After the first few moments of astonishment which followed Gerald’s
awaking to see himself in a strange place, with strange and novel
objects around him, his first thought was to return to Orvieto. He
pictured to himself all the alarm his absence must have occasioned,
and imagined how each in turn would have treated the event. The angry
astonishment of the Cardinal, ready to adopt any solution of the mystery
that implied intrigue and plot: the haughty indignation of the Contessa,
that he had dared to take any step unauthorised by herself: the hundred
rumours in the household: the questionings as to who had saddled and
prepared his horse, what road he had taken, and so on.
There are natures--there are even families--in which a strong
predominating trait exists to do or say whatever creates astonishment
or attracts wonder. It is a distinct form of egotism, and was remarkably
conspicuous in the House of Stuart. They all liked much to be objects of
marvel and surprise; to have men lost in wonderment over their words
or their motives, or speculating with ingenuity as to their secret
intentions.
To Gerald himself this taste was a perfect passion, and he loved to
see couriers arriving and departing in hot haste, while groups of eager
loungers questioned and guessed at what it all might mean. He liked to
fancy the important place he thus occupied in men’s thoughts, and would
any day have been willing to encounter an actual danger could he
only have assured himself of it being widely discussed. This dramatic
tendency was strongly marked in the character of Charles Edward;
still the actual events of his life were in themselves sufficiently
adventurous to display it less prominently; but he ever delighted in
these stage effects which strike by situation or a picturesque costume.
Gerald inherited this trait, and experienced intense delight in its
exercise. He fancied his Eminence the Cardinal, balancing between fear
and anger, sending out emissaries on every side, asking counsels here,
rejecting suggestions there, while Guglia, too haughty to confess
astonishment, would be lost in conjecturing what had become of him.
If it should be wondered at that Gerald felt no more tender sentiment
toward the lovely Countess with whom he had been closely domesticated,
and who enjoyed so fully all the confidence of his fortunes, let us own
frankly that it was not his fault; he did his very best to be in love
with her, and for that very reason, perhaps, he failed! Not all the
desire in the world will enable a man to catch a contagious malady, nor
all his precautions suffice to escape it; so is it with love. Gerald saw
in her one who would have adorned the highest station: she was eminently
beautiful, and with a grace that was a fascination; she possessed to
perfection those arts which charm in society, and had that blending of
readiness in repartee with a sort of southern languor that makes a rare
element of captivation; and yet with all this he did not fall in love.
And the reason was this: Guglia had none of those sudden caprices, those
moods of exorbitant hope or dark despondency, those violent alternations
of temperament which suggest quick resolve, or quicker action. She
was calm--too calm; reflective--too reflective--and, as _he_ thought,
infinitely too much occupied in preparing for eventualities either to
enjoy the present or boldly to dare the future.
These traits of hers, too, wounded his self-love; they made him feel
inferior to her; and he smarted under counsels and advice which came
with the authority of dictations. A casual wound to his pride also aided
this impression; it was an accidental word he had once overheard, as
she was walking one evening with the Cardinal in an alley of the garden
adjoining one in which he was standing. They had been discussing his
fortunes and his character; and she remarked, with a certain bitterness
in her tone, as if contradicting some hopeful anticipation of her uncle.
‘_Non, caro zio non, E piu capace de farsi Prête_.’ ‘No, my dear uncle:
more likely is he to turn priest!’ Strange and significant words from
one who held that order in depreciation, and could even dare to avow
this estimate to one of themselves.
These words never left Gerald’s mind; they flashed across him as he
awoke of a morning; they broke upon him as he lay thinking in his bed;
they mingled with his speculations on the future; and, more fatally
still, came to his memory at moments when, seated at his side, she
inspired hopes of a glorious destiny. Again and again did he ask
himself, how was it that esteeming him thus she was willing to join
her fate to his? And the only answer was one still more wounding to his
self-love.
What if she should have totally misconstrued this weak, uncertain
nature? What if she should have misinterpreted this character so full of
indecision? How, if this would-be priest were to turn out one reckless
in daring, and indifferent to all consequences? How, if the next tidings
she were to hear of him were from some far-away country: some scene that
might show how cheaply he held the tinsel decoration of a mock station,
the miserable pretension to a rank he was never to enjoy! ‘At all
events,’ said he, ‘they shall have matter for their speculations,
and shall not see me for some days to come!’ And with this
determination--rather like the resolve of a pettish child than of a
grown man--he sauntered into the mill, where the miller was now busily
engaged.
‘Your master’s despatches have nothing very pressing in them, I see,’
said the miller; I scarcely thought to have met you this morning.’
‘I have ample time at my disposal,’ said Gerald; ‘so that I can reach
St. Stephano some day within the coming week I shall be soon enough;
insomuch that I have half a mind to gratify the curiosity you have
excited in me and make a short ramble through the mountains yonder.’
‘Nay, nay, leave that track to your left hand; follow the road by the
head of Lago Scuro, and don’t run your neck into peril for nothing.’
‘But you told me last night this Pastore was never cruel when it served
no purpose: that he was far readier to help a poor man than to rifle
him. What should I fear then?’
‘That he might look into the palm of your hand and see that it was one
not much used to daily labour. If he but thought you a spy, _per Bacco!_
I ‘d not be in your shoes for all the jewels in the Vatican!’
‘Couldn’t you manage to disguise me as one of your own people, and give
me some sort of a letter for him?’
‘By the way, there is a letter for him these four days back,’ said the
miller suddenly;’ and I have had no opportunity of sending it on.’
‘There, then, is the very thing we want,’ broke in Gerald.
‘Here’s the letter here,’ said the miller, taking the document from the
leaves of a book. ‘It comes from the Ursuline Convent, on the other side
of the Tiber. Strange enough that the Pastore should have correspondence
with the holy ladies of St. Ursula. It was a monk, too, that fetched it
here, and his courage failed him to go any farther. Indeed, I believe
that picture of the Capri pass decided him on turning back.’
‘The greater fool he! He ought to have known that the Pastore was not
likely to requite a good office with cruelty,’ said Gerald.
‘As to that, it would depend on what humour he was in at the moment.’
Then, after a pause, he added, ‘If you like to risk the chance of
finding him in a good temper, you have only to borrow a coat and cap
from one of my boys, and take that letter. You will tell him that it was
I sent you on with it, and he ‘ll ask no further question.’
‘And these hands of mine that you said would betray me,’ said Gerald,
‘what shall I do to disguise them?’
* Some fresh walnuts will soon colour them, and your face too; and
now let me direct you as to the road you ‘ll take.’ And so the miller,
drawing Gerald to the window, began to describe the route, pointing out
various prominent objects as landmarks.
Having acquainted himself, so far as he could, with all the details of
the way, Gerald proceeded to costume himself for the expedition, and so
completely had the dye on his skin and the change of dress metamorphosed
him, that for a second or two the miller did not recognise him.
With a touch of humour that he rarely gave way to, Gerald saluted him
in rustic fashion, while in a strong peasant accent he asked if his
honour had no further commands for him.
The miller laughed good-humouredly, and shook his hand in adieu. ‘I more
than suspect the black mare will be mine,’ muttered he, as he looked
after Gerald till he disappeared in the distance.
For miles and miles Gerald walked on without paying any attention to
the scene around him; the spirit of adventure occupied his mind to the
exclusion of all else, and he not only imagined every possible issue to
the present adventure, but fancied what his sensations might have been
were it his fortune to have been launched upon the great enterprise to
which his hopes so long had tended. ‘Oh, if this were but Scotland or
Ireland,’ thought he; ‘if my foot now only trod the soil that I could
call my own; if I could but realise to myself once, even once, the
glorious sense of being recognised as one of that race that once ruled
there as sovereigns; if I could but taste the intoxication of that
generous devotion that through all his calamities once cheered my
father, I ‘d think the moment had repaid me for all the cares of life!
And now it has all passed away like a dream. As Purcell said, “They want
us no longer!” “We belong to the past, and have no significance in the
present! Strange, sad, mysterious destiny!” There was a humiliation in
that feeling that gave him intense pain; it was the sense of being
cut off from all sympathy, estranged from the wishes, the hopes, the
ambition of his fellow-men. Out of an isolation like _that_ it was that
Gabriel Riquetti had taught him to believe men achieve their greatest
successes. You must first of all feel yourself alone, all alone in life,
ere you can experience that liberty that ensures free action.
This was one of his axioms which he loved to repeat; and whether
suggested by the scene where he had first met that wonderful man, or
merely induced by the course of reflection, many of Mirabeau’s early
teachings and precepts rose to his memory as he journeyed along.
For some time he had been unconsciously ascending a somewhat steep
mountain-path, so deeply imbedded between two lines of thick brushwood
as to intercept all view at either side, when suddenly the way emerged
from the dense copse and took the mountain side, disappearing at a
jutting promontory of rock around which it seemed to pass. As his eye
followed the track thus far he saw the flutter of what seemed a scarlet
banner; but on looking longer discovered it was the gay saddle-cloth of
a mule, from which the rider had apparently dismounted. He had but just
time to mark this much ere the object disappeared beyond the rock.
Cheered to fancy that some other traveller might chance to be on the
same road with himself, he now hastened his steps. The way, however, was
longer than he had supposed, and on gaining the promontory he descried
the mule fully two miles away, stealing carefully along over the rugged
bridle-path on the mountain. The object became now a pursuit, and he
strained his eyes to see if by some by-path he could not succeed
in gaining on the chase. While thus looking he saw that two figures
followed the mule at a little distance, but what they were he could not
ascertain.
It was very unlikely that any of the “Pasture’s” followers would have
adopted a gear so striking and so easily seen as this bright trapping,
and so Gerald at once set the travellers down as some peasants returning
to their homes in the Maremma, or on a pilgrimage to some religious
shrine.
With no small exertion he so far gained upon them as to be able to
note their appearance, and discover that one was a friar in the dusky
olive-coloured frock of the Franciscan, and the other a woman, dressed
in some conventual costume which he did not recognise. He could also see
that the mule carried a somewhat cumbrous pack, and an amount of baggage
rarely the accompaniment of a travelling friar.
Who has not felt his curiosity stimulated by some mere trifling
circumstance when occurring in a remote spot, which had it happened on
the world’s crowded highway would have passed unnoticed. It was this
strange attendant on these wayfarers that urged Gerald to press on to
overtake them. Forgetting the peasant costume which he wore and the part
it thus behoved him to pursue, he called out in a tone of half command
for them to stop till he came up.
‘Halt,’ cried he, ‘and tell me if this be the way to the Capri Pass!’
The friar turned hastily, and stood until Gerald approached.
‘You speak like one accustomed to give his orders on these mountains, my
son,’ said he, in a tone of stern reproof; ‘so that even a poor follower
of St. Francis is surprised to be thus accosted.’
By this time Gerald had so far recovered his self-possession as to see
how he had compromised his assumed character, and in a voice of deep
submission, and with a peasant accent he answered--
I ask pardon, worthy Fra, but travelling all alone in this wild region
has so overcome me that I scarcely know what I say, or understand what I
hear.’
‘Whence do you come?’ asked the friar rudely. ‘From the Mill at
Orto-Molino.’
‘And whither are you going?’
‘To St. Stephano after I have delivered a letter that I have here.’
‘To whom is your letter addressed, my son?’ said the Fra, in a more
gentle voice.
With difficulty did Gerald repress the sharp reply that was on his lips,
and say--
‘It is for one that neither you nor I know much of--Il Pastore.’
‘I know him well,’ said the friar boldly; ‘and say it without fear of
contradiction, I am the only one he makes a shrift to--ay, that does
he, ill as you think of him,’ added he, as if answering the
half-contemptuous smile on Gerald’s face. ‘Let’s see your letter.’
With an awkward reluctance Gerald drew forth the letter and showed it.
‘Ah!’ cried the Fra eagerly, ‘he had been looking for that letter this
many a day back; but it comes too late now.’
As he said this he pressed eagerly forward and whispered to the nun who
was walking at the side of the mule. She looked back hurriedly for an
instant, and then as rapidly turned her head again. They continued now
to converse eagerly for some time, and seemed totally to have forgotten
Gerald, as he walked on after them; when the Fra turned suddenly round
and said--
‘I ‘ll take charge of your letter, my son, while you guide our sister
down to Cheatstone, a little cluster of houses you ‘ll see at the foot
of the mountain; and if there be an answer I ‘ll fetch it to-morrow, ere
daybreak.’
‘Nay, Fra, I promised that I would deliver this with my own hands, and
I mean to be no worse than my word.’ ‘You ‘ll have to be at least less
than your word,’ said the friar, ‘for the Pastore would not see you.
These are his days of penance and mortification, and I am the only one
who dares to approach him.’
‘I am pledged to deliver this into his own hand,’ said Gerald calmly.
‘You may have said many a rash thing in your life, but never a rasher
than that,’ said the Fra sternly. ‘I tell you again, he ‘ll not see you.
At all events, you ‘ll have to find the road by your own good wits, and
it is a path that has puzzled shrewder heads.’
With this rude speech, uttered in the rudest way, the Fra moved hastily
on till he overtook his companion, leaving Gerald to follow how he
pleased.
For some time he continued on after the others, vainly straining his
eyes on every side for any signs of a. pathway upward. The way which he
had trod before, with hope to cheer him, became now wearisome and sad.
He was sick of his adventure, out of temper with his want of success,
and dissatisfied with himself. He at last resolved that he would go no
farther on his track than a certain little olive copse which nestled in
a cleft of the mountain, reaching which he would repose for a while, and
then retrace his steps.
The sun was strong and the heat oppressive, insomuch that when at length
he gained the copse, he was well pleased to throw himself down beneath
the shade and take his rest. He had already forgotten the Franciscan and
his fellow-traveller, and was deeply musing over his own fortunes, when
suddenly he heard their voices, and, creeping noiselessly to the edge
of the cliff, he saw them seated at a little well, beside which their
breakfast was spread out. The woman had thrown back her hood and showed
now a beautiful head, whose long black hair fell heavily on either
shoulder, while her taper fingers, covered with many a splendid ring,
plainly showed that her conventual dress was only a disguise. Nor was
this the only sign that surprised him, for now he saw that a short brass
blunderbuss, the regular weapon of the brigand, lay close to the friar’s
hand.
‘It is the Pastore himself,’ thought Gerald, as he gazed down at the
brawny limbs and well-knit proportions of the stranger. ‘How could
I ever have mistaken him for a friar?’ The more he thought over the
friar’s manner--his eagerness to get the letter, and the careless
indifference afterward with which he suffered Gerald to leave him--the
more he felt assured that this was no other than the celebrated chief
himself.
‘At least, I have succeeded in seeing him, thought he; ‘and why should
I not go boldly forward and speak to him? ‘The resolve was no sooner
formed than he proceeded to execute it. In a moment after he had
descended the cliff, and, making his way through the brushwood, stood
before them.
‘So, then, you _will_ track me, youngster,’ said the friar angrily.
‘Once--twice--to-day the road was open to you to seek your own way, and
you would not take it. How bent you must be to do yourself an ill turn!’
‘You are “II Pastore,”’ said Gerald boldly.
‘And thou art _Gherardi mio!‘_ cried the woman, as she rushed wildly
toward him and clasped him in her arms. It was Marietta herself who
spoke.
How tell the glorious outburst of Gerald’s joy, as he overpowered
her with questions--whence she came, whither going, how and why, and
wherefore there? Was she really and truly the Egyptian who had visited
him on his sick-bed, and not a mere vision?
‘And was it from thy lips, then,’ cried he, ‘that I learned that all
this ambition was but a snare--that I was destined to be only the tool
of crafty men, deep in their own designss? At times the revelation
seemed to come from thee, and at times a burst of heart-felt conviction.
Which was it, Marietta _mia_?’
‘Who is he?’ cried the Fra eagerly. ‘This surely cannot be--ay, but
it is the Prince--the son of my old lord and master!’ and he knelt and
kissed Gerald’s hands over and over again. ‘He knows me not--at least as
I once was--the friend, the boon companion of a king’s son,’ continued
he passionately.
‘Were you, then, one of his old Scottish followers--one of those
faithful men who clung so devotedly to his cause?’
‘No, no; but I was one that he loved better than them all.’
‘And you, Marietta, dearest, how is it that I see you here?’ cried
Gerald, again turning to her.
‘I came many a weary mile after you, _mio caro_,’ said she. ‘I knew of
these men’s designs long, long ago, and I determined to save you from
them. I believed I could have secured Massoni as your friend; but I was
wrong--the Jesuit was stronger in him than the man. I remained at St.
Ursula months after I might have left it, just to see the Père--to watch
his game--and, if possible, attach him to me; but I failed--utterly
failed. He was true to his cause, and would not accept my love. More
fortunate, however, was I with the Cardinal--even, perhaps, that I
wished or cared for--His Eminence was my slave. There was not a secret
of the Vatican I did not learn. I read the correspondence with the
Spanish minister, Arazara; I suggested the replies; I heard the whole
plan for your expedition--how you were to be secretly married to the
Countess Ridolfi, and the marriage only avowed when your success was
assured.’
She paused, and the Fra broke in--‘Tell all--everything--the mine has
exploded now, and none are the worse for it Go on with your confession.’
‘It is of the other alternative he speaks,’ said she, dropping her voice
to a faint whisper. ‘Had you failed----’
‘And then--what then, Marietta?’
‘You were in that case to have been betrayed into the hands of the
English, or poisoned! The scheme to accomplish the first was already
planned. I have here the letters which are to accredit me to see and
converse with Sir Horace Mann, at Florence; and which I mean to deliver
too. I am resolved to trace out to the very last who are the accomplices
in this guilt. The world is well edified by tales of mob violence and
bloodshed. Even genius seeks its inspiration in inveighing against
popular excesses. It is time to show that crimes lurk under purple
as well as rags, and that the deadliest vengeances are often devised
beneath gilded ceilings. We knew of one once, Gherardi, who could have
told men these truths--one who carried from this world with him the
“funeral trappings of the monarchy” and the wail of the people.
‘Of whom did she speak?’ asked the friar.
‘Of Gabriel Riquetti, whom she loved,’ and the last words were whispered
by Gerald in her ear.
Marietta held down her head, and as she covered her face with her hands
muttered--‘But who loved not her!’
‘Gabriel Riquetti,’ broke in the friar, ‘had more of good and bad in him
than all the saints and all the devils that ever warred. He had the best
of principles and the worst of practices, and never did a wicked thing
but he could show you a virtuous reason for it.’
Struck by the contemptuous glance of Marietta, Gerald followed the look
she gave, and saw that the friar’s eyes were bloodshot, and his face
purple with excess.