The Hand of God
"Chacun ne comprend que ce qu'il retrouve en soi."
Mr. Sander only made a mistake common to Englishmen when he underrated
the capacity of his neighbour. Hearing from his colleague in Nice that
Miste had left that city for St. Martin Lantosque, with us upon his
heels, Sander concluded that our quarry would escape us, and with
great promptitude set forth to Cuneo to await his arrival there.
Before leaving Genoa, however, my agent took steps to ensure the
transmission of his correspondence, and a telegram despatched by
Giraud from St. Martin, after my departure thence, duly reached the
addressee at Cuneo. On arriving, therefore, at Genoa, and going to the
Hôtel de Gênes there, I found, not Mr. Sander, but a telegraphic
message from him bidding me await his return.
"At what time," I asked the waiter, "arrives the next train from
Cuneo?"
"At eight o'clock, signor."
I looked at the clock. It was now seven.
"There is a steamer sailing this evening for South America," I said.
"Yes, signor; with many passengers from this hotel."
"At what time?"
"At seven o'clock--even now."
A minute later I was driving down to the docks--my swimming head full
of half-matured ideas of bribing some one to delay the steamer. Then
came the blessed reflection that, in the absence of Miste, his
confederate would certainly not depart alone. I knew enough of their
tactics to feel sure that instead of taking passage in the steamer
this man (who could only be a subordinate to that master in cunning
who had shot me) must perforce await his chief's arrival.
Nevertheless, I bade the man drive as quickly as the vile pavement
would allow, thinking to board the steamer at all events and
scrutinise the faces of her passengers. We rattled through the narrow
and tortuous streets, reaching the port in time to see the last rope
cast off from the great vessel as she swung round to seaward. I
hurried to the pierhead, and reached the extremity of the port before
the _Principe Amadeo_, which had to move with circumspection amid the
shipping.
The passengers were assembled on deck, taking what many of them
doubtless knew to be a last look at their native land. The lowering
sun cast a glow over city and harbour, while a great silence hovered
over all. The steamer came quite close to the pierhead. I could have
tossed a letter on her deck.
Suddenly my heart stood still as my gaze lighted on the form of an old
man who stood at the stern-rail a little apart from his
fellow-passengers. He stood with his back turned towards me looking up
to the lighthouse. Every line of his form, his attitude, the very
locks of thin, white hair were familiar to me. This was the Vicomte de
Clericy, and no other--the man whose funeral I had attended at
Senneville six months ago. I did not cry out, or rub my eyes, or feel
unreal, as people do in books. I knew that I was my sober self, and
yonder was the Vicomte de Clericy. But I thought that the pier was
moving and not the steamer, and bumped awkwardly against my neighbour,
who looked at me curiously and apologised.
The old man by the stern-rail slowly turned and showed me his
face--bland, benevolent, short-sighted. I can swear that it was the
Vicomte de Clericy, though the world has only my word for it; that
Lucille's father--dead, buried and mourned--stood on the deck of the
steamer _Principe Amadeo_ as she steamed out into the Gulf of Genoa on
the evening of the 30th of May, 1871.
The precious moments slipped by, the great steamer glided past me. I
heard the engine-room gong. The screw stirred the clear water, and I
was left gazing stupidly at the receding form of my old patron as he
stood with his placid hands clasped behind him.
It was some time before I left the spot; for my wounds had left me
weak, and I have never had that quickness of brain which enables men
to see the right course, and take it in a flash of thought.
The steamer had gone--was, indeed, now growing smaller on the
horizon--and on board of her the Vicomte de Clericy. There was no
gainsaying it. I had seen him with my own eyes, but why had he done
this thing?
My shoulder throbbed painfully. I was sick at heart, and could not
bring my mind to bear upon any one subject. The cab-driver had
followed as far as he could, and now stood beckoning to me with his
whip. I went back, and bade him drive me to the hotel; for I had not
been in bed for three nights, and had a strong desire to get and
remain there until this great fatigue should at length leave me.
Of what followed I have but a dim recollection; indeed, remember
little from that time until I awoke in a bedroom at the Hôtel de Gênes
and found a gentle pink and white face, surrounded by a snowy cap,
bending over my bed.
"What time is it, and what day, my sister?" I asked, and was gently
commanded to hold my tongue. She gave me a spoonful of something with
no taste to it, without so much as asking me whether I wanted it.
Indeed, this gentle person treated me as a child, as, moreover, I
think women always treat such men as are wholly in their power.
"You must keep quiet," she said. "See, I will read to you!" and taking
a book from her pocket read aloud the Psalms in a cunning sing-song
voice that sent me to sleep.
When I awoke again the nun was still in the room, and, with her,
Sander, talking the most atrocious French. A queer contrast. One of
the world worldly, a moth that battened on the seamy side; the other
far above the wickedness of men.
"Hush!" I heard her say. "He is awake, and must not hear of your
affairs."
And she turned away from poor Sander, with his shrewd air, as from the
world and the iniquity thereof.
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at her placid back, which,
indeed, she gave him unceremoniously enough, with a hopeless contempt.
Womanhood had earned, it appeared, his profoundest scorn as
unbusinesslike and incompetent. Nunhood simply astounded him.
"Look here, my sister!" he said, plucking impatiently at her demure
sleeve, and even in my semi-consciousness I smiled at the sound of the
words from his cockney lips.
"Well?" she answered, turning her unruffled glance upon him.
Sander lowered his voice and talked hurriedly in her ear. But she only
shook her head. How small the things of this world are to those who
look with honest eyes beyond it!
"Well, I _must_ tell him--there!" exclaimed Sander, angrily, and he
made a step towards the bed. But she laid her hand on his arm and held
him. It was a queer picture.
"Let me go," he said. "I know best."
Her face flushed suddenly, and the nun stood before the detective.
"No," she replied quietly, "you do not know best. I am mistress here.
Will you kindly go?"
She went to the door and held it open for him, her actions and words
belying the meek demeanour which belongs to her calling, and which she
never laid aside for a moment.
So with a hopeless mien Sander left the room, and my nurse came
towards the bed.
"That," she said, softly, "is a very stupid man."
"He is not generally considered so, my sister."
She paid as little heed to my words as a nurse to the prattle of a
child.
"You have moved," she said, "and this bandage is ruffled. You must try
to lie quieter, for you have a nasty wound in your shoulder. I know,
for I have been through the war. How came you by such a hurt now that
peace has been declared?"
"The other man came by a worse one, for he is dead."
"Then the good God forgive you. But you must keep quiet. See--I will
read to you."
And out came the book again in its devotional black cover. She read
for a long while, but I paid no heed to her voice, nor fell under its
sleepy spell. Presently she closed the pages with a pious look of
reproach.
"You are not attending," she said.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I was wondering what cause you had to fall out with my agent,
Mr. Sander, who is not so stupid as you think."
"He is one of those," she answered primly, "who do not know how to
behave in a sick room. He foolishly wanted to talk to you of
affairs--when you are not well enough. Affairs--to a sick man!"
"Who should be thinking of the affairs of another world, my sister."
"Those always should come first," she answered, with downcast eyes.
"And of what did Mr. Sander want to speak?" I asked.
She looked up with a gleam of interest. Beneath the demure bib of her
professional apron there beat still a woman's heart. Sister Renée
wanted to tell me the news herself.
"Oh," she answered, "it is nothing that will interest you. You are not
even an Italian--only an Englishman."
"That is all, my sister."
"But all Genoa is on the housetops about it."
"Ah!"
"Yes. Never has there been so great a catastrophe; but you have no
friends here, so it will not affect you."
"Therefore, I may be the more safely told. I am not affected by great
catastrophes from a humane point of view."
"Well," she said, busying herself about the room with quick and
noiseless movements, "but it is always terrible to hear of such a
thing when one reflects that we are all so unprepared."
"For what, my sister?"
"For death," she answered, with a look of awe in the most innocent
eyes in the world.
"But who is dead?"
"Three hundred people," she answered. "The passengers and crew of the
_Principe Amadeo_--a large steamer that sailed last night from Genoa,
with emigrants for South America."
"And all are drowned?" I asked, after a pause, thankful that my face
was in the shadow of the curtain.
"All, except two of the crew. The steamer had only left the harbour an
hour before, and all the passengers were at dinner. There came, I
think, a fog, and in the darkness a collision occurred. The _Principe
Amadeo_ went down in five minutes."
She spoke quietly, and with that calm which religion, doubtless, gave
her. Indeed, her only thought seemed to be that these people had
passed to their account without the ministrations of the church.
She soon left me, having my promise to sleep quietly and at once.
Soeur Renée, despite her grey hairs and the wrinkles that the years
(for her life seemed purged of other cause) had left, was an easy
victim to deception.
I did not sleep, but lay awake for many hours, turning over in my mind
the events that had followed each other so quickly. And one thought
came ever uppermost--namely, that in the smallest details of our
existence a judgment far superior to ours must of necessity be at
work. This wiser judgment I detected in the chance, as some will call
it, that sent Sister Renée to me with this news. For if Sander had
told me of the sinking of the _Principe Amadeo_ I must assuredly, in
the heat of the moment, have disclosed to him, in return, my knowledge
that the Vicomte de Clericy was on board of her when she sailed from
Genoa. Whereas, now that I had time to reflect, I saw clearly that
this news belonged to Madame de Clericy alone, and was in nowise the
business of Mr. Sander. That keen-witted man had faithfully performed
the duty on which he had been employed--namely, to enable me to lay my
hands on Charles Miste. One half of the money--a fortune in
itself--had been recovered. There remained, therefore, nothing but to
pay Mr. Sander and bid him farewell.
I was, however, compelled to await the arrival of Alphonse Giraud, who
telegraphed to me that he was still in Nice. I did not know until long
after that he had been formally arrested there for his participation
in the chase of Miste that ended in that ill-starred miscreant's
death. Nor did I learn, until months had elapsed, that my good friend
John Turner had also hastened to Nice, taking thither with him a great
Parisian lawyer to defend me in the trial that took place while I lay
ill at Genoa. Sister Renée, moreover, had not laid aside her womanly
guile when she took the veil, for she concealed from me with perfect
success that I was under guard night and day in my bedroom at the
Hôtel de Gênes. What had I done to earn such true friends or deserve
such faithful care?
The trial passed happily enough, and Alphonse arrived at Genoa ere I
had been there a week. He had delayed little in realising with a
boyish delight one of his recovered drafts for five thousand pounds.
He repaid such loans as I had been able to make him, settled accounts
with Sander, and greatly relieved my mind by seeing him depart. For I
felt in some sort a criminal myself, and the secret, which had by the
merest accident been thrust upon me, discomfited me under the keen eye
of the expert.
The weather was exceedingly hot, and sickness raged unchecked in the
city. A fortnight elapsed, during which Giraud was my faithful
attendant. The doctor who had been called in, the first of his craft
with whom I had had business, a Frenchman and a clever surgeon,
restored me to a certain stage of convalescence, but could not get
beyond it.
"Where do you live," he asked me one day, with a grave face, "when you
are at home?"
"In Suffolk, on the east coast of England."
"Where the air is different from this."
"As different as sunrise from afternoon," I answered, with a sudden
longing for the bluff, keen air of Hopton.
"Are you a good sailor?" he asked.
"I spent half my boyhood on the North Sea."
He walked to the window and stood there in deep thought.
"Then," he said at length, "go home at once by steamer from here, and
stay there. Your own country will do more for you than all the doctors
in Italy."