A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE.
It was on the fourteenth of May, nearly a year and a half previous to
the sudden downfall and disappearance of Wilhelm Mencke and his wife,
that a curious incident occurred which has an important bearing upon our
story.
At the foot of one of the mountains which skirt the Gulf of Genoa just a
few miles east of the line which separate France and Italy, there stood
at that time the dwelling of a well-to-do Italian peasant.
That the man was above the majority of his class, his neat homestead,
his thrifty fields and vineyards, and the general air of comfort which
pervaded his dwelling plainly betokened.
But he was a stern, harsh man, bestowing little affection upon his
family, yet exacting unquestioning obedience and diligent toil from
every member, to help him maintain the thrift for which he was noted and
to fill his pockets with money.
On a dark and starless night, long after Tasso Simone and most of his
family were wrapped in slumber, the door of his dwelling was softly
opened, whereupon a slight, girlish figure stole forth and sped
noiselessly across the vineyard of olive trees, toward the highway which
skirted the gulf.
Upon reaching the road, the flying fugitive moderated her pace, but
walked on with a firm, elastic step toward Mentone, which was the
nearest town over the French line.
For an hour she walked steadily on, appearing to be perfectly familiar
with the way, even in that intense darkness, until finally she paused
before a low, rude building, or shed, which had been constructed out of
rough boards to protect fishermen from the hot rays of the sun, while
cleaning their fish for market.
She sat down to rest just outside upon a rude bench, which she seemed to
know was there, and opening a parcel which she carried in her hands, she
began to eat of its contents.
Suddenly she paused and listened, for a slight movement behind her,
within the shed, had attracted her attention.
A sigh that was almost a moan had greeted her ears.
She did not move for several moments, but waited for the sound to be
repeated.
Soon she heard it again; a long-drawn, sobbing sigh like some one deeply
grieved or in distress.
The girl arose, and, without a trace of fear in her manner, made her way
within the shed, showing by her quick, decisive movements that she was
as familiar with the ground as with her own home.
Here she struck a match and lighted a piece of candle, which she took
from her pocket, when she saw, with evident amazement, a beautiful girl
lying asleep upon a shawl which had been spread over a pile of seaweed
in one corner of the place.
The light also revealed the fugitive, whom we have followed thus far, to
be a slight, graceful form, straight as an arrow, and having a wiry
energy and resolution in her every movement which betrayed unusual
self-reliance in one so young.
She was very light in complexion, having yellow hair, black eyes, and
bright, rosy cheeks, a somewhat unusual combination in one who was a
native of that Southern clime.
She was dressed in the costume of the country, and with a neatness and
trimness that made her seem almost dainty in the homely dress, while on
her head she wore a large, coarse straw hat, over which a bright
handkerchief had been thrown, and was tied under her pretty, rounded
chin.
She softly approached and leaned over the sleeper, astonishment depicted
upon every feature of her young face; and well she might look surprised,
for the lovely girl who lay upon that wretched bed of sea-weed was
richly and tastefully clad, and bespoke the petted child of luxury and
fortune.
She knelt beside her, and, laying her hand lightly upon her shoulder,
said, in low, musical Italian:
"Wake, signorina."
The touch aroused the fair sleeper, and she started up affrighted; but,
upon seeing the kindly face of a young girl about her own age bending
above her, her expression of terror changed to one equally surprised
with that of her companion.
"Why is the signorina sleeping here in this miserable place?" the
peasant girl asked.
But her companion could not understand or speak Italian, and shook her
head, intimating that she did not know what she had said.
To her surprise the girl then addressed her in broken French, repeating
her question, and then the fair stranger, appearing to think it best to
confide in her, answered, though with some embarrassment:
"I am in great trouble, and I am running away from it. I have walked a
long distance, but became so weak and faint I could go no farther, and
stumbled in here to rest, and must have fallen asleep from weariness."
A look of pity and sympathy swept over the peasant girl's face.
"Mademoiselle is hungry, perhaps?" she remarked.
"Yes; I had no supper. I could not eat and am faint. I have been ill and
am far from strong."
The girl stuck her candle upon a rock and then, going outside the shed,
brought in her own lunch which she had left lying upon the bench. It
consisted of some coarse bread and cheese, some cakes fried in olive
oil, with a few dried figs, and all wrapped in a clean linen cloth.
"Eat, mademoiselle," she said, as she placed it upon her companion's
lap.
The beautiful stranger seized a fig and quickly disposed of it with
evident relish; then she suddenly paused and asked:
"But do you not need this yourself? I must not rob you."
The girl shrugged her shoulders, and shook her head.
"Eat, signorina, eat," she said, mixing her French and Italian; and the
other, without waiting to be urged further, and apparently ravenously
hungry, quickly disposed of everything save the cheese.
"You are very good," she said, gratefully, when the last fig was eaten.
"I thank you very much." Then with sudden curiosity, she inquired: "But
how do you also happen to be abroad alone at this hour of the night?"
Again the peasant girl shrugged her shoulders, and a dark look of
passion swept over her face.
"I, too, am running away," she said. "I do not like my home; I have a
step-father; he is cruel, harsh, and wants to marry me to a man I do not
love."
"How strange," murmured her companion, a look of wonder coming into her
beautiful eyes, while an expression of sympathy crept over her lovely
face.
"My father owes him for a fine pair of mules, just bought," the girl
resumed, a look of scorn gleaming in here eyes, "and Beppo will call the
debt square if I marry him. I will not be exchanged for brutes--I will
not be sold like a slave, and to one I hate and loathe, and I fly from
him," she concluded, indignantly, the rich blood mounting to her
forehead.
"Where are you going?" questioned the other, eagerly.
"To Monaco, to find service in some family, as maid or nurse, until I
can earn money to go to some school to learn to study," was the earnest
reply.
"You are not an Italian?" the fair stranger said, inquiringly.
The girl shook her head, a sneer curling her red lips.
Evidently to be an Italian was not very desirable in her estimation.
"My mother is Swiss, my own father was French," she briefly answered.
"Ah! that is how you happen to be so light and to speak the French
language. Will you tell me your name?"
"You will not betray me? You will not set them on my track, if I tell
you?" said the peasant girl, apparently longing to confide in the
beautiful maiden, but secretly questioning the wisdom of so doing.
"Surely not. Am I not flying from trouble also? Besides, I am going to
another country," was the reassuring reply.
"I am Lisette Vermilet," the girl then said. "I am eighteen years old. I
have worked from sunrise till sunset every day for seven long years, in
the field, in the vineyard, or the dairy, ever since my poor, foolish
mother married her tyrant husband. I do it no more. I take care of
myself and be no man's slave, and I marry whom I will, when the right
one and the right time come. But first," she continued, eagerly, her
face lightning with intense longing, "I study; I learn about the world
and other things, like some lovely French girls I saw at Mentone last
year, who told me all about the flowers, the birds, the earth, and the
sea. Oh! I weep when I think of how much there is to know, and I have
lost it all--all!" and her voice grew tremulous with repressed feeling
as she concluded.
"Poor child! you surely ought to have an education if you want it so
much," said her sympathetic listener, in a kindly tone, while she
regarded the girl's eager face almost affectionately. "But are you not
afraid that your cruel step-father will go after you and bring you
back?"
"Tasso Simone would beat me black and blue if he should catch me," she
said, with a shiver, as if she recalled some experience of the kind.
"Ah! if I had but a disguise he would not know me--I get away better."
A bright idea seemed suddenly to strike her companion, for her face
lighted eagerly.
"Let us exchange clothing," she exclaimed, "then no one will recognize
either of us."
"Ah! but the signorina has such beautiful clothes, while mine are so
poor," sighed Lisette, in a deprecatory tone, but with a wistful glance
over the daintily made traveling suit, at the tasteful hat, and
expensive boots which her companion wore.
"Never mind; yours are neat and whole, and no one would ever think of
looking for me in them, while you will be much more likely to succeed in
eluding your cruel father in mine," the young stranger persisted.
"The signorina is very kind," Lisette said, gratefully, as, with an
impulsive movement, she bent forward and kissed the fair white hand that
lay within her reach, while it seemed to her simple heart that she
should feel like a princess in that lovely dark-grey cloth dress, with
its daintily stitched bands of blue silk.
Alas! she did not dream that it was to become her shroud.
Yes, as has doubtless been surmised, it was Violet whom Lisette Vermilet
had found lying asleep upon the pile of sea-weed in the fisherman's
shed.
After refusing to admit her sister to her room on the night previous to
the day appointed for her wedding, she had continued her occupation of
writing for some time. When she was through she read over what she had
written, and then deliberately tore it into atoms.
"No, I will not tell them anything," she muttered, with a frown; "I will
just go and leave no trace behind me. It may seem unkind to Lord
Cameron, but some time I will explain it all."
She then arose and dressed herself in her traveling suit, tied a
dark-blue vail about her face, and brought a thick shawl from her
closet. She then began to lay out a change of clothing and her toilet
articles, but suddenly stopped in the midst of her work.
"No, I will not burden myself with anything," she murmured,
thoughtfully. "I am not strong, and I need all the strength I have to
get myself away; besides, I can easily buy what I need in any town."
She hastily drew on her gloves, without observing that the rings, which
she usually wore and which she prized very highly, were still lying upon
her cushion where she had left them before taking her bath. She did not
even think to take her watch, which she sadly missed and regretted
afterward; her only thought was to get away as quickly as possible from
all danger of violating her conscience and of wronging a noble and
generous man.
She then put out her light and sat alone in the darkness, waiting for
the house to become quiet so that she could steal forth unobserved.
Two hours passed, all in the house seemed to be at rest, and she
noiselessly crept out of a window upon the piazza, made her way swiftly
around the house to where a flight of stairs led to the ground, and then
sped away in the darkness, with no definite idea whither she was going.
She took the highway leading away from Mentone, because she dreaded lest
some one should meet and accost her in the town. She had a dim idea that
if she could get to San Remo, which was about twelve miles east of
Mentone, she could take a train going north without being discovered,
and accordingly she bent her footsteps in this direction.
Her way led along the cliffs overhanging the sea, before mentioned, and
how she, to whom the way was entirely strange, should have escaped the
fate which every one afterward supposed to have been hers was wondered.
But escape it she did, and after safely passing this perilous point she
descended the hill, and then the road closely followed the beach for
some distance.
Here she came upon the rude hut, or shelter, which has been described,
and being foot-sore and weary with her long walk, she spread her shawl
upon a mass of sea-weed which she found in one corner, and throwing
herself upon it soon fell into a profound slumber, from which she was
awakened by the light touch of Lisette Vermilet.
With this brief explanation of Violet's flight, we will return to the
two girls who were discussing a change of apparel.
Violet was much strengthened by the food which she had eaten and greatly
refreshed by her nap, while she was encouraged by the presence of the
young girl, who was also, strangely enough, flying from a fate similar
to her own.
She overcame the scruples of Lisette, and insisting upon the plan she
had proposed, the two girls, under cover of that rude shed, made the
exchange, Violet declaring that every article be transferred in order to
make the disguise more complete. She only reserved her shawl, as, in
traveling, she knew she would need it.
"Now," she said, when their task was completed, "can you tell me the
best way to get north. I am going to England, and from there to America,
and I want to get away from this region as soon as possible."
"Mademoiselle would do well to come with me to Mentone and take a train
from there," Lisette replied.
"Oh, I could not do that," Violet cried. "I have just come from Mentone,
and would not go back there for anything."
It will be observed that she had refrained from saying much about
herself thus far, for she did not wish even this simple girl to know the
circumstances which had caused her flight.
Lisette thought a minute, then she told her to go on to a village about
a mile distant, where, in a couple of hours, a train would make a brief
stop at a crossing.
This, she said, would bear her back in the same direction she had come,
but she could go on to Nice, where she could take an express direct for
Paris.
Violet, much as she dreaded passing through Mentone again, saw that this
would be the wisest course to pursue, and decided that she would follow
the girl's advice.
"You will not betray that you have met me, if any one should question
you, and you will keep out of sight of people in Mentone as much as
possible," Violet pleaded.
"Surely I will not betray you, signorina, and I will not show myself by
daylight in Mentone," Lisette said, earnestly, "and you will get away
without any trouble, for a peasant girl can go about alone in this
country where an English lady could not. Take courage, signorina;
nothing will harm you, and may the Holy Virgin go with you."
"I feel anxious about your passing through Mentone," Violet said. "If
you should be seen there tomorrow you would surely be stopped, for my
clothing would instantly be recognized by those who will search for me;
they would compel you to tell where and how you met me, and then they
would telegraph ahead and have me stopped."
"Do not fear, signorina," Lisette responded. "I shall pass through
Mentone before light, for I am a rapid walker. I go straight to Monaco,
and seek service in some French family going to Paris."
Violet looked relieved at this.
"Have you money?" she asked.
"I have forty francs, signorina. I have saved for eighteen months every
sou I could get."
Eighteen months saving eight dollars!
Violet regarded the girl with sorrowful astonishment.
"That is very little; let me give you some more," she cried, and eagerly
opening her well-filled purse, counted out some gold-pieces amounting to
fifty francs more.
"No, signorina, not a sou," Lisette returned, firmly, as she waved back
Violet's extended hand. "My heart is heavy now with all you have done
for me--giving me these beautiful clothes in exchange for a poor
peasant's dress. I cannot take your money."
"Please," persisted Violet. "I have plenty, and can easily spare you
this."
But the girl made a proud gesture of dissent.
"The signorina must go; and I must get on also," she said, gravely.
"Keep to the straight road until you come to the track in the village.
You can get no ticket, but the guard will charge you a couple of francs
for your fare. Adieu, signorina."
She was about turning away, when Violet stopped her.
"Lisette," she said, holding out her hand, "good-by. You have been very
kind to me, and I shall always remember you kindly. I hope we shall meet
again some time."
Tears were in Lisette's eyes as she responded in a similar strain, and
then led Violet from the shed.
"That way, go; adieu!" she said, pointing eastward; then raising the
hand she held, she pressed her lips impulsively to it and dropped it.
With a softly breathed farewell in response, Violet turned and walked
quickly away, while Lisette went back into the shed, put out her candle
and threw the end away, after which she turned in the opposite direction
and began to climb the steep hills or cliffs, along which the highway
led toward Mentone.
Violet went on her way in the darkness, her heart beating rapidly with
fear lest she should encounter some rude fisherman or peasant who would
stop and question her.
She was foot-sore and weary long before she came in sight of the
village, for a mile was a long distance to her unaccustomed muscles,
while Lisette's heavy shoes hurt her tender feet sorely.
But, guided by the lights along the railroad track, she found her way to
the crossing the girl had told, her about, and, sinking down upon a pile
of sleepers by the road-bed, she uttered a sigh of relief that she had
reached the end of her long walk.
She did not have a great while to wait, for presently the cars came
thundering along, and soon she was on the train for Nice, whence she
took an express for Paris. Now she felt safe from pursuit, as she was
being whirled northward at the rate of forty miles an hour.