Katie must have slept, for towards morning she dreams she is out on the
Short Reefs, and sees the _Daring_ go down with her husband, father,
and all her household on board. They glare at her with accusing eyes,
and call her 'Fiend, murderess!' So it is a relief to start up and
find it was all a dream. In the dim gray light she sees a figure all
in white by her bedside, and is ready to shriek with fright, till she
discovers it is only her mother in her white dressing-gown, with a
lamb's-wool shawl over her shoulders. Mrs Grey has been watching, in
and out of the room nearly all night, and now she bends over and kisses
her daughter. 'I have good news for you, Katie.'
'O mother, what is it? Has Sir Herbert come back?'
'Not yet, dear. The news is, that the poor sailors supposed to have
been lost in the _Daring's_ cutter are not drowned after all. An
outward-bound vessel picked them up and took them on to Havre. They
returned here safe and well this morning, so there has not been a
single life lost.'
'Thank God for that!' exclaims Katie reverently, with clasped hands;
and never was ejaculation more heartfelt.
'Yes, He is very merciful; we must trust Him more, Katie.'
'Mother, I have even doubted His mercy sometimes! In my misery, I
thought even _He_ had turned against me; but those wretched feelings
are past now, and if Herbert would come back, even happiness might
return to us again.'
There are many letters in the mail-bag that morning, but Lady Dillworth
lays them all aside--only one interests her, and that bears the Hayes
Hill post-mark. 'This is from Laura Best; perhaps there is news of
Herbert in it.' Katie opens the envelope with trembling hands, glances
at the contents, and exclaims: 'Herbert is ill--lying ill at Laura's,
and she has written to summon me down there.'
The particulars are soon made known. The Admiral went to Hayes Hill on
his return journey from London, and as soon as he arrived there, was
stricken down with sudden illness. He had shewn no sign of recovery up
to the present, and Laura's letter was most urgent.
'I must go to Herbert at once. Oh, why did he go _there_ in his time of
sickness and danger? When he felt the attack coming on, why didn't he
come back to me?'
'Ah, why indeed?' echoes Mr Grey gravely, as he folds up his papers and
locks his desk.
Soon all is bustle and preparation. Mr Grey hurries everybody half out
of their wits in his anxiety to be in time for the next train to Hayes
Hill. He has decided on going down there with Katie, and says he will
not leave her till he sees her once more under the same roof with her
husband. Lady Dillworth's boxes are sent to the station direct from
Government House; and she and her father are soon speeding on their way
as rapidly as the swift locomotive can take them. It is a cold misty
day, and Katie glances out on the dreary country with a listless eye
and a heart as dreary as the scene. She fears that after all she may
be too late to see her husband alive; and even if he is living, she
wonders whether he will forgive her, or again turn from her with that
sorrowful look of reproach.
At last they reach their destination, and are soon driving up the
lane to Hayes Hill in Laura's brougham. Though the twilight is fast
gathering, Katie sees the house is a long low one, built of red brick,
and in bungalow fashion. Robert Best had it erected in that form as a
souvenir of his early days in India. With a show of eastern exterior,
it yet contains every possible comfort and luxury our colder climate
needs. It is a residence that bears more sign of convenience than style.
The entrance-hall is large, and brightly lighted up, and Katie feels
dizzy as her father leads her in from the cold outer air. A silence as
of death reigns in the house--even the slim youth who opens the door
speaks in a subdued whisper. Perhaps it is all over!
'O Herbert, my darling!' repeats Katie to herself, and her heart gives
a wild throb, and then seems to grow still and cold. She cannot frame
the question she longs to ask; but Mr Grey inquires at once.
'How is the Admiral now?'
'Much the same, sir. Two doctors are with him at present.'
The page throws open the door of a room on one side of the hall.
Laura's sitting-room evidently, for her work is lying on the table,
also her desk, on which is a half-written letter. Presently, a light
step is heard, and Mrs Best comes running in with outstretched hands.
There is no question of jealousy or restraint now. Laura clasps her
father's wife in her arms and kisses her tenderly.
'Oh, I am glad you are come! I feared you would be too late.'
'Is he dying? Is my husband--dying?' Katie inquires with a sob.
'He is very ill. But you must be calm, and help me to nurse him. He has
been repeating your name so often!'
'Has he really asked for me? Oh, I am so thankful!'
'Perhaps not _asking_ exactly, for his mind is unsettled. At one time
he mentions your name with the tenderest epithets; at another he talks
of you in a strange wild way, very painful to hear.'
'I wonder whether he will know me?'
'We will see when the doctors have finished their consultation.'
Ere long, poor Katie, leaning on Laura's arm, enters Sir Herbert's
room, and there she once more sees her husband's face.
What a change one short week has made! There is nothing but a flushed
fevered countenance, restless wandering eyes, parched lips, and
throbbing brow, for her to gaze on. She might have been the veriest
stranger for all the recognition she gets.
Laura whispers softly: 'Don't be startled, dear. He is not conscious
now; but when he wakes up to reason again, he will be _so_ glad to have
you near him.'
But many days pass before that. It is a case of long nursing, of long
nights of watching, and weary hours of doubt and anxiety. Through it
all, Mrs Best is so earnest, so tender-hearted, so unselfish, that Lady
Dillworth finds herself wondering over and over again how she ever
could have disliked her so much in the old days gone by. All her petty
airs, her studied affectations have vanished: she looks a pale anxious
woman, with traces of watching and weariness in her face. Her dress is
studiously plain--a deep gray in colour, and of some soft noiseless
material, whose folds do not rustle or creak as she moves about the
sick-room. Her voice is low and gentle, her words wise and hopeful,
and the poor heart-broken wife clings to her for help and sympathy--and
not in vain. Days pass on. Mr Grey returns home to wind up his affairs,
for his secretaryship expires with the Admiral's resignation; but he
promises to return to Hayes Hill again, on the shortest notice, if
needed. Wife and daughter take turns of watching beside Sir Herbert,
sharing each other's anxieties and hopes.
The best hours of Katie's life now are those she spends by the
Admiral's side in that still room. She seats herself in the arm-chair,
places the lamp so that its rays may fall faintly on her husband's
face, and then watches the familiar features, the high forehead, and
wonders whether those lips will ever again talk to her of love and
speak forgiveness. She would fain fling herself on his breast and press
her lips on his, fevered as they are; but she dares not till he himself
shall have called her to him again. And so she sits there musing,
hoping, praying. Come what will, Lady Dillworth will never again be
the vain, selfish, frivolous, thoughtless woman she once was. Laura's
society is working her good; there is a softness and sweetness in her
manner never before visible.
One bright afternoon in spring, Lady Dillworth has taken up her
position by the bedside. She can watch the invalid, and with a turn
of her head can glance at Laura and her boys, who are in the grounds
outside the window. The scene out there is calm and pleasant. A sloping
lawn extends almost down to the river, on which some water-fowl are
lazily floating. Beyond the river rises a grove of trees, now fast
unfolding their tender green buds and drooping tassels. Laura's
boys are bright, golden-haired, blue-eyed little fellows, lively as
butterflies, and just as restless. They flit in and out the shrubbery,
gathering violets for Lady Dillworth. Presently they bring her a bunch,
and she stands at the bedside with them in her hand. But what is
this that arrests her? A change has come over her husband's face, so
remarkable that she holds her breath with sudden awe. Is it the portent
of death?--the settling of the features into the calm repose that
proclaims life's warfare over?
The haggard anxious expression has quite vanished; he seems to sleep
quietly as a child. A soft glow steals over his cheeks, then his eyes
open, and he looks up with that smile she knows so well.
'Katie, my wife! are you here? I have had a frightful dream.'
'The dream is over now, Herbert.'
'Then it is not true that you are weary of me and longing for freedom?'
'No, Herbert. I have not grown weary. Never were you as precious as you
are now! Darling! darling! say you forgive me, and love me still.' Her
eyes are full of tears, and she sinks down beside him.
'What was it about Walter Reeves? He has been troubling my thoughts and
driving me mad,' Sir Herbert repeats musingly.
'Walter Reeves is not in England now; he is gone to Italy with his
wife. Liddy Delmere and he were married a fortnight ago.'
'Come nearer, my pet; come nearer me, Katie, my wife! Let me feel your
kiss on my lips once more. Oh, I have been nearly heart-broken, nearly
dead; but hope is returning. The strong arm of Mercy has brought me
back to life again; and I feel as if there is happiness in store for us
still.'
Laura Best comes in ere long, and finds Katie still kneeling beside
the bed, her hands clasped in her husband's, and the light of fond
affection glowing from her eyes as she looks tenderly into his. The bed
is bestrewn with early violets, for Katie has flung down her flowers
in her agitation, and the perfume is filling the room like a soft
breath from the garden. Laura is not one whit calmer than Katie; she
kisses her father, and weeps tears of joy, and feels he is given back
to them from the very grasp of death. Marvellous to relate, all this
flutter and excitement does not injure Sir Herbert or throw him back.
Life has returned to him in too full strength for that. The delight of
reunion, the joy of returned confidence in Katie, is like a draught of
some invigorating potion to his heart, and from that hour he speedily
recovers. All his doubts and distrust are over; all Katie's frivolity
and worldliness have fled. They begin a new and more complete life
together. True, the rest of the Admiral's days are doomed to be spent
in retirement; as years pass by, he sees younger men stepping into the
post he should have occupied, and gaining honours he once hoped to win.
True, he misses the full deep draught of power, the very taste of which
had been sweet to him. Katie too has lost the brilliant colouring
that once lit up her path; but neither of them repines at the change.
Though Admiral Sir Herbert Dillworth's flag no longer flutters at the
mast-head, and though his wife no longer leads the fashions, they are
happy, with a higher, purer happiness than they ever knew in the days
they spent at Government House.
THE END.
THE MAFIA AND CAMORRA.
These are two Italian words of evil import. They signify confederacies
of villains of all ranks in society who live by exacting black-mail
on traders. Our occasional observations on the proceedings of these
illegal associations, as also on the system of brigandage in Sicily,
have been somewhat trying to certain Italian journalists. They do not
absolutely deny the existence of these social disorders, but speak
of them as insignificant, and are shocked that they should be made a
matter of comment among strangers. We are willing to believe that our
remarks, like those of others, drawn from authoritative reports, have
done some good, and certainly no harm. The comments of the English
press may have a salutary effect in curing evils which the native press
of Italy fears almost to touch upon. Vast numbers of English travel in
Italy--some of them residing for a season on the score of health--and
all stand in need of protection from petty extortions and robbery. If
the Italian government be unable to give the degree of security which
is claimed by peaceable foreigners, it is at least desirable that
the English who venture abroad should be made aware of the vexatious
exactions and impediments which probably await them. In our last notice
on this subject, we stated pretty plainly that the ordinary course of
justice in Italy, and more specially in Sicily, was seemingly unable to
quell the disorders here referred to, and that nothing short of prompt
military execution would avail. For what signifies the paltry process
of capturing and imprisoning a few disturbers of the peace, and then
shortly setting them free, to carry on their robberies and murders as
usual? If the southern provinces of Italy are to cease to be a disgrace
to civilisation, the true remedy must consist in the ready appeal to a
court-martial, speedily followed by execution.
As if at length stung by the remonstrances of English newspaper
writers, the government of Italy have latterly shewn increased vigour
in the attempt to extirpate brigandage in Sicily, with, we are told,
good results; and now they are to all appearance resolved on striking
a blow at the Camorra in Naples. We are made acquainted with the fact
by _The Times_; and should any English journal specially deserve praise
for its denunciations of the scandalous manner in which travellers
in Italy are liable to be annoyed by the misconduct of officials,
it is that paper, which through its correspondents is able to offer
instructive accounts regarding the illegal and hitherto almost
unchecked Italian associations. Its Naples correspondent, under date
September 4, writes as follows; it being only necessary to premise
for inexperienced readers, that while _Camorra_ is the name of the
association, _Camorrista_ signifies a member who participates in its
gains--plural _Camorristi_:
'The resolute attempt which is at last being made to destroy
that organised criminal association known as the Camorra is the
all-absorbing interest of the Southerners. Its long existence and its
vast number of crimes are matters of history. Thriving under despotic
governments, and later still under political complications, it has
recently raised its head again, and has brought down upon it all the
strength of the police. _Razzia_ after _razzia_ has been made on the
body, and during the last sixteen or seventeen years, hundreds, perhaps
thousands, have been seized and sent off to the islands, only to return
and renew their operations; but one day this week a blow was struck
which reflects great credit on the energy and courage of the Quæstor.
The Camorra is a noxious weed which is to be found everywhere and among
all classes of society; but it flourishes especially in the markets,
where its agents tax every article of food, arrange the prices, and
then leave with their pockets full of their ill-gotten profits. On one
of these markets, therefore, an attack was made on Thursday morning.
The ground had been well examined before, and twenty or thirty guards
in plain clothes were sent early to mingle in a crowd of about two
thousand persons, and watch the mode of conducting business. First
comes in a peasant or _cafoni_, as the _Pungolo_, adopting the common
term, calls him. He is laden with the produce of his land--fruit and
vegetables--and the Camorrista presents himself and demands his tax of
deposit. It is paid without dispute, as it has been for time out of
mind. The _cafoni_ of course wishes to sell his goods, but is unable to
do so until the Camorrista settles the price and takes his part, which
is given without dispute. The purchaser, the man who retails his goods
in the streets of Naples, on his over-laden donkey, then comes on the
scene: but he cannot carry off his goods without paying the Camorrista
a few sous for porterage, he himself at last being compelled to be his
own porter. Now this is what happened last Thursday in the market of
St Anna della Paludi. It is what occurs in every market, every street,
every corner of Naples, and what has happened from time immemorial. St
Anna was the spot then fixed on for a determined attack last Thursday.
Besides the guards in plain clothes, the market had been surrounded
early in the morning by police and carabiniers, while a tolerably
strong force of Bersaglieri was in attendance close at hand. On a
sudden every gate and way of exit was closed, and the guards came down
on the astonished people. Flight or resistance was out of the question;
and the end of the matter was that fifty-seven of the most notorious of
the order were netted, bound together by a long rope, and surrounded by
the public force, carried off to the nearest police station. An immense
crowd, consisting of their relatives and associates, had collected; but
no attempt at rescue was made, for things had been admirably arranged,
and the public force was too strong to allow of any such attempt being
made without danger. At the station they were soon committed and sent
off to prison in parties of ten; and a glance was sufficient to shew of
what different conditions they were composed. There was the Picciotto
(the novitiate of the order), without shoes and in his shirt sleeves;
and the full-blown Camorrista dressed as a gentleman, with his fingers
covered with rings, and a gold chain round his neck. After a long
series of crimes the Picciotto may hope to attain the dignity of this
rank, which insures him who holds it ease and comparative wealth. Such
a man seldom appears on the scene; he is one of the directors--one of
the wire-pullers, and many a wire has he pulled which has cost the
life of an opponent. I may instance two cases--that of our unfortunate
countryman, Mr Hind, and lately of the man called Borelli; but the
annals of blood in this province, if examined, would furnish an
incredibly large number of such cases.
'The _razzia_ in the market of St Anna della Paludi was followed on
Saturday by another in the fish-market, with like success. This spot
lies on the Marina, _en route_ to the railway, and the space between
the two places has long been celebrated for the robberies committed
on carriages conveying strangers to and from the railway. Here every
morning are brought in fish from all parts of the bay, consigned to
the contractors, who again supply the retail dealers. A good business,
therefore, is to be done by the Camorrista in this place; and no wonder
is it that it should be thronged with men of that class and thieves.
The same operations are performed which I have already described. The
right to land is paid for; then the price of the fish is settled, and a
certain percentage demanded and paid. Last of all, as in the fruit and
vegetable market, the retail dealer has his accounts to settle. These
claims have never been disputed--they are sanctioned by usage; and
dangerous would it be to resist a secret organisation of ruffians who
stick at nothing to maintain their "rights" and inflict vengeance. On
this market an attack was made on Saturday, and fifty-nine of the worst
characters were netted, there being, as before, a considerable display
of the public force. An attempt was made also to arrest some of these
fellows at the entrance of the Bourse, who drive a trade in defrauding
poor widows and orphans and getting possession of the certificates of
their pensions. Three only were taken, as others who had got scent of
the pursuit made themselves scarce.
'An Italian friend suggests that the only sure mode of doing away with
the Camorra would be to sink Naples under the sea for half an hour,
which would be about as practicable as the proposition to drive the
Turks out of Europe. If it cannot be destroyed, it may, however, be
checked by such _razzias_ as we have had of late; but they must be
repeated continually. Only two days after the scene of Thursday, some
Camorristi presented themselves in the fruit-market and made the usual
demand, which was resisted, and the fellows were arrested. The wives
too of those who were seized by the police made their appearance,
alleging that they were commissioned by their husbands to receive their
dues. They too were arrested. From this it is evident that so long
as one filament remains, the disease will spread, and that it is the
constant application of the knife alone which will eradicate it. It is
of good augury, however, that something like resistance was shewn to
the demands of the "order." As in Sicily, in the case of brigandage,
the consciousness of support and protection from the authorities
inspired courage; and it is on the union of these two elements that
we must depend for the effectual destruction of this enormous evil.
But it will not suffice to lay hold only of the smaller fry; there are
men, I am assured, who drive about in their carriages, enriched by the
Camorra, and many we meet with no ostensible means of existence, decked
out, as I have described, with gold chains and rings.'
Splendidly dressed fellows 'with gold chains and rings!' Such are the
_élite_ of a gang which for generations has dishonestly preyed on every
department of trade in Naples--unauthorisedly exacting a percentage
on every transaction under threat of the most dreadful penalties.
One is glad to hear of the foregoing razzias on the confederacy; but
from what we know of administrative justice in Italy, as well as of
the utter rottenness of society and universal disposition to baffle
the operations of the magistracy, the chances are that the captured
Camorristi will soon be at large and at their old tricks. The civil law
as it stands is incapable of dealing with this species of ingrained
villainy. We have hinted at military repression by regular troops as
the right course to pursue.
W. C.
NEARLY WRECKED.
IN FIVE CHAPTERS.