followed him as usual at a safe distance, threading the winding ways
towards the Piazza di Venezia. There used to be a small cafe then under
the corner of that part of the Palazzo Torlonia which has now been
pulled down. Lord Redin entered it, and Stefanone lingered on the other
side of the street. A man passed him who sold melon seeds and aquavitae,
and Stefanone drank a glass of the one and bought a measure of the
other. The Romans are fond of the taste of the tiny dry kernel which is
found inside the broad white shell of the seed. Presently Lord Redin
came out, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, and went on. Stefanone
followed him again, walking fast when his enemy had turned a corner and
slackening his speed as soon as he caught sight of him again.
Francesca was out. He saw Lord Redin's look of annoyance as the latter
turned away after speaking with the porter, and he fell back into the
shadow of a doorway, expecting that the Scotchman would take the street
by which he had come. But Dalrymple turned down the narrow lane beside
the palace, in the direction of the Tiber. Stefanone's bloodshot eyes
opened suddenly as he sprang after him; with a quick movement he got his
knife out, opened it, and thrust his hand with it open into the wide
pocket of his jacket. Lord Redin had never gone down that lane before,
to Stefanone's knowledge, and it was a hundred to one that at that hour
no one would be about. Stefanone himself did not know the place.
Dalrymple must have heard the quick and heavy footsteps of the peasant
behind him, but it would not have been at all like him to turn his
head. With loose, swinging gait he strode along, and his heavy stick
made high little echoes as it struck the dry cobble-stones.
Stefanone was very near him. His eyes glared redly, and his hand with
the knife in it was half out of his pocket. In ten steps more he would
spring and strike upwards, as Romans do. He chose the spot on the dark
overcoat where his knife should go through, below the shoulder-blade, at
the height of the small ribs on the left side. His lips were parted and
dry.
There was a loud scream of anger, a tremendous clattering noise, and a
sound of feet. Stefanone turned suddenly pale, and his hand went to the
bottom of his pocket again.
On an open doorstep lay a copper 'conca'--the Roman water jar--a
wretched dog was rushing down the street with something in its mouth, in
front of Lord Redin, a woman was pursuing it with yells, swinging a
small wooden stool in her right hand, to throw it at the dog, and the
neighbours were on their doorsteps in a moment. Stefanone slunk under
the shadow of the wall, grinding his teeth. The chance was gone. The
streets beyond were broader and more populous.
Lord Redin went steadily onward, evidently familiar with every turn of
the way, down to the Tiber, across the Bridge of Quattro Capi, and over
the island of Saint Bartholomew to Trastevere, turning then to the right
through the straight Lungaretta, past Santa Maria and under the heights
of San Pietro in Montorio, and so to the Lungara and by Santo Spirito to
the Piazza of Saint Peter's. He walked fast, and Stefanone twice wiped
the perspiration from his forehead on the way, for he was nervous from
the tension and the disappointment, and felt suddenly weak.
The Scotchman never paused, but crossed the vast square and went up the
steps of the basilica. He was evidently going to hear the Vespers. Then
Stefanone, instead of following him into the church, sat down outside
the wine shop on the right, just opposite the end of the Colonnade. He
ordered a measure of wine and prepared to wait, for he guessed that Lord
Redin would remain in the church at least an hour.
CHAPTER XLVI.
LORD REDIN lifted the heavy leathern curtain of the door on the right of
the main entrance to the basilica, and went into the church. For some
reason or other, the majority of people go in by that door rather than
the other. It may be that the reason is a very simple one, after all.
Most people are right handed, and of any two doors side by side leading
into the same place, will instinctively take the one on the right. The
practice of passing to the left in the street, in almost all old
countries, was for the sake of safety, in order that a man might have
his sword hand towards any one he met.
The air of the church was warm, and had a faint odour of incense in it.
The temperature of the vast building varies but little with the seasons;
going into it in winter, it seems warm, in summer it is very cold. On
that day there were not many people in the nave, though a soft sound of
unceasing footsteps broke the stillness. Very far away an occasional
strain of music floated on the air from the Chapel of the Choir, the
last on the left before the transept is reached. Lord Redin walked
leisurely in the direction of the sound.
The chapel was full, and the canons were intoning the psalms of the
office. At the conclusion of each one the choir sang the 'Gloria' from
the great organ loft on the right. It chanced that there were a number
of foreigners on that day, and they had filled all the available space
within the gate, and there was a small crowd outside, pressing as close
as possible in order to hear the voices more distinctly. Lord Redin was
taller than most men, and looking over the heads of the others he saw
Francesca Campodonico's pale profile in the thick of the press. She
evidently wished to extricate herself, and she seemed to be suffering
from the closeness, for she pressed her handkerchief nervously to her
lips, and her eyes were half closed. Lord Redin forced his way to her
without much consideration for the people who hindered him. A few
minutes later he brought her out on the side towards the transept.
"Thank you," said Francesca. "I should like to sit down. I had almost
fainted--there was a woman next to me who had musk about her."
They went round the pillar of the dome to the south transept where there
are almost always a number of benches set along the edges of a huge
green baize carpet. They sat down together on the end of one of the
seats.
"We can go back, by and bye, and hear the music, if you like," said
Francesca. "The psalms will last some time longer."
"I would rather sit here and talk, since I have had the good luck to
meet you," answered Lord Redin, resting his elbows on his knees, and
idly poking the green carpet with the end of his stick. "I went to your
house, and they told me that you would very probably be here."
"Yes. I often come. But you know that, for we have met here before. I
only stay at home on Sundays when it rains."
"Oh! Is that the rule?"
"Yes, if you call it a rule," answered Francesca.
"I like to know about the things you do, and how you spend your life,"
said the Scotchman, thoughtfully.
"Do you? Why? There is nothing very interesting about my existence, it
seems to me."
"It interests me. It makes me feel less lonely to know about some one
else--some one I like very much."
Francesca looked at her companion with an expression of pity. She was
lonely, too, but in a different way. The little drama of her life had
run sadly and smoothly. She was willing to give the man her friendship
if it could help him, rather because he seemed to ask for it in a mute
fashion than because she desired his.
"Lord Redin," she said, after a little pause, "do you always mean to
live in this way?"
"Alone? Yes. It is the only way I can live, at my age."
"At your age--would it make any difference if you were younger?" asked
Francesca. She dropped her voice to a low key. "You would never marry
again, even if you were much younger."
"Marry!" His shoulders moved with a sort of little start. "You do not
know what you are saying!" he added, almost under his breath, though she
heard the words distinctly.
She looked at him again, in silence, during several seconds, and she saw
how the colour sank away from his face, till the skin was like old
parchment. The hand that held the heavy stick tightened round it and
grew yellow at the knuckles.
"Forgive me," she said gently. "I am very thoughtless--it is the second
time."
He did not speak for some moments, but she understood his silence and
waited. The air was very quiet, and the enormous pillar of the dome
almost completely shut off the echo of the distant music. The low
afternoon sun streamed levelly through the great windows of the apse,
for the basilica is built towards the west. There were very few people
in the church that day. The sun made visible beams across the high
shadows overhead.
Suddenly Lord Redin spoke again. There was something weak and tremulous
in the tone of his rough voice.
"I am very much attached to you, for two reasons," he said. "We have
known each other long, but not intimately."
"That is true. Not very intimately."
Francesca did not know exactly what to say. But for his manner and for
his behaviour a few moments earlier, she might have fancied that he was
about to offer himself to her, but such an idea was very far from her
thoughts. Her woman's instinct told her that he was going to tell her
something in the nature of a confidence.
"Precisely," he continued. "We have never been intimate. The reason why
we have not been intimate is one of the reasons why I am more attached
to you than you have ever guessed."
"That is complicated," said Francesca, with a smile. "Perhaps the other
reason may be simpler."
"It is very simple, very simple indeed, though it will not seem natural
to you. You are the only very good woman I ever knew, who made me feel
that she was good instead of making me see it. Perhaps you think it
unnatural that I should be attracted by goodness at all. But I am not
very bad, as men go."
"No. I do not believe you are. And I am not so good as you think." She
sighed softly.
"You are much better than I once thought," answered Lord Redin. "Once
upon a time--well, I should only offend you, and I know better now.
Forgive me for thinking of it. I wish to tell you something else."
"If it is something which has been your secret, it is better not told,"
said Francesca, quietly. "One rarely makes a confidence that one does
not regret it."
"You are a wise woman." He looked at her thoughtfully. "And yet you must
be very young."
"No. But though I have had my own life apart, I have lived outwardly
very much in the world, although I am still young. Most of the secrets
which have been told me have been repeated to me by the people in whom
others had confided."
"All that is true," he answered. "Nevertheless--" He paused. "I am
desperate!" he exclaimed, with sudden energy. "I cannot bear this any
longer--I am alone, always, always. Sometimes I think I shall go mad!
You do not know what a life I lead. I have not even a vice to comfort
me!" He laughed low and savagely. "I tried to drink, but I am sick of
it--it does no good! A man who has not even a vice is a very lonely
man."
Francesca's clear eyes opened wide with a startled look, and gazed
towards his averted face, trying to catch his glance. She felt that she
was close to something very strong and dreadful which she could not
understand.
"Do not speak like that!" she said. "No one is lonely who believes in
God."
"God!" he exclaimed bitterly. "God has forgotten me, and the devil will
not have me!" He looked at her at last, and saw her face. "Do not be
shocked," he said, with a sorrowful smile. "If I were as bad as I seem
to you just now, I should have cut my throat twenty years ago."
"Hush! Hush!" Francesca did not know what to say.
His manner changed a little, and he spoke more calmly.
"I am not eloquent," he said, looking into her eyes. "You may not
understand. But I have suffered a great deal."
"Yes. I know that. I am very sorry for you."
"I think you are," he answered. "That is why I want to be honest and
tell you the truth about myself. For that reason, and because I cannot
bear it any longer. I cannot, I cannot!" he repeated in a low,
despairing tone.
"If it will help you to tell me, then tell me," said Francesca, kindly.
"But I do not ask you to. I do not see why we should not be the best of
friends without my knowing this thing which weighs on your mind."
"You will understand when I have told you," answered Lord Redin. "Then
you can judge whether you will have me for a friend or not. It will seem
very bad to you. Perhaps it is. I never thought so. But you are a Roman
Catholic, and that makes a difference."
"Not in a question of right and wrong."
"It makes the question what it is. You shall hear."
He paused a moment, and the lines and furrows deepened in his face. The
sun was sinking fast, and the long beams had faded away out of the
shadows. There was no one in sight now, but the music of the benediction
service echoed faintly in the distance. Francesca felt her heart beating
with a sort of excitement she could not understand, and though she did
not look at her companion, her ears were strained to catch the first
word he spoke.
"I married a nun," he said simply.
Francesca started.
"A Sister of Charity?" she asked, after a moment's dead silence. "They
do not take vows--"
"No. A nun from the Carmelite Convent of Subiaco."
His words were very distinct. There was no mistaking what he said.
Francesca shrank from him instinctively, and uttered a low exclamation
of repugnance and horror.
"That is not all," continued Lord Redin, with a calm that seemed
supernatural. "She was your kinswoman. She was Maria Braccio, whom every
one believed was burned to death in her cell."
"But her body--they found it! It is impossible!" She thought he must be
mad.
"No. They found another body. I put it into the bed and set fire to the
mattress. It was burned beyond recognition, and they thought it was
Maria. But it was the body of old Stefanone's daughter. I lived in his
house. The girl poisoned herself with some of my chemicals--I was a
young doctor in those days. Maria and I were married on board an English
man-of-war, and we lived in Scotland after that. Gloria was the daughter
of Maria Braccio, the Carmelite nun--your kinswoman."
Francesca pressed her handkerchief to her lips. She felt as though she
were losing her senses. Minute after minute passed, and she could say
nothing. From time to time, Lord Redin glanced sideways at her. He
breathed hard once or twice, and his hands strained upon his stick as
though they would break it in two.
"Then she died," he said. When he had spoken the three words, he
shivered from head to foot, and was silent.
Still Francesca could not speak. The sacrilege of the deed was horrible
in itself. To her, who had grown up to look upon Maria Braccio as a holy
woman, cut off in her youth by a frightful death, the truth was
overwhelmingly awful. She strove within herself to find something upon
which she could throw the merest shadow of an extenuation, but she could
find nothing.
"You understand now why, as an honourable man, I wished to tell you the
truth about myself," he said, speaking almost coldly in the effort he
was making at self-control. "I could not ask for your friendship until I
had told you."
Francesca turned her white face slowly towards him in the dusk, and her
lips moved, but she did not speak. She could not in that first moment
find the words she wanted. She felt that she shrank from him, that she
never wished to touch his hand again. Doubtless, in time, she might get
over the first impression. She wished that he would leave her to think
about it.
"Can you ever be my friend now?" he asked gravely.
"Your friend--" she stopped, and shook her head sadly. "I--I am
afraid--" she could not go on.
Lord Redin rose slowly to his feet.
"No. I am afraid not," he said.
He waited a moment, but there was no reply.
"May I take you to your carriage?" he asked gently.
"No, thank you. No--that is--I am going home in a cab. I would rather be
alone--please."
"Then good-bye."
The lonely man went away and left her there. His head was bent, and she
thought that he walked unsteadily, as she watched him. Suddenly a great
wave of pity filled her heart. He looked so very lonely. What right had
she to judge him? Was she perfect, because he called her good? She
called him before he turned the great pillar of the dome.
"Lord Redin! Lord Redin!"
But her voice was weak, and in the vast, dim place it did not reach him.
He went on alone, past the high altar, round the pillar, down the nave.
The benediction service was not quite over yet, but every one who was
not listening to the music had left the church. He went towards the door
by which he had entered. Before going out he paused, and looked towards
the little chapel on the right of the entrance. He hesitated, and then
went to it and stood leaning with his hands upon the heavy marble
balustrade, that was low for his great height as he stood on the step.
A single silver lamp sent a faint light upwards that lingered upon the
Pieta above the altar, upon the marble limbs of the dead Christ, upon
the features of the Blessed Virgin, the Addolorata--the sorrowing
mother.
Bending a little, as though very weary, the friendless, wifeless,
childless man raised his furrowed face and looked up. There was no hope
any more, and his despair was heavy upon him whose young love had
blasted the lives of many.
His teeth were set--he could have bitten through iron. He trembled a
little, and as he looked upward, two dreadful tears--the tears of the
strong that are as blood--welled from his eyes and trickled down upon
his cheeks.
"Maria Addolorata!" he whispered.
CHAPTER XLVII.
FRANCESCA had half risen from her seat when she had seen that Lord Redin
did not hear her voice, calling to him. Then she realized that she could
not overtake him without running, since he had got so far, and she kept
her place, leaning back once more, and trying to collect her thoughts
before going home. The music was still going on in the Chapel of the
Choir, and though it was dusk in the vast church, it would not be dark
for some time. The vergers did not make their rounds to give warning of
the hour of closing until sunset. Francesca sat still and tried to
understand what she had heard. She was nervous and shaken, and she
wished that she were already at home. The great dimness of the lonely
transept was strangely mysterious--and the tale of the dead girl, burned
to take the place of the living, was grewsome, and made her shiver with
disgust and horror. She started nervously at the sound of a distant
footstep.
But the strongest impression she had, was that of abhorrence for the
unholy deeds of the man who had just left her. To a woman for whom
religion in its forms as well as in its meaning was the mainstay of
life on earth and the hope of life to come, the sacrilege of the crime
seemed supernatural. She felt as though it must be in some way her duty
to help in expiating it, lest the punishment of it should fall upon all
her race. And as she thought it over, trying to look at it as simply as
she could, she surveyed at a glance the whole chain of the fatal story,
and saw how many terrible things had followed upon that one great sin,
and how very nearly she herself had been touched by its consequences.
She had been involved in it and had become a part of it. She had felt it
about her for years, in her friendship for Reanda. It had contributed to
the causes of his death, if it had not actually caused it. She, in
helping to bring about his marriage with the daughter of her sinning
kinswoman, had unconsciously made a link in the chain. Her friendship
for the artist no longer looked as innocent as formerly. Gloria had
accused him of loving her, Francesca. Had she not loved him? Whether she
had or not, she had done things which had wounded his innocent young
wife. In a sudden and painful illumination of the past, she saw that she
herself had not been sinless; that she had been selfish, if nothing
worse; that she had craved Reanda's presence and devoted friendship, if
nothing more; that death had taken from her more than a friend. She saw
all at once the vanity of her own belief in her own innocence, and she
accused herself very bitterly of many things which had been quite hidden
from her until then.
She was roused by a footstep behind her, and she started at the sound of
a voice she knew, but which had changed oddly since she had last heard
it. It was stern, deep, and clear still, but the life was gone out of
it. It had an automatic sound.
"I beg your pardon, Princess," said Paul Griggs, stopping close to her
behind the bench. "May I speak to you for a moment?"
She turned her head. As the sun went down, the church grew lighter for a
little while, as it often does. Yet she could hardly see the man's eyes
at all, as she looked into his face. They were all in the shadow and had
no light in them.
"Sit down," she said mechanically.
She could not refuse to speak to him, and, indeed, she would not have
refused to receive him had she been at home when he had called that day.
Socially speaking, according to the standards of those around her, he
had done nothing which she could very severely blame. A woman he had
dearly loved had come to him for protection, and he had not driven her
away. That was the social value of what he had done. The moral view of
it all was individual with herself. Society gave her no right to treat
him rudely because she disapproved of his past life. For the rest, she
had liked him in former times, and she believed that there was much more
good in him than at first appeared.
She was almost glad that he had disturbed her solitude just then, for a
nervous sense of loneliness was creeping upon her; and though there had
been nothing to prevent her from rising and going away, she had felt
that something was holding her in her seat, a shadowy something that was
oppressive and not natural, that descended upon her out of the gloomy
heights, and that rose around her from the secret depths below, where
the great dead lay side by side in their leaden coffins.
"Sit down," she repeated, as Griggs came round the bench.
He sat down beside her. There was a little distance between them, and he
sat rather stiffly, holding his hat on his knees.
"I should apologize for disturbing you," he began. "I have been twice to
your house to-day, but you were out. What I wish to speak of is rather
urgent. I heard that you might be here, and so I came."
"Yes," she said, and waited for him to say more.
"What is it?" she asked presently, as he did not speak at once.
"It is about Dalrymple--about Lord Redin," he said at last. "You used to
know him. Do you ever see him now?"
Francesca looked at him with a little surprise, but she answered
quietly, as though the question were quite a natural one.
"He was here five minutes ago. Yes, I often see him."
"Would you do him a service?" asked Griggs, in his calm and indifferent
tone.
He was forcing himself to do what was plainly his duty, but he was
utterly incapable of taking any interest in the matter. Francesca
hesitated before she answered. An hour earlier she would have assented
readily enough, but now the idea of doing anything which could tend to
bring her into closer relations with Lord Redin was disagreeable.
"I do not think you will refuse," said Griggs, as she did not speak.
"His life is in danger."
She turned quickly and scrutinized the expressionless features. In the
glow of the sunset the church was quite light. The total unconcern of
the man's manner contrasted strangely with the importance of what he
said. Francesca felt that something must be wrong.
"You say that very coolly," she observed, and her tone showed that she
was incredulous.
"And you do not believe me," answered Griggs, quite unmoved. "It is
natural, I suppose. I will try to explain."
"Please do. I do not understand at all."
Nevertheless, she was startled, though she concealed her nervousness.
She had not spoken with Griggs for a long time; and as he talked, she
saw what a great change had taken place. He was very quiet, as he had
always been, but he was almost too quiet. She could not make out his
eyes. She knew of his superhuman strength, and his stillness seemed
unnatural. What he said did not sound rational. An impression got hold
of her that he had gone mad, and she was physically afraid of him. He
began to explain. She felt a singing in her ears, and she could not
follow what he said. It was like an evil dream, and it grew upon her
second by second.
He talked on in the same even, monotonous tone. The words meant nothing
to her. She crossed her feet nervously and tried to get a soothing
sensation by stroking her sable muff. She made a great effort at
concentration and failed to understand anything.
All at once it grew dark, as the sunset light faded out of the sky.
Again she felt the desire to rise and the certainty that she could not,
if she tried. He ceased speaking and seemed to expect her to say
something, but she had not understood a word of his long explanation. He
sat patiently waiting. She could hardly distinguish his face in the
gloom.
The sound of irregular, shuffling footsteps and low voices moved the
stillness. The vergers were making their last round in a hurried,
perfunctory way. They passed across the transept to the high altar. It
was so dark that Francesca could only just see their shadows moving in
the blackness. She did not realize what they were doing, and her
imagination made ghosts of them, rushing through the silence of the
deserted place, from one tomb to another, waking the dead for the night.
They did not even glance across, as they skirted the wall of the church.
Even if they had looked, they might not have seen two persons in black,
against the blackness, sitting silently side by side on the dark bench.
They saw nothing and passed on, out of sight and out of hearing.
"May I ask whether you will give him the message?" inquired Griggs at
last, moving in his seat, for he knew that it was time to be going.
Francesca started, at the sound of his voice.
"I--I am afraid--I have not understood," she said. "I beg your pardon--I
was not paying attention. I am nervous."
"It is growing late," said Griggs. "We had better be going--I will tell
you again as we walk to the door."
"Yes--no--just a moment!" She made a strong effort over herself. "Tell
me in three words," she said. "Who is it that threatens Lord Redin's
life?"
"A peasant of Subiaco called Stefanone. Really, Princess, we must be
going; it is quite dark--"
"Stefanone!" exclaimed Francesca, while he was speaking the last words,
which she did not hear. "Stefanone of Subiaco--of course!"
"We must really be going," said Griggs, rising to his feet, and
wondering indifferently why it was so hard to make her understand.
She rose to her feet slowly. Lord Redin's story was intricately confused
in her mind with the few words which she had retained of what Griggs had
said.
"Yes--yes--Stefanone," she said in a low voice, as though to herself,
and she stood still, comprehending the whole situation in a flash, and
imagining that Griggs knew the whole truth and had been telling it to
her as though she had not known it. "But how did you know that Lord
Redin took the girl's body and burnt it?" she asked, quite certain that
he had mentioned the fact.
"What girl?" asked Griggs in wonder.
"Why, the body of Stefanone's daughter, which he managed to burn in the
convent when he carried off my cousin! How did you know about it?"
"I did not know about it," said Griggs. "Your cousin? I do not
understand."
"My cousin--yes--Maria Braccio--Gloria's mother! You have just been
talking about her--"
"I?" asked Griggs, bewildered.
Francesca stepped back from him, suddenly guessing that she had revealed
Lord Redin's secret.
"Is it possible?" she asked in a low voice. "Oh, it is all a mistake!"
she cried suddenly. "I have told you his story--oh, I am losing my
head!"
"Come," said Griggs, authoritatively. "We must get out of the church, at
all events, or we shall be locked in."
"Oh no!" answered Francesca. "There is always somebody here--"
"There is not. You must really come."
"Yes--but there is no danger of being locked in. Yes--let us walk down
the nave. There is more light."
They walked slowly, for she was too much confused to hasten her steps.
Her inexplicable mistake troubled her terribly. She remembered how she
had warned Lord Redin not to tell her any secrets, and how seriously
she, the most discreet of women, had resolved never to reveal what he
had said. But the impression of his story had been so much more direct
and strong than even the first words Griggs had spoken, that so soon as
she had realized that the latter was speaking approximately of the same
subject, she had lost the thread of what he was saying and had seemed to
hear Lord Redin's dreadful tale all over again. She thought that she was
losing her head.
It was almost quite dark when they reached the other side of the high
altar. Griggs walked beside her in silence, trying to understand the
meaning of what she had said.
The gloom was terrible. The enormous statues loomed faintly like vast
ghosts, high up, between the floor and the roof, their whiteness
glimmering where there seemed to be nothing else but darkness below them
and above them. A low, far sound that was a voice but not a word,
trembled in the air. Francesca shuddered.
"They have not gone yet," said Griggs. "They are still talking. But we
must hurry."
"No," said Francesca, "that was not any one talking." And her teeth
chattered. "Give me your arm, please--I am frightened."
He held out his arm till she could feel it in the dark, and she took it.
He pressed her hand to his side and drew her along, for he feared that
the doors might be already shut.
"Not so fast! Oh, not so fast, please!" she cried. "I shall fall. They
do not shut the doors--"
"Yes, they do! Let me carry you. I can run with you in the dark--there
is no time to be lost!"
"No, no! I can walk faster--but there is really no danger--"
It is a very long way from the high altar to the main entrance of the
church. Francesca was breathless when they reached the door and Griggs
lifted the heavy leathern curtain. If the door had been still open, he
would have seen the twilight from the porch at once. Instead, all was
black and close and smelled of leather. Francesca was holding his
sleeve, afraid of losing him.
"It is too late," he said quietly. "We are probably locked in. We will
try the door of the Sacristy."
He seized her arm and hurried her along into the south aisle. He struck
his shoulder violently against the base of the pillar he passed in the
darkness, but he did not stop. Almost instinctively he found the door,
for he could not see it. Even the hideous skeleton which supports a
black marble drapery above it was not visible in the gloom. He found the
bevelled edge of the smoothly polished panel and pushed. But it would
not yield.
"We are locked in," he said, in the same quiet tone as before.
Francesca uttered a low cry of terror and then was silent.
"Cannot you break the door?" she asked suddenly.
"No," he answered. "Nothing short of a battering-ram could move it."
"Try," she said. "You are so strong--the lock might give way."
To satisfy her he braced himself and heaved against the panel with all
his gigantic strength. In the dark she could hear his breath drawn
through his nostrils.
"It will not move," he said, desisting. "We shall have to spend the
night here. I am very sorry."
For some moments Francesca said nothing, overcome by her terror of the
situation. Griggs stood still, with his back to the polished door,
trying to see her in the gloom. Then he felt her closer to him and heard
her small feet moving on the pavement.
"We must make the best of it," he said at last. "It is never quite dark
near the high altar. I daresay, too, that there is still a little
twilight where we were sitting. At least, there is a carpet there and
there are benches. We can sit there until it is later. Then you can lie
down upon the bench. I will make a pillow for you with my overcoat. It
is warm, and I shall not need it."
He made a step forwards, and she heard him moving.
"Do not leave me!" she cried, in sudden terror.
He felt her grasp his arm convulsively in the dark, and he felt her
hands shaking.
"Do not be frightened," he said, in his quiet voice. "Dead people do no
harm, you know. It is only imagination."
She shuddered as he groped his way with her toward the nave. They
passed the pillar and saw the soft light of the ninety little flames of
the huge golden lamps around the central shrine below the high altar.
Far beyond, the great windows showed faintly in the height of the
blackness. They walked more freely, keeping in the middle of the church.
In the distant chapels on each side a few little lamps glimmered like
fireflies. Before the last chapel on the right, the Chapel of the
Sacrament, Francesca paused, instinctively holding fast to Griggs's arm,
and they both bent one knee, as all Catholics do, who pass before it.
But when they reached the shrine, Francesca loosed her hold and sank
upon her knees, resting her arms upon the broad marble of the
balustrade. Griggs knelt a moment beside her, by force of habit, then
rose and waited, looking about him into the depths of blackness, and
reflecting upon the best spot in which to pass the night.
She remained kneeling a long time, praying more or less consciously, but
aware that it was a relief to be near a little light after passing
through the darkness. Her mind was as terribly confused as her
companion's was utterly calm and indifferent. If he had been alone he
would have sat down upon a step until he was sleepy and then he would
have stretched himself upon one of the benches in the transept. But to
Francesca it was unspeakably dreadful.
The strangeness of the whole situation forced itself upon her more and
more, when she thought of rising from her knees and going back to the
bench. She felt a womanly shyness about keeping close to her companion,
her hand on his arm, for hours together, but she knew that the terror
she should feel of being left alone, even for an instant, or of merely
thinking that she was to be left alone, would more than overcome that if
she went away from the lights. She would grasp his arm and hold it
tightly.
Then she felt ashamed of herself. She had always been told that she came
of a brave race. She had never been in danger, and there was really no
danger now. It was absurd to remain on her knees for the sake of the
lamps. She rose to her feet and turned. Griggs was not looking at her,
but at the ornaments on the altar. The soft glimmer lighted up his dark
face. A moment after she had risen he came forward. She meant to propose
that they should go back to the transept, but just then she shuddered
again.
"Let us sit down here, on the step," she said, suddenly.
"If you like," he answered. "Wait a minute," he added, and he pulled off
his overcoat.
He spread a part of it on the step, and rolled the rest into a pillow
against which she could lean, and he held it in place while she sat
down. She thanked him, and he sat down beside her. At first, as she
turned from the lamps, the nave was like a fathomless black wall.
Neither spoke for some time. Griggs broke the silence when he supposed
that she was sufficiently recovered to talk quietly, for he had been
thinking of what she had said, and it was almost clear to him at last.
"I should like to speak to you quite frankly, if you will allow me," he
said gravely. "May I?"
"Certainly."
"The few words you said about Lord Redin's story have explained a great
many things which I never understood," said Griggs. "Is it too much to
ask that you should tell me everything you know?"
"I would rather not say anything more," answered Francesca. "I am very
much ashamed of having betrayed his secret. Besides, what is to be
gained by your knowing a few more details? It is bad enough as it is."
"It is more or less the story of my life," he said, almost
indifferently.
She turned her head slowly and tried to see his face. She could just
distinguish the features, cold and impassive.
"I came to you to ask you to warn Dalrymple of a danger," he continued,
as she did not speak. "I knew that fact, but not the reason why his life
was and is threatened. Unless I have mistaken what you said, I
understand it now. It is a much stronger one than I should ever have
guessed. Lord Redin ran away with your cousin, and made it appear that
he had carried off Stefanone's daughter. Stefanone has waited patiently
for nearly a quarter of a century. He has found Dalrymple at last and
means to kill him. He will succeed, unless you can make Dalrymple
understand that the danger is real. I have no evidence on which I could
have the man arrested, and I have no personal influence in Rome. You
have. You would find no difficulty in having Stefanone kept out of the
city. And you can make Dalrymple see the truth, since he has confided in
you. Will you do that? He will not believe me, and you can save him.
Besides, he will not see me. I have tried twice to-day. He has made up
his mind that he will not see me."
"I will do my best," said Francesca, leaning her head back against the
marble rail, and half closing her eyes. "How terrible it all is!"
"Yes. I suppose that is the word," said Griggs, indifferently.
"Sacrilege, suicide, and probably murder to come."
She was shocked by the perfectly emotionless way in which he spoke of
Gloria's death, so much shocked that she drew a short, quick breath
between her teeth as though she had hurt herself. Griggs heard it.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said.
"I thought something hurt you."
"No--nothing."
She was silent again.
"Yes," he continued, in a tone of cold speculation, "I suppose that any
one would call it terrible. At all events, it is curious, as a sequence
of cause and effect, from one tragedy to another."
"Please--please do not speak of it all like that--" Francesca felt
herself growing angry with him.
"How should I speak of it?" he asked. "It is an extraordinary
concatenation of events. I look upon the whole thing as very curious,
especially since you have given me the key to it all."
Francesca was moved to anger, taking the defence of the dead Gloria, as
almost any woman would have done. At the moment Paul Griggs repelled her
even more than Lord Redin. It seemed to her that there was something
dastardly in his indifference.
"Have you no heart?" she asked suddenly.
"No, I am dead," he answered, in his clear, lifeless voice, that might
have been a ghost's.
The words made her shiver, and she felt as though her hair were moving.
From his face, as she had last seen it, and from his voice, he might
almost have been dead, as he said he was, like the thousands of silent
ones in the labyrinths under her feet, and she alone alive in the midst
of so much death.
"What do you mean?" she asked, and her own voice trembled in spite of
herself.
"It is very like being dead," he answered thoughtfully. "I cannot feel
anything. I cannot understand why any one else should. Everything is the
same to me. The world is a white blank to me, and one place is exactly
like any other place."
"But why? What has happened to you?" asked Francesca.
"You know. You sent me those letters."
"What letters?"
"The package Reanda gave you before he died."
"Yes. What was in it? I told you that I did not know, when I wrote to
you. I remember every word I wrote."
"I know. But I thought that you at least guessed. They were Gloria's
letters to her husband."
"Her old letters, before--" Francesca stopped short.
"No," he answered, with the same unnatural quiet. "All the letters she
wrote him afterwards--when we were together."
"All those letters?" cried Francesca, suddenly understanding. "Oh
no--no! It is not possible! He could not, he would not, have done
anything so horrible."
"He did," said Griggs, calmly. "I had supposed that she loved me. He had
his vengeance. He proved to me that she did not. I hope he is satisfied
with the result. Yes," he continued, after a moment's pause, "it was the
cruelest thing that ever one man did to another. I spent a bad night, I
remember. On the top of the package was the last letter she wrote him,
just before she killed herself. She loathed me, she said, she hated me,
she shivered at my touch. She feared me so that she acted a comedy of
love, in terror of her life, after she had discovered that she hated me.
She need not have been afraid. Why should I have hurt her? In that last
letter, she put her wedding ring with a lock of her hair wound in and
out of it. Reanda knew what he was doing when he sent it to me. Do you
wonder that it has deadened me to everything?"
"Oh, how could he do it? How could he!" Francesca repeated, for the
worst of it all to her was the unutterable cruelty of the man she had
believed so gentle.
"I suppose it was natural," said Griggs. "I loved the woman, and he knew
it. I fancy few men have loved much more sincerely than I loved her,
even after she was dead. I was not always saying so. I am not that kind
of man. Besides, men who live by stringing words together for money do
not value them much in their own lives. But I worked for her. I did the
best I could. Even she must have known that I loved her."
"I know you did. I cannot understand how you can speak of her at all."
Francesca wondered at the man.
"She? She is no more to me than Queen Christina, over there in her tomb
in the dark! For that matter, nothing else has any meaning, either."
For a long time Francesca said nothing. She sat quite still, resting the
back of her head against the marble, in the awful silence under the
faint lights that glimmered above the great tomb.
"You have told me the most dreadful thing I ever heard," she said at
last, in a low tone. "Is she nothing to you? Really nothing? Can you
never think kindly of her again?"
"No. Why should I? That is--" he hesitated. "I could not explain it," he
said, and was silent.
"It does not seem human," said Francesca. "You would have a memory of
her--something--some touch of sadness--I wonder whether you really loved
her as much as you thought you did?"
Griggs turned upon Francesca slowly, his hands clasped upon one knee.
"You do not know what such love means," he said slowly. "It is
God--faith--goodness--everything. It is heaven on earth, and earth in
heaven, in one heart. When it is gone there is nothing left. It went
hard. It will not come back now. The heart itself is gone. There is
nothing for it to come to. You think me cold, you are shocked because I
speak indifferently of her. She lied to me. She lied and acted in every
word and deed of her life with me. She deceived herself a little at
first, and she deceived me mortally afterwards. It was all an immense,
loathsome, deadly lie. I lived through the truth. Why should I wish to
go back to the lie again? She died, telling me that she died for me. She
died, having written to Reanda that she died for him. I do not judge
her. God will. But God Himself could not make me love the smallest
shadow of her memory. It is impossible. I am beyond life. I am outside
it. My eternity has begun."
"Is it not a little for her sake that you wish to save her father?"
asked Francesca.
"No. It is a matter of honour, and nothing else, since I injured him, as
the world would say, by taking his daughter from her husband. Do you
understand? Can you put yourself a little in my position? It is not
because I care whether he lives or dies, or dies a natural death or is
stabbed in the back by a peasant. It is because I ought to care. I do
many things because I ought to care to do them, though the things and
their consequences are all one to me, now."
"It cannot last," said Francesca, sadly. "You will change as you grow
older."
"No. That is a thing you can never understand," he answered. "I am two
individuals. The one is what you see, a man more or less like other men,
growing older--a man who has a certain mortal, earthly memory of that
dead woman, when the real man is unconscious. But the real man is beyond
growing old, because he is beyond feeling anything. He is stationary,
outside of life. The world is a blank to him and always will be."
His voice grew more and more expressionless as he spoke. Francesca felt
that she could not pity him as she had pitied poor Lord Redin when she
had seen him going away alone. The man beside her was in earnest, and
was as far beyond woman's pity as he was beyond woman's love. Yet she no
longer felt repelled by him since she had understood what he had
suffered. Perhaps she herself, suffering still in her heart, wished that
she might be even as he was, beyond the possibility of pain, even though
beyond the hope of happiness. He wanted nothing, he asked for nothing,
and he was not afraid to be alone with his own soul, as she was
sometimes. The other man had asked for her friendship. It could mean
nothing to Paul Griggs. If love were nothing, what could friendship be?
Yet there was something lofty and grand about such loneliness as his.
She could not but feel that, now that she knew all. She thought of him
as she sat beside him in the monumental silence of the enormous
sepulchre, and she guessed of depths in his soul like the deepness of
the shadows above her and before her and around her.
"My suffering seems very small, compared with yours," she said softly,
almost to herself.
Somehow she knew that he would understand her, though perhaps her
knowledge was only hope.
"Why should you suffer at all?" he asked. "You have never done anything
wrong. Nothing, of all this, is your fault. It was all fatal, from the
first, and you cannot blame yourself for anything that has happened."
"I do," she answered, in a low voice. "Indeed I do."
"You are wrong. You are not to blame. Dalrymple was--Maria
Braccio--I--Gloria--we four. But you! What have you done? Compared with
us you are a saint on earth!"
She hesitated a moment before she spoke. Then her voice came in a broken
way.
"I loved Angelo Reanda. I know it, now that I have lost him."
Griggs barely heard the last words, but he bent his head gravely, and
said nothing in answer.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE stillness was all around them and seemed to fold them together as
they sat side by side. A deep sigh quivered and paused and was drawn
again almost with a gasp that stirred the air. Suddenly Francesca's face
was hidden in her hands, and her head was bowed almost to her knees. A
moment more, and she sobbed aloud, wordless, as though her soul were
breaking from her heart.
In the great gloom there was something unearthly in the sound of her
weeping. The man who could neither suffer any more himself nor feel
human pity for another's suffering, turned and looked at her with
shadowy eyes. He understood, though he could not feel, and he knew that
she had borne more than any one had guessed.
She shed many tears, and it was long before her sobbing ceased to call
down pitiful, heart-breaking echoes from the unseen heights of darkness.
Her head was bent down upon her knees as she sat there, striving with
herself.
He could do nothing, and there was nothing that he could say. He could
not comfort her, he could not deny her grief. He only knew that there
was one more being still alive and bearing the pain of sins done long
ago. Truly the judgment upon that man by whom the offence had come,
should be heavy and relentless and enduring.
At last all was still again. Francesca did not move, but sat bowed
together, her hands pressing her face. Very softly, Griggs rose to his
feet, and she did not see that he was no longer seated beside her. He
stood up and leaned upon the broad marble of the balustrade. When she at
last raised her head, she thought that he was gone.
"Where are you?" she asked, in a startled voice.
Then, looking round, she saw him standing by the rail. She understood
why he had moved--that she might not feel that he was watching her and
seeing her tears.
"I am not ashamed," she said. "At least you know me, now."
"Yes. I know."
She also rose and stood up, and leaned upon the balustrade and looked
into his face.
"I am glad you know," she said, and he saw how pale she was, and that
her cheeks were wet. "Now that it is over, I am glad that you know," she
said again. "You are beyond sympathy, and beyond pitying any one, though
you are not unkind. I am glad, that if any one was to know my secret, it
should be you. I could not bear pity. It would hurt me. But you are not
unkind."
"Nor kind--nor anything," he said.
"No. It is as though I had spoken to the grave--or to eternity. It is
safe with you."
"Yes. Quite safe. Safer than with the dead."
"He never knew it. Thank God! He never knew it! To me he was always the
same faithful friend. To you he was an enemy, and cruel. I thought him
above cruelty, but he was human, after all. Was it not human, that he
should be cruel to you?"
"Yes," answered Griggs, wondering a little at her speech and tone. "It
was very human."
"And you forgive him for it?"
"I?" There was surprise in his tone.
"Yes," she answered. "I want your forgiveness for him. He died without
your forgiveness. It is the only thing I ask of you--I have not the
right to ask anything, I know, but is it so very much?"
"It is nothing," said Griggs. "There is no such thing as forgiveness in
my world. How could there be? I resent nothing."
"But then, if you do not resent what he did, you have forgiven him. Have
you not?"
"I suppose so." He was puzzled.
"Will you not say it?" she pleaded.
"Willingly," he answered. "I forgive him. I remember nothing against
him."
"Thank you. You are a good man."
He shook his head gravely, but he took her outstretched hand and pressed
it gently.
"Thank you," she repeated, withdrawing hers. "Do not think it strange
that I should ask such a thing. It means a great deal to me. I could not
bear to think that he had left an enemy in the world and was gone where
he could not ask forgiveness for what he had done. So I asked it of you,
for him. I know that he would have wished me to. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Griggs, thoughtfully. "I understand."
Again there was silence for a long time as they stood there. The tears
dried upon the woman's sweet pale face, and a soft light came where the
tears had been.
"Will you come with me?" she asked at last, looking up.
He did not guess what she meant to do, but he left the step on which he
was standing and stood ready.
"It must be late," he said. "Should you like to try and rest? I will
arrange a place for you as well as I can."
"Not yet," she answered. "If you will come with me--" she hesitated.
"Yes?"
"I will say a prayer for the dead," she said, in a low voice. "I always
do, every night, since he died."
Griggs bent his head, and she came down from the step. He walked beside
her, down the silent nave into the darkness. Before the Chapel of the
Sacrament they both paused and bent the knee. Then she hesitated.
"I should like to go to the Pieta," she said timidly. "It seems so far.
Do you mind?"
He held out his arm silently. She felt it and laid her hand upon it, and
they went on. It was very dark. They knew that they were passing the
pillars when they could not see the little lights from the chapels in
the distance on their left. Then by the echo of their own footsteps they
knew that they were near the great door, and at last they saw the single
tiny flame in the silver lamp hanging above the altar they sought.
Guided by it, they went forward, and the solitary ray showed them the
marble rail. They knelt down side by side.
"Let us pray for them all," said Francesca, very softly.
She looked up to the marble face of Christ's mother, the Addolorata, the
mother of sorrows, and she thought of that sinning nun, dead long ago,
who had been called Addolorata.
"Let us pray for them all," she repeated. "For Maria Braccio, for
Gloria--for Angelo Reanda."
She lowered her head upon her hands. Then, presently, she looked up
again, and Griggs heard her sweet voice in the darkness repeating the
ancient Commemoration for the Dead, from the Canon of the Mass.
"Remember also, O Lord, thy servants who are gone before us with the
sign of faith, and sleep the sleep of peace. Give them, O Lord, and to
all who rest in Christ, a place of refreshment, light, and peace, for
that Christ's sake, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of
the Holy Spirit. Amen."
Once more she bent her head and was silent for a time. Then as she
knelt, her hands moved silently along the marble and pressed the two
folded hands of the man beside her, and she looked at him.
"Let us be friends," she said simply.
"Such as I am, I am yours."
Then their hands clasped. They both started and looked down, for the
fingers were cold and wet and dark.
It was the blood of Angus Dalrymple that had sealed their friendship.
The swift sure blade had struck him as he stood there, repeating the
name of his dead wife. There had been no one near the door and none to
see the quick, black deed. Strong hands had thrown his falling body
within the marble balustrade, that was still wet with his heart's blood.
There Paul Griggs found him, lying on his back, stretched to his length
in the dim shadow between the rail and the altar. He had paid the price
at last, a loving, sinning, suffering, faithful, faultful man.
But the friendship that was so grimly consecrated on that night, was the
truest that ever was between man and woman.
END OF VOL. II.
THE RALSTONS.
BY
F. MARION CRAWFORD.
2 vols. 16mo. Cloth. $2.00.
PRESS COMMENTS.
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here."--_Ohio State Journal._
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it is correct and literal; as a study of human
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romantic enough to be of the age of
Trollope."--_Chicago Herald._
"The whole group of character studies is strong
and vivid."--_The Literary World._
"There is a long succession of exceedingly strong
dramatic situations which hold the reader's
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KATHARINE LAUDERDALE.
=The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life.=
"Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and
in 'Katharine Lauderdale' we have him at his
best."--_Boston Daily Advertiser._
"A most admirable novel, excellent in style,
flashing with humor, and full of the ripest and
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"It is the first time, we think, in American
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"It need scarcely be said that the story is
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surroundings."--_New York Commercial Advertiser._
"'Katharine Lauderdale' is a tale of New York, and
is up to the highest level of his work. In some
respects it will probably be regarded as his best.
None of his works, with the exception of 'Mr.
Isaacs,' shows so clearly his skill as a literary
artist."--_San Francisco Evening Bulletin._
PIETRO GHISLERI.
"The imaginative richness, the marvellous
ingenuity of plot, the power and subtlety of the
portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic
environment,--the entire atmosphere, indeed,--rank
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WITH THE IMMORTALS.
"Altogether an admirable piece of art worked in
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to all such we commend it heartily."--_Boston
Saturday Evening Gazette._
"The strange central idea of the story could have
occurred only to a writer whose mind was very
sensitive to the current modern thought and
progress, while its execution, the setting it
forth in proper literary clothing, could be
successfully attempted only by one whose active
literary ability should be fully equalled by his
power of assimilative knowledge both literary and
scientific, and no less by his courage and
capacity for hard work. The book will be found to
have a fascination entirely new for the habitual
reader of novels. Indeed, Mr. Crawford has
succeeded in taking his readers quite above the
ordinary plane of novel interest."--_Boston
Advertiser._
MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX.
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character-painting in words."--_Churchman._
"We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr.
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art of constructing a story. His sense of
proportion is just, and his narrative flows along
with ease and perspicuity. It is as if it could
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the story unfold itself, and so logical and
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KHALED.
A Story of Arabia.
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character of the woman who becomes the hero's wife
and whose love he finally wins, being an
especially acute and highly finished example of
the story-teller's art. . . . That it is beautifully
written and holds the interest of the reader,
fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none who
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ZOROASTER.
"The field of Mr. Crawford's imagination appears
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winged fancy ventures a daring flight. . . . Yet
'Zoroaster' is a novel rather than a drama. It is
a drama in the force of its situations and in the
poetry and dignity of its language; but its men
and women are not men and women of a play. By the
naturalness of their conversation and behavior
they seem to live and lay hold of our human
sympathy more than the same characters on a stage
could possibly do."--_The Times._
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.
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"Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has written, it
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compact. . . . The taste which is left in one's mind
after the story is finished is exactly what the
fine reader desires and the novelist intends. . . .
It has no defects. It is neither trifling nor
trivial. It is a work of art. It is
perfect."--_Boston Beacon._
AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN.
* * * * *
MACMILLAN & CO.,
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE.
"It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of
great dramatic power."--_Boston Commercial
Bulletin._
"It is full of life and movement, and is one of
the best of Mr. Crawford's books."--_Boston
Saturday Evening Gazette._
"The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has
Mr. Crawford done more brilliant realistic work
than here. But his realism is only the case and
cover for those intense feelings which, placed
under no matter what humble conditions, produce the
most dramatic and the most tragic situations. . . .
This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse
and common material, the meanest surroundings, the
most sordid material prospects, and out of the
vehement passions which sometimes dominate all
human beings to build up with these poor elements
scenes and passages, the dramatic and emotional
power of which at once enforce attention and awaken
the profoundest interest."--_New York Tribune._
GREIFENSTEIN.
"'Greifenstein' is a remarkable novel, and while
it illustrates once more the author's unusual
versatility, it also shows that he has not been
tempted into careless writing by the vogue of his
earlier books. . . . There is nothing weak or small
or frivolous in the story. The author deals with
tremendous passions working at the height of their
energy. His characters are stern, rugged,
determined men and women, governed by powerful
prejudices and iron conventions, types of a
military people, in whom the sense of duty has
been cultivated until it dominates all other
motives, and in whom the principle of 'noblesse
oblige' is, so far as the aristocratic class is
concerned, the fundamental rule of conduct. What
such people may be capable of is startlingly
shown."--_New York Tribune._
A ROMAN SINGER.
"One of Mr. Crawford's most charming stories--a
love romance pure and simple."--_Boston Home
Journal._
"'A Roman Singer' is one of his most finished,
compact, and successful stories, and contains a
splendid picture of Italian life."--_Toronto
Mail._
* * * * *
MACMILLAN & CO.,
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
MR. ISAACS.
A Tale of Modern India.
"The writer first shows the hero in relation with
the people of the East and then skilfully brings
into connection the Anglo-Saxon race. It is in this
showing of the different effects which the two
classes of minds have upon the central figure of
the story that one of its chief merits lies. The
characters are original, and one does not recognize
any of the hackneyed personages who are so apt to
be considered indispensable to novelists, and
which, dressed in one guise or another, are but the
marionettes, which are all dominated by the same
mind, moved by the same motive force. The men are
all endowed with individualism and independent life
and thought. . . . There is a strong tinge of
mysticism about the book which is one of its
greatest charms."--_Boston Transcript._
"No story of human experience that we have met
with since 'John Inglesant' has such an effect of
transporting the reader into regions differing
from his own. 'Mr. Isaacs' is the best novel that
has ever laid its scenes in our Indian
dominions."--_The Daily News, London._
DR. CLAUDIUS.
A True Story.
"There is a suggestion of strength, of a mastery
of facts, of a fund of knowledge, that speaks well
for future production. . . . To be thoroughly
enjoyed, however, this book must be read, as no
mere cursory notice can give an adequate idea of
its many interesting points and excellences, for
without a doubt 'Dr. Claudius' is the most
interesting book that has been published for many
months, and richly deserves a high place in the
public favor."--_St. Louis Spectator._
"To our mind it by no means belies the promises of
its predecessor. The story, an exceedingly
improbable and romantic one, is told with much
skill; the characters are strongly marked without
any suspicion of caricature, and the author's
ideas on social and political subjects are often
brilliant and always striking. It is no
exaggeration to say that there is not a dull page
in the book, which is peculiarly adapted for the
recreation of student or thinker."--_Living
Church._
TO LEEWARD.
"A story of remarkable power."--_Review of
Reviews._
"Mr. Crawford has written many strange and
powerful stories of Italian life, but none can be
any stranger or more powerful than 'To Leeward,'
with its mixture of comedy and tragedy, innocence
and guilt."--_Cottage Hearth._
* * * * *
MACMILLAN & CO.,
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
SARACINESCA.
"His highest achievement, as yet, in the realms of
fiction. The work has two distinct merits, either
of which would serve to make it great,--that of
telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of
giving a graphic picture of Roman society in the
last days of the pope's temporal power. . . . The
story is exquisitely told."--_Boston Traveler._
"One of the most engrossing novels we have ever
read."--_Boston Times._
SANT' ILARIO.
A sequel to "Saracinesca."
"The author shows steady and constant improvement
in his art. 'Sant' Ilario' is a continuation of the
chronicles of the Saracinesca family. . . . A
singularly powerful and beautiful story. . . .
Admirably developed, with a naturalness beyond
praise. . . . It must rank with 'Greifenstein' as
the best work the author has produced. It fulfils
every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings
out what is most impressive in human action,
without owing any of its effectiveness to
sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent
in evolution, accordant with experience, graphic in
description, penetrating in analysis, and absorbing
in interest."--_New York Tribune._
DON ORSINO.
A continuation of "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario."
"The third in a rather remarkable series of novels
dealing with three generations of the Saracinesca
family, entitled respectively 'Saracinesca,'
'Sant' Ilario,' and 'Don Orsino,' and these novels
present an important study of Italian life,
customs, and conditions during the present
century. Each one of these novels is worthy of
very careful reading, and offers exceptional
enjoyment in many ways, in the fascinating
absorption of good fiction, in interest of
faithful historic accuracy, and in charm of style.
The 'new Italy' is strikingly revealed in 'Don
Orsino.'"--_Boston Budget._
"We are inclined to regard the book as the most
ingenious of all Mr. Crawford's fictions.
Certainly it is the best novel of the
season."--_Evening Bulletin._
* * * * *
MACMILLAN & CO.,
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
THE THREE FATES.
"The strength of the story lies in its portrayal
of the aspirations, disciplinary efforts, trials,
and triumphs of the man who is a born writer, and
who, by long and painful experiences, learns the
good that is in him and the way in which to give
it effectual expression. The analytical quality of
the book is excellent, and the individuality of
each one of the very dissimilar three fates is set
forth in an entirely satisfactory manner. . . . Mr.
Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities
as a student of human nature and his finest
resources as a master of an original and
picturesque style to bear upon this story. Taken
for all in all it is one of the most pleasing of
all his productions in fiction, and it affords a
view of certain phases of American, or perhaps we
should say of New York, life that have not
hitherto been treated with anything like the same
adequacy and felicity."--_Boston Beacon._
CHILDREN OF THE KING.
A Tale of Southern Italy.
"A sympathetic reader cannot fail to be impressed
with the dramatic power of this story. The
simplicity of nature, the uncorrupted truth of a
soul, have been portrayed by a master-hand. The
suddenness of the unforeseen tragedy at the last
renders the incident of the story powerful beyond
description. One can only feel such sensations as
the last scene of the story incites. It may be
added that if Mr. Crawford has written some
stories unevenly, he has made no mistakes in the
stories of Italian life. A reader of them cannot
fail to gain a clearer, fuller acquaintance with
the Italians and the artistic spirit that pervades
the country."--M. L. B. in _Syracuse Journal_.
THE WITCH OF PRAGUE.
A Fantastic Tale.
ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. HENNESSY.
"'The Witch of Prague' is so remarkable a book as
to be certain of as wide a popularity as any of
its predecessors. The keenest interest for most
readers will lie in its demonstration of the
latest revelations of hypnotic science. . . . It is
a romance of singular daring and power."--_London
Academy._
"Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never
in so strange a one as that which dominates 'The
Witch of Prague.' . . . The artistic skill with
which this extraordinary story is constructed and
carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr.
Crawford has scored a decided triumph, for the
interest of the tale is sustained throughout. . . .
A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting
story."--_New York Tribune._
* * * * *
MACMILLAN & CO.,
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Vol. 1
Page 50, "retractation" changed to "retraction" (of a general
retraction)
Page 83, "baiscchi" changed to "baiocchi" (ten baiocchi for)
Vol. 2
Page 27, "premiss" changed to "premise" (a false premise)
Page 29, "premisses" changed to "premises" (assumed premises)
Page 118, "np" changed to "up" (paused, looked up)
Page 152, "orf" changed to "or" (or the letter was)
Page 219, "Calpasta" changed to "Calpesta" (Calpesta il mio)
Page xvi, letter "i" missing in "generations" replaced (generations of
the Saracinesca)