"But time at length makes all things even,
And if we do but bide the hour,
There never yet was human power
That could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong."
Three quarters of an hour later, Guy was sitting in his room, gazing at
the embers on the hearth, in the attitude of moody thought that of late
he was apt to fall into. Suddenly there came a timid knock at his door.
When he opened it, his cousin stood on the threshold--ghost-like,
against the background of darkness, with her white dressing-gown, pale
cheeks, and long hair unbound.
"Guy, don't be angry," she said; "it's very foolish of me, I know; but
Charley has not come in yet, and just now I am certain there was a shot
quite near. Agläe heard nothing, but I did. You know he always carries a
pistol. I made him do so. It is nothing, I am sure; but I am so
frightened. If you would--"
She tried to smile, but that ghastly look of terror that he had seen
once before, long ago, in the library at Kerton Manor, again swept over,
and possessed all her face like a white chill mist.
"Don't be absurd, you silly child," Guy said, kindly. "Of course I'll go
out directly, and bring him in in five minutes, to laugh at you. Now go
back to your room; there's nothing on earth to be alarmed about."
But the instant she had gone, I heard his voice quick and stern: "Frank,
come here." There was a door of communication between our rooms, and,
though it was closed, I had caught some words of this conversation, so I
was ready nearly as soon as he. Guy only staid to take a short
lance-wood club, headed with a spiked steel head, which was his constant
traveling companion--a very simple weapon, but deadly in his hands as
the axe of Richard the King--and then we sallied out, taking our
servants and some other men that were below, with torches, in case the
moon should fail us unexpectedly.
Twice, three times, when we had gone a short distance, Livingstone
shouted Forrester's name. His powerful voice rang far through the
ravines, and struck against the rocks, rolling and reverberating in
their hollows like a blast fired in a deep mine; but no answer came.
I looked at my companion very nervously. He never spoke, but I saw him
gnaw his under lip till the blood ran down.
We had gone a hundred paces or so farther along a narrow path outside
the town. On our right the cliff fell almost abruptly toward the river.
Guy was a few paces in front, when suddenly there broke from his lips
such a sound as I have never heard from those of any mortal before or
since.
It is impossible to describe it. It was utterly involuntary, as if some
spirit had spoken within the man--a cry of horror and of unspeakable
wrath, such as might have burst from the chest of one of the Old-World
giants, when the rock fell from heaven that crushed him like a worm. The
Italians, used to every tone that can express passion, shrunk and
cowered back in terror.
Our eyes all followed the direction of his, that were staring down upon
a flat open space, clear from brush-wood, down in the hollow on our
right. Our search was ended, and we knew it. The moon, that flickered
and quivered elsewhere through bough and brake, settled there steadily
on a single white spot.
In all the world there is but one object on which she can cast so
ghastly a reflection--a dead man's face.
Guy recovered himself first, and plunged recklessly down the cliff side.
When we reached him, he was supporting on his knee the head of poor
Charley Forrester, stone dead, and foully murdered.
The first glance told how unavailing all human aid must be. One small
deep wound just above the left temple must have been fatal instantly.
Close by his side lay the instrument of the slaughter--a thin,
triangular piece of granite--and, ten paces off, his pistol, one barrel
discharged. His watch and (as we afterward found) his purse were gone,
but an emerald ring of great value was still untouched on his finger.
I staggered back, heart-sick and faint. When I recovered I saw dimly the
group of men, awe-stricken and whispering, and Guy still gazing down at
the face that rested on his knee, as if it fascinated his eyes. I could
not bear to look upon the piteous sight. All through the bright hair the
dark blood had soaked, and a slow stream was stealing through it still;
the fair features were all defaced and deformed with the wrath and
agony of the last mortal struggle. Yet I do remember that, if any one
definite expression still lingered there, it was bitter contempt and
scorn.
"In God's name, sir, what is to be done?" It was Hardy who spoke, poor
Forrester's own servant, the only Englishman among our attendants. He
was choking, and could hardly gasp out the words.
Livingstone rose slowly, first pillowing the mangled head on a soft tuft
of moss, tenderly as if it were conscious still. His nature was such
that no shock, or pain, or sorrow to which humanity is liable, could
bend or quell it, so as to deprive him, beyond a brief instant, of
self-possession and calmness. It was not insensibility now, and hardly
stoicism, but an elasticity of resistance and strength of endurance
that, in my own knowledge, have never been matched. In history or in
Indian life you might find many parallels.
He answered quite steadily, though in a low tone, as if reverencing the
presence of the dead.
"There is no hope. It is useless to send for a surgeon. Hardy, you will
take all the men whom you can collect and scour the country. Send to the
_sbirri_ immediately; they will go with you. There must be traces of the
murderer. Frank, will you see that--he--is brought carefully to the
house? I will"--he stopped, and drew a long, hard breath--"I will go and
break it to Isabel." His hand, that happened to touch mine as he spoke,
was damp and icy cold.
In his life Guy Livingstone had done and dared more than most men, but
he never ventured on any thing so thoroughly brave, and valiant, and
strong-hearted as when he left me, without another word, on that
errand. For myself, though weak both in body and nerve, I swear I would
rather have gone up the breach at Badajoz with the forlorn hope, than up
that bank with the certainty before me of what awaited him.
Trees overhanging, and high walls on either side, and the change from
the bright moonlight, made it so dark just as you approached the inn
that Guy scarcely saw a white figure crouching down a few paces from the
door till he was close upon it.
He threw his arm round Isabel Forrester's waist before she could pass
him. Half his task was done; there was nothing to break to her now. She
understood all when she saw him come back alone.
For a few moments, there they stood in the dark, no word passing between
them; the only sound was her quick panting, as she struggled in his
grasp, battling to get free.
"Isabel," he said, at last, gravely, "come in; I must speak to you."
No answer still, but the same desperate struggle to get loose. There was
a savage, supernatural power in her writhings that taxed even his
gigantic strength to hold her; as it was, he yielded unconsciously to
her impulse so as to recede some paces till they issued out into the
moonlight. He could scarcely recognize her features; they were all
working and contorted, the lips especially horribly drawn back and
tense. She bent her head down at last, and made her teeth meet in the
arm that detained her.
Guy never flinched nor stirred, but spoke again in the same slow,
deliberate tone.
"Isabel, come in. I swear that you shall see him when it is safe. They
are bringing him back now."
She ceased struggling and stood straight up, shaking all over, straining
her eyes forward to the turning in the path where the torches began to
gleam.
"Is he not dead, then?" she said, in a strange, harsh voice, utterly
unlike her own. Her cousin did not try to delude her; all the stern
outline of his face softening in an intense pity told her enough.
Such a scream--weird, long drawn out, and unearthly, such as we fancy the
Banchee's--as that which pierced through my very marrow (though I stood
three hundred yards away, as if it had been uttered close at my ear), I
trust I shall never hear again.
Then followed the contrast of a great stillness; for, as the last
accents died away on her lips, Isabel sank down, without a struggle,
into a dead swoon.
A sad satisfaction came into Guy's face. "It is best so," he muttered;
"I hope she won't wake for an hour," and he carried her into the house.
They were trying to revive her, unsuccessfully, when I reached it with
those who bore the corpse on a litter of pine branches. By Guy's
directions, it was laid on his own bed; and there the Italian women
rendered the last offices to the dead man, weeping and wailing over him
as though he had been a brother or dear friend--only for his rare
beauty--even as the Moorish girls mourned over that fair-faced Christian
knight whom they found lying, rolled in blood, by the rock of Alpujarro.
Soon they came to tell Guy that Isabel was recovering from her swoon.
She was hardly conscious when he entered the room, and he heard her
moaning, "I am so cold, so cold," shivering all over, though she was
warmly wrapped in cloaks and shawls.
The village doctor, a mild, helpless-looking man, was sitting by her
bedside. He tried to feel her pulse just then, I suppose to show that he
could be of some use; but she shrunk away from him, and beckoned to her
cousin to come near. He motioned to the others to leave them alone, and,
kneeling down by her, took her hand in his.
"Guy, dear," she said, "I know I have been so very wicked and ungrateful
to you; but you must not be angry. I have no one left to take care of me
but you, now. I will try to be patient; indeed, indeed I will." Her
voice was faint and exhausted, but as gentle as ever.
He held her hand faster, and bent his forehead down upon it.
"You are not wicked--only too weak to bear your sorrow. If I only knew
what to do to comfort you! But I am so rough and harsh, even when I mean
to be kind. I can say nothing, either. I suppose you ought to submit,
but I can not tell you how; it is a lesson I have never been able to
learn."
"You can do this," she said. "Let me go to him. Ah! don't refuse. I will
be calm and good. Indeed I will. But I must go"--she sank her voice into
a lower whisper yet--"I have not kissed him to-night."
There was something so unspeakably piteous in her tone and in her
imploring eyes, that had grown quite soft again, though no tears had
moistened them, that Guy could hardly answer her.
"I did not mean to refuse you, dear," he said, at last. "I won't even
ask you to wait. If you are not strong enough to walk, I will carry
you."
She rose slowly and painfully, as if her limbs were stiff with cold; but
she could stand, and walk with his arm round her; and so these two moved
slowly along the deserted passages toward the room where the corpse lay.
There was nothing shocking in its appearance now. All the traces of
murder had been washed away, and they had arranged the silky chestnut
hair till it concealed the wound, and fell in smooth waves over the
white forehead. That sweet calm which will sometimes descend on the face
of the dead, even when their end has been violent--the sad _Alpen-gluth_
that comes only when the sun has set--was there in all its beauty. Save
that the features were somewhat sharper than in life, there was nothing
to mar their pure classical outline. It was well, indeed, that Guy held
her back two hours ago. If Isabel had looked on them then, I believe she
would have gone mad with terror, if not with sorrow. It matters much,
the expression of a face, when it is sure to mingle in our dreams for
many after years.
Guy led her up to the bedside, and left the room as she sank down on her
knees. He remained outside the closed door, for he thought she might
need help if her strength failed suddenly; and I joined him there.
For some time we heard only the quick, stormy sobs, and the kisses
showering down; then came the piteous, heart-broken wail that called
upon her husband's name; and then the great gush of tears that saved
her. After that there was a murmur, often broken off but always
renewed: we both bowed our heads reverently, for we knew the widow was
praying.
She came forth at length, her head buried in her hands; but she could
walk to her room unassisted, and allowed them to undress her there,
without a word but thanks. Before long nature would have her way, and
she was sleeping quietly.
While we were waiting the return of the men who had gone out in pursuit,
Livingstone went alone into the death-chamber. He staid there some
minutes. When he came out his face was paler than ever, and there was a
sort of horror in his eyes.
He took my arm and led me into the room without speaking. "Do you see
that?" he asked, lifting the hair gently that fell over the left check
of the corpse.
Distinctly and lividly marked on the waxen flesh were the five fingers
of a man's _open hand_.
"Do you think that was a brigand's work?" he went on, his gripe
tightening till I could scarcely bear the pain. "They always strike with
a weapon or with the clenched fist. Shall I tell you whose mark that is?
Bruce's. If he did not murder him himself, he struck him after he was
dead."
"Impossible," I said; "how could he? He has never--"
Livingstone cast my arm loose somewhat impatiently. "We shall know all
some day," he growled, his whole face black with passion. "I am
convinced of it. If he's on earth I'll find him; and when I do, if I
show him mercy or let him go--" The imprecation that followed was not
less solemn and terrible because it was muttered to his own heart.
"We must never let Isabel guess the truth," he said, when he became
calmer. "It would be worse than all. She would always think she had
caused this, and she has enough to bear up against already. God help
her!"
Soon Agläe came to tell us that her mistress was asleep. The
Frenchwoman's first impulse had been to be hysterical and helpless; it
was only her terror of Guy prevailing over all others that made her, as
she was, very useful.
He went to the door for an instant, and looked at Isabel. Dreamland was
kinder and pleasanter to her than real life, poor child, for there was a
smile on her lips that, when she was waking, would be long in visiting
them. How would ships or men ever last out if there were not some
harbors of refuge to rest in before going out into the wild weather
again? Truly she had won hers for the moment; it looked as if an angel
had come down to smooth, this time, instead of troubling the waters.
The pursuers came back empty-handed; they had not come upon the faintest
trace, nor could they hear of any suspicious character having been seen
in the neighborhood.
Guy betrayed no impatience when he heard this; but he went out himself
with some of the best men, and spent the rest of the night and all the
following morning on the quest. All to no purpose. He returned about
noon, with his companions quite fagged out; but fatigue and
sleeplessness seemed to have no grasp upon his frame.
Isabel was up, and had been asking for him several times. When he saw
her, she offered no opposition to his wish to go on straight to Rome the
next day. Neither then nor at any future time did she ever ask for any
particulars of her husband's death.
Her old child-like dependence and trust in her cousin had come back, and
all through the journey she was quite tranquil. It is true, we hardly
ever saw her face, for her veil was closely drawn. Her grief was not the
less painful to witness because it was so little demonstrative. Very old
and very young women, in the plenitude of their benevolence, are good
enough to sympathize with any tale of woe, however absurdly exaggerated;
but men, I think, are most moved by the simple and quiet sorrows. We
smile at the critical point of a spasmodic tragedy, complacently as the
Lucretian philosopher looking down from the cliff on the wild sea; we
yawn over the wailings of Werter and Raphael, but we ponder gravely over
the last chapters of the _Heir of Redclyffe_, and feel a curious
sensation in the throat--perhaps the slightest dimness of vision--when
we read in _The Newcomes_ how that noble old soldier crowned the
chivalry of a stainless life, dying in the Gray Brother's gown.
There were many at Rome who had known Forrester and loved him well, and
all these followed him to his grave. I do not think he had an enemy on
earth except the man who slew him.
What are the qualifications of a general favorite? Good looks, good
birth, good-humor, and good assurance will do much; but the want of one
or more of these will not invalidate the election, nor the union of all
four insure it. It must be very pleasant to serve in the _compagnie
d'élite_. They have privileges to which the Line may not aspire. It does
not much matter what they do. Their victories make them no enemies, and
their defeats raise them up hosts of sympathizers and apologists. When
they err gravely, if you hint at the misdemeanor, a "true believer"
looks at you indignantly, not to say contemptuously, and says, "What
could you expect? It's only poor--" Yes, it is a great gift--Amiability;
and when the possessor dies, it is profoundly true that better men might
be better spared.
Very soon Raymond came to take his daughter back to England. That calm
old calculating machine was more deranged and shocked by the catastrophe
than I should have thought it possible he would have been by any earthly
disaster. He was getting older now, and more broken, it is true, and so,
perhaps, was more accessible to the weakness of sympathy. At all events,
nothing could be kinder and more considerate than his conduct to Isabel.
Guy and I still lingered on in Rome. He was untiring in his researches,
but quite unsuccessful. Yet it was not that the police were remiss, or
the country people inclined to shield the murderer. The best of them
would have sold his own father to the guillotine for half the reward
offered by Livingstone, for he lavished as much gold in trying to clear
up that crime as in old days the Cenci or Colonna did to smother theirs.
At length we were forced to give it up, and returned home in the
_Petrel_. I own I despaired of ever being more successful; but my
companion evidently had not done so, for I heard him, more than once,
mutter to himself, in the same low, determined tone, "If he is on
earth, I'll find him."
Immediately on our arrival, Guy went up to Bruce's home in Scotland. He
only learned that the latter had not been there for a long time; but
that some months back, Allan Macbane, a sort of steward and old
dependent of the family, had left suddenly, summoned, it was supposed,
by his master. More the people could not or would not tell.
At his banker's it was discovered that, immediately after the
Forresters' marriage, he had drawn out a very large sum--not in letters
of credit, but in bank-notes--and had not been heard of since. After
much trouble, we did find out that one of the large notes had been
changed at Florence about the time of the murder, but the description of
the person did not answer in the least to that of Bruce or the man who
was supposed to be his attendant. All trace stopped there. So the months
rolled away. I constantly saw Guy, and sometimes was with him both in
town and at Kerton, where Isabel was staying with Lady Catharine. He
still appeared to have no doubt of the ultimate result of the search,
which, personally or by deputy, he never intermitted for a day.