I rose very early the next morning—I was more than ever strengthened in
my resolutions of the past night—my projects were entirely formed, and
nothing remained now but for me to carry them out. Unobserved of any
one I took my way again to the vault. I carried with me a small
lantern, a hammer, and some strong nails. Arrived at the cemetery I
looked carefully everywhere about me, lest some stray mourner or
curious stranger might possibly be in the neighborhood. Not a soul was
in sight. Making use of the secret passage, I soon found myself on the
scene of my recent terrors and sufferings, all of which seemed now so
slight in comparison with the mental torture of my present condition. I
went straight to the spot where I had left the coffined treasure—I
possessed myself of all the rolls of paper money, and disposed them in
various small packages about my person and in the lining of my clothes
till, as I stood, I was worth many thousand of francs. Then with the
help of the tools I had brought, I mended the huge chest in the split
places where I had forced it open, and nailed it up fast so that it
looked as if it had never been touched. I lost no time over my task,
for I was in haste. It was my intention to leave Naples for a fortnight
or more, and I purposed taking my departure that very day. Before
leaving the vault I glanced at the coffin I myself had occupied. Should
I mend that and nail it up as though my body were still inside?
No—better leave it as it was—roughly broken open—it would serve my
purpose better so. As soon as I had finished all I had to do, I
clambered through the private passage, closing it after me with extra
care and caution, and then I betook myself directly to the Molo. On
making inquiries among the sailors who were gathered there, I heard
that a small coasting brig was on the point of leaving for Palermo.
Palermo would suit me as well as any other place; I sought out the
captain of the vessel. He was a brown-faced, merry-eyed mariner—he
showed his glittering white teeth in the most amiable of smiles when I
expressed my desire to take passage with him, and consented to the
arrangement at once for a sum which I thought extremely moderate, but
which I afterward discovered to be about treble his rightful due. But
the handsome rogue cheated me with such grace and exquisite courtesy,
that I would scarcely have had him act otherwise than he did. I hear a
good deal of the “plain blunt honesty” of the English. I dare say there
is some truth in it, but for my own part I would rather be cheated by a
friendly fellow who gives you a cheery word and a bright look than
receive exact value for my money from the “plain blunt” boor who seldom
has the common politeness to wish you a good-day.
We got under way at about nine o’clock—the morning was bright, and the
air, for Naples, was almost cool. The water rippling against the sides
of our little vessel had a gurgling, chatty murmur, as though it were
talking vivaciously of all the pleasant things it experienced between
the rising and the setting of the sun; of the corals and trailing
sea-weed that grew in its blue depths, of the lithe glittering fish
that darted hither and thither between its little waves, of the
delicate shells in which dwelt still more delicate inhabitants,
fantastic small creatures as fine as filmy lace, that peeped from the
white and pink doors of their transparent habitations, and looked as
enjoyingly on the shimmering blue-green of their ever-moving element as
we look on the vast dome of our sky, bespangled thickly with stars. Of
all these things, and many more as strange and sweet, the gossiping
water babbled unceasingly; it had even something to say to me
concerning woman and woman’s love. It told me gleefully how many fair
female bodies it had seen sunk in the cold embrace of the conquering
sea, bodies, dainty and soft as the sylphs of a poet’s dream, yet
which, despite their exquisite beauty, had been flung to and fro in
cruel sport by the raging billows, and tossed among pebbles for the
monsters of the deep to feed upon.
As I sat idly on the vessel’s edge and looked down, down into the clear
Mediterranean, brilliantly blue as a lake of melted sapphires, I
fancied I could see her the Delilah of my life, lying prone on the
golden sand, her rich hair floating straightly around her like yellow
weed, her hands clinched in the death agony, her laughing lips blue
with the piercing chilliness of the washing tide—powerless to move or
smile again. She would look well so, I thought—better to my mind than
she looked in the arms of her lover last night. I fell into a train of
profound meditation—a touch on my shoulder startled me. I looked up,
the captain of the brig stood beside me. He smiled and held out a
cigarette.
“The _signor_ will smoke?” he said courteously.
I accepted the little roll of fragrant Havanna half mechanically.
“Why do you call me _signor_?” I inquired brusquely. “I am a
coral-fisher.”
The little man shrugged his shoulders and bowed deferentially, yet with
the smile still dancing gayly in his eyes and dimpling his olive
cheeks.
“Oh, certainly! As the _signor_ pleases—ma—” And he ended with another
expressive shrug and bow.
I looked at him fixedly. “What do you mean?” I asked with some
sternness.
With that birdlike lightness and swiftness which were part of his
manner, the Sicilian skipper bent forward and laid a brown finger on my
wrist.
“_Scusa, vi prego_! But the hands are not those of a fisher of coral.”
I glanced down at them. True enough, their smoothness and pliant shape
betrayed my disguise—the gay little captain was sharp-witted enough to
note the contrast between them and the rough garb I wore, though no one
else with whom I had come in contact had been as keen of observation as
he. At first I was slightly embarrassed by his remark—but after a
moment’s pause I met his gaze frankly, and lighting my cigarette I
said, carelessly:
“_Ebbene_! And what then, my friend?”
He made a deprecatory gesture with his hands.
“Nay, nay, nothing—but only this. The _signor_ must understand he is
perfectly safe with me. My tongue is discreet—I talk of things only
that concern myself. The _signor_ has good reasons for what he does—of
that I am sure. He has suffered; it is enough to look in his face to
see that. Ah, _Dio_ if there are so many sorrows in life; there is
love,” he enumerated rapidly on his fingers—“there is revenge—there are
quarrels—there is loss of money; any of these will drive a man from
place to place at all hours and in all weathers. Yes; it is so,
indeed—I know it! The _signor_ has trusted himself in my boat—I desire
to assure him of my best services.”
And he raised his red cap with so charming a candor that in my lonely
and morose condition I was touched to the heart. Silently I extended my
hand—he caught it with an air in which respect, sympathy, and entire
friendliness were mingled. And yet he overcharged me for my passage,
you exclaim! Ay—but he would not have made me the object of impertinent
curiosity for twenty times the money! You cannot understand the
existence of such conflicting elements in the Italian character? No—I
dare say not. The tendency of the calculating northerner under the same
circumstances would have been to make as much out of me as possible by
means of various small and contemptible items, and then to go with
broadly honest countenance to the nearest police-station and describe
my suspicious appearance and manner, thus exposing me to fresh expense
besides personal annoyance. With the rare tact that distinguishes the
southern races the captain changed the conversation by a reference to
the tobacco we were both enjoying.
“It is good, is it not?” he asked.
“Excellent!” I answered, as indeed it was.
His white teeth glittered in a smile of amusement.
“It should be of the finest quality—for it is a present from one who
will smoke nothing but the choice brands. Ah, _Dio_! what a fine
gentleman spoiled is Carmelo Neri!”
I could not repress a slight start of surprise. What caprice of Fate
associated me with this famous brigand? I was actually smoking his
tobacco, and I owed all my present wealth to his stolen treasures
secreted in my family vault!
“You know the man, then?” I inquired with some curiosity.
“Know him? As well as I know myself. Let me see, it is two
months—yes—two months to-day since he was with me on board this very
vessel. It happened in this way—I was at Gaeta—he came to me and told
me the gendarmes were after him. He offered me more gold than I ever
had in my life to take him to Termini, from whence he could get to one
of his hiding-places in the Montemaggiore. He brought Teresa with him;
he found me alone on the brig, my men had gone ashore. He said, ‘Take
us to Termini and I will give you so much; refuse and I will slit your
throat.’ Ha! ha! ha! That was good. I laughed at him. I put a chair for
Teresa on deck, and gave her some big peaches. I said, ‘See, my
Carmelo! what use is there in threats? You will not kill me, and I
shall not betray you. You are a thief, and a bad thief—by all the
saints you are—but I dare say you would not be much worse than the
hotel-keepers, if you could only keep your hand off your knife.’ (For
you know, _signor_, if you once enter a hotel you must pay almost a
ransom before you can get out again!) Yes—and I reasoned with Carmelo
in this manner: I told him, ‘I do not want a large fortune for carrying
you and Teresa across to Termini—pay me the just passage and we shall
part friends, if only for Teresa’s sake.’ Well, he was surprised. He
smiled that dark smile of his, which may mean gratitude or murder. He
looked at Teresa. She sprung up from her seat, and let her peaches fall
from her lap on the deck. She put her little hands on mine—the tears
were in her pretty blue eyes. ‘You are a good man,’ she said. ‘Some
woman must love you very much!’ Yes—she said that. And she was right.
Our Lady be praised for it!”
And his dark eyes glanced upward with a devout gesture of thanksgiving.
I looked at him with a sort of jealous hunger gnawing at my heart. Here
was another self deluded fool—a fond wretch feasting on the
unsubstantial food of a pleasant dream—a poor dupe who believed in the
truth of woman!
“You are a happy man,” I said with a forced smile; “you have a guiding
star for your life as well as for your boat—a woman that loves you and
is faithful? is it so?”
He answered me directly and simply, raising his cap slightly as he did
so.
“Yes, _signor_—my mother.”
I was deeply touched by his naive and unexpected reply—more deeply than
I cared to show. A bitter regret stirred in my soul—why, oh, why had my
mother died so young! Why had I never known the sacred joy that seemed
to vibrate through the frame, and sparkle in the eyes of this common
sailor! Why must I be forever alone, with a curse of a woman’s lie on
my life, weighing me down to the dust and ashes of a desolate despair!
Something in my face must have spoken my thoughts, for the captain
said, gently:
“The _signor_ has no mother?”
“She died when I was but a child,” I answered, briefly.
The Sicilian puffed lightly at his cigarette in silence—the silence of
an evident compassion. To relieve him of his friendly embarrassment, I
said:
“You spoke of Teresa? Who is Teresa?”
“Ah, you may well ask, _signor_! No one knows who she is; she loves
Carmelo Neri, and there all is said. Such a little thing she is—so
delicate! like a foam-bell on the waves; and Carmelo—You have seen
Carmelo, _signor_?”
I shook my head in the negative.
“_Ebbene_! Carmelo is big and rough and black like a wolf of the
forests, all hair and fangs; Teresa is, well! you have seen a little
cloud in the sky at night, wandering past the moon all flecked with
pale gold?—that is Teresa. She is, small and slight as a child; she has
rippling curls, and soft praying eyes, and tiny, weak, white hands, not
strong enough to snap a twig in two. Yet she can do anything with
Carmelo—she is the one soft spot in his life.”
“I wonder if she is true to him,” I muttered, half to myself and half
aloud.
The captain caught up my words with an accent of surprise.
“True to him? Ah, _Dio_! but the _signor_ does not know her. There was
one of Carmelo’s own band, as bold and handsome a cut-throat as ever
lived—he was mad for Teresa—he followed her everywhere like a beaten
cur. One day he found her alone; he tried to embrace her—she snatched a
knife from his own girdle and stabbed him with it, like a little fury!
She did not kill him then, but Carmelo did afterward. To think of a
little woman like that with such a devil in her! It is her boast that
no man, save Carmelo, has ever touched so much as a ringlet of her
hair. Ay; she is true to him—more’s the pity.”
“Why—you would not have her false?” I asked.
“Nay, nay—for a false woman deserves death—but still it is a pity
Teresa should have fixed her love on Carmelo. Such a man! One day the
gendarmes will have him, then he will be in the galleys for life, and
she will die. Yes—you may be sure of that! If grief does not kill her
quickly enough, then she will kill herself, that is certain! She is
slight and frail to look at as a flower, but her soul is strong as
iron. She, will have her own way in death as well as in love—some women
are made so, and it is generally the weakest-looking among them who
have the most courage.”
Our conversation was here interrupted by one of the sailors who came
for his master’s orders. The talkative skipper, with an apologetic
smile and bow, placed his box of cigarettes beside me where I sat, and
left me to my own reflections.
I was not sorry to be alone. I needed a little breathing time—a rest in
which to think, though my thoughts, like a new solar system, revolved
round the red planet of one central idea, _vengeance_. “A false woman
deserves death.” Even this simple Sicilian mariner said so. “Go and
kill her, go and kill her!” These words reiterated themselves over and
over again in my ears, till I found myself almost uttering them aloud.
My soul sickened at the contemplation of the woman Teresa—the mistress
of a wretched brigand whose name was fraught with horror—whose looks
were terrific—she, even _she_ could keep herself sacred from the
profaning touch of other men’s caresses—she was proud of being faithful
to her wolf of the mountains, whose temper was uncertain and
treacherous—she could make lawful boast of her fidelity to her
blood-stained lover—while Nina—the wedded wife of a noble whose descent
was lofty and unsullied, could tear off the fair crown of honorable
marriage and cast it in the dust—could take the dignity of an ancient
family and trample upon it—could make herself so low and vile that even
this common Teresa, knowing all, might and most probably would, refuse
to touch her hand, considering it polluted. Just God! what had Carmelo
Neri done to deserve the priceless jewel of a true woman’s heart? what
had I done to merit such foul deception as that which I was now called
upon to avenge? Suddenly I thought of my child. Her memory came upon me
like a ray of light—I had almost forgotten her. Poor little
blossom!—the slow hot tears forced themselves between my eyelids, as I
called up before my fancy the picture of the soft baby face—the young
untroubled eyes—the little coaxing mouth always budding into innocent
kisses! What should I do with her? When the plan of punishment I had
matured in my brain was carried out to its utmost, should I take her
with me far, far away into some quiet corner of the world, and devote
my life to hers? Alas! alas! she, too, would be a woman and
beautiful—she was a flower born of a poisoned tree, who could say that
there might not be a canker-worm hidden even in her heart, which waited
but for the touch of maturity to commence its work of destruction! Oh,
men! you that have serpents coiled round your lives in the shape of
fair false women—if God has given you children by them, the curse
descends upon you doubly! Hide it as you will under the society masks
we are all forced to wear, you know there is nothing more keenly
torturing than to see innocent babes look trustingly in the deceitful
eyes of an unfaithful wife, and call her by the sacred name of
“Mother.” Eat ashes and drink wormwood, you shall find them sweet in
comparison to that nauseating bitterness! For the rest of the day I was
very much alone. The captain of the brig spoke cheerily to me now and
then, but we were met by light contrary winds that necessitated his
giving most of his attention to the management of his vessel, so that
he could not permit himself to yield to the love of gossip that was
inherent in him. The weather was perfect, and notwithstanding our
constant shifting and tacking about to catch the erratic breeze, the
gay little brig made merry and rapid way over the sparkling
Mediterranean, at a rate that promised our arrival at Palermo by the
sunset of the following day. As the evening came on the wind freshened,
and by the time the moon soared like a large blight bird into the sky,
we were scudding along sideways, the edge of our vessel leaning over to
kiss the waves that gleamed like silver and gold, flecked here and
there with phosphorescent flame. We skimmed almost under the bows of a
magnificent yacht—the English flag floated from her mast—her sails
glittered purely white in the moonbeams, and she sprung over the water
like a sea-gull. A man, whose tall athletic figure was shown off to
advantage by the yachting costume he wore, stood on deck, his arm
thrown round the waist of a girl beside him. We were but a minute or
two passing the stately vessel, yet I saw plainly this loving group of
two, and—I pitied the man! Why? He was English undoubtedly—the son of a
country where the very soil is supposed to be odorous of
virtue—therefore the woman beside him must be a perfect pearl of
purity; an Englishman never makes a mistake in these things! Never? Are
you sure? Ah, believe me, there is not much difference nowadays between
women of opposite nations. Once there was—I am willing to admit that
possibility. Once, from all accounts received, the English rose was the
fitting emblem of the English woman, but now, since the world has grown
so wise and made such progress in the art of running rapidly downhill,
is even the aristocratic British peer quite easy in his mind regarding
his fair peeress? Can he leave her to her own devices with safety? Are
there not men, boastful too of their “blue blood,” who are perhaps
ready to stoop to the thief’s trick of entering his house during his
absence by means of private keys, and stealing away his wife’s
affections?—and is not she, though a mother of three or four children,
ready to receive with favor the mean robber of her husband’s rights and
honor? Read the London newspapers any day and you will find that once
“moral” England is running a neck and neck race with other less
hypocritical nations in pursuit of social vice. The barriers that once
existed are broken down; “professional beauties” are received in
circles where their presence formerly would have been the signal for
all respectable women instantly to retire; ladies of title are
satisfied to caper on the boards of the theatrical stage, in costumes
that display their shape as undisguisedly as possible to the eyes of
the grinning public, or they sing in concert halls for the pleasure of
showing themselves off, and actually accept the vulgar applause of
unwashed crowds with a smile and a bow of gratitude! Ye gods! what has
become of the superb pride of the old regime—the pride which disdained
all ostentation and clung to honor more closely than life! What a
striking sign of the times too, is this: let a woman taint her virtue
BEFORE marriage, she is never forgiven—her sin is never forgotten; but
let her do what she will when she has a husband’s name to screen her,
and society winks its eyes at her crimes. Couple this fact with the
general spirit of mockery that prevails in fashionable circles—mockery
of religion, mockery of sentiment, mockery of all that is best and
noblest in the human heart—add to it the general spread of
“free-thought,” and _therefore_ of conflicting and unstable
opinions—let all these things together go on for a few years longer and
England will stare at her sister nations like a bold woman in a
domino—her features partly concealed from a pretense at shame, but her
eyes glittering coldly through the mask, betraying to all who look at
her how she secretly revels in her new code of lawlessness coupled with
greed. For she will always be avaricious—and the worst of it is, that
her nature being prosaic, there will be no redeeming grace to cast a
glamour about her. France is unvirtuous enough, God knows, yet there is
a sunshiny smile on her lips that cheers the heart. Italy is also
unvirtuous, yet her voice is full of bird-like melody, and her face is
a dream of perfect poetry! But England unvirtuous will be like a
cautiously calculating, somewhat shrewish matron, possessed of
unnatural and unbecoming friskiness, without either laugh, or song, or
smile—her one god, Gold, and her one commandment, the suggested
eleventh, “Thou shall not be found out!”
I slept that night on deck. The captain offered me the use of his
little cabin, and was, in his kind-hearted manner, truly distressed at
my persistent refusal to occupy it.
“It is bad to sleep in the moonlight, _signor_,” he said, anxiously.
“It makes men mad, they say.”
I smiled. Had madness been my destiny, I should have gone mad last
night, I thought!
“Have no fear!” I answered him, gently. “The moonlight is a joy to
me—it has no impression on my mind save that of peace. I shall rest
well here, my friend—do not trouble yourself about me.”
He hesitated and then abruptly left me, to return in the space of two
or three minutes with a thick rug of sheepskin. He insisted so
earnestly on my accepting this covering as a protection from the night
air, that, to please him, I yielded to his entreaties and lay down,
wrapped in its warm folds. The good-natured fellow then wished me a
“_Buon riposo, signor_!” and descended to his own resting-place,
humming a gay tune as he went. From my recumbent posture on the deck I
stared upward at the myriad stars that twinkled softly in the warm
violet skies—stared long and fixedly till it seemed to me that our ship
had also become a star, and was sailing through space with its
glittering companions. What inhabitants peopled those fair planets, I
wondered? Mere men and women who lived and loved and lied to one
another as bravely as we do? or superior beings to whom the least
falsehood is unknown? Was there one world among them where no women
were born? Vague fancies—odd theories—flitted through my brain. I lived
over again the agony of my imprisonment in the vaults—again I forced
myself to contemplate the scene I had witnessed between my wife and her
lover—again I meditated on every small detail requisite to the
fulfillment of the terrible vengeance I had designed. I have often
wondered how, in countries where divorce is allowed, a wronged husband
can satisfy himself with so meager a compensation for his injuries as
the mere getting rid of the woman who has deceived him. It is no
punishment to her—it is what she wishes. There is not even any very
special disgrace in it according to the present standard of social
observances. Were public whipping the recognized penalty for the crime
of a married woman’s infidelity, there would be fewer of the like
scandals—the divorce might follow the scourging. A daintily brought-up
feminine creature would think twice, nay, fifty times, before she would
run the risk of allowing her delicate body to be lashed by whips
wielded by the merciless hands of a couple of her own sex—such a
prospect of degradation, pain, shame, and outraged vanity would be more
effectual to kill the brute in her than all the imposing ceremonials of
courts of law and special juries. Think of it, kings, lords, and
commons! Whipping at the cart’s tail was once a legal punishment—if you
would stop the growing immorality and reckless vice of women you had
best revive it again—only apply it to rich as well as to poor, for it
is most probable that the gay duchesses and countesses of your lands
will need its sharp services more frequently than the work-worn wives
of your laboring men. Luxury, idleness, and love of dress are hot-beds
for sin—look for it, therefore, not so much in the hovels of the
starving and naked as in the rose-tinted, musk-scented boudoirs of the
aristocracy—look for it, as your brave physicians would search out the
seeds of a pestilence that threatens to depopulate a great city, and
trample it out if you _can_ and _will_—if you desire to keep the name
of your countries glorious in the eyes of future history. Spare not the
rod because “my lady” forsooth! with her rich hair falling around her
in beauteous dishevelment and her eyes bathed in tears, implores your
mercy—for by very reason of her wealth and station she deserves less
pity than the painted outcast who knows not where to turn for bread. A
high post demands high duty! But I talk wildly. Whipping is done away
with, for women at least—we give a well-bred shudder of disgust at the
thought of it. When do we shudder with equal disgust at our own social
enormities? Seldom or never. Meanwhile, in cases of infidelity,
husbands and wives can separate and go on their different ways in
comparative peace. Yes—some can and some do; but I am not one of these.
No law in all the world can mend the torn flag of _my_ honor; therefore
I must be a law to myself—a counsel, a jury, a judge, all in one and
from my decision there can be no appeal! Then I must act as
executioner—and what torture was ever so perfectly unique as the one I
have devised? So I mused, lying broadly awake, with face upturned to
the heavens, watching the light of the moon pouring itself out on the
ocean like a shower of gold, while the water rushed gurgling softly
against the sides of the brig, and broke into the laughter of white
foam as we scudded along.