either she does not
return my affection, and is attached to her intended bridegroom, or,
loving me, she has with the most culpable weakness allowed herself to
be persuaded into an engagement with a man every way unworthy of her, to
whom she is, to say the least, indifferent; and this, not in consequence
of a lengthened persecution, but within twenty-four hours after I have
left her, fondly deeming that had fate allowed me to ask her hand she
would not have refused it.”
“It is very strange, very unaccountable,” returned Laura, musing, “so
much so, indeed, that I feel sure we do not yet know the whole
truth, and that there must be some way of explaining her conduct
satisfactorily.”
Lewis shook his head mournfully.
“Farewell,” he said; “you will soon be able to judge for yourself, and
will find that the view I take of the affair, gloomy as it may appear,
is indeed the only true one.”
“You will dine with us to-day? Charles particularly wishes it; you must
not refuse. Remember, it will be the last time for some weeks that I may
have an opportunity of seeing you!” pleaded Laura.
“I do not know why I consent, except that it seems impossible to say
no to you,” returned Lewis, unable to resist the influence of Laura’s
sympathetic kindness. “You will find me but a dull companion,” he
continued with a deep sigh, “for your intelligence has completely
unmanned me.”
“We will take the chance of that,” replied Laura with an incredulous
smile; and so, shaking hands, they parted.
The dinner passed off heavily enough. Lewis, despite his efforts to the
contrary, appeared out of spirits and _distrait_. Charles, having been
cautioned and tutored to the utmost extent of female foresight as to
what he was to say and what to avoid, grew nervous and puzzle-pated;
called Laura, Annie, and asked Lewis why he did not send for Miss Grant
(meaning his, Lewis’s, sister Rose) to live with him and keep his house;
by which blunders he provoked his wife to such a degree that she could
have found in her heart to box his ears for him, without the smallest
compunction. The arrival of “Tarley” and the dessert produced a marked
improvement, that young gentleman being in the highest possible state of
health and spirits, and influenced by a strong determination to partake
of everything on the table, wine included, to ignore all established
precedents as to eating jam by the intervention of a spoon, to consider
walnuts appropriate missiles to throw at the company generally, and
the cut-glass decanters in particular, to set maternal authority at
defiance, as evinced by a resolution to pull off his left shoe and imbed
it in orange marmalade, and in fact to do everything which appeared good
in his eyes and naughty in those of his elders, and then and there to
make a night of it. These little antics, at first amusing, and secretly
patronised and fostered by Charles and Lewis, soon becoming tiresome,
and at length unbearable, Laura asserted her prerogative, and
disregarding much kicking and a hysterical affection, which was neither
laughing nor crying, but a compound of the two, succeeded in carrying
away her unruly offspring. When the gentlemen were left to themselves,
Leicester, filling his glass and handing the bottle to Lewis, began--
“Do you mix much with the young men of the place, so as to judge of
their political bias at all?”
“I am acquainted with some dozen, or more, young artists, though I do
not enter much into their pursuits, from want of inclination; although,
at first, they pressed me to belong to their clubs. I should say,
however, judging from their conversation, that democratic principles
were rife among them.”
“I fear so; indeed, from information we have received, I should not
be surprised if some attempt were likely to be made to throw off the
Austrian yoke.”
“Surely that would be great folly,” returned Lewis; “with the troops and
resources the Governor, Count Palffy, has at his command, any popular
tumult might easily be quelled. It is only from cowardice or inaction
on the part of the authorities that any of these successes in Northern
Italy have been achieved.”
“Ay, but inaction is just what I fear,” rejoined Leicester; “the
Austrians will not believe in the amount of popular disaffection which
exists; they will go on ignoring the danger till the moment at which it
could be most successfully combated has escaped them. Not that I care
very much about the matter; I am neither Trojan nor Tyrian; but I am
anxious to gain some certainty as to the chance of a popular outbreak,
that I may take measures to provide for the safety of Laura and the
child: besides, I think you are aware we have some guests coming to us;
had I known this sooner I should have written to them to postpone their
visit till some more favourable opportunity.”
“I will investigate the matter,” returned Lewis eagerly, “and will
communicate to you any information I may obtain; women should never be
exposed to the chance of witnessing the horrors of street warfare.”
After conversing on this topic for some minutes longer, the gentlemen,
being neither of them addicted to the practice of wine-bibbing, followed
Laura to the drawing-room. Lewis appeared silent and depressed, and
a gloom hung over the little party which no effort on the part of the
hostess could dispel.
Soon after ten o’clock their guest rose to take leave.
“I shall send Charles to you very often; and if possible, without
attracting attention, I shall occasionally come with him,” observed
Laura; “so mind you are not to freeze up again into a marble
misanthrope: I consider I have improved you vastly since you have been
under my tuition, and I by no means desire to have laboured in vain.”
“You have shown me kindness which I may never be able to repay,”
answered Lewis; “but to prove that I neither forget nor feel ungrateful
for it, I will struggle against the faults you so justly reprobate: if
I sometimes fail, you must remember that it is difficult to preserve a
cheerful, easy manner with an aching heart, and so pardon me.”
Having taken a cordial leave of his host and hostess, and refused
Charles’s offer of walking home with him, partly because he knew it
would be an act of self-denial in his friend to relinquish his wife’s
society, partly because he wished to be alone, Lewis quitted the Palazzo
Grassini and strolled on in the direction of his own abode. As he
passed under the Piazza of St. Mark, a particularly beautiful effect of
moonlight on the opposite buildings struck him, and leaning against one
of the columns, he paused to observe it. The place where he was standing
was in deep shadow, and to any one approaching from the left his
figure was invisible, the massive column effectually hiding it. Having
thoroughly fixed in his recollection the appearance which had attracted
him, and which he proposed to transfer to canvas, he was about to quit
the Piazza when a figure wrapped in a dark mantle advanced with a quick
yet stealthy tread.
As the new-comer approached the spot where Lewis was stationed a low
whistle pierced the air, and immediately a second figure, also disguised
in a dark robe, appeared from behind a pillar which had hitherto
concealed him, and addressing the other, observed--
“You are late; I have waited for you.”
“The delay was unavoidable, Signor,” was the reply; “I was forced to
wait myself for Paulo, as until I had seen him I could not bring you the
password.”
“And what is it?” inquired the first speaker eagerly. The other glanced
round with a suspicious air as he replied, “I Martiri di Cosenza.” *
* The brothers Bandiera, two youths of high Patrician Venetian descent,
were denounced to the Austrian government, and shot as conspirators at
Cosenza, June 25th, 1844.
“Good!” was the rejoinder; “and the place of meeting?”
“The great Hall of the Palazzo--iani,” naming one of the many ruined
palaces which are to be found in Venice.
“Wisely chosen,” observed the first speaker, who appeared of a rank
superior to that of his companion; “the time of meeting must be at
hand?”
“If Vossignoria proceeds thither leisurely, the hour will strike as you
reach the appointed rendezvous.”
“’Tis well,” was the reply. “Now leave me; we must not be seen
together.”
The person addressed raised his cap as a token of respect, and turning,
hurried from the spot--his confederate paused a moment as if in
deliberation, and then strolled leisurely away in the direction of the
Palazzo--iani. Lewis waited till the echoes of his retreating footsteps
died away in the distance, then starting in the direction of his own
dwelling, he walked with rapid strides till he reached the corner of
one of the less-frequented streets; having done so, he struck down it,
running at a pace which few could have kept up with till he approached
his own house, when he again moderated his speed. Letting himself in
with a private key, he entered his sitting-room, took a brace of small
pistols from a drawer, loaded them carefully, and concealing them in a
breast-pocket, flung a dark cloak over his shoulders and again quitted
the room. His determination was taken. Accident having put him in
possession of the time and place of some secret meeting, as well as the
pass-word which he doubted not would ensure his admission, his love of
adventure occasioned him instantly to resolve to be present at it. The
assembly was doubtless of a political nature, and besides gratifying his
taste for excitement, he might obtain some information in regard to
the probability of a popular insurrection, and thus satisfy Leicester’s
anxiety for the safety of his wife and child--in which (though Lewis
would not own the motive even to himself) might be involved that of
Annie Grant. That the expedition he projected was a dangerous one he was
well aware, but he trusted to chance and to his own tact and presence
of mind to save him from discovery, and in case of these failing him, he
possessed the pistols as a last resource. Twenty minutes’ brisk walking
brought him beneath the walls of the Palazzo.
Pausing under the shadow of the building, he waited till he had seen
two or three persons, carefully muffled up, proceeding in a particular
direction. Conjecturing from their appearance and evident desire to
escape observation that they were bound on the same errand as himself,
he followed with a quick but noiseless step the next man who passed.
This person walked on rapidly till he reached a small archway; here
he stopped and looked round, as if to assure himself that he was not
followed, when, perceiving Lewis, he seemed embarrassed, and after a
moment’s deliberation, during which he scrutinised the young artist’s
figure narrowly, he stationed himself in the centre of the path, as if
to intercept Lewis’s further progress. As he approached the stranger
advanced a step to meet him, observing in Italian--
“The Signor walks late, and chooses a strange path; may I venture to
inquire his object in so doing?”
“The same as your own,” returned Lewis sternly; adding in a tone of
command, “We are too late already, lead the way.”
The person thus addressed, in whom, from a slight peculiarity in his
accent, Lewis recognised him who had appeared the inferior of the two
speakers whose conversation he had overheard in the Piazza of St. Mark,
seemed for a moment undecided how to act; and then, either deceived by
Lewis’s manner, or purposing to postpone any further investigation till
he should obtain the assistance of the other conspirators, he passed
through the archway, and turning abruptly to the right hand, ran up
a flight of stone steps terminated by a low door closely studded with
large iron nail heads. Giving a low whistle, some one from within
partially opened the door and the stranger entered, followed by Lewis.
The moment he had done so, the door was shut and bolted behind him, and
he found himself in total darkness; at the same instant he felt his arms
pinioned by a powerful grasp, while a gruff voice exclaimed--
“Give the pass-word!”
“_I Martiri di Cosenza_,” replied Lewis firmly.
“Proceed,” was the rejoinder, as the grasp was removed from his arms,
and the light of a dark lantern was thrown along the narrow stone
passage in which Lewis now found himself. Having traversed this, a
second door opened at his approach, a rush of cold air streamed upon
him, and he found himself in a large dimly-lighted chamber, in which
were assembled somewhere about thirty persons, who were gathered round
a long table, at the upper end of which stood a man, who, with his arm
extended, and his whole bearing indicative of strong excitement, was
addressing the meeting. Drawing the collar of his cloak more over his
face, and choosing a spot where the shadow of one of the heavy columns
which supported the roof served in some measure to conceal him, Lewis
joined the group. As he did so, the speaker, glancing with flashing eyes
round the assembly, exclaimed--
“We are resolved, then--the cup is full to overflowing--we will bow no
longer beneath the yoke of foreign tyrants. Our brethren in Milan have
set us a glorious example--the accursed Austrian already trembles before
their valour. Italy has shaken off her lethargy;--we have only to be
true to ourselves and to the glorious cause, and liberty awaits our
efforts.”
A subdued murmur of consent and approbation ran through the assembly,
and the speaker continued--
“Thus agreed, then, it only remains for us to _act_, and our first duty
is to succour those who have suffered for our sakes. Those heroes, those
martyrs to the cause of the Venetian people, Daniel Manin and Niccolo
Tommaseo, languish in an unjust imprisonment; we will demand their
liberation, and that with a voice that shall force the tyrants to
listen--the voice of an awakened and indignant nation.”
As the speaker ceased, amidst a subdued buzz of approbation, a man in
the dress of an artisan arose, and rolling his fierce blood-shot eyes
around the assembly, exclaimed--
“Yes, brothers, we will liberate our brave compatriots--Manin and
Tommaseo shall be set free to aid in the struggle for our liberty; but
we must do more, Venice must rise and cast out those foreign butchers. A
blow must be dealt which shall strike terror into their coward hearts; a
blow which shall prove to them the fate they may expect, if they dare to
oppress and withstand a people struggling for their freedom. And on
whom can it so justly fall as on the arch-tyrant, sold hand and soul
to Austria, thirsting only for vengeance and for murder--the base
persecutor Marinovich?”
He paused; there was a moment’s silence, and then a low whisper went
round the assembly, “Death to Marinovich!” There was again a pause, and
then men began to communicate with one another in deep muttered tones.
After a short interval the first speaker, who had been writing rapidly,
arose, and again addressing them, said--
“We are, then, agreed; and our first act shall be the liberation
of Manin and Tommaseo. It is time that we disperse as silently and
cautiously as may be; we must creep now that we may soar hereafter.”
In order not to interrupt the thread of our narrative, we have described
the proceedings as they occurred--we must now revert to Lewis. During
the delivery of the first speech he observed that the man who had
addressed him as he entered, and who appeared a tall, muscular young
fellow, had contrived to place himself by his side, and was regarding
him from time to time with looks of mistrust and suspicion. At the
proposal for the assassination of Colonel Marinovich, the commandant at
the Arsenal, a man who, though a strict disciplinarian, Lewis knew by
report to be a brave and gallant officer, he had been unable to repress
some slight sign of disapprobation. As he did so he perceived a scowl
pass across the features of his watcher, who took the opportunity of
drawing yet nearer to him, while an accidental movement revealed the
unpleasant fact that he held in his hand a naked stiletto. As the
president ended his final address, Lewis, who had kept his eye fixed
on the features of his dangerous neighbour, felt convinced that the man
only awaited the termination of the business proceedings to denounce
him to his fellow-conspirators. With his usual coolness and decision
in moments of danger, Lewis saw that his only chance of safety lay in
taking the initiative; accordingly, catching the man’s eye, he fixed on
him a piercing glance, as he said in a stern whisper--
“The first word you utter aloud you are a dead man;” at the same moment
he presented the muzzle of a pistol within an inch of his ear. The man
started slightly and attempted to increase the distance between them,
but Lewis laid an iron grasp on his collar and detained him; having
stood for a moment irresolute, he said, in the same low whisper in which
Lewis had addressed him--
“You are an Austrian spy.”
“I am not,” returned Lewis; “I am an Englishman.”
The other again started, regarded him fixedly, and then resumed--
“Swear by all you hold sacred never to reveal that which you have
learned to-night.”
“I will swear nothing, except to blow out your brains if you attempt
to speak or move without my permission,” was the stern, uncompromising
rejoinder.
The stranger’s lip quivered and his grasp tightened on the stiletto, but
he caught the glance of Lewis’s flashing eyes and felt that he was in
earnest, and that his life hung upon a thread. The members of the secret
association were by this time noiselessly gliding away in parties of two
and three, and Lewis, fearing if he remained too long he might attract
the attention of the president, who still continued writing at the
table, determined to depart; accordingly, he said in a low whisper--
“Now we will go--precede me; but if I observe you attempt, by word or
sign, to betray me, that moment I shoot you like a dog.”
The stranger, who seemed by this time sullenly to have resigned himself
to his fate, or possibly to be reserving his strength for the execution
of some scheme which he had devised for the future, obeyed in silence,
and left the vault closely followed by Lewis, who still retained a firm
grasp of his collar, although the ample folds of his cloak prevented the
fact from being observed. In this manner they reached the door at
the top of the stairs, and here were stationed two brawny-limbed,
ruffianly-looking fellows, who acted in the double capacity of porter
and sentry. Their attention, however, appeared solely directed to
prevent the intrusion of any unwelcome visitant, the advisability of
refusing egress to any one who had already passed their scrutiny never
seeming to occur to them. This Lewis felt to be the deciding moment
of his fate; once outside the gate he would be in comparative safety.
Pressing the muzzle of the pistol against the back of his companion’s
neck by way of a gentle hint, he muttered, “Remember!”
The young man shuddered slightly as the cold iron touched him, but made
no reply. As they reached the gateway, the janitor stationed on the left
side, addressing Lewis’s companion, made some inquiry in a low voice.
Glancing round appealingly, as if to indicate that he was forced, even
for their common safety, to reply, he spoke a few words in a dialect
Lewis did not comprehend, when the gate-keeper respectfully held the
wicket open and they passed out. And now once again Lewis felt that he
was a free man, and he inwardly congratulated himself on having escaped
so great peril, which congratulations were, as the event proved,
somewhat premature.
Having descended the steps, Lewis loosened his hold on the stranger’s
collar, saying carelessly, as he replaced his pistol in his breast--
“There, young gentleman; thanks to your prudence and my precaution of
bringing a brace of pistols with me, I have drawn my head out of the
lion’s mouth without having it bitten off for my pains. But now I want
to have a little serious conversation with you.”
“Wait till we are further from the Palazzo--iani, then,” was the reply,
in a voice that yet trembled from excitement or some other deep emotion;
“we may be overheard; keep more in the shade of the buildings.”
Suspecting no treachery, Lewis complied. Scarcely had he done so,
however, when he fancied he heard a stealthy footstep following him, and
turning abruptly, found himself face to face with a tall, savage-looking
ruffian, who, armed with a naked stiletto, was evidently meditating
mischief. Confused by his sudden motion, the fellow stood for a moment
irresolute; not so his intended victim. The path along which he had been
proceeding followed the course of one of the smaller _rii_ or canals by
which Venice is in so many directions intersected. Availing himself of
this circumstance, Lewis rolled his cloak round his arm and sprang upon
his assailant, parrying, with the shield thus constituted, a hasty and
ineffectual stab which the other made at him. Foiled in his attempt,
the ruffian drew back to avoid Lewis’s onset, thereby approaching
incautiously too near the bank of the canal. His antagonist was not
slow to perceive the opportunity thus afforded him. Following up his
retreating foe so as to prevent him from turning to perceive his danger,
he waited till the man reached the brink of the canal, then stretching
out his foot, he tripped him up, and parrying a second stab as he had
done the former one, pushed him over the bank, which at that part was
somewhat steep. A heavy fall and a loud splash in the water announced
that his stratagem had succeeded, but at the same moment he felt his
throat compressed by a powerful grasp, a naked stiletto flashed before
him, and the eyes of the young conspirator, burning with hatred and
revenge, glared at him through the darkness with the ferocity of
those of some savage animal. Up to this point Lewis’s courage and
self-possession had never for a moment failed him, but now a strange,
wild idea occurred to him, and a horrible dread suddenly overwhelmed
him: his senses reeled, his limbs trembled, and for the first time
in his life he experienced the mental agony of fear. Instinctively he
seized the uplifted wrist of his assailant, and gazed with starting
eye-balls at his face, on which the cold moonlight streamed. Yes! there
could be no doubt: in the features of the being with whom he was engaged
in deadly conflict he recognised a dark, shadowy, but most unmistakable
resemblance to Hardy the poacher. Was it incipient madness, or was
he thus horribly to be convinced of the reality of tales which he had
hitherto deemed the mere drivellings of superstition?--could the dead
indeed rise from their graves to seek vengeance on their slayers?
As these thoughts flashed meteor-like through his brain, his antagonist
made a violent but ineffectual effort to free his wrist, and this action
in great measure restored Lewis’s self-possession. Ghosts had not thews
and sinews, and even in that moment of peril a flush of shame at his
childish terror spread over his brow, and the impulse seemed to rend
redoubled vigour to his frame. Consequently the struggle, though
severe, was short. Superior in strength to his assailant, Lewis, having
succeeded in wresting the dagger from his grasp, hurled it into the
canal, leaving him completely unarmed and at his mercy. The stranger was
the first to speak. Folding his arms across his breast with an air of
dogged resolution, he said, speaking for the first time in English, and
without the slightest foreign accent--
“You were wrong to throw away that weapon; it would have done your work
as effectually and more silently than the pistol.”
“You consider your life as forfeit, then?” inquired Lewis.
“I expect you to do by me as I would have done by you,” was the concise
reply.
“I am no assassin,” returned Lewis coldly; “and that reminds me of
your worthy associate. You engaged my attention, so that I am ignorant
whether he sank or swam.”
“Never fear for honest Jacopo,” was the answer; “he follows the calling
of a gondolier when his stiletto is not in requisition, and can swim
like a fish. Look yonder; he has gained the shore, and is even now
watching us.”
As he spoke, Lewis observed a tall figure crouching under a projecting
portion of the bank of the canal.
“He will not molest you further,” continued his late antagonist; “once
foiled in his spring, like the tiger, he will not renew the attack. Had
he slain you I should have paid him five _zwanzigers_; as it is, the
poor fellow will only get his ducking for his pains.”
“Why did he follow us?” asked Lewis.
“When you entered I gave him a hint not to let you pass on your return;
had he attempted to stop you, however, I believed you would shoot me,
therefore, thinking I could obtain your death or capture without
losing my own life, I gave him a glance by which he knew he was not to
interrupt you. He then asked me in the thieves’ patois of this place
what he was to do, and I told him to _follow_ us, as you were a spy. You
know the rest.”
Lewis paused for a moment, and then said abruptly, “You are an
Englishman?”
“I am.”
“You will accompany me to my rooms,” rejoined Lewis; “I would question
you further.”
“For what purpose?”
“That you will learn at the fitting time,” returned Lewis.
“What if I refuse?”
“I will summon the police, and if you attempt to escape, I will shoot
you through the head,” was the stern rejoinder.
“I will go with you,” replied the stranger; “but I warn you I will not
be arrested: my liberty is dear to me, my life I hold cheap--so cheap
that even now, unarmed as I am, and unequal to you in muscular
strength, I am tempted again to rush on you and try the chances of a
death-struggle.”
“I would advise you not to do so,” returned Lewis calmly; “besides,” he
added, “I may be more disposed to befriend you than you are aware of--it
is with no hostile purpose I thus force you to accompany me, believe
me.”
“I will trust you,” was the reply. “Your looks and words have, I know
not why, a strange power over me--you must possess the gift of the
_Malocchio_, which these Italians believe in--it was your glance, far
more than your pistol, which kept me silent in the chamber of meeting.”
During almost the whole of this conversation they had been walking
side by side in the direction of the street in which Lewis’s studio was
situated, and in another five minutes they reached it.
“Have I your word of honour that you will not again attempt my life, or
seek to escape till our interview is concluded?” asked Lewis.
“You have,” was the concise reply.
“Follow me, then,” continued Lewis; and drawing a key from his pocket,
he unfastened the door, entered, closed it again, and accompanied by the
stranger, led the way through the painting-room into his study.