CHAPTER I.

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A NIGHT ON THE BORDERS OF THE BLACK FOREST

BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS

AUTHOR OF "BARBARA'S HISTORY," "DEBENHAM'S VOW," ETC.

NEW YORK

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

1890

CONTENTS.

A NIGHT ON THE BORDERS OF THE BLACK FOREST

THE STORY OF SALOME

IN THE CONFESSIONAL

THE TRAGEDY IN THE PALAZZO BORDELLO

THE FOUR-FIFTEEN EXPRESS

SISTER JOHANNA'S STORY

ALL-SAINTS' EVE

A NIGHT ON THE BORDERS OF THE BLACK FOREST.

My story (if story it can be called, being an episode in my own early

life) carries me back to a time when the world and I were better friends

than we are likely, perhaps, ever to be again. I was young then. I had

good health, good spirits, and tolerably good looks. I had lately come

into a snug little patrimony, which I have long since dissipated; and I

was in love, or fancied myself in love, with a charming coquette, who

afterwards threw me over for a West-country baronet with seven thousand

a year.

So much for myself. The subject is not one that I particularly care to

dwell upon; but as I happen to be the hero of my own narrative, some

sort of self-introduction is, I suppose, necessary.

To begin then--Time: seventeen years ago.

Hour:--three o'clock p.m., on a broiling, cloudless September afternoon.

Scene:--a long, straight, dusty road, bordered with young trees; a

far-stretching, undulating plain, yellow for the most part with

corn-stubble; singularly barren of wood and water; sprinkled here and

there with vineyards, farmsteads, and hamlets; and bounded in the

extreme distance by a low chain of purple hills.

Place--a certain dull, unfrequented district in the little kingdom of

Wuertemberg, about twelve miles north of Heilbronn, and six south-east of

the Neckar.

Dramatis Personae:--myself, tall, sunburnt, dusty; in grey suit, straw

hat, knapsack and gaiters. In the distance, a broad-backed pedestrian

wielding a long stick like an old English quarter-staff.

Now, not being sure that I took the right turning at the cross-roads a

mile or two back, and having plodded on alone all day, I resolved to

overtake this same pedestrian, and increased my pace accordingly. He,

meanwhile, unconscious of the vicinity of another traveller, kept on at

an easy "sling-trot," his head well up, his staff swinging idly in his

hand--a practised pedestrian, evidently, and one not easily out-walked

through a long day.

I gained upon him, however, at every step, and could have passed him

easily; but as I drew near he suddenly came to a halt, disencumbered

himself of his wallet, and stretched himself at full length under a tree

by the wayside.

I saw now that he was a fine, florid, handsome fellow of about

twenty-eight or thirty years of age--a thorough German to look at;

frank, smiling, blue-eyed; dressed in a light holland blouse and loose

grey trousers, and wearing on his head a little crimson cap with a gold

tassel, such as the students wear at Heidelberg university. He lifted

it, with the customary "_Guten Abend_" as I came up, and when I stopped

to speak, sprang to his feet with ready politeness, and remained

standing.

"Niedersdorf, mein Herr?" said he, in answer to my inquiry. "About four

miles farther on. You have but to keep straight forward."

"Many thanks," I said. "You were resting. I am sorry to have disturbed

you."

He put up his hand with a deprecating gesture.

"It is nothing," he said. "I have walked far, and the day is warm."

"I have only walked from Heilbronn, and yet I am tired. Pray don't let

me keep you standing."

"Will you also sit, mein Herr?" he asked with a pleasant smile. "There

is shade for both."

So I sat down, and we fell into conversation. I began by offering him a

cigar; but he pulled out his pipe--a great dangling German pipe, with a

flexible tube and a painted china bowl like a small coffee-cup.

"A thousand thanks," he said; "but I prefer this old pipe to all the

cigars that ever came out of Havannah. It was given to me eight years

ago, when I was a student; and my friend who gave it to me is dead."

"You were at Heidelberg?" I said interrogatively.

"Yes; and Fritz (that was my friend) was at Heidelberg also. He was a

wonderful fellow; a linguist, a mathematician, a botanist, a geologist.

He was only five-and-twenty when the government appointed him

naturalist to an African exploring party; and in Africa he died."

"Such a man," said I, "was a loss to the world."

"Ah, yes," he replied simply; "but a greater loss to me."

To this I could answer nothing; and for some minutes we smoked in

silence.

"I was not clever like Fritz," he went on presently. "When I left

Heidelberg, I went into business, I am a brewer, and I live at

Stuttgart. My name is Gustav Bergheim--what is yours?"

"Hamilton," I replied; "Chandos Hamilton."

He repeated the name after me.

"You are an Englishman?" he said.

I nodded.

"Good. I like the English. There was an Englishman at Heidelberg--such a

good fellow! his name was Smith. Do you know him?"

I explained that, in these fortunate islands, there were probably some

thirty thousand persons named Smith, of whom, however, I did not know

one.

"And are you a milord, and a Member of Parliament?"

I laughed, and shook my head.

"No, indeed," I replied; "neither. I read for the bar; but I do not

practise. I am an idle man--of very little use to myself, and of none to

my country."

"You are travelling for your amusement?"

"I am. I have just been through the Tyrol and as far as the Italian

lakes--on foot, as you see me. But tell me about yourself. That is far

more interesting."

"About myself?" he said smiling. "Ah, mein Herr, there is not much to

tell. I have told you that I live at Stuttgart. Well, at this time of

the year, I allow myself a few weeks' holiday, and I am now on my way to

Frankfort, to see my Maedchen, who lives there with her parents."

"Then I may congratulate you on the certainty of a pleasant time."

"Indeed, yes. We love each other well, my Maedchen and I. Her name is

Frederika, and her father is a rich banker and wine merchant. They live

in the Neue Mainzer Strasse near the Taunus Gate; but the Herr Hamilton

does not, perhaps, know Frankfort?"

I replied that I knew Frankfort very well, and that the Neue Mainzer

Strasse was, to my thinking, the pleasantest situation in the city. And

then I ventured to ask if the Fraeulein Frederika was pretty.

"_I_ think her so," he said with his boyish smile; "but then, you see,

my eyes are in love. You shall judge, however, for yourself."

And with this, he disengaged a locket from his watch-chain, opened it,

and showed me the portrait of a golden-haired girl, who, without being

actually handsome, had a face as pleasant to look upon as his own.

"Well?" he said anxiously. "What do you say?"

"I say that she has a charming expression," I replied.

"But you do not think her pretty?"

"Nay, she is better than pretty. She has the beauty of real goodness."

His face glowed with pleasure.

"It is true," he said, kissing the portrait, and replacing it upon his

chain. "She is an angel! We are to be married in the Spring."

Just at this moment, a sturdy peasant came trudging up from the

direction of Niedersdorf, under the shade of a huge red cotton umbrella.

He had taken his coat off; probably for coolness, or it might be for

economy, and was carrying it, neatly folded up, in a large, new wooden

bucket. He saluted us with the usual "Guten Abend" as he approached.

To which Bergheim laughingly replied by asking if the bucket was a

love-token from his sweetheart.

"Nein, nein," he answered stolidly; "I bought it at the Kermess [A fair]

up yonder."

"So! there is a Kermess at Niedersdorf?"

"Ach, Himmel!--a famous Kermess. All the world is there to-day."

And with a nod, he passed on his way.

My new friend indulged in a long and dismal whistle.

"Der Teufel!" he said, "this is awkward. I'll be bound, now, there won't

be a vacant room at any inn in the town. And I had intended to sleep at

Niedersdorf to-night. Had you?"

"Well, I should have been guided by circumstances. I should perhaps

have put up at Niedersdorf, if I had found myself tired and the place

comfortable; or I might have dined there, and after dinner taken some

kind of light vehicle as far as Rotheskirche."

"Rotheskirche!" he repeated. "Where is that?"

"It is a village on the Neckar. My guide-book mentions it as a good

starting-point for pedestrians, and I am going to walk from there to

Heidelberg."

"But have you not been coming out of your way?"

"No; I have only taken a short cut inland, and avoided the dull part of

the river. You know the Neckar, of course?"

"Only as far as Neckargemuend; but I have heard that higher up it is

almost as fine as the Rhine."

"Hadn't you better join me?" I said, as we adjusted our knapsacks and

prepared to resume our journey.

He shook his head, smiling.

"Nay," he replied, "my route leads me by Buchen and Darmstadt. I have no

business to go round by Heidelberg."

"It would be worth the _detour_."

"Ah, yes; but it would throw me two days later."

"Not if you made up for lost time by taking the train from Heidelberg."

He hesitated.

"I should like it," he said.

"Then why not do it?"

"Well--yes--I will do it. I will go with you. There! let us shake hands

on it, and be friends."

So we shook hands, and it was settled.

The shadows were now beginning to lengthen; but the sun still blazed in

the heavens with unabated intensity. Bergheim, however, strode on as

lightly, and chatted as gaily, as if his day's work was only just

beginning. Never was there so simple, so open-hearted a fellow. He wore

his heart literally upon his sleeve, and, as we went along, told me all

his little history; how, for instance, his elder sister, having been

betrothed to his friend Fritz, had kept single ever since for his sake;

how he was himself an only son, and the idol of his mother, now a widow;

how he had resolved never to leave either her or his maiden sister; but

intended when he married to take a larger house, and bring his wife into

their common home; how Frederika's father had at first opposed their

engagement for that reason; how Frederika (being, as he had already

said, an angel) had won the father's consent last New Year's Day; and

how happy he was now; and how happy they should be in the good time

coming; together with much more to the same effect.

To all this I listened, and smiled, and assented, putting in a word here

and there, as occasion offered, and encouraging him to talk on to his

heart's content.

And now with every mile that brought us nearer to Niedersdorf, the signs

of fair-time increased and multiplied. First came straggling groups of

homeward-bound peasants--old men and women tottering under the burden of

newly-purchased household goods; little children laden with gingerbread

and toys; young men and women in their holiday-best--the latter with

garlands of oak-leaves bound about their hats. Then came an open cart

full of laughing girls; then more pedestrians; then an old man driving a

particularly unwilling pig; then a roystering party of foot-soldiers;

and so on, till not only the road, but the fields on either side and

every path in sight, swarmed with a double stream of wayfarers--the one

coming from the fair--the other setting towards it.

Presently, through the clouds of dust and tobacco-smoke that fouled the

air, a steeple and cottages became visible; and then, quite suddenly, we

found ourselves in the midst of the fair.

Here a compact, noisy, smoking, staring, laughing, steaming crowd

circulated among the booths; some pushing one way, some another--some

intent on buying--some on eating and drinking--some on love-making and

dancing. In one place we came upon rows of little open stalls for the

sale of every commodity under heaven. In another, we peeped into a great

restaurant-booth full of country folks demolishing pyramids of German

sausage and seas of Bairisch beer. Yonder, on a raised stage in front of

a temporary theatre, strutted a party of strolling players in their

gaudy tinsels and ballet-dresses. The noise, the smells, the elbowing,

the braying of brass bands, the insufferable heat and clamour, made us

glad to push our way through as fast as possible, and take refuge in the

village inn. But even here we could scarcely get a moment's attention.

There were parties dining and drinking in every room in the house--even

in the bedrooms; while the passages, the bar, and the little gardens,

front and back, were all full of soldiers, freeshooters, and farmers.

Having with difficulty succeeded in capturing a couple of platters of

bread and meat and a measure of beer, we went round to the stable-yard,

which was crowded with charrettes, ein-spaenner, and country carts of all

kinds. The drivers of some of these were asleep in their vehicles;

others were gambling for kreutzers on the ground; none were willing

to put their horses to for the purpose of driving us to

Rotheskirche-on-the-Neckar.

"Ach, Herr Gott!" said one, "I brought my folks from Fruehlingsfeld--near

upon ten stunden--and shall have to take them back by and by. That's as

much as my beasts can do in one day, and they shouldn't do more for the

king!"

"I've just refused five florins to go less than half that distance,"

said another.

At length one fellow, being somewhat less impracticable than the rest,

consented to drive us as far as a certain point where four roads met, on

condition that we shared his vehicle with two other travellers, and that

the two other travellers consented to let us do so.

"And even so," he added, "I shall have to take them two miles out of

their way--but, perhaps, being fair-time, they won't mind that."

As it happened, they were not in a condition to mind that or anything

very much, being a couple of freeshooters from the Black Forest, wild

with fun and frolic, and somewhat the worse for many potations of

Lager-bier. One of them, it seemed, had won a prize at some

shooting-match that same morning, and they had been celebrating this

triumph all day. Having kept us waiting, with the horses in, for at

least three-quarters of an hour, they came, escorted by a troop of their

comrades, all laughing, talking, and wound up to the highest pitch of

excitement. Then followed a scene of last health-drinkings, last

hand-shakings, last embracements. Finally, we drove off just as it was

getting dusk, followed by many huzzahs, and much waving of grey and

green caps.

For the first quarter of an hour they were both very noisy, exchanging

boisterous greetings with every passer-by, singing snatches of songs,

and laughing incessantly. Then, as the dusk deepened and we left the

last stragglers behind, they sank into a tipsy stupor, and ended by

falling fast asleep.

Meanwhile, the driver lit his pipe and let his tired horses choose their

own pace; the stars came out one by one overhead; and the road, leaving

the dead level of the plain, wound upwards through a district that

became more hilly with every mile.

Then I also fell asleep--I cannot tell for how long--to be waked

by-and-by by the stopping of the charrette, and the voice of the driver,

saying:--

"This is the nearest point to which I can take these Herren. Will they

be pleased to alight?"

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. It was bright starlight. Bergheim was

already leaning out, and opening the door. Our fellow-travellers were

still sound asleep. We were in the midst of a wild, hilly country,

black with bristling pine-woods; and had drawn up at an elevated point

where four roads meet.

"Which of these are we to take?" asked Bergheim, as he pulled out his

purse and counted the stipulated number of florins into the palm of the

driver.

The man pointed with his whip in a direction at right angles to the road

by which he was himself driving.

"And how far shall we have to walk?"

"To Rotheskirche?"

"Yes--to Rotheskirche."

He grunted doubtfully. "Ugh!" he said, "I can't be certain to a mile or

so. It may be twelve or fourteen."

"A good road?"

"Yes--a good road; but hilly. These Herren have only to keep straight

forward. They cannot miss the way."

And so he drives off, and leaves us standing in the road. The moon is

now rising behind a slope of dark trees--the air is chill--an owl close

by utters its tremulous, melancholy cry. Place and hour considered, the

prospect of twelve or fourteen miles of a strange road, in a strange

country, is anything but exhilarating. We push on, however, briskly; and

Bergheim, whose good spirits are invincible, whistles and chatters, and

laughs away as gaily as if we were just starting on a brilliant May

morning.

"I wonder if you were ever tired in your life!" I exclaim by and by,

half peevishly.

"Tired!" he echoes. "Why, I am as tired at this moment as a dog; and

would gladly lie down by the roadside, curl myself up under a tree, and

sleep till morning. I wonder, by the way, what o'clock it is."

I pulled out my fusee-box, struck a light, and looked at my watch. It

was only ten o'clock.

"We have been walking," said Bergheim, "about half an hour, and I don't

believe we have done two miles in the time. Well, it can't go on uphill

like this all the way!"

"Impossible," I replied. "Rotheskirche is on the level of the river. We

must sooner or later begin descending towards the valley of the Neckar."

"I wish it might be sooner, then," laughed my companion, "for I had done

a good twenty miles to-day before you overtook me."

"Well, perhaps we may come upon some place half way. If so, I vote that

we put up for the night, and leave Rotheskirche till the morning."

"Ay, that would be capital!" said he. "If it wasn't that I am as hungry

as a wolf, I wouldn't say no to the hut of a charcoal-burner to-night."

And now, plodding on more and more silently as our fatigue increased, we

found the pine-forests gradually drawing nearer, till by and by they

enclosed us on every side, and our road lay through the midst of them.

Here in the wood, all was dark--all was silent--not a breath stirred.

The moon was rising fast; but the shadows of the pines lay long and

dense upon the road, with only a sharp silvery patch breaking through

here and there. By and by we came upon a broad space of clearing,

dotted over with stacks of brushwood and great symmetrical piles of

barked trunks. Then followed another tract of close forest. Then our

road suddenly emerged into the full moonlight, and sometimes descending

abruptly, sometimes keeping at a dead level for half a mile together,

continued to skirt the forest on the left.

"I see a group of buildings down yonder," said Bergheim, pointing to a

spot deep in the shadow of the hillside.

I could see nothing resembling buildings, but he stuck to his opinion.

"That they are buildings," he said, "I am positive. More I cannot tell

by this uncertain light. It may be a mere cluster of cottages, or it may

be a farmhouse, with stacks and sheds close by. I think it is the

latter."

Animated by this hope, we now pushed on more rapidly. For some minutes

our road carried us out of sight of the spot; but when we next saw it, a

long, low, white-fronted house and some other smaller buildings were

distinctly visible.

"A mountain farmstead, by all the gods of Olympus!" exclaimed Bergheim,

joyously. "This is good fortune! And they are not gone to bed yet,

either."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"Because I saw a light."

"But suppose they do not wish to take us in?" I suggested.

"Suppose an impossibility! Who ever heard of inhospitality among our

Black Forest folk?"

"Black Forest!" I repeated. "Do you call this the Black Forest?"

"Undoubtedly. All these wooded hills south of Heidelberg and the

Odenwald are outlying spurs and patches of the old legendary

Schwarzwald--now dwindling year by year. Hark! the dogs have found us

out already!"

As he spoke, a dog barked loudly in the direction of the farm; and then

another, and another. Bergheim answered them with a shout. Suddenly a

bright light flashed across the darkness--flitted vaguely for a moment

to and fro, and then came steadily towards us; resolving itself

presently into a lanthorn carried by a man.

We hurried eagerly to meet him--at all, square-built, heavy-browed

peasant, about forty years of age.

"Who goes there?" he said, holding the lanthorn high above his head, and

shading his eyes with his hand.

"Travellers," replied my companion. "Travellers wanting food and shelter

for the night."

The man looked at us for a moment in silence.

"You travel late," he said, at length.

"Ay--and we must have gone on still later, if we had not come upon your

house. We were bound for Rotheskirche. Can you take us in."

"Yes," he said sullenly. "I suppose so. This way."

And, swinging the lanthorn as he went, he turned on his heel abruptly,

and led the way back to the house.

"A boorish fellow enough!" said I, as we followed.

"Nay--a mere peasant!" replied Bergheim. "A mere peasant--rough, but

kindly."

As we drew near the house, two large mastiff pups came rushing out from

a yard somewhere at the back, and a huge, tawny dog chained up in an

open shed close by, strained at his collar and yelled savagely.

"Down, Caspar! Down, Schwartz!" growled our conductor, with an oath.

And immediately the pups slunk back into the yard, and the dog in the

shed dropped into a low snarl, eyeing us fiercely as we passed.

The house-door opened straight upon a large, low, raftered kitchen, with

a cavernous fire-place at the further end, flanked on each side by a

high-backed settle. The settles, the long table in the middle of the

room, the stools and chairs ranged round the walls, the heavy beams

overhead, from which hung strings of dried herbs, ropes of onions, hams,

and the like, were all of old, dark oak. The ceiling was black with the

smoke of at least a century. An oak dresser laden with rough blue and

grey ware and rows of metal-lidded drinking mugs; an old blunderbuss and

a horn-handled riding-whip over the chimney-piece; a couple of hatchets,

a spade, and a fishing-rod behind the door; and a Swiss clock in the

corner, completed the furniture of the room. A couple of half-charred

logs smouldered on the hearth. An oil-lamp flared upon the middle of the

table, at one corner of which sat two men with a stone jug and a couple

of beer-mugs between them, playing at cards, and a third man looking on.

The third man rose as we entered, and came forward. He was so like the

one who had come out to meet us, that I saw at once they must be

brothers.

"Two travellers," said our conductor, setting down his lanthorn, and

shutting the door behind us.

The players laid down their greasy cards to stare at us. The second

brother, a trifle more civil than the first, asked if we wished for

anything before going to bed.

Bergheim unslung his wallet, flung himself wearily into a corner of the

settle, and said:--

"Heavens and earth! yes. We are almost starving. We have been on the

road all day, and have had no regular dinner. Is this a farmhouse or an

inn?"

"Both."

"What have you in the house?"

"Ham--eggs--voorst--cheese--wine--beer--coffee."

"Then bring us the best you have, and plenty of it, and as fast as you

can. We'll begin on the voorst and a bottle of your best wine, while the

ham and eggs are frying; and we'll have the coffee to finish."

The man nodded; went to a door at the other end of the room--repeated

the order to some one out of sight; and came back again, his hands in

his pockets. The first brother, meanwhile, was lounging against the

table, looking on at the players.

"It's a long game," he said.

"Ay--but it's just ended," replied one of the men, putting down his card

with an air of triumph.

His adversary pondered, threw down his hand, and, with a round oath,

owned himself beaten.

Then they divided the remaining contents of the stone jug, drained their

mugs, and rose to go. The loser pulled out a handful of small coin, and

paid the reckoning for both.

"We've sat late," said he, with a glance at the clock. "Good night,

Karl--good night, Friedrich."

The first brother, whom I judged to be Karl, nodded sulkily. The second

muttered a gruff sort of good night. The countrymen lit their pipes,

took another long stare at Bergheim and myself, touched their hats, and

went away.

The first brother, Karl, who was evidently the master, went out with

them, shutting the door with a tremendous bang. The younger, Friedrich,

cleared the board, opened a cupboard under the dresser, brought out a

loaf of black bread, a lump of voorst, and part of a goat's milk cheese,

and then went to fetch the wine. Meanwhile we each drew a chair to the

table, and fell to vigorously. When Friedrich returned with the wine, a

pleasant smell of broiling ham came in with him through the door.

"You are hungry," he said, looking down at us from under his black

brows.

"Ay, and thirsty," replied Gustav, reaching out his hand for the bottle.

"Is your wine good?"

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"Drink and judge for yourself," he answered. "It's the best we have."

"Then drink with us," said my companion, good-humouredly, filling a

glass and pushing it towards him across the table.

But he shook his head with an ungracious "Nein, nein," and again left

the room. The next moment we heard his heavy footfall going to and fro

overhead.

"He is preparing our beds," I said. "Are there no women, I wonder, about

the place?"

"Well, yes--this looks like one," laughed Bergheim, as the door leading

to the inner kitchen again opened, and a big stolid-looking peasant girl

came in with a smoking dish of ham and eggs, which she set down before

us on the table. "Stop! stop!" he exclaimed, as she turned away. "Don't

be in such a hurry, my girl. What is your name?"

She stopped with a bewildered look, but said nothing. Bergheim repeated

the question.

"My--my name?" she stammered. "Annchen."

"Good. Then, Annchen" (filling a bumper and draining it at a draught),

"I drink to thy health. Wilt thou drink to mine?" And he pointed to the

glass poured out for the landlord's brother.

But she only looked at him in the same scared, stupid way, and kept

edging away towards the door.

"Let her go," I said. "She is evidently half an idiot."

"She's no idiot to refuse that wine," replied Bergheim, as the door

closed after her. "It's the most abominable mixture I ever put inside my

lips. Have you tasted it?"

I had not tasted it as yet, and now I would not; so, the elder brother

coming back just at that moment, we called for beer.

"Don't you like the wine?" he said, scowling.

"No," replied Bergheim. "Do you? If so you're welcome to the rest of

it."

The landlord took up the bottle and held it between his eyes and the

lamp.

"Bad as it is," he said, "you've drunk half of it."

"Not I--only one glass, thanks be to Bacchus! There stands the other.

Let us have a Schoppen of your best beer--and I hope it will be better

than your best wine."

The landlord looked from Bergheim to the glass--from the glass to the

bottle. He seemed to be measuring with his eye how much had really been

drunk. Then he went to the inner door; called to Friedrich to bring a

Schoppen of the Bairisch, and went away, shutting the door after him.

From the sound of his footsteps, it seemed to us as if he also was gone

upstairs, but into some more distant part of the house. Presently the

younger brother reappeared with the beer, placed it before us in

silence, and went away as before.

"The most forbidding, disagreeable, uncivil pair I ever saw in my life!"

said I.

"They're not fascinating, I admit," said Bergheim, leaning back in his

chair with the air of a man whose appetite is somewhat appeased. "I

don't know which is the worst--their wine or their manners."

And then he yawned tremendously, and pushed out his plate, which I

heaped afresh with ham and eggs. When he had swallowed a few mouthfuls,

he leaned his head upon his hand, and declared he was too tired to eat

more.

"And yet," he added, "I am still hungry."

"Nonsense!" I said; "eat enough now you are about it. How is the beer?"

He took a pull at the Schoppen.

"Capital," he said. "Now I can go on again."

The next instant he was nodding over his plate.

"I am ashamed to be so stupid," he said, rousing himself presently; "but

I am overpowered with fatigue. Let us have the coffee; it will wake me

up a bit."

But he had no sooner said this than his chin dropped on his breast, and

he was sound asleep.

I did not call for the coffee immediately. I let him sleep, and went on

quietly with my supper. Just as I had done, however, the brothers came

back together, Friedrich bringing the coffee--two large cups on a tray.

The elder, standing by the table, looked down at Bergheim with his

unfriendly frown.

"Your friend is tired," he said.

"Yes, he has walked far to-day--much farther than I have."

"Humph! you will be glad to go to bed."

"Indeed we shall. Are our rooms ready?"

"Yes."

I took one of the cups, and put the other beside Bergheim's plate.

"Here, Bergheim," I said, "wake up; the coffee is waiting."

But he slept on, and never heard me.

I then lifted my own cup to my lips--paused--set it down untasted. It

had an odd, pungent smell that I did not like.

"What is the matter with it?" I said, "it does not smell like pure

coffee."

The brothers exchanged a rapid glance.

"It is the Kirschenwasser," said Karl. "We always put it in our black

coffee."

I tasted it, but the flavour of the coffee was quite drowned in that of

the coarse, fiery spirit.

"Do you not like it?" asked the younger brother.

"It is very strong," I said.

"But it is very good," replied he; "real Black Forest Kirsch--the best

thing in the world, if one is tired after a journey. Drink it off, mein

Herr; it is of no use to sip it. It will make you sleep."

This was the longest speech either of them had yet made.

"Thanks," I said, pulling out my cigar-case, "but this stuff is too

powerful to be drunk at a draught. I shall make it last out a cigar or

two."

"And your friend?"

"He is better without the Kirsch, and may sleep till I am ready to go to

bed."

Again they looked at each other.

"You need not sit up," I said impatiently; for it annoyed me, somehow,

to have them standing there, one at each side of the table, alternately

looking at me and at each other. "I will call the Maedchen to show us to

our rooms when we are ready."

"Good," said the elder brother, after a moment's hesitation. "Come,

Friedrich."

Friedrich turned at once to follow him, and they both left the room.

I listened. I heard them for awhile moving to and fro in the inner

kitchen; then the sound of their double footsteps going up the stairs;

then the murmur of their voices somewhere above, yet not exactly

overhead; then silence.

I felt more comfortable, now that they were fairly gone, and not likely

to return. I breathed more freely. I had disliked the brothers from the

first. I had felt uneasy from the moment I crossed their threshold.

Nothing, I told myself, should induce me at any time, or under any

circumstances, to put up under their roof again.

Pondering thus, I smoked on, and took another sip of the coffee. It was

not so hot now, and some of the strength of the spirit had gone off; but

under the flavour of the Kirschenwasser I could (or fancied I could)

detect another flavour, pungent and bitter--a flavour, in short, just

corresponding to the smell that I had at first noticed.

This startled me. I scarcely knew why, but it did startle me, and

somewhat unpleasantly. At the same instant I observed that Bergheim, in

the heaviness and helplessness of sleep, had swayed over on one side,

and was hanging very uncomfortably across one arm of his chair.

"Come, come," I said, "wake up, Herr fellow-traveller. This sort of

dozing will do you no good. Wake up, and come to bed."

And with this I took him by the arm, and tried to rouse him. Then for

the first time I observed that his face was deadly white--that his teeth

were fast clenched--that his breathing was unnatural and laboured.

I sprang to my feet. I dragged him into an upright posture; I tore open

his neckcloth; I was on the point of rushing to the door to call for

help, when a suspicion--one of those terrible suspicions which are

suspicion and conviction in one--flashed suddenly upon me.

The rejected glass of wine was still standing on the table. I smelt

it--tasted it. My dread was confirmed. It had the same pungent odour,

the same bitter flavour as the coffee.

In a moment I measured all the horror of my position; alone--unarmed--my

unconscious fellow-traveller drugged and helpless on my hands--the

murderers overhead, biding their time--the silence and darkness of

night--the unfrequented road--the solitary house--the improbability of

help from without--the imminence of the danger from within.... I saw it

all! What could I do? Was there any way, any chance, any hope?

I turned cold and dizzy. I leaned against the table for support. Was I

also drugged, and was my turn coming? I looked round for water, but

there was none upon the table. I did not dare to touch the beer, lest it

also should be doctored.

At that instant I heard a faint sound outside, like the creaking of a

stair. My presence of mind had not as yet for a moment deserted me, and

now my strength came back at the approach of danger. I cast a rapid

glance round the room. There was the blunderbuss over the

chimney-piece--there were the two hatchets in the corner. I moved a

chair loudly, and hummed some snatches of songs.

They should know that I was awake--this might at least keep them off a

little longer. The scraps of songs covered the sound of my footsteps as

I stole across the room and secured the hatchets. One of these I laid

before me on the table; the other I hid among the wood in the

wood-basket beside the hearth-singing, as it were to myself; all the

time.

Then I listened breathlessly.

All was silent.

Then I clinked my tea-spoon in my cup--feigned a long yawn--under cover

of the yawn took down the blunderbuss from its hook--and listened

again.

Still all was silent--silent as death--save only the loud ticking of the

clock in the corner, and the heavy beating of my heart.

Then, after a few seconds that dragged past like hours, I distinctly

heard a muffled tread stealing softly across the floor overhead, and

another very faint retreating creak or two upon the stairs.

To examine the blunderbuss, find it loaded with a heavy charge of slugs,

test the dryness of the powder, cock it, and place it ready for use

beside the hatchet on the table, was but the work of a moment.

And now my course was taken. My spirits rose with the possession of a

certain means of defence, and I prepared to sell my own life, and the

life of the poor fellow beside me, as dearly as might be.

I must turn the kitchen into a fortress, and defend my fortress as long

as defence was possible. If I could hold it till daylight came to my

aid, bringing with it the chances of traffic, of passers-by, of

farm-labourers coming to their daily work--then I felt we should be

comparatively safe. If, however, I could not keep the enemy out so long,

then I had another resource.... But of this there was no time to think

at present. First of all, I must barricade my fortress.

The windows were already shuttered-up and barred on the inside. The key

of the house-door was in the lock, and only needed turning. The heavy

iron bolt, in like manner, had only to be shot into its place. To do

this, however, would make too much noise just now. First and most

important was the door communicating with the inner kitchen and the

stairs. This, above all, I must secure; and this, as I found to my

dismay, had no bolts or locks whatever on the inside--nothing but a

clumsy wooden latch!

To pile against it every moveable in the room was my obvious course; but

then it was one that, by the mere noise it must make, would at once

alarm the enemy. No! I must secure that door--but secure it silently--at

all events for the next few minutes.

Inspired by dread necessity, I became fertile in expedients. With a

couple of iron forks snatched from the table, I pinned the latch down,

forcing the prongs by sheer strength of hand deep into the woodwork of

the door. This done, I tore down one of the old rusty bits from its nail

above the mantel-shelf, and, linking it firmly over the thump-piece of

the latch on one side, and over the clumsy catch on the other, I

improvised a door-chain that would at least act as a momentary check in

case the door was forced from without. Lastly, by means of some

half-charred splinters from the hearth, I contrived to wedge up the

bottom of the door in such a manner that, the more it was pushed

inwards, the more firmly fixed it must become.

So far my work had been noiseless, but now the time was come when it

could be so no longer. The house-door must be secured at all costs; and

I knew beforehand that I could not move those heavy fastenings unheard.

Nor did I. The key, despite all my efforts, grated loudly in the lock,

and the bolt resisted the rusty staples. I got it in, however, and the

next moment heard rapid footsteps overhead.

I knew now that the crisis was coming, and from this moment prepared for

open resistance.

Regardless of noise, I dragged out first one heavy oaken settle, and

then the other--placed them against the inner door--piled them with

chairs, stools, firewood, every heavy thing I could lay hands

upon--raked the slumbering embers, and threw more wood upon the hearth,

so as to bar that avenue, if any attempt was made by way of the

chimney--and hastily ransacked every drawer in the dresser, in the hope

of finding something in the shape of ammunition.

Meanwhile, the brothers had taken alarm, and having tried the inner

door, had now gone round to the front, where I heard them try first the

house-door and then the windows.

"Open! open, I say!" shouted the elder--(I knew him by his voice). "What

is the matter within?"

"The matter is that I choose to spend the night in this room," I shouted

in reply.

"It is a public room--you have no right to shut the doors!" he said,

with a thundering blow upon the lock.

"Right or no right," I answered, "I shoot dead the first man who forces

his way in!"

There was a momentary silence, and I heard them muttering together

outside.

I had by this time found, at the back of one of the drawers, a handful

of small shot screwed up in a bit of newspaper, and a battered old

powder-flask containing about three charges of powder. Little as it was,

it helped to give me confidence.

Then the parleying began afresh.

"Once more, accursed Englishman will you open the door?"

"No."

A torrent of savage oaths--then a pause.

"Force us to break it open, and it will be the worse for you!"

"Try."

All this time I had been wrenching out the hooks from the dresser, and

the nails, wherever I could find any, from the walls. Already I had

enough to reload the blunderbuss three times, with my three charges of

powder. If only Bergheim were himself now!...

I still heard the murmuring of the brothers' voices outside--then the

sound of their retreating footsteps--then an outburst of barking and

yelping at the back, which showed they had let loose the dogs. Then all

was silent.

Where were they gone? How would they begin the attack? In what way would

it all end? I glanced at my watch. It was just twenty minutes past one.

In two hours and at half, or three hours, it would be dawn. Three hours!

Great Heavens! what an eternity!

I looked round to see if there was anything I could still do for

defence; but it seemed to me that I had already done what little it was

possible to do with the material at hand. I could only wait.

All at once I heard their footsteps in the house again. They were going

rapidly to and fro overhead; then up and down the stairs; then overhead

again; and presently I heard a couple of bolts shot, and apparently a

heavy wooden bar put up, on the other side of the inner kitchen-door

which I had just been at so much pains to barricade. This done, they

seemed to go away. A distant door banged heavily; and again there was

silence.

Five minutes, ten minutes, went by. Bergheim still slept heavily; but

his breathing, I fancied, was less stertorous, and his countenance less

rigid, than when I first discovered his condition. I had no water with

which to bathe his head; but I rubbed his forehead and the palms of his

hands with beer, and did what I could to keep his body upright.

Then I heard the enemy coming back to the front, slowly, and with heavy

footfalls. They paused for a moment at the front door, seemed to set

something down, and then retreated quickly. After an interval of about

three minutes, they returned in the same way; stopped at the same place;

and hurried off as before. This they did several times in succession.

Listening with suspended breath and my ear against the keyhole, I

distinctly heard them deposit some kind of burden each time--evidently a

weighty burden, from the way in which they carried it; and yet, strange

to say, one that, despite its weight, made scarcely any noise in the

setting down.

Just at this moment, when all my senses were concentrated in the one act

of listening, Bergheim stirred for the first time, and began muttering.

"The man!" he said, in a low, suppressed tone. "The man under the

hearth!"

I flew to him at the first sound of his voice. He was recovering. Heaven

be thanked, he was recovering! In a few minutes we should be two--two

against two--right and might on our side--both ready for the defence of

our lives!

"One man under the hearth," he went on, in the same unnatural tone.

"Four men at the bottom of the pond--all murdered--foully murdered!"

I had scarcely heeded his first words; but now, as their sense broke

upon me, that great rush of exultation and thankfulness was suddenly

arrested. My heart stood still; I trembled; I turned cold with horror.

Then the veins swelled on his forehead; his face became purple; and he

struck out blindly, as one oppressed with some horrible nightmare.

"Blood!" he gasped. "Everywhere blood--don't touch it. God's

vengeance--help!"...

And so, struggling violently in my arms, he opened his eyes, stared

wildly round, and made an effort to get upon his feet.

"What is the matter?" he said, sinking back again, and trembling from

head to foot. "Was I asleep?"

I rubbed his hands and forehead again with beer. I tasted it, and

finding no ill flavour upon it, put a tiny drop to his lips.

"You are all right now," I said. "You were very tired, and you fell

asleep after supper. Don't you remember?"

He put his hand to his head. "Ah, yes," he said, "I remember. I have

been dreaming"....

He looked round the room in a bewildered way; then, struck all at once

by the strange disorder of the furniture, asked what was the matter.

I told him in the least alarming way, and with the fewest words I could

muster, but before I could get to the end of my explanation he was up,

ready for resistance, and apparently himself again.

"Where are they?" he said. "What are they doing now? Outside, do you

say? Why, good heavens! man, they're blocking us in. Listen!--don't you

hear?--it is the rustling of straw. Bring the blunderbuss! quick!--to

the window.... God grant we may not be too late!"

We both rushed to the window; Bergheim to undo the shutter, and I to

shoot down the first man in sight.

"Look there!" he said, and pointed to the door.

A thin stream of smoke was oozing under the threshold and stealing

upward in a filmy cloud that already dimmed the atmosphere of the room.

"They are going to burn us out!" I exclaimed.

"No, they are going to burn us alive," replied Bergheim, between his

clenched teeth. "We know too much, and they are determined to silence us

at all costs, though they burn the house down over our heads. Now hold

your breath, for I am going to open the window, and the smoke will rush

in like a torrent."

He opened it, but very little came in--for this reason, that the outside

was densely blocked with straw, which had not yet ignited.

In a moment we had dragged the table under the window--put our weapons

aside ready for use--and set to work to cut our way out.

Bergheim, standing on the table, wrenched away the straw in great

armfuls. I caught it, and hurled it into the middle of the room. We

laboured at the work like giants. In a few moments the pile had mounted

to the height of the table. Then Bergheim cried out that the straw under

his hands was taking fire, and that he dared throw it back into the room

no longer!

I sprang to his aid with the two hatchets. I gave him one--I fell to

work with the other. The smoke and flame rushed in our faces, as we

hewed down the burning straw.

Meanwhile, the room behind us was full of smoke, and above the noise of

our own frantic labour we heard a mighty crackling and hissing, as of a

great conflagration.

"Take the blunderbuss--quick!" cried Bergheim, hoarsely. "There is

nothing but smoke outside now, and burning straw below. Follow me! Jump

as far out as you can, and shoot the first you see!"

And with this, he leaped out into the smoke, and was gone!

I only waited to grope out the blunderbuss; then, holding it high above

my head, I shut my eyes and sprang after him, clearing the worst of the

fire, and falling on my hands and knees among a heap of smouldering

straw and ashes beyond. At the same instant that I touched the ground, I

heard the sharp crack of a rifle, and saw two figures rush past me.

To dash out in pursuit without casting one backward glance at the

burning house behind me--to see a tall figure vanishing among the trees,

and two others in full chase--to cover the foremost of these two and

bring him down as one would bring down a wolf in the open, was for me

but the work of a second.

I saw him fall. I saw the other hesitate, look back, throw up his hands

with a wild gesture, and fly towards the hills.

* * * * *

The rest of my story is soon told. The one I had shot was Friedrich, the

younger brother. He died in about half an hour, and never spoke again.

The elder escaped into the forest, and there succeeded in hiding himself

for several weeks among the charcoal-burners. Being hunted down,

however, at last, he was tried at Heilbronn, and there executed.

The pair, it seemed, were practised murderers. The pond, when dragged,

was found to contain four of their victims; and when the crumbling ruins

of the homestead were cleared for the purpose, the mortal remains of a

fifth were discovered under the hearth, in that kitchen which had so

nearly proved our grave. A store of money, clothes, and two or three

watches, was also found secreted in a granary near the house; and these

things served to identify three out of the five corpses thus

providentially brought to light.

My friend, Gustav Bergheim (now the friend of seventeen years) is well

and prosperous; married to his "Maedchen;" and the happy father of a

numerous family. He often tells the tale of our terrible night on the

borders of the Black Forest, and avers that in that awful dream in which

his senses came back to him, he distinctly saw, as in a vision, the

mouldering form beneath the hearth, and the others under the sluggish

waters of the pond.

THE STORY OF SALOME.

A few years ago, no matter how many, I, Harcourt Blunt, was travelling

with my friend Coventry Turnour, and it was on the steps of our hotel

that I received from him the announcement that he was again in love.

"I tell you, Blunt," said my fellow-traveller, "she's the loveliest

creature I ever beheld in my life."

I laughed outright.

"My dear fellow," I replied, "you've so often seen the loveliest

creature you ever beheld in your life."

"Ay, but I am in earnest now for the first time."

"And you have so often been in earnest for the first time! Remember the

innkeeper's daughter at Cologne."

"A pretty housemaid, whom no training could have made presentable."

"Then there was the beautiful American at Interlaken."

"Yes; but--"

"And the bella Marchesa at Prince Torlonia's ball."

"Not one of them worthy to be named in the same breath with my imperial

Venetian. Come with me to the Merceria and be convinced. By taking a

gondola to St. Mark's Place we shall be there in a quarter of an hour."

I went, and he raved of his new flame all the way. She was a Jewess--he

would convert her. Her father kept a shop in the Merceria--what of that?

He dealt only in costliest Oriental merchandise, and was as rich as a

Rothschild. As for any probable injury to his own prospects, why need he

hesitate on that account? What were "prospects" when weighed against the

happiness of one's whole life? Besides, he was not ambitious. He didn't

care to go into Parliament. If his uncle, Sir Geoffrey, cut him off with

a shilling, what then? He had a moderate independence of which no one

living could deprive him, and what more could any reasonable man desire?

I listened, smiled, and was silent. I knew Coventry Turnour too well to

attach the smallest degree of importance to anything that he might say

or do in a matter of this kind. To be distractedly in love was his

normal condition. We had been friends from boyhood; and since the time

when he used to cherish a hopeless attachment to the young lady behind

the counter of the tart-shop at Harrow, I had never known him

"fancy-free" for more than a few weeks at a time. He had gone through

every phase of no less than three _grandes passions_ during the five

months that we had now been travelling together; and having left Rome

about eleven weeks before with every hope laid waste, and a heart so

broken that it could never by any possibility be put together again, he

was now, according to the natural course of events, just ready to fall

in love again.

We landed at the traghetto San Marco. It was a cloudless morning towards

the middle of April, just ten years ago. The Ducal Palace glowed in the

hot sunshine; the boatmen were clustered, gossiping, about the quay; the

orange-vendors were busy under the arches of the piazzetta; the

_flaneurs_ were already eating ices and smoking cigarettes outside the

cafes. There was an Austrian military band, strapped, buckled,

moustachioed, and white-coated, playing just in front of St. Mark's; and

the shadow of the great bell-tower slept all across the square.

Passing under the low round archway leading to the Merceria, we plunged

at once into that cool labyrinth of narrow, intricate, and picturesque

streets, where the sun never penetrates--where no wheels are heard, and

no beast of burden is seen--where every house is a shop, and every

shop-front is open to the ground, as in an Oriental bazaar--where the

upper balconies seem almost to meet overhead, and are separated by only

a strip of burning sky--and where more than three people cannot march

abreast in any part. Pushing our way as best we might through the motley

crowd that here chatters, cheapens, buys, sells, and perpetually jostles

to and fro, we came presently to a shop for the sale of Eastern goods. A

few glass jars, filled with spices and some pieces of stuff, untidily

strewed the counter next the street; but within, dark and narrow though

it seemed, the place was crammed with costliest merchandise. Cases of

gorgeous Oriental jewelry; embroideries and fringes of massive gold and

silver bullion; precious drugs and spices; exquisite toys in filigree;

miracles of carving in ivory, sandal-wood, and amber; jewelled

yataghans; scimitars of state, rich with "barbaric pearl and gold,"

bales of Cashmere shawls, China silks, India muslins, gauzes, and the

like, filled every inch of available space from floor to ceiling,

leaving only a narrow lane from the door to the counter, and a still

narrower passage to the rooms beyond the shop.

We went in. A young woman who was sitting reading on a low seat behind

the counter, laid aside her book, and rose slowly. She was dressed

wholly in black. I cannot describe the fashion of her garments. I only

know that they fell about her in long, soft, trailing folds, leaving a

narrow band Of fine cambric visible at the throat and wrists; and that,

however graceful and unusual this dress may have been, I scarcely

observed it, so entirely was I taken up with admiration of her beauty.

For she was indeed very beautiful--beautiful in a way I had not

anticipated Coventry Turnour, with all his enthusiasm, had failed to do

her justice. He had raved of her eyes--her large, lustrous, melancholy

eyes,--of the transparent paleness of her complexion, of the faultless

delicacy of her features; but he had not prepared me for the

unconscious dignity, the perfect nobleness and refinement, that

informed her every look and gesture. My friend requested to see a

bracelet at which he had been looking the day before. Proud, stately,

silent, she unlocked the case in which it was kept, and laid it before

him on the counter. He asked permission to take it over to the light.

She bent her head, but answered not a word. It was like being waited

upon by a young Empress.

Turnour took the bracelet to the door and affected to examine it. It

consisted of a double row of gold coins linked together at intervals by

a bean-shaped ornament studded with pink coral and diamonds. Coming back

into the shop he asked me if I thought it would please his sister, to

whom he had promised a remembrance of Venice.

"It is a pretty trifle," I replied; "but surely a remembrance of Venice

should be of Venetian manufacture. This, I suppose, is Turkish."

The beautiful Jewess looked up. We spoke in English; but she understood,

and replied.

"_E Greco, signore_," she said coldly.

At this moment an old man came suddenly forward from some dark

counting-house at the back--a grizzled, bearded, eager-eyed Shylock,

with a pen behind his ear.

"Go in, Salome--go in, my daughter," he said hurriedly. "I will serve

these gentlemen."

She lifted her eyes to his for one moment--then moved silently away, and

vanished in the gloom of the room beyond.

We saw her no more. We lingered awhile looking over the contents of the

jewel-cases; but in vain. Then Turnour bought his bracelet, and we went

out again into the narrow streets, and back to the open daylight of the

Gran' Piazza.

"Well," he said breathlessly, "what do you think of her?"

"She is very lovely."

"Lovelier than you expected?"

"Much lovelier. But--"

"But what?"

"The sooner you succeed in forgetting her the better."

He vowed, of course, that he never would and never could forget her. He

would hear of no incompatibilities, listen to no objections, believe in

no obstacles. That the beautiful Salome was herself not only unconscious

of his passion and indifferent to his person, but ignorant of his very

name and station, were facts not even to be admitted on the list of

difficulties. Finding him thus deaf to reason, I said no more.

It was all over, however, before the week was out.

"Look here, Blunt," he said, coming up to me one morning in the

coffee-room of our hotel just as I was sitting down to answer a pile of

home-letters; "would you like to go on to Trieste to-morrow? There,

don't look at me like that--you can guess how it is with me. I was a

fool ever to suppose she would care for me--a stranger, a foreigner, a

Christian. Well, I'm horribly out of sorts, anyhow--and--and I wish I

was a thousand miles off at this moment!"

* * * * *

We travelled on together to Athens, and there parted, Turnour being

bound for England, and I for the East. My own tour lasted many months

longer. I went first to Egypt and the Holy Land; then joined an

exploring party on the Euphrates; and at length, after just twelve

months of Oriental life, found myself back again at Trieste about the

middle of April in the year following that during which occurred the

events I have just narrated. There I found that batch of letters and

papers to which I had been looking forward for many weeks past; and

amongst the former, one from Coventry Turnour. This time he was not only

irrecoverably in love, but on the eve of matrimony. The letter was

rapturous and extravagant enough. The writer was the happiest of men;

his destined bride the loveliest and most amiable of her sex; the future

a paradise; the past a melancholy series of mistakes. As for love, he

had never, of course, known what it was till now.

And what of the beautiful Salome?

Not one word of her from beginning to end. He had forgotten her as

utterly as if she had never existed. And yet how desperately in love and

how desperately in despair he was "one little year ago!" Ah, yes; but

then it _was_ "one little year ago;" and who that had ever known

Coventry Turnour would expect him to remember _la plus grande des

grandes passions_ for even half that time?

I slept that night at Trieste and went on next day to Venice. Somehow I

could not get Turnour and his love-affairs out of my head. I remembered

our visit to the Merceria. I was haunted by the image of the beautiful

Jewess. Was she still so lovely? Did she still sit reading in her wonted

seat by the open counter, with the gloomy shop reaching away behind, and

the cases of rich robes and jewels all around?

An irresistible impulse prompted me to go to the Merceria and see her

once again. I went. It had been a busy morning with me, and I did not

get there till between three and four o'clock in the afternoon. The

place was crowded. I passed up the well-remembered street, looking out

on both sides for the gloomy little shop with its unattractive counter;

but in vain. When I had gone so far that I thought I must have passed

it, I turned back. House by house I retraced my steps to the very

entrance, and still could not find it. Then, concluding I had not gone

far enough at first, I turned back again till I reached a spot where

several streets diverged. Here I came to a stand-still, for beyond this

point I knew I had not passed before.

It was now evident that the Jew no longer occupied his former shop in

the Merceria, and that my chance of discovering his whereabouts was

exceedingly slender. I could not inquire of his successor, because I

could not identify the house. I found it impossible even to remember

what trades were carried on by his neighbours on either side. I was

ignorant of his very name. Convinced, therefore, of the inutility of

making any further effort, I gave up the search, and comforted myself by

reflecting that my own heart was not made of adamant, and that it was,

perhaps, better for my peace not to see the beautiful Salome again. I

was destined to see her again, however, and that ere many days had

passed over my head.

A year of more than ordinarily fatiguing Eastern travel had left me in

need of rest, and I had resolved to allow myself a month's sketching in

Venice and its neighbourhood before turning my face homeward.

As, therefore, it is manifestly the first object of a sketcher to select

his points of view, and as no more luxurious machine than a Venetian

gondola was ever invented for the use of man, I proceeded to employ the

first days of my stay in endless boatings to and fro; now exploring all

manner of canals and canaletti; now rowing out in the direction of

Murano; now making for the islands beyond San Pietro Castello, and in

the course of these pilgrimages noting down an infinite number of

picturesque sites, and smoking an infinite number of cigarettes.

It was, I think, about the fourth or fifth day of this pleasant work,

when my gondolier proposed to take me as far as the Lido. It wanted

about two hours to sunset, and the great sandbank lay not more than

three or four miles away; so I gave the word, and in another moment we

had changed our route and were gliding farther and farther from Venice

at each dip of the oar.

Then the long, dull, distant ridge that had all day bounded the shallow

horizon rose gradually above the placid level of the Lagune; assumed a

more broken outline; resolved itself into hillocks and hollows of tawny

sand; showed here and there a patch of parched grass and tangled brake;

and looked like the coasts of some inhospitable desert beyond which no

traveller might penetrate. My boatman made straight for a spot where

some stakes at the water's edge gave token of a landing-place; and here,

though with some difficulty, for the tide was low, ran the gondola

aground. I landed. My first step was among graves.

"_E'l Cimiterio Giudaico, signore_," said my gondolier, with a touch of

his cap.

The Jewish cemetery! The _ghetto_ of the dead! I remembered now to have

read or heard long since how the Venetian Jews, cut off in death as in

life from the neighbourhood of their Christian rulers, had been buried

from immemorial time upon this desolate waste. I stooped to examine the

headstone at my feet. It was but a shattered fragment, crusted over with

yellow lichens, and eaten away by the salt sea air. I passed on to the

next, and the next.

Some were completely matted over with weeds and brambles; some were

half-buried in the drifting sand; of some only a corner remained above

the surface. Here and there a name, a date, a fragment of emblematic

carving or part of a Hebrew inscription, was yet legible; but all were

more or less broken and effaced.

Wandering on thus among graves and hillocks, ascending at every step,

and passing some three or four glassy pools overgrown with gaunt-looking

reeds, I presently found that I had reached the central and most

elevated part of the Lido, and that I commanded an uninterrupted view on

every side. On the one hand lay the broad, silent Lagune bounded by

Venice and the Euganean hills--on the other, stealing up in long, lazy

folds, and breaking noiselessly against the endless shore, the blue

Adriatic. An old man gathering shells on the seaward side, a distant

gondola on the Lagune, were the only signs of life for miles around.

Standing on the upper ridge of this narrow barrier, looking upon both

waters, and watching the gradual approach of what promised to be a

gorgeous sunset, I fell into one of those wandering trains of thought in

which the real and unreal succeed each other as capriciously as in a

dream.

I remembered how Goethe here conceived his vertebral theory of the

skull--how Byron, too lame to walk, kept his horse on the Lido, and here

rode daily to and fro--how Shelley loved the wild solitude of the place,

wrote of it in _Julian and Maddalo_, and listened perhaps from this very

spot, to the mad-house bell on the island of San Giorgio. Then I

wondered if Titian used sometimes to come hither from his gloomy house

on the other side of Venice, to study the gold and purple of these

western skies--if Othello had walked here with Desdemona--if Shylock was

buried yonder, and Leah whom he loved "when he was a bachelor."

And then in the midst of my reverie, I came suddenly upon another Jewish

cemetery.

Was it indeed another, or but an outlying portion of the first? It was

evidently another, and a more modern one. The ground was better kept.

The monuments were newer. Such dates as I had succeeded in deciphering

on the broken sepulchres lower down were all of the fourteenth and

fifteenth centuries; but the inscriptions upon these bore reference to

quite recent interments.

I went on a few steps farther. I stopped to copy a quaint Italian

couplet on one tomb--to gather a wild forget-me-not from the foot of

another--to put aside a bramble that trailed across a third--and then I

became aware for the first time of a lady sitting beside a grave not a

dozen yards from the spot on which I stood.

I had believed myself so utterly alone, and was so taken by surprise,

that for the first moment I could almost have persuaded myself that she

also was "of the stuff that dreams are made of." She was dressed from

head to foot in deepest mourning; her face turned from me, looking

towards the sunset; her cheek resting in the palm of her hand. The grave

by which she sat was obviously recent. The scant herbage round about had

been lately disturbed, and the marble headstone looked as if it had not

yet undergone a week's exposure to wind and weather.

Persuaded that she had not observed me, I lingered for an instant

looking at her. Something in the grace and sorrow of her attitude,

something in the turn of her head and the flow of her sable draperies,

arrested my attention. Was she young? I fancied so. Did she mourn a

husband?--a lover?--a parent? I glanced towards the headstone. It was

covered with Hebrew characters; so that, had I even been nearer, it

could have told me nothing.

But I felt that I had no right to stand there, a spectator of her

sorrow, an intruder on her privacy. I proceeded to move noiselessly

away. At that moment she turned and looked at me.

It was Salome.

Salome, pale and worn as from some deep and wasting grief, but more

beautiful, if that could be, than ever. Beautiful, with a still more

spiritual beauty than of old; with cheeks so wan, and eyes so

unutterably bright and solemn, that my very heart seemed to stand still

as I looked upon them. For one second I paused, half fancying, half

hoping that there was recognition in her glance; then, not daring to

look or linger longer, turned away. When I had gone far enough to do so

without discourtesy, I stopped and looked back. She had resumed her

former attitude, and was gazing over towards Venice and the setting sun.

The stone by which she watched was not more motionless.

The sun went down in glory. The last flush faded from the domes and

bell-towers of Venice; the northward peaks changed from rose to purple,

from gold to grey; a scarcely perceptible film of mist became all at

once visible upon the surface of the Lagune; and overhead, the first

star trembled into light. I waited and watched till the shadows had so

deepened that I could no longer distinguish one distant object from

another. Was that the spot? Was she still there? Was she moving? Was she

gone? I could not tell. The more I looked, the more uncertain I became.

Then, fearing to miss my way in the fast-gathering twilight, I struck

down towards the water's edge and made for the point at which I had

landed.

I found my gondolier fast asleep, with his head on a cushion and his bit

of gondola-carpet thrown over him for a counterpane. I asked if he had

seen any other boat put off from the Lido since I left? He rubbed his

eyes, started up, and was awake in a moment.

"_Per Bacco_, _signore_, I have been asleep," he said apologetically; "I

have seen nothing."

"Did you observe any other boat moored hereabouts when we landed?"

"None, signore."

"And you have seen nothing of a lady in black?"

He laughed and shook his head.

"_Consolatevi, signore_," he said, archly; "she will come to-morrow."

Then, seeing me look grave, he touched his cap, and with a gentle

"_Scusate, signore_," took his place at the stern, and there waited. I

bade him row to my hotel; and then, leaning dreamily back, folded my

arms, closed my eyes, and thought of Salome.

How lovely she was! How infinitely more lovely than even my first

remembrance of her! How was it that I had not admired her more that day

in the Merceria? Was I blind, or had she become indeed more beautiful?

It was a sad and strange place in which to meet her again. By whose

grave was she watching? By her father's? Yes, surely by her father's. He

was an old man when I saw him, and in the course of nature had not long

to live. He was dead: hence my unavailing search in the Merceria. He was

dead. His shop was let to another occupant. His stock-in-trade was sold

and dispersed.

And Salome--was she left alone? Had she no mother?--no brother?--no

lover? Would her eyes have had that look of speechless woe in them if

she had any very near or dear tie left on earth? Then I thought of

Coventry Turnour, and his approaching marriage. Had he ever really loved

her? I doubted it. "True love," saith an old song, "can ne'er forget;"

but he had forgotten, as though the past had been a dream. And yet he

was in earnest while it lasted--would have risked all for her sake, if

she would have listened to him. Ah, if she _had_ listened to him!

And then I remembered that he had never told me the particulars of that

affair. Did she herself reject him, or did he lay his suit before her

father? And was he rejected only because he was a Christian? I had never

cared to ask these things while we were together; but now I would have

given the best hunter in my stables to know every minute detail

connected with the matter.

Pondering thus, travelling over the same ground again and again,

wondering whether she remembered me, whether she was poor, whether she

was, indeed, alone in the world, how long the old man had been dead, and

a hundred other things of the same kind,--I scarcely noticed how the

watery miles glided past, or how the night closed in. One question,

however, recurred oftener than any other: How was I to see her again?

I arrived at my hotel; I dined at the _table d'hote_; I strolled out

after dinner to my favourite cafe in the piazza; I dropped in for half

an hour at the Fenice, and heard one act of an extremely poor opera; I

came home restless, uneasy, wakeful; and sitting for hours before my

bedroom fire, asked myself the same perpetual question--How was I to see

her again?

Fairly tired out at last, I fell asleep in my chair, and when I awoke

the sun was shining upon my window.

I started to my feet. I had it now. It flashed upon me, as if it came

with the sunlight. I had but to go again to the cemetery, copy the

inscription upon the old man's tomb, ask my learned friend, Professor

Nicolai of Padua, to translate it for me, and then, once in possession

of names and dates, the rest would be easy.

In less than an hour, I was once more on my way to the Lido.

I took a rubbing of the stone. It was the quickest way, and the surest;

for I knew that in Hebrew everything depended on the pointing of the

characters, and I feared to trust my own untutored skill.

This done, I hastened back, wrote my letter to the professor, and

despatched both letter and rubbing by the mid-day train.

The professor was not a prompt man. On the contrary, he was a

pre-eminently slow man; dreamy, indolent, buried in Oriental lore. From

any other correspondent one might have looked for a reply in the course

of the morrow, but from Nicolai of Padua it would have been folly to

expect one under two or three days. And in the meanwhile? Well, in the

meanwhile there were churches and palaces to be seen, sketches to be

made, letters of introduction to be delivered. It was, at all events, of

no use to be impatient.

And yet I was impatient--so impatient that I could neither sketch, nor

read, nor sit still for ten minutes together. Possessed by an

uncontrollable restlessness, I wandered from gallery to gallery, from

palace to palace, from church to church. The imprisonment of even a

gondola was irksome to me. I was, as it were, impelled to be moving and

doing; and even so, the day seemed endless.

The next was even worse. There was just the possibility of a reply from

Padua, and the knowledge of that possibility unsettled me for the day.

Having watched and waited for every post from eight to four, I went down

to the traghetto of St. Mark's, and was there hailed by my accustomed

gondolier.

He touched his cap and waited for orders.

"Where to, signore?" he asked, finding that I remained silent.

"To the Lido."

It was an irresistible temptation, and I yielded to it; but I yielded in

opposition to my judgment. I knew that I ought not to haunt the place. I

had resolved that I would not. And yet I went.

Going along, I told myself that I had only come to reconnoitre. It was

not unlikely that she might be going to the same spot about the same

hour as before; and in that case I might overtake her gondola by the

way, or find it moored somewhere along the shore. At all events, I was

determined not to land. But we met no gondola beyond San Pietro

Castello; saw no sign of one along the shore. The afternoon was far

advanced; the sun was near going down; we had the Lagune and the Lido to

ourselves.

My boatman made for the same landing-place, and moored his gondola to

the same stake as before. He took it for granted that I meant to land;

and I landed. After all, however, it was evident that Salome could not

be there, in which case I was guilty of no intrusion. I might stroll in

the direction of the cemetery, taking care to avoid her, if she were

anywhere about, and keeping well away from that part where I had last

seen her. So I broke another resolve, and went up towards the top of the

Lido. Again I came to the salt pools and the reeds; again stood with the

sea upon my left hand and the Lagune upon my right, and the endless

sandbank reaching on for miles between the two. Yonder lay the new

cemetery. Standing thus I overlooked every foot of the ground. I could

even distinguish the headstone of which I had taken a rubbing the

morning before. There was no living thing in sight. I was, to all

appearance, as utterly alone as Enoch Arden on his desert island.

Then I strolled on a little nearer and a little nearer still; and then,

contrary to all my determinations, I found myself standing upon the very

spot, beside the very grave, which I had made up my mind on no account

to approach.

The sun was now just going down--had gone down, indeed, behind a bank of

golden-edged cumuli--and was flooding earth, sea, and sky with crimson.

It was at this hour that I saw her. It was upon this spot that she was

sitting. A few scant blades of grass had sprung up here and there upon

the grave. Her dress must have touched them as she sat there--her

dress--perhaps her hand. I gathered one, and laid it carefully between

the leaves of my note-book.

At last I turned to go, and, turning, met her face to face!

She was distant about six yards, and advancing slowly towards the spot

on which I was standing. Her head drooped slightly forward; her hands

were clasped together; her eyes were fixed upon the ground. It was the

attitude of a nun. Startled, confused, scarcely knowing what I did, I

took off my hat, and drew aside to let her pass.

She looked up--hesitated--stood still--gazed at me with a strange,

steadfast, mournful expression--then dropped her eyes again, passed me

without another glance, and resumed her former place and attitude beside

her father's grave.

I turned away. I would have given worlds to speak to her; but I had not

dared, and the opportunity was gone. Yet I might have spoken. She looked

at me--looked at me with so strange and piteous an expression in her

eyes--continued looking at me as long as one might have counted five....

I might have spoken. I surely might have spoken! And now--ah! now it was

impossible. She had fallen into the old thoughtful attitude, with her

cheek resting on her hand. Her thoughts were far away. She had forgotten

my very presence.

I went back to the shore, more disturbed and uneasy than ever. I spent

all the remaining daylight in rowing up and down the margin of the Lido,

looking for her gondola--hoping, at all events, to see her put off--to

follow her, perhaps, across the waste of waters. But the dusk came

quickly on, and then darkness; and I left at last without having seen

any farther sign or token of her presence.

Lying awake that night, tossing uneasily upon my bed, and thinking over

the incidents of the last few days, I found myself perpetually recurring

to that long, steady, sorrowful gaze which she fixed upon me in the

cemetery. The more I thought of it, the more I seemed to feel that there

was in it some deeper meaning than I, in my confusion, had observed at

the time. It was such a strange look--a look almost of entreaty, of

asking for help or sympathy; like the dumb appeal in the eyes of a sick

animal. Could this really be? What, after all, more possible than that,

left alone in the world--with, perhaps, not a single male relation to

advise her--she found herself in some position of present difficulty,

and knew not where to turn for help? All this might well be. She had

even, perhaps, some instinctive feeling that she might trust me. Ah! if

she would indeed trust me....

I had hoped to receive my Paduan letter by the morning delivery; but

morning and afternoon went by as before, and still no letter came. As

the day began to decline, I was again on my way to the Lido; this time

for the purpose, and with the intention, of speaking to her. I landed,

and went direct to the cemetery. It had been a dull day. Lagune and sky

were both one uniform leaden grey, and a mist hung over Venice.

I saw her from the moment I reached the upper ridge. She was walking to

and fro among the graves, like a stately shadow. I had felt confident,

somehow, that she would be there; and now, for some reason that I could

not have defined for my life, I felt equally confident that she expected

me.

Trembling and eager, yet half dreading the moment when she should

discover my presence, I hastened on, printing the loose sand at every

noiseless step. A few moments more, and I should overtake her, speak to

her, hear the music of her voice--that music which I remembered so well,

though a year had gone by since I last heard it. But how should I

address her? What had I to say? I knew not. I had no time to think. I

could only hurry on till within some ten feet of her trailing garments;

stand still when she turned, and uncover before her as if she were a

queen.

She paused and looked at me, just as she had paused and looked at me the

evening before. With the same sorrowful meaning in her eyes; with even

more than the same entreating expression. But she waited for me to

speak.

I did speak. I cannot recall what I said; I only know that I faltered

something of an apology--mentioned that I had had the honour of meeting

her before, many months ago; and, trying to say more--trying to express

how thankfully and proudly I would devote myself to any service however

humble, however laborious, I failed both in voice and words, and broke

down utterly.

Having come to a stop, I looked up and found her eyes still fixed upon

me.

"You are a Christian?" she said.

A trembling came upon me at the first sound of her voice. It was the

same voice; distinct, melodious, scarce louder than a whisper--and yet

it was not quite the same. There was a melancholy in the music, and if I

may use a word which, after all, fails to express my meaning, a

_remoteness_, that fell upon my ear like the plaintive cadence in an

autumnal wind.

I bent my head, and answered that I was.

She pointed to the headstone of which I had taken a rubbing a day or two

before.

"A Christian soul lies there," she said, "laid in earth without one

Christian prayer--with Hebrew rites--in a Hebrew sanctuary. Will you,

stranger, perform an act of piety towards the dead?"

"The Signora has but to speak," I said. "All that she wishes shall be

done."

"Read one prayer over this grave; and trace a cross upon this stone."

"I will."

She thanked me with a gesture, slightly bowed her head, drew her outer

garment more closely round her, and moved away to a rising ground at

some little distance. I was dismissed. I had no excuse for lingering--no

right to prolong the interview--no business to remain there one moment

longer. So I left her there, nor once looked back till I had reached the

last point from which I knew I should be able to see her. But when I

turned for that last look, she was no longer in sight.

I had resolved to speak to her, and this was the result. A stranger

interview never, surely, fell to the lot of man! I had said nothing that

I meant to say--had learnt nothing that I sought to know. With regard to

her circumstances, her place of residence, her very name, I was no wiser

than before. And yet I had, perhaps, no reason to be dissatisfied. She

had honoured me with her confidence, and entrusted to me a task of some

difficulty and importance. It now only remained for me to execute that

task as thoroughly and as quickly as possible. That done, I might fairly

hope to win some place in her remembrance--by and by, perhaps, in her

esteem.

Meanwhile, the old question rose again--whose grave could it be? I had

settled this matter so conclusively in my own mind from the first, that

I could scarcely believe even now that it was not her father's. Yet that

he should have died a secret convert to Christianity was incredible.

Whose grave could it be? A lover's? A Christian lover's? Alas! it might

be. Or a sister's? In either of these cases, it was more than probable

that Salome was herself a convert. But I had no time to waste in

conjecture. I must act, and act promptly.

I hastened back to Venice as fast as my gondolier could row me; and as

we went along I promised myself that all her wishes should be carried

out before she visited the spot again. To secure at once the services of

a clergyman who would go with me to the Lido at early dawn and there

read some portion, at least, of the burial service; and at the same time

to engage a stonemason to cut the cross;--to have all done before she,

or anyone, should have approached the place next day, was my especial

object. And that object I was resolved to carry out, though I had to

search Venice through before I laid my head upon my pillow.

I found a clergyman without difficulty. He was a young man occupying

rooms in the same hotel, and on the same floor as myself. I had met him

each day at the _table d'hote_, and conversed with him once or twice in

the reading-room. He was a North-countryman, had not long since taken

orders, and was both gentlemanly and obliging. He promised in the

readiest manner to do all that I required, and to breakfast with me at

six next morning, in order that we might reach the cemetery by eight.

To find my stonemason, however, was not so easy; and yet I went to work

methodically enough. I began with the Venetian Directory; then copied a

list of stonemasons' names and addresses; then took a gondola _a due

remi_ and started upon my voyage of discovery.

But a night's voyage of discovery among the intricate back _canaletti_

of Venice is no very easy and no very safe enterprise. Narrow, tortuous,

densely populated, often blocked by huge hay, wood, and provision

barges, almost wholly unlighted, and so perplexingly alike that no mere

novice in Venetian topography need ever hope to distinguish one from

another, they baffle the very gondoliers, and are a _terra incognita_ to

all but the dwellers therein.

I succeeded, however, in finding three of the places entered on my list.

At the first I was told that the workman of whom I was in quest was

working by the week somewhere over by Murano, and would not be back

again till Saturday night. At the second and third, I found the men at

home, supping with their wives and children at the end of the day's

work; but neither would consent to undertake my commission. One, after a

whispered consultation with his son, declined reluctantly. The other

told me plainly that he dared not do it, and that he did not believe I

should find a stonemason in Venice who would be bolder than himself.

The Jews, he said, were rich and powerful; no longer an oppressed

people; no longer to be insulted even in Venice with impunity. To cut a

Christian cross upon a Jewish headstone in the Jewish Cemetery, would be

"a sort of sacrilege," and punishable, no doubt, by the law. This

sounded like truth; so, finding that my rowers were by no means

confident of their way, and that the _canaletti_ were dark as the

catacombs, I prevailed upon the stonemason to sell me a small mallet and

a couple of chisels, and made up my mind to commit the sacrilege myself.

With this single exception, all was done next morning as I had planned

to do it. My new acquaintance breakfasted with me, accompanied me to the

Lido, read such portions of the burial service as seemed proper to him,

and then, having business in Venice, left me to my task. It was by no

means an easy one. To a skilled hand it would have been, perhaps, the

work of half-an-hour; but it was my first effort, and rude as the thing

was--a mere grooved attempt at a Latin cross, about two inches and a

half in length, cut close down at the bottom of the stone, where it

could be easily concealed by a little piling of the sand--it took me

nearly four hours to complete. While I was at work, the dull grey

morning grew duller and greyer; a thick sea-fog drove up from the

Adriatic; and a low moaning wind came and went like the echo of a

distant requiem. More than once I started, believing that she had

surprised me there--fancying I saw the passing of a shadow--heard the

rustling of a garment--the breathing of a sigh. But no. The mists and

the moaning wind deceived me. I was alone.

When at length I got back to my hotel, it was just two o'clock. The

hall-porter put a letter into my hand as I passed through. One glance at

that crabbed superscription was enough. It was from Padua. I hastened to

my room, tore open the envelope, and read these words:--

"CARO SIGNORE,--The rubbing you send is neither ancient nor

curious, as I fear you suppose it to be. It is a thing of

yesterday. It merely records that one Salome, the only and

beloved child of a certain Isaac Da Costa, died last Autumn on

the eighteenth of October, aged twenty-one years, and that by

the said Isaac Da Costa this monument is erected to the memory

of her virtues and his grief.

"I pray you, _caro signore_, to receive the assurance of my

sincere esteem.

"NICOLO NICOLAI."

The letter dropped from my hand. I seemed to have read without

understanding it. I picked it up; went through it again, word by word;

sat down; rose up; took a turn across the room; felt confused,

bewildered, incredulous.

Could there, then, be two Salomes? or was there some radical and

extraordinary mistake?

I hesitated; I knew not what to do. Should I go down to the Merceria,

and see whether the name of Da Costa was known in the _quartier_? Or

find out the registrar of births and deaths for the Jewish district? Or

call upon the principal rabbi, and learn from him who this second Salome

had been, and in what degree of relationship she stood towards the

Salome whom I knew? I decided upon the last course. The chief rabbi's

address was easily obtained. He lived in an ancient house on the

Giudecca, and there I found him--a grave, stately old man, with a

grizzled beard reaching nearly to his waist.

I introduced myself and stated my business. I came to ask if he could

give me any information respecting the late Salome da Costa who died on

the 18th of October last, and was buried on the Lido.

The rabbi replied that he had no doubt he could give me any information

I desired, for he had known the lady personally, and was the intimate

friend of her father.

"Can you tell me," I asked, "whether she had any dear friend or female

relative of the same name--Salome?"

The rabbi shook his head.

"I think not," he said. "I remember no other maiden of that name."

"Pardon me, but I know there was another," I replied. "There was a very

beautiful Salome living in the Merceria when I was last in Venice, just

this time last year."

"Salome da Costa was very fair," said the rabbi; "and she dwelt with her

father in the Merceria. Since her death, he hath removed to the

neighbourhood of the Rialto."

"This Salome's father was a dealer in Oriental goods," I said, hastily.

"Isaac da Costa is a dealer in Oriental goods," replied the old man very

gently. "We are speaking, my son, of the same persons."

"Impossible!"

He shook his head again.

"But she lives!" I exclaimed, becoming greatly agitated. "She lives. I

have seen her. I have spoken to her. I saw her only last evening."

"Nay," he said, compassionately, "this is some dream. She of whom you

speak is indeed no more."

"I saw her only last evening," I repeated.

"Where did you suppose you beheld her?"

"On the Lido."

"On the Lido?"

"And she spoke to me. I heard her voice--heard it as distinctly as I

hear my own at this moment."

The rabbi stroked his beard thoughtfully, and looked at me. "You think

you heard her voice!" he ejaculated. "That is strange. What said she?"

I was about to answer. I checked myself--a sudden thought flashed upon

me--I trembled from head to foot.

"Have you--have you any reason for supposing that she died a Christian?"

I faltered.

The old man started and changed colour.

"I--I--that is a strange question," he stammered. "Why do you ask it?"

"Yes or no?" I cried wildly. "Yes or no?"

He frowned, looked down, hesitated.

"I admit," he said, after a moment or two,--"I admit that I may have

heard something tending that way. It may be that the maiden cherished

some secret doubt. Yet she was no professed Christian."

"_Laid in earth without one Christian prayer; with Hebrew rites; in a

Hebrew sanctuary!_" I repeated to myself.

"But I marvel how you come to have heard of this," continued the rabbi.

"It was known only to her father and myself."

"Sir," I said solemnly, "I know now that Salome da Costa is dead; I have

seen her spirit thrice, haunting the spot where...."

My voice broke. I could not utter the words.

"Last evening at sunset," I resumed, "was the third time. Never doubting

that--that I indeed beheld her in the flesh, I spoke to her. She

answered me. She--she told me this."

The rabbi covered his face with his hands, and so remained for some

time, lost in meditation. "Young man," he said at length, "your story is

strange, and you bring strange evidence to bear upon it. It may be as

you say; it may be that you are the dupe of some waking dream--I know

not."

He knew not; but I.... Ah! I knew only too well. I knew now why she had

appeared to me clothed with such unearthly beauty. I understood now that

look of dumb entreaty in her eyes--that tone of strange remoteness in

her voice. The sweet soul could not rest amid the dust of its kinsfolk,

"unhousel'd, unanointed, unanealed," lacking even "one Christian prayer"

above its grave. And now--was it all over? Should I never see her more?

Never--ah! never. How I haunted the Lido at sunset for many a month,

till Spring had blossomed into Autumn, and Autumn had ripened into

Summer; how I wandered back to Venice year after year at the same

season, while yet any vestige of that wild hope remained alive; how my

heart has never throbbed, my pulse never leaped, for love of mortal

woman since that time--are details into which I need not enter here.

Enough that I watched and waited; but that her gracious spirit appeared

to me no more. I wait still, but I watch no longer. I know now that our

place of meeting will not be here.

IN THE CONFESSIONAL.

The things of which I write befell--let me see, some fifteen or eighteen

years ago. I was not young then; I am not old now. Perhaps I was about

thirty-two; but I do not know my age very exactly, and I cannot be

certain to a year or two one way or the other.

My manner of life at that time was desultory and unsettled. I had a

sorrow--no matter of what kind--and I took to rambling about Europe; not

certainly in the hope of forgetting it, for I had no wish to forget, but

because of the restlessness that made one place after another _triste_

and intolerable to me.

It was change of place, however, and not excitement, that I sought. I

kept almost entirely aloof from great cities, Spas, and beaten tracks,

and preferred for the most part to explore districts where travellers

and foreigners rarely penetrated.

Such a district at that time was the Upper Rhine. I was traversing it

that particular Summer for the first time, and on foot; and I had set

myself to trace the course of the river from its source in the great

Rhine glacier to its fall at Schaffhausen. Having done this, however, I

was unwilling to part company with the noble river; so I decided to

follow it yet a few miles farther--perhaps as far as Mayence, but at all

events as far as Basle.

And now began, if not the finest, certainly not the least charming part

of my journey. Here, it is true, were neither Alps, nor glaciers, nor

ruined castles perched on inaccessible crags; but my way lay through a

smiling country, studded with picturesque hamlets, and beside a bright

river, hurrying along over swirling rapids, and under the dark arches of

antique covered bridges, and between hillsides garlanded with vines.

It was towards the middle of a long day's walk among such scenes as

these that I came to Rheinfelden, a small place on the left bank of the

river, about fourteen miles above Basle.

As I came down the white road in the blinding sunshine, with the vines

on either hand, I saw the town lying low on the opposite bank of the

Rhine. It was an old walled town, enclosed on the land side and open to

the river, the houses going sheer down to the water's edge, with flights

of slimy steps worn smooth by the wash of the current, and over-hanging

eaves, and little built-out rooms with penthouse roofs, supported from

below by jutting piles black with age and tapestried with water-weeds.

The stunted towers of a couple of churches stood up from amid the brown

and tawny roofs within the walls.

Beyond the town, height above height, stretched a distance of wooded

hills. The old covered bridge, divided by a bit of rocky island in the

middle of the stream, led from bank to bank--from Germany to

Switzerland. The town was in Switzerland; I, looking towards it from the

road, stood on Baden territory; the river ran sparkling and foaming

between.

I crossed, and found the place all alive in anticipation of a Kermess,

or fair, that was to be held there the next day but one. The townsfolk

were all out in the streets or standing about their doors; and there

were carpenters hard at work knocking up rows of wooden stands and

stalls the whole length of the principal thoroughfare. Shop-signs in

open-work of wrought iron hung over the doors. A runlet of sparkling

water babbled down a stone channel in the middle of the street. At

almost every other house (to judge by the rows of tarnished watches

hanging in the dingy parlour windows), there lived a watchmaker; and

presently I came to a fountain--a regular Swiss fountain, spouting water

from four ornamental pipes, and surmounted by the usual armed knight in

old grey stone.

As I rambled on thus (looking for an inn, but seeing none), I suddenly

found that I had reached the end of the street, and with it the limit of

the town on this side. Before me rose a lofty, picturesque old

gate-tower, with a tiled roof and a little window over the archway; and

there was a peep of green grass and golden sunshine beyond. The town

walls (sixty or seventy feet in height, and curiously roofed with a sort

of projecting shed on the inner side) curved away to right and left,

unchanged since the Middle Ages. A rude wain, laden with clover and

drawn by mild-eyed, cream-coloured oxen, stood close by in the shade.

I passed out through the gloom of the archway into the sunny space

beyond. The moat outside the walls was bridged over and filled in--a

green ravine of grasses and wild-flowers. A stork had built its nest on

the roof of the gate-tower. The cicalas shrilled in the grass. The

shadows lay sleeping under the trees, and a family of cocks and hens

went plodding inquisitively to and fro among the cabbages in the

adjacent field. Just beyond the moat, with only this field between,

stood a little solitary church--a church with a wooden porch, and a

quaint, bright-red steeple, and a churchyard like a rose-garden, full of

colour and perfume, and scattered over with iron crosses wreathed with

immortelles.

The churchyard gate and the church door stood open. I went in. All was

clean, and simple, and very poor. The walls were whitewashed; the floor

was laid with red bricks; the roof raftered. A tiny confessional like a

sentry-box stood in one corner; the font was covered with a lid like a

wooden steeple; and over the altar, upon which stood a pair of battered

brass candlesticks and two vases of artificial flowers, hung a daub of

the Holy Family, in oils.

All here was so cool, so quiet, that I sat down for a few moments and

rested. Presently an old peasant woman trudged up the church-path with a

basket of vegetables on her head. Having set this down in the porch,

she came in, knelt before the altar, said her simple prayers, and went

her way.

Was it not time for me also to go my way? I looked at my watch. It was

past four o'clock, and I had not yet found a lodging for the night.

I got up, somewhat unwillingly; but, attracted by a tablet near the

altar, crossed over to look at it before leaving the church. It was a

very small slab, and bore a very brief German inscription to this

effect:--

TO THE SACRED MEMORY

OF

THE REVEREND PERE CHESSEZ,

For twenty years the beloved Pastor of this Parish.

Died April 16th, 1825. Aged 44.

HE LIVED A SAINT; HE DIED A MARTYR.

I read it over twice, wondering idly what story was wrapped up in the

concluding line. Then, prompted by a childish curiosity, I went up to

examine the confessional.

It was, as I have said, about the size of a sentry-box, and was painted

to imitate old dark oak. On the one side was a narrow door with a black

handle, on the other a little opening like a ticket-taker's window,

closed on the inside by a faded green curtain.

I know not what foolish fancy possessed me, but, almost without

considering what I was doing, I turned the handle and opened the door.

Opened it--peeped in--found the priest sitting in his place--started

back as if I had been shot--and stammered an unintelligible apology.

"I--I beg a thousand pardons," I exclaimed. "I had no idea--seeing the

church empty----"

He was sitting with averted face, and clasped hands lying idly in his

lap--a tall, gaunt man, dressed in a black soutane. When I paused, and

not till then, he slowly, very slowly, turned his head, and looked me in

the face.

The light inside the confessional was so dim that I could not see his

features very plainly. I only observed that his eyes were large, and

bright, and wild-looking, like the eyes of some fierce animal, and that

his face, with the reflection of the green curtain upon it, looked

lividly pale.

For a moment we remained thus, gazing at each other, as if fascinated.

Then, finding that he made no reply, but only stared at me with those

strange eyes, I stepped hastily back, shut the door without another

word, and hurried out of the church.

I was very much disturbed by this little incident; more disturbed, in

truth, than seemed reasonable, for my nerves for the moment were shaken.

Never, I told myself, never while I lived could I forget that fixed

attitude and stony face, or the glare of those terrible eyes. What was

the man's history? Of what secret despair, of what life-long remorse, of

what wild unsatisfied longings was he the victim? I felt I could not

rest till I had learned something of his past life.

Full of these thoughts, I went on quickly into the town, half running

across the field, and never looking back. Once past the gateway and

inside the walls, I breathed more freely. The wain was still standing in

the shade, but the oxen were gone now, and two men were busy forking out

the clover into a little yard close by. Having inquired of one of these

regarding an inn, and being directed to the Krone, "over against the

Frauenkirche," I made my way to the upper part of the town, and there,

at one corner of a forlorn, weed-grown market-place, I found my

hostelry.

The landlord, a sedate, bald man in spectacles, who, as I presently

discovered, was not only an innkeeper but a clock-maker, came out from

an inner room to receive me. His wife, a plump, pleasant body, took my

orders for dinner. His pretty daughter showed me to my room. It was a

large, low, whitewashed room, with two lattice windows overlooking the

market-place, two little beds, covered with puffy red eiderdowns at the

farther end, and an army of clocks and ornamental timepieces arranged

along every shelf, table, and chest of drawers in the room. Being left

here to my meditations, I sat down and counted these companions of my

solitude.

Taking little and big together, Dutch clocks, cuckoo clocks, _chalet_

clocks, skeleton clocks, and _pendules_ in ormolu, bronze, marble,

ebony, and alabaster cases, there were exactly thirty-two. Twenty-eight

were going merrily. As no two among them were of the same opinion as

regarded the time, and as several struck the quarters as well as the

hours, the consequence was that one or other gave tongue about every

five minutes. Now, for a light and nervous sleeper such as I was at that

time, here was a lively prospect for the night!

Going down-stairs presently with the hope of getting my landlady to

assign me a quieter room, I passed two eight-day clocks on the landing,

and a third at the foot of the stairs. The public room was equally

well-stocked. It literally bristled with clocks, one of which played a

spasmodic version of Gentle Zitella with variations every quarter of an

hour. Here I found a little table prepared by the open window, and a

dish of trout and a flask of country wine awaiting me. The pretty

daughter waited upon me; her mother bustled to and fro with the dishes;

the landlord stood by, and beamed upon me through his spectacles.

"The trout were caught this morning, about two miles from here," he

said, complacently.

"They are excellent," I replied, filling him out a glass of wine, and

helping myself to another. "Your health, Herr Wirth."

"Thanks, mein Herr--yours."

Just at this moment two clocks struck at opposite ends of the room--one

twelve, and the other seven. I ventured to suggest that mine host was

tolerably well reminded of the flight of time; whereupon he explained

that his work lay chiefly in the repairing and regulating line, and that

at that present moment he had no less than one hundred and eighteen

clocks of various sorts and sizes on the premises.

"Perhaps the Herr Englaender is a light sleeper," said his quick-witted

wife, detecting my dismay. "If so, we can get him a bedroom elsewhere.

Not, perhaps, in the town, for I know no place where he would be as

comfortable as with ourselves; but just outside the Friedrich's Thor,

not five minutes' walk from our door."

I accepted the offer gratefully.

"So long," I said, "as I ensure cleanliness and quiet, I do not care how

homely my lodgings may be."

"Ah, you'll have both, mein Herr, if you go where my wife is thinking

of," said the landlord. "It is at the house of our pastor--the Pere

Chessez."

"The Pere Chessez!" I exclaimed. "What, the pastor of the little church

out yonder?"

"The same, mein Herr."

"But--but surely the Pere Chessez is dead! I saw a tablet to his memory

in the chancel."

"Nay, that was our pastor's elder brother," replied the landlord,

looking grave. "He has been gone these thirty years and more. His was a

tragical ending."

But I was thinking too much of the younger brother just then to feel any

curiosity about the elder; and I told myself that I would put up with

the companionship of any number of clocks, rather than sleep under the

same roof with that terrible face and those unearthly eyes.

"I saw your pastor just now in the church," I said, with apparent

indifference. "He is a singular-looking man."

"He is too good for this world," said the landlady.

"He is a saint upon earth!" added the pretty Fraeulein.

"He is one of the best of men," said, more soberly, the husband and

father. "I only wish he was less of a saint. He fasts, and prays, and

works beyond his strength. A little more beef and a little less devotion

would be all the better for him."

"I should like to hear something more about the life of so good a man,"

said I, having by this time come to the end of my simple dinner. "Come,

Herr Wirth, let us have a bottle of your best, and then sit down and

tell me your pastor's history!"

The landlord sent his daughter for a bottle of the "green seal," and,

taking a chair, said:--

"Ach Himmel! mein Herr, there is no history to tell. The good father has

lived here all his life. He is one of us. His father, Johann Chessez,

was a native of Rheinfelden and kept this very inn. He was a wealthy

farmer and vine-grower. He had only those two sons--Nicholas, who took

to the church and became pastor of Feldkirche; and this one, Matthias,

who was intended to inherit the business; but who also entered religion

after the death of his elder brother, and is now pastor of the same

parish."

"But why did he 'enter religion?'" I asked. "Was he in any way to blame

for the accident (if it was an accident) that caused the death of his

elder brother?"

"Ah Heavens! no!" exclaimed the landlady, leaning on the back of her

husband's chair. "It was the shock--the shock that told so terribly upon

his poor nerves! He was but a lad at that time, and as sensitive as a

girl--but the Herr Englaender does not know the story. Go on, my

husband."

So the landlord, after a sip of the "green seal," continued:--

"At the time my wife alludes to, mein Herr, Johann Chessez was still

living. Nicholas, the elder son, was in holy orders and established in

the parish of Feldkirche, outside the walls; and Matthias, the younger,

was a lad of about fourteen years old, and lived with his father. He was

an amiable good boy--pious and thoughtful--fonder of his books than of

the business. The neighbour-folk used to say even then that Matthias was

cut out for a priest, like his elder brother. As for Nicholas, he was

neither more nor less than a saint. Well, mein Herr, at this time there

lived on the other side of Rheinfelden, about a mile beyond the Basel

Thor, a farmer named Caspar Rufenacht and his wife Margaret. Now Caspar

Rufenacht was a jealous, quarrelsome fellow; and the Frau Margaret was

pretty; and he led her a devil of a life. It was said that he used to

beat her when he had been drinking, and that sometimes, when he went to

fair or market, he would lock her up for the whole day in a room at the

top of the house. Well, this poor, ill-used Frau Margaret--"

"Tut, tut, my man," interrupted the landlady. "The Frau Margaret was a

light one!"

"Peace, wife! Shall we speak hard words of the dead? The Frau Margaret

was young and pretty, and a flirt; and she had a bad husband, who left

her too much alone."

The landlady pursed up her lips and shook her head, as the best of women

will do when the character of another woman is under discussion. The

innkeeper went on.

"Well, mein Herr, to cut a long story short, after having been jealous

first of one and then of another, Caspar Rufenacht became furious about

a certain German, a Badener named Schmidt, living on the opposite bank

of the Rhine. I remember the man quite well--a handsome, merry fellow,

and no saint; just the sort to make mischief between man and wife. Well,

Caspar Rufenacht swore a great oath that, cost what it might, he would

come at the truth about his wife and Schmidt; so he laid all manner of

plots to surprise them--waylaid the Frau Margaret in her walks; followed

her at a distance when she went to church; came home at unexpected

hours; and played the spy as if he had been brought up to the trade. But

his spying was all in vain. Either the Frau Margaret was too clever for

him, or there was really nothing to discover; but still he was not

satisfied. So he cast about for some way to attain his end, and, by the

help of the Evil One, he found it."

Here the innkeeper's wife and daughter, who had doubtless heard the

story a hundred times over, drew near and listened breathlessly.

"What, think you," continued the landlord, "does this black-souled

Caspar do? Does he punish the poor woman within an inch of her life,

till she confesses? No. Does he charge Schmidt with having tempted her

from her duty, and light it out with him like a man? No. What else then?

I will tell you. He waits till the vigil of St. Margaret--her saint's

day--when he knows the poor sinful soul is going to confession; and he

marches straight to the house of the Pere Chessez--the very house where

our own Pere Chessez is now living--and he finds the good priest at his

devotions in his little study, and he says to him:

"'Father Chessez, my wife is coming to the church this afternoon to make

her confession to you.'

"'She is,' replies the priest.

"'I want you to tell me all she tells you,' says Caspar; 'and I will

wait here till you come back from the church, that I may hear it. Will

you do so?'

"'Certainly not,' replies the Pere Chessez. 'You must surely know,

Caspar, that we priests are forbidden to reveal the secrets of the

confessional.'

"'That is nothing to me,' says Caspar, with an oath. 'I am resolved to

know whether my wife is guilty or innocent; and know it I will, by fair

means or foul.'

"'You shall never know it from me, Caspar,' says the Pere Chessez, very

quietly.

"'Then, by Heavens!' says Caspar, 'I'll learn it for myself.' And with

that he pulls out a heavy horse-pistol from his pocket, and with the

butt-end of it deals the Pere Chessez a tremendous blow upon the head,

and then another, and another, till the poor young man lay senseless at

his feet. Then Caspar, thinking he had quite killed him, dressed himself

in the priest's own soutane and hat; locked the door; put the key in his

pocket; and stealing round the back way into the church, shut himself up

in the Confessional."

"Then the priest died!" I exclaimed, remembering the epitaph upon the

tablet.

"Ay, mein Herr--the Pere Chessez died; but not before he had told the

story of his assassination, and identified his murderer."

"And Caspar Rufenacht, I hope, was hanged?"

"Wait a bit, mein Herr, we have not come to that yet. We left Caspar in

the confessional, waiting for his wife."

"And she came?"

"Yes, poor soul! she came."

"And made her confession?"

"And made her confession, mein Herr."

"What did she confess?"

The innkeeper shook his head.

"That no one ever knew, save the good God and her murderer."

"Her murderer!" I exclaimed.

"Ay, just that. Whatever it was that she confessed, she paid for it with

her life. He heard her out, at all events, without discovering himself,

and let her go home believing that she had received absolution for her

sins. Those who met her that afternoon said she seemed unusually bright

and happy. As she passed through the town, she went into the shop in the

Mongarten Strasse, and bought some ribbons. About half an hour later, my

own father met her outside the Basel Thor, walking briskly homewards. He

was the last who saw her alive.

"That evening (it was in October, and the days were short), some

travellers coming that way into the town heard shrill cries, as of a

woman screaming, in the direction of Caspar's farm. But the night was

very dark, and the house lay back a little way from the road; so they

told themselves it was only some drunken peasant quarrelling with his

wife, and passed on. Next morning Caspar Rufenacht came to Rheinfelden,

walked very quietly into the Polizei, and gave himself up to justice.

"'I have killed my wife,' said he. 'I have killed the Pere Chessez. And

I have committed sacrilege.'

"And so, indeed, it was. As for the Frau Margaret, they found her body

in an upper chamber, well-nigh hacked to pieces, and the hatchet with

which the murder was committed lying beside her on the floor. He had

pursued her, apparently, from room to room; for there were pools of

blood and handfuls of long light hair, and marks of bloody hands along

the walls, all the way from the kitchen to the spot where she lay

dead."

"And so he was hanged?" said I, coming back to my original question.

"Yes, yes," replied the innkeeper and his womankind in chorus. "He was

hanged--of course he was hanged."

"And it was the shock of this double tragedy that drove the younger

Chessez into the church?"

"Just so, mein Herr."

"Well, he carries it in his face. He looks like a most unhappy man."

"Nay, he is not that, mein Herr!" exclaimed the landlady. "He is

melancholy, but not unhappy."

"Well, then, austere."

"Nor is he austere, except towards himself."

"True, wife," said the innkeeper; "but, as I said, he carries that sort

of thing too far. You understand, mein Herr," he added, touching his

forehead with his forefinger, "the good pastor has let his mind dwell

too much upon the past. He is nervous--too nervous, and too low."

I saw it all now. That terrible light in his eyes was the light of

insanity. That stony look in his face was the fixed, hopeless melancholy

of a mind diseased.

"Does he know that he is mad?" I asked, as the landlord rose to go.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked doubtful.

"I have not said that the Pere Chessez is _mad_, mein Herr," he replied.

"He has strange fancies sometimes, and takes his fancies for facts--that

is all. But I am quite sure that he does not believe himself to be less

sane than his neighbours."

So the innkeeper left me, and I (my head full of the story I had just

heard) put on my hat, went out into the market-place, asked my way to

the Basel Thor, and set off to explore the scene of the Frau Margaret's

murder.

I found it without difficulty--a long, low-fronted, beetle-browed

farmhouse, lying back a meadow's length from the road. There were

children playing upon the threshold, a flock of turkeys gobbling about

the barn-door, and a big dog sleeping outside his kennel close by. The

chimneys, too, were smoking merrily. Seeing these signs of life and

cheerfulness, I abandoned all idea of asking to go over the house. I

felt that I had no right to carry my morbid curiosity into this peaceful

home; so I turned away, and retraced my steps towards Rheinfelden.

It was not yet seven, and the sun had still an hour's course to run. I

re-entered the town, strolled back through the street, and presently

came again to the Friedrich's Thor and the path leading to the church.

An irresistible impulse seemed to drag me back to the place.

Shudderingly, and with a sort of dread that was half longing, I pushed

open the churchyard gate and went in. The doors were closed; a goat was

browsing among the graves; and the rushing of the Rhine, some three

hundred yards away, was distinctly audible in the silence. I looked

round for the priest's house--the scene of the first murder; but from

this side, at all events, no house was visible. Going round, however, to

the back of the church, I saw a gate, a box-bordered path, and, peeping

through some trees, a chimney and the roof of a little brown-tiled

house.

This, then, was the path along which Caspar Rufenacht, with the priest's

blood upon his hands and the priest's gown upon his shoulders, had taken

his guilty way to the confessional! How quiet it all looked in the

golden evening light! How like the church-path of an English parsonage!

I wished I could have seen something more of the house than that bit of

roof and that one chimney. There must, I told myself, be some other

entrance--some way round by the road! Musing and lingering thus, I was

startled by a quiet voice close against my shoulder, saying:--

"A pleasant evening, mein Herr!"

I turned, and found the priest at my elbow. He had come noiselessly

across the grass, and was standing between me and the sunset, like a

shadow.

"I--I beg your pardon," I stammered, moving away from the gate. "I was

looking--"

I stopped in some surprise, and indeed with some sense of relief, for it

was not the same priest that I had seen in the morning. No two, indeed,

could well be more unlike, for this man was small, white-haired,

gentle-looking, with a soft, sad smile inexpressibly sweet and winning.

"You were looking at my arbutus?" he said.

I had scarcely observed the arbutus till now, but I bowed and said

something to the effect that it was an unusually fine tree.

"Yes," he replied; "but I have a rhododendron round at the front that is

still finer. Will you come in and see it?"

I said I should be pleased to do so. He led the way, and I followed.

"I hope you like this part of our Rhine-country?" he said, as we took

the path through the shrubbery.

"I like it so well," I replied, "that if I were to live anywhere on the

banks of the Rhine, I should certainly choose some spot on the Upper

Rhine between Schaffhausen and Basle."

"And you would be right," he said. "Nowhere is the river so beautiful.

Nearer the glaciers it is milky and turbid--beyond Basle it soon becomes

muddy. Here we have it blue as the sky--sparkling as champagne. Here is

my rhododendron. It stands twelve feet high, and measures as many in

diameter. I had more than two hundred blooms upon it last Spring."

When I had duly admired this giant shrub, he took me to a little arbour

on a bit of steep green bank overlooking the river, where he invited me

to sit down and rest. From hence I could see the porch and part of the

front of his little house; but it was all so closely planted round with

trees and shrubs that no clear view of it seemed obtainable in any

direction. Here we sat for some time chatting about the weather, the

approaching vintage, and so forth, and watching the sunset. Then I rose

to take my leave.

"I heard of you this evening at the Krone, mein Herr," he said. "You

were out, or I should have called upon you. I am glad that chance has

made us acquainted. Do you remain over to-morrow?"

"No; I must go on to-morrow to Basle," I answered. And then, hesitating

a little, I added:--"you heard of me, also, I fear, in the church."

"In the church?" he repeated.

"Seeing the door open, I went in--from curiosity--as a traveller; just

to look round for a moment and rest."

"Naturally."

"I--I had no idea, however, that I was not alone there. I would not for

the world have intruded--"

"I do not understand," he said, seeing me hesitate. "The church stands

open all day long. It is free to every one."

"Ah! I see he has not told you!"

The priest smiled but looked puzzled.

"He? Whom do you mean?"

"The other priest, mon pere--your colleague. I regret to have broken in

upon his meditations; but I had been so long in the church, and it was

all so still and quiet, that it never occurred to me that there might be

some one in the confessional."

The priest looked at me in a strange, startled way.

"In the confessional!" he repeated, with a catching of his breath. "You

saw some one--in the confessional?"

"I am ashamed to say that, having thoughtlessly opened the door--"

"You saw--what did you see?"

"A priest, mon pere."

"A priest! Can you describe him? Should you know him again? Was he pale,

and tall, and gaunt, with long black hair?"

"The same, undoubtedly."

"And his eyes--did you observe anything particular about his eyes?"

"Yes; they were large, wild-looking, dark eyes, with a look in them--a

look I cannot describe."

"A look of terror!" cried the pastor, now greatly agitated. "A look of

terror--of remorse--of despair!"

"Yes, it was a look that might mean all that," I replied, my

astonishment increasing at every word. "You seem troubled. Who is he?"

But instead of answering my question, the pastor took off his hat,

looked up with a radiant, awe-struck face, and said:--

"All-merciful God, I thank Thee! I thank Thee that I am not mad, and

that Thou hast sent this stranger to be my assurance and my comfort!"

Having said these words, he bowed his head, and his lips moved in silent

prayer. When he looked up again, his eyes were full of tears.

"My son," he said, laying his trembling hand upon my arm, "I owe you an

explanation; but I cannot give it to you now. It must wait till I can

speak more calmly--till to-morrow, when I must see you again. It

involves a terrible story--a story peculiarly painful to myself--enough

now if I tell you that I have seen the Thing you describe--seen It many

times; and yet, because It has been visible to my eyes alone, I have

doubted the evidence of my senses. The good people here believe that

much sorrow and meditation have touched my brain. I have half believed

it myself till now. But you--you have proved to me that I am the victim

of no illusion."

"But in Heaven's name," I exclaimed, "what do you suppose I saw in the

confessional?"

"You saw the likeness of one who, guilty also of a double murder,

committed the deadly sin of sacrilege in that very spot, more than

thirty years ago," replied the Pere Chessez, solemnly.

"Caspar Rufenacht!"

"Ah! you have heard the story? Then I am spared the pain of telling it

to you. That is well."

I bent my head in silence. We walked together without another word to

the wicket, and thence round to the churchyard gate. It was now

twilight, and the first stars were out.

"Good-night, my son," said the pastor, giving me his hand. "Peace be

with you."

As he spoke the words his grasp tightened--his eyes dilated--his whole

countenance became rigid.

"Look!" he whispered. "Look where it goes!"

I followed the direction of his eyes, and there, with a freezing horror

which I have no words to describe, I saw--distinctly saw through the

deepening gloom--a tall, dark figure in a priest's soutane and

broad-brimmed hat, moving slowly across the path leading from the

parsonage to the church. For a moment it seemed to pause--then passed on

to the deeper shade, and disappeared.

"You saw it?" said the pastor.

"Yes--plainly."

He drew a deep breath; crossed himself devoutly; and leaned upon the

gate, as if exhausted.

"This is the third time I have seen it this year," he said. "Again I

thank God for the certainty that I see a visible thing, and that His

great gift of reason is mine unimpaired. But I would that He were

graciously pleased to release me from the sight--the horror of it is

sometimes more than I know how to bear. Good night."

With this he again touched my hand; and so, seeing that he wished to be

alone, I silently left him. At the Friedrich's Thor I turned and looked

back. He was still standing by the churchyard gate, just visible through

the gloom of the fast deepening twilight.

* * * * *

I never saw the Pere Chessez again. Save his own old servant, I was the

last who spoke with him in this world. He died that night--died in his

bed, where he was found next morning with his hands crossed upon his

breast, and with a placid smile upon his lips, as if he had fallen

asleep in the act of prayer.

As the news spread from house to house, the whole town rang with

lamentations. The church-bells tolled; the carpenters left their work in

the streets; the children, dismissed from school, went home weeping.

"'Twill be the saddest Kermess in Rheinfelden to-morrow, mein Herr!"

said my good host of the Krone, as I shook hands with him at parting.

"We have lost the best of pastors and of friends. He was a saint. If you

had come but one day later, you would not have seen him!"

And with this he brushed his sleeve across his eyes, and turned away.

Every shutter was up, every blind down, every door closed, as I passed

along the Friedrich's Strasse about mid-day on my way to Basle; and the

few townsfolk I met looked grave and downcast. Then I crossed the bridge

and, having shown my passport to the German sentry on the Baden side, I

took one long, last farewell look at the little walled town as it lay

sleeping in the sunshine by the river--knowing that I should see it no

more.

THE TRAGEDY IN THE PALAZZO BARDELLO.

[The scene of this story is laid in the Rome of fifteen years ago, when

the old Pontifical regime was yet in full force, and Victor Emanuel was

still King of Sardinia.]

CHAPTER I.

The sun had been up for the best part of an hour; the golden haze in the

East was slowly melting away; the sluggish tide of bullock trucks had

fairly set in along the Via Sacra; and a faint, universal stir of

awakening life was to be felt rather than heard in the pleasant morning

air, when a certain Englishman, Hugh Girdlestone by name, rose from his

lounging attitude against the parapet of the Tower of the Capitol, and

prepared to be gone. He had been standing there in the same spot, in the

same attitude, since the first grey of the dawn. He had seen the last

star fade from the sky. He had seen the shadowy Sabine peaks uplift

themselves one by one, and the Campagna emerge, like a troubled sea,

from the mystery of the twilight.

Rome with its multitudinous domes and bell-towers, its history, its

poetry, its fable, lay at his feet--yonder the Coliseum, brown, vast,

indistinct against the light, with the blue day piercing its topmost

arches; to the left the shapeless ruins of the Palace of the Caesars; to

the right, faintly visible above the mist, the pyramid of Caius Cestius,

beside which, amid a wilderness of sweet wild violets, lie the ashes of

John Keats; nearer still, the sullen Tiber eddying over the fast

vanishing piers of the Pons Emilius; nearest of all, the Forum, with its

excavations, its columns, its triumphal arches, its scanty turf, its

stunted acacias, its indescribable air of repose and desolation; and

beyond and around all, the brown and broken Campagna, bounded on the one

hand by long chains of snow-streaked Apennines, and on the other by a

shining zone of sea. A marvellous panorama! Perhaps, taking it for all

in all, the most marvellous panorama that Europe has to show. Hugh

Girdlestone knew every feature of it by heart. He was familiar with

every crumbling tower and modern campanile, with every space of open

piazza, with every green enclosure, with the site of every famous ruin

and the outline of every famous hill. It was his favourite haunt--the

one pageant of which his eyes and his imagination were never weary. He

had seen the sun rise and set upon that scene many and many a time, both

now and in years past. He might, in all probability, stand in the same

spot and witness the same gorgeous spectacle to-morrow; and yet he

lingered there as fondly as if this visit were his first, and left as

reluctantly as if it were destined to be his last.

Slowly and thoughtfully he went his way, out through the spacious

courtyard, past the bronze horse and his imperial rider, down the great

steps, and along the Via Ara Coeli. Passing the church of the Jesuits,

he paused for a moment to listen to the chanting. As he did so, a

Campagna drover in a rough sheepskin jacket stopped his truck to kneel

for a moment on the lowest step and then trudge on again; and presently

an Albano woman lifted the ponderous leather curtain and came out,

bringing with her a momentary rush of rolling harmonies. The Englishman

listened and lingered, made as if he would go in, and then, with

something of a smile upon his lip, turned hastily away. Going straight

on, with his head a little thrown forward and his hat pulled somewhat

low upon his brow, he then pushed on at a swift, swinging stride,

proceeding direct to the post-office, and passing the Pantheon without

so much as a glance.

Manly, well-born, well-educated, gifted with a more than ordinary amount

of brains, and, perhaps, with a more than ordinary share of insular

stubbornness, Hugh Girdlestone was just one of those men whom it does

one good to meet in the streets of a continental city. He was an

Englishman through and through; and he was precisely that type of

Englishman who commands the respect, though seldom the liking, of

foreigners. He expressed and held to his opinions with a decision that

they disliked intensely. His voice had a ring of authority that grated

upon their ears. His very walk had in it something characteristic and

resolute that offended their prejudices. For his appearance, it was as

insular as his gait or his accent. He was tall, strongly made, somewhat

gaunt and swift-looking about the limbs, with a slight stoop in the

shoulders, and a trick of swinging his gloves in his right hand as he

went along. In complexion and feature he was not unlike the earlier

portraits of Charles II. The lines of his face were less harsh, and his

skin was less swarthy; but there was the same sarcastic play of lip, and

now and then a flash of the same restless fire in the eye.

Nor did the resemblance end here. It came out strongest of all in a mere

passing shadow of expression--that expression of saturnine foreboding

which Walpole aptly defined as the "fatality of air" common to the line

of the Stuarts. The look was one which came to his face but rarely--so

rarely that many of his intimate acquaintances had never seen it there;

but it started to the surface sometimes, like a hidden writing, and

sometimes settled like a darkness on his brow.

The main facts of his story up to the morning of this day--this 13th day

of February, 1857--may be told in a few lines.

He was the son of a wealthy Derbyshire squire, had taken honours at

Cambridge, and had been called to the bar some four or five years back.

As yet he could scarcely be said to have entered actively upon his

professional life. He had written an able treatise on the law of

International Copyright, and edited an important digest of Chancery

practice. He had also been for years in the habit of contributing to the

best periodical literature of the day. Within the last four months,

after a prolonged opposition on the part of her nearest relatives, he

had happily married a young lady of ancient Roman Catholic family and

moderate fortune, to whom he had been attached from boyhood. They were

spending a long honeymoon in Rome, and were perfectly happy as a pair of

lovers in a fairy tale. When it is added that she was just twenty-two

and he thirty-four years of age, the outline of their little history is

made out with sufficient clearness for all the purposes of this

narrative.

Pushing on, then, at his eager pace, Hugh Girdlestone came presently to

the post-office and inquired for his letters. There was but one--a

square, blue-looking, ill-favoured sort of document, sealed with a big

office seal and addressed in a trim business hand. He had to show his

passport before the clerk would trust it beyond the bars of the little

cage in which he sat, and then it was overweight, and he was called upon

to pay forty-six bajocchi for extra postage. This done--and it seemed to

him that the clerk was wilfully and maliciously slow about it--Hugh

Girdlestone crushed the letter into an inner breast-pocket, and turned

away. At the door he hesitated, looked at his watch, crossed over,

withdrew into the shade of a neighbouring _porte-cochere_, took his

letter out again, and tore it open.

It contained two enclosures; the one a note from his publishers, the

other a letter of credit upon a great Roman banking-house. He drew a

deep breath of satisfaction. He had been expecting this remittance for

several days past, not altogether with anxiety, for he was in no

immediate need of money, but with some degree of impatience; for the

fate of more than one project was involved in the sum which this letter

of credit might chance to represent. The extension of their tour as far

as Naples, the purchase of certain bronzes and cameos, and the date of

their return to England, were all dependent upon it. It was no wonder,

then, that Hugh Girdlestone's brow cleared at sight of the amount for

which he found himself entitled to draw upon the princely establishment

in the Piazza Venezia. It exceeded his expectations by nearly one-half,

and made him a rich man for the next three months.

Having read the letter and folded the enclosure carefully away in his

pocket-book, he then struck off in a north-easterly direction towards

some of those narrow thoroughfares that lie between the Tiber, the

Corso, and the Piazza di Spagna.

The streets were now beginning to be alive with passengers. The

shop-keepers were busy arranging their windows; the vetturini were

ranging themselves in their accustomed ranks; the beggars were lazily

setting about their professional avocations for the day; and the French

regiments were turning out, as usual, for morning parade on the Pincio.

Here and there a long-haired student might be seen with his colour-box

under his arm, trudging away to his work of reproduction in some

neighbouring gallery; or a Guarda Nobile, _cigarette en bouche_, riding

leisurely towards the Vatican. Here and there, too, on the steps of the

churches and at the corners of the streets, were gathered little knots

of priests and mendicant friars, deep in pious gossip, and redolent

less of sanctity than of garlic.

But to Hugh Girdlestone these sights and sounds were all too familiar to

claim even passing attention. He went on his way, preoccupied and

unobservant, with a face of happy thoughtfulness and a head full of

joyous hopes and projects. Life had, perhaps, never seemed so bright for

him as at that moment. The happy present was his own, and the future

with all its possible rewards and blessings lay, as it were, unfolded

before him. It was not often that he was visited by a holiday mood such

as this; and, English as he was, he could scarcely forbear smiling to

himself as he went along. Coming presently, however, into a long

picturesque street lined with shops on both sides from end to end, he

slackened his pace, shook off his reverie, and began loitering before

the windows with the air of a purchaser.

Pausing now at a cameo-cutters, now at a mosaicist's, now at a

jeweller's, hesitating between the bronze medals in this window and the

antique gems in that, he came presently to one of those shops for the

sale of devotional articles, one or more of which are to be found in

almost every street of Rome. Here were exquisitely carved rosaries in

cedar and coral and precious stones, votive offerings in silver and wax,

consecrated palms, coloured prints of saints and martyrs in emblematic

frames, missals, crosses, holy water vessels, and wreaths of

immortelles. Here also, occupying the centre of the window and relieved

against a stand of crimson cloth, stood an ivory crucifixion designed

after the famous Vandyck at Antwerp, and measuring about ten inches in

height. It was a little gem in its way--a tiny masterpiece of rare and

delicate workmanship.

Hugh Girdlestone had seen and admired it many a time before, but never

till now with any thought of purchase. To-day, however, the aspect of

affairs was changed. His letter of credit troubled his peace of mind and

oppressed him with an uneasy sense of wealth. He longed to buy something

for his little bride at home, and he knew that he could find nothing in

all Rome which she would prefer to this. She would appreciate it as a

piece of art, and prize it as a most precious adjunct to her devotions.

She would love it, too, for his dear sake, and her eyes would rest upon

it when she prayed for him in her orisons. Dear, pious, tender little

heart! it should be hers, cost what it might. He would take it home to

her this very morning. What pleasure to see the glad wonder in her eyes!

What pleasure to give her back smile for smile, and kiss for kiss, when

she should fly into his arms to thank him for the gift!

So Hugh Girdlestone went in and bought it, reckless of the breach it

made in his purse, and caring for nothing but the delight of gratifying

what he so dearly loved.

That he, an ultra-liberal thinker in all matters religious and

political, should select such a gift for his wife, was just one of those

characteristic traits that essentially marked the man. Setting but

slight value on all forms of creeds, and ranking that of the Romanist

at a lower level than most, he could yet feel a sort of indulgent

admiration for the graceful side of Roman Catholic worship. The flowers,

the music, the sculpture, the paintings, the perfumes, the gorgeous

costumes, gratified his sense of beauty; and, regarding these things

from a purely aesthetic point of view, he was willing to admit that it

was a pretty, poetical sort of religion enough--for a woman.

Carrying the ivory carving carefully packed in a little oblong box under

his arm, Hugh Girdlestone then hastened homewards with his purchase. It

was now ten o'clock, and all Rome was as full of stir and life as at

mid-day. His way lay through the Piazza di Spagna, up the great steps,

and on through the Via Sistina, to a certain by-street near the Quattro

Fontane, where he and his little wife occupied an upper floor in a small

palazzo situated upon one of the loftiest and healthiest points of the

Quirinal Hill. As he neared the spot, a sense of pleasurable excitement

came upon him. He smiled, unconsciously to himself, and, scarcely

knowing that he did so, quickened his pace at every step. To the

accustomed beggar at the corner he flung a double dole in the joyousness

of his heart; to a lean dog prowling round the _cortile_, a biscuit that

chanced to be in his pocket. Happiness disposes some people to

benevolence, and Hugh Girdlestone was one of that number.

Up he went--up the broad stone staircase which served as a general

thoroughfare to the dwellers in the Palazzo Bardello; past the first

landing, with its English footman, insolently discontent, lolling

against the half-opened door; past the second landing, fragrant with

flowers, the temporary home of a wealthy American family; past the

third, where, in an atmosphere of stormy solfeggi, lived an Italian

tenor and his wife; and on, two steps at a time, to the fourth, where

all that he loved best in life awaited his coming! There he paused. His

own visiting card was nailed upon the door, and under his name, in a

delicate female hand, was written that of his wife. Happy Hugh

Girdlestone! There was not a lighter heart in Rome at that moment when,

having delayed an instant to take breath before going in, he pulled out

his latch-key, opened the gates of his paradise, and passed into the

shady little vestibule beyond.

At the door of the salon he was met by Margherita, their Roman

servant--a glorious creature who looked as if she might have been the

mother of the Gracchi, but who was married, instead, to an honest

water-carrier down by the Ripetta, and was thankful to go out to service

for some months every year.

"Hush!" she whispered, with her finger on her lip. "She sleeps still."

The breakfast lay on the table, untouched and ready; the morning

sunshine flamed in at the windows; the flowers on the balcony filled the

air of the room with a voluptuous perfume. It was a day of days--a day

when to be still in bed seemed almost like a sacrilege--a day when,

above all others, one should be up, and doing, and revelling in the

spring-time of the glad new year.

Hugh Girdlestone could scarcely believe that Margherita was in earnest.

"Sleeps!" he repeated. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that the Signora has not yet rung her bell."

"But is she still in bed?"

"Still in bed, Signore, and sleeping soundly. I stole in about

half-an-hour ago, and she never heard me. I would not wake her. Sleep is

a blessed thing--the good God sends it."

The Englishman laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"One may have too much, even of a blessing, my good Margherita," he

said. "_I_ shall wake her, at all events, and she will thank me for

doing so. See--I have something here worth the opening of one's eyes to

look upon!"

Margherita clasped her hands in an ecstasy of devotional admiration.

"_Cielo!_" she exclaimed. "How beautiful!"

He placed the carving on a stand of red cloth, and then, going over to

the balcony, gathered a handful of orange blossoms and crimson azalias.

"We must decorate our altar with flowers, Margherita," he said, smiling.

"Fetch me those two white vases from the chimney-piece in the anteroom."

The vases were brought, and he arranged his bouquets as tenderly and

gracefully as a woman might have arranged them. This done, he stole to

the bedroom door, opened it noiselessly, and peeped in.

All within was wrapt in a delicious, dreamy dusk. The jalousies were

closed and the inner blinds drawn down; but one window stood a few

inches open, admitting a soft breath of morning air, and now and then a

faint echo from the world beyond. He advanced very cautiously. He held

his breath--he stole on a step at a time--he would not have roused her

for the world till all was ready. At the dressing-table he paused and

looked round. He could just see the dim outline of her form in the bed.

He could just see how one little hand rested on the coverlet, and how

her hair lay like a lustrous cloud upon the pillow. Very carefully he

then removed her dressing-case and desk from a tiny table close by,

carried it to the side of the bed, and placed it where her eyes must

first meet it on waking. He next crept back to the salon for the ivory

carving; then for the flowers; and then arranged them on the table like

the decorations of a miniature shrine.

And all this time she neither woke nor stirred.

At last, his pretty little preparations being all complete, the young

husband, careful even now not to startle her too rudely, gently unclosed

the jalousies, drew aside the blinds, and filled the room with sunshine.

"Ethel," he said. "Ethel, do you know how late it is?"

But Ethel still slept on.

He moved a step nearer. Her face was turned to the pillow; but he could

see the rounded outline of her cheek, and it struck him that she looked

strangely pale. His heart gave a great throb; his breath came short; a

nameless terror--a terror of he knew not what--fell suddenly upon him.

"Ethel!" he repeated. "My darling--my darling!"

He sprang to the bedside--he hung over her--he touched her hand, her

cheek, her neck--then uttered one wild, despairing cry, and staggered

back against the wall.

She was dead.

Not fainting. No; not even in the first horror of that moment did he

deceive himself with so vain a hope. She was dead, and he knew that she

was dead. He knew it with as full and fixed a sense of conviction as if

he had been prepared for it by months of anxiety. He did not ask himself

why it was so. He did not ask himself by what swift and cruel

disease--by what mysterious accident, this dread thing had come to pass.

He only knew that she was dead; and that all the joy, the hope, the

glory of life was gone from him for ever.

A long time, or what seemed like a long time, went by thus; he leaning

up against the wall, voiceless, tearless, paralysed, unable to think, or

move, or do anything but stare in a blank, lost way at the bed on which

lay the wreck of his happiness.

By-and-by--it might have been half an hour or an hour later--he became

dimly conscious of a sound of lamentation; of the presence of many

persons in the room; of being led away like a child, and placed in a

chair beside an open window; and of Margherita kneeling at his feet and

covering his hands with tears. Then, as one who has been stunned by some

murderous blow, he recovered by degrees from his stupor.

"Salimbeni," he said, hoarsely.

It was the first word he had spoken.

"We have sent for him, Signore," sobbed Margherita. "But--but--"

He lifted his hand, and turned his face aside.

"Hush!" he replied. "I know it."

Signor Salimbeni was a famous Florentine surgeon who lived close by in

the Piazza Barberini, and with whom Hugh Girdlestone had been on terms

of intimacy for the last four or five months. Almost as his name was

being uttered, he arrived;--a tall, dark, bright-eyed man of about forty

years of age, with something of a military bearing. His first step was

to clear the place of intruders--of the English family from the first

floor, of the Americans from the second, of the Italian tenor and his

wife, and of the servants who had crowded up _en masse_ from every part

of the house. He expelled them all, civilly but firmly; locked the door

behind the last; and went alone into the chamber of death. Hugh

Girdlestone followed him, dull-eyed, tongue-tied, bewildered, like a man

half roused from sleep.

The surgeon bent silently over the corpse; turned the poor white face to

the light; held a mirror to the lips; touched the passive hand; lifted

first one eyelid, then the other; and felt for the last lingering spark

of vital heat on the crown of the head. Then he shook his head.

"It is quite hopeless, my friend," he said gently. "Life has been

extinct for some two hours or more."

"But the cause?"

Signor Salimbeni slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"Impossible to tell," he replied, "without a proper examination."

The widower buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud.

"Whether the seat of this mischief be in the brain," continued Signor

Salimbeni, "or whether, as I am more inclined to suspect, it should be

sought in the heart...."

He broke off abruptly--so abruptly, and with such a change of voice,

that Hugh Girdlestone was startled from his apathy. He looked up, and

saw the surgeon staring down with a face of ashy horror at the corpse

upon the bed.

"_Dio!_" he faltered. "What is this?"

He had laid back the collar of the nightdress and bared the beautiful

white bosom beneath; and there, just above the region of the heart, like

a mere speck upon a surface of pure marble, was visible a tiny

puncture--a spot so small, so insignificant, that but for a pale violet

discoloration spreading round it like a halo, it would perhaps have

escaped observation altogether.

"What is this?" he repeated. "What does it mean?"

Hugh Girdlestone answered never a word, but stood in stony silence with

his eyes fixed on the fatal spot. Then he stooped, looked into it more

narrowly, shuddered, rose once again to his full height, and less with

his breath than by the motion of his lips, shaped out the one word:--

"_Murdered._"

CHAPTER II.

It was the most mysterious crime that had been committed in Rome since

the famous murder in the Coliseum about seven years before. The whole

city rang with it. Even the wretched little local newspapers, the

_Giornale di Roma_, the _Diario Romano_, and the _Vero Amico del

Popolo_, made space, amid the more pressing claims of Church festivals,

provincial miracles, and the reporting of homilies, to detail some few

scanty particulars of the "_tragedia deplorabile_" in the Palazzo

Bardello. Each, too, hinted its own solution to the enigma. The _Diario_

inclined to the suicidal point of view; the _Giornale_, more politically

wise than its contemporaries, pointed a significant finger towards

Sardinia; the _Vero Amico_, under cover of a cloud of fine phrases,

insinuated a suspicion of Hugh Girdlestone himself. At every

table-d'hote and every artist's club, at the public reading rooms, in

the studios, in the cafes, and at every evening party throughout Rome,

it was the universal topic.

In the meanwhile such feeble efforts as it is in the nature of a

Pontifical Government to make were put forward for the discovery of the

murderer. A post-mortem examination was appointed; official

consultations were held; official depositions were drawn up; pompous

gendarmes clanked perpetually up and down the staircase and courtyard

of the Palazzo Bardello; and every one about the place who could

possibly be supposed to have anything to say upon the subject was

summoned to give evidence. But in vain. Days went by, weeks went by, and

the mystery remained impenetrable as ever. Passing shadows of suspicion

fell here and there--on Margherita, on a Corsican courier in the service

of the American family, on Hugh Girdlestone; but they rested scarcely at

all, and vanished away as a breath from a surface of polished steel.

In the meanwhile, Ethel Girdlestone was laid to rest in a quiet little

Roman Catholic cemetery beyond the walls--a lonely, picturesque spot,

overlooking the valley of the Tiber and the mountains about Fidenae. A

plain marble cross and a wreath of immortelles marked the place of her

grave. For a week or two the freshly-turned mould looked drear and

desolate under the Spring sunshine; but the grass soon sprang up again,

and the wild crocuses struck root and blossomed over it; and by that

time Rome had found some fresh subject for gossip, and the fate of Ethel

Girdlestone was well nigh forgotten.

There was one, however, who forgot nothing--who, the first torpor of

despair once past, lived only to remember and avenge. He offered an

enormous reward for the apprehension of the unknown murderer. He papered

Rome with placards. He gave himself up, body and brain, to the task of

discovery, and felt that for this, and this only, he could continue to

bear the burden of life. As the chances of success seemed to grow daily

more and more uncertain, his purpose but became the more assured. He

would have justice; meaning by justice, blood for blood, a life for a

life. And this at all costs, at all risks, at all sacrifices. He took a

solemn oath to devote, if need be, all the best years of his life, all

the vigour of his mind, all the strength of his manhood, to this one

desperate end. For it he was ready to endure any privation, or to incur

any personal danger. For it, could his purpose have been thereby

assured, he would have gladly died at any hour of the day or night. As

it was, he trained himself to the work with a patience that was never

wearied.

He studied to acquire the dialects, and to familiarise himself with the

habits, of the lowest quarters of Rome. He frequented the small

wine-shops of the Trastevere and the Rione St. Angelo. He mastered the

intricacies of the Ghetto. He haunted the street fountains, the

puppet-shows, and the quays of Ripa Grande. Wherever, in short, the

Roman people were to be found _in fra di loro_, whether gossiping,

gaming, quarrelling, or holiday-making, there Hugh Girdlestone made his

way, mingled with them, listened, observed, and waited like a trapper

for his prey. It was a task of untold peril and difficulty, made all the

more perilous and difficult by the fact of his being a foreigner. Fluent

Italian as he was, it was still not possible that he should perfectly

master all the slang of the Rione, play at morra and zecchinetta as one

to the manner born, or be at all times equal to the part which he had

undertaken. He was liable at any moment to betray himself, and to be

poniarded for a spy. He knew each time he ventured into certain quarters

of the city that his body might be floating down towards Ostia before

daybreak, or that he might quite probably disappear from that moment,

and never be seen or heard of more. Yet, strong in his purpose and

reckless of his life, he went, and came, and went again, penetrating

into haunts where the police dared not set foot, and assuming in these

excursions the dress and dialect of a Roman "rough" of the lowest order.

Thus disguised, and armed with a deadly patience that knew neither

weariness nor discouragement, Hugh Girdlestone pursued his quest. How,

despite every precaution, he contrived to escape detection was matter

for daily wonder, even to himself. He owed his safety, however, in great

measure to a sullen manner and a silent tongue--perhaps in some degree

to his southern complexion; to his black beard and swarthy skin, and the

lowering fire in his eyes.

Thus the Spring passed away, the Summer heats came on, and the wealthier

quarters of Rome were, as usual, emptied of their inhabitants. The

foreign visitors went first; then the Italian nobility; and then all

those among the professional and commercial classes who could afford the

healthful luxury of villeggiatura. Meanwhile, Hugh Girdlestone was the

only remaining lodger in the Palazzo Bardello. Day by day he lingered on

in the deserted city, wandering through the burning streets and piazzas,

and down by the river-side, where the very air was heavy with malaria.

Night after night he perilled life and limb in the wine-shops of the

Trastevere; and still in vain. Still the murderer remained undiscovered

and the murdered unavenged; still no clue, nor vestige of a clue, turned

up. The police, having grown more and more languid in the work of

investigation, ceased, at last, from further efforts. The placards

became defaced, or were pasted over with fresh ones. By-and-by the whole

story faded from people's memories; and save by one who, sleeping or

waking, knew no other thought, the famous "_tragedia deplorabile_" was

quite forgotten.

Thus the glowing Summer and sultry Autumn dragged slowly by. The popular

festivals on Monte Testaccio were celebrated and over; the harvest was

gathered in; the virulence of the malaria abated; the artists flocked

back to their studios, the middleclass Romans to their homes, the nobles

to their palaces. Then the Pope returned from Castel Gondolfo, and the

annual tide of English and American visitors set in. By the first Sunday

in Advent, Rome was already tolerably well filled; and on the evening of

that same Sunday an event took place which threw the whole city into

confusion, and caused a clamour of dismay even louder than that which

followed the murder of Ethel Girdlestone ten months before.

CHAPTER III.

A knot of loungers stood, talking eagerly, round the stove in Piale's

reading-room. It was on the Monday morning following the first Sunday in

Advent, and still quite early. None were reading, or attempting to read.

The newspapers lay unopened on the tables. Even the last _Times_

contained nothing so exciting as the topic then under discussion.

"It is to be hoped and expected that the Government will bestir itself

in earnest this time," said a bald-headed Englishman, standing with his

back to the stove.

"Hope is one thing, my dear sir, and expectation is another," replied

his nearest neighbour. "When you have lived in Rome as long as myself,

you will cease to expect anything but indifference from the bureaucracy

of the Papal States."

"But a crime of this enormity..."

"Is more easily hushed up than investigated, especially when the

sufferers are in a humble station of life, and cannot offer a large

reward to the police."

"Mr. Somerville puts the question quite fairly," observed another

gentleman. "There is nothing like public spirit to be found throughout

the length and breadth of His Holiness's dominions."

"Nor justice either, it would seem, unless one can pay for it

handsomely," added another.

"Nay, your long purse is not always your short cut to justice, even in

Rome," said Mr. Somerville. "There was that case of the young bride who

was murdered last Winter in the Palazzo Bardello. Her husband offered an

immense reward--a thousand guineas English, I believe--and yet the

mystery was never cleared up."

"Ay, that Palazzo Bardello murder was a tragic affair," said the

bald-headed Englishman; "more tragic, on the whole, than ..."

A sudden change of expression swept over his face, and he broke off in

the midst of his sentence.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I feel as if I were on the brink of a

discovery."

"Plunge away, then, my dear fellow," laughed Somerville. "What is it?"

"Well, then--what if both these murders had been committed by the same

hand?"

"Most unlikely, I should think," said one.

"Altogether improbable," added another.

"Do you opine that Othello smothered the princes in the Tower?" asked a

third.

"Listen to my premises before you laugh at my conclusions," said he of

the bald head, obviously nettled by the general incredulity. "Look at

the details: they are almost identical. In each case the victim is

stabbed to the heart; in each case the wound is almost imperceptibly

small. There is no effusion of blood; no robbery is committed; and no

trace of the assassin remains. I'd stake my head upon it that these are

not purely accidental coincidences!"

"I beg your pardon," said a gentleman, who till now had been standing by

a window at the further end of the room with his back to the speakers;

"but will you have the goodness to inform me in what part of Rome

this--this murder has been committed?"

"Down, I believe, in one of the narrow lanes near the theatre of

Marcellus."

"And the victim is a Roman subject?"

"The child of Roman parents."

"A child!"

"A child, sir; a little fellow of only eleven years of age, and the son

of a baker named Tommaseo."

The stranger took out his note-book.

"Near the theatre of Marcellus," he said, scribbling a rapid entry.

"Just so--a most shocking and mysterious affair!"

"And the name, Tommaseo. Many thanks. Good morning."

With this he lifted his hat, strode from the room, and vanished without

another word.

"Humph! an abrupt sort of fellow," said the first speaker. "I wonder who

he is?"

"He looks horribly ill," said another.

"I've met him before," mused Somerville. "I remember the face quite

well, but the name has altogether escaped my memory. Good heavens! it

is Mr. Girdlestone--the husband of that very lady who was murdered in

the Palazzo Bardello!"

In the meanwhile Hugh Girdlestone was swinging along at his tremendous

pace towards that quarter where the murder had been perpetrated. He

found the house without difficulty, at the end of a narrow Vicolo about

half-way between the Portico of Octavia and the Theatre of Marcellus.

There was a crowd before the door, and a dismounted dragoon pacing up

and down with his sabre under his arm. Over the shop window was

suspended a board, on which were inscribed, in faded red letters, the

words "ANTICO FORNO;" and at this window, where still lay unsold some

three or four stale rolls of Saturday's baking, an old woman every now

and then made her appearance, and addressed wild lamentations to the

bystanders.

"Alas! alas!" she cried, tossing her arms aloft like a withered

Cassandra. "He was the light of our eyes! He was our darling, our

sunshine, our pride! He was as good as an angel. He never told a lie in

his life. Everybody loved him! At this hour yesterday his laugh made

music in the house, and our hearts leaped for joy to hear it. We shall

never hear that voice again--never, never more, till we hear it in

heaven! He is dead! He is dead, and the blessed Virgin has him in her

care. But his murderer lives. Oh _Dio_, hear it! Hear it, O blessed

mother of God! Hear it, thou blessed Saint Stefano! Overtake him with

your vengeance! Let his tongue wither, and his eyes melt away in blood!

Let his hands and feet rot upon his body! Let his flesh drop piece-meal

from his bones! Let him die unconfessed and unabsolved, and give him

over to the everlasting fire!"

"No stranger is allowed to pass, Signore," said the dragoon, interposing

his person between the Englishman and the door.

But Hugh Girdlestone had only to open his pocket-book and show a certain

slip of paper signed by the chief of the police. It was at magical

document, and admitted him to all kinds of forbidden places.

He went in. In the outer room, or shop, he found some eight or ten

persons assembled, apparently relatives and friends of the family; in a

darkened room beyond, the body of a young child was laid out upon a

narrow pallet strewn with immortelles and set round with lighted

candles. The father, a sickly-looking man, with eyes red and swollen

from weeping, was sitting upon a low stool, in a farther corner of the

room, his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin upon his hands,

smoking drearily. The mother lay crouched on the floor beside the bed,

in a stupor of misery.

Hugh Girdlestone apologised for his intrusion with a word or two of

explanation and sympathy. The woman never stirred. The man took his pipe

from his mouth, rose respectfully, and replied to such questions as his

visitor thought fit to put to him.

The child's name, he said, was Stefano--Stefanino, they used to call

him. He was their only child, and would have been eleven years of age in

the course of a few more days. He was a particularly good boy, and as

clever as he was good. He was a great favourite with the Padre

Lorenzo--the famous Padre Lorenzo of whom the Signore had doubtless

heard. This Padre Lorenzo had taken an especial affection for the little

Stefanino, and had himself prepared the boy for his first communion. And

he took it only yesterday morning--took it at the church of Il Gesu,

from the hands of Monsignore di Montalto. It was a long ceremony. There

were six hundred children present, and their Stefanino was among the

last who went up. When it was over they came home and dined, and after

dinner they went for a walk on the Monte Pincio. Coming back they hired

a vettura, for the child was very tired; and as soon as they reached

home his mother gave him a cup of soup and a piece of bread, and put him

to bed. This was about half-past six o'clock.

A little later in the evening--perhaps about a quarter past seven--he

and his wife and his wife's mother went over to see a neighbour in the

Via Fiumara close by. They left the child asleep. They had often left

him so before, especially on Sunday evenings, and no harm had come of

it. The wife of the shoemaker who occupied the first floor had promised

to listen if he should wake or call for anything; and she was a good

soul, and had children of her own. _Ebbene_, they stayed out somewhat

late--later than usual, for the neighbour in the Via Fiumara had her

married daughter spending the evening with her, and they stayed

gossiping till past ten o'clock. Then they came home. The Shoemaker and

his family were gone to bed; but the house-door was left, as usual, on

the latch, and the matches and candle were in their accustomed corner in

the passage. So they lit the candle, and fastened the door, and stole in

very softly; for little Stefanino was a light sleeper, and apt to lie

awake for hours if accidentally roused.

However, this time, although the grandmother stumbled over the

_scaldino_ on first going into the room, he never turned or stirred. He

slept in a little crib beside their own bed, and after a few minutes

they went to look at him. He was very pale; but then he had gone through

a day of great fatigue and excitement, and was unusually tired. They

never dreamed, at first sight, that all was not well with him. It was

his mother who discovered it. She first saw that no breath parted his

dear lips--she first touched his cheek, and found it cold!

When he reached this point in his narrative, the poor baker fairly broke

down, and covered his face with his hands.

"_Eccolo_, Signore," he sobbed. "He was our only little one!"

"He is with God," said Hugh Girdlestone.

He could think of nothing else to say. He was not a religious man. He

was, on the contrary, a worldly, a careless, perhaps even a somewhat

hard man; and he had no words of ready comfort and sympathy at command.

But he was moved, and his emotion showed itself in his voice.

"Alas! God did not want him so much as we wanted him," was the naive

reply.

The mother, who till now had lain huddled on the floor, apparently

unconscious of all that was going forward, here suddenly lifted up her

head.

"The good God and our Blessed Lady had him always," she said, hoarsely.

"He was in their hands from the hour when I brought him into the world,

and he is not more theirs in heaven than he was theirs on earth. But

they did not call him from us. It is not God but man who has bereaved

us, and left us desolate. Behold!"

And with this she rose to her feet, turned down the sheet, and uncovered

the wound--just such a tiny puncture, with just such a ghastly halo

spreading round it, as Hugh Girdlestone had awful cause to remember.

He could not bear to look upon it. He shuddered and turned his face

aside.

"Is there--is there anyone whom you suspect?" he faltered.

"No one."

"Have you an enemy?"

The baker shook his head.

"I think not," he replied. "I am at peace with all my neighbours."

"Was no one seen to enter the house in your absence?"

"No one, Signore."

"Did the shoemaker's wife hear no sound?"

"None whatever."

"And you have been robbed of nothing?"

"Not to the value of a _quattrino_."

The Englishman's heart sank within him. He felt profoundly discouraged.

The double mystery seemed doubly impenetrable, and his double task

doubly hopeless. He turned again to the little bed, and took one long,

last look at the waxen figure with its folded hands and funeral

chaplets.

"What is this?" he asked, pointing to a white silk scarf fringed with

gold which lay folded across the feet of the corpse.

The mother snatched it up, and covered it with passionate kisses.

"It is the scarf he wore yesterday when he went up to take his first

communion," she replied. "The Padre Lorenzo gave it to him. Alas! alas!

how beautiful he looked, dressed in all his best, with new buckles in

his shoes and this scarf tied over one shoulder! The little angels

painted over the altar did not look more beautiful!"

"The Padre Lorenzo!" repeated Hugh Girdlestone. "He taught the child,

you say, and loved him. Does he know this?"

"Yes, he knows it."

It was the man who replied. The woman had sunk down again upon the

floor, and hidden her face.

"Has he been to see you since?"

"He sent a priest this morning to pray for the repose of our little

one's soul."

"Humph!"

Tommaseo's quick Italian ear detected the shade of disapproval in his

visitor's voice.

"The Padre Lorenzo is a saint," he said, eagerly. "All Rome flocks to

hear him preach."

"Where is he to be found, _amico_?"

"At the convent of the Gesuiti close by."

"So!--a Jesuit?"

"A Jesuit, Signore; so eloquent, so learned, so holy, and yet so

young--so young! A holier man does not live. Though his body still walks

upon earth, his soul already lives in heaven."

"I should like to see him," mused the Englishman. "He might suggest

something--these Jesuits are keen and far-sighted; at all events, it is

worth the effort. I will go round to the Gesuiti, _amico_, to hear if

your good padre can help us."

"Our blessed Lady and all the saints reward you, dear Signore!"

exclaimed the poor father, humbly attempting to kiss the hand which Hugh

Girdlestone extended to him at parting.

But the Englishman snatched it hastily away.

"Nay, nay," he said, roughly. "I have my own motive--my own wrong. No

thanks--no thanks!"

And with a quick gesture, half deprecation, half farewell, he was gone.

CHAPTER IV.

Vast, sombre, dimly lighted, splendid with precious marbles and rich in

famous altar-pieces, the church of Il Gesu wore that day an aspect of

even gloomier grandeur than usual. Before the chapel of Saint Ignazio, a

considerable crowd was assembled. All were listening devoutly. The

dropping of a pin might have been heard among them. There had been no

service. There was no music. No perfume of incense lingered on the air.

It was simply a week-day discourse that was in process of delivery, and

the preacher was Padre Lorenzo.

As Hugh Girdlestone went up the steps and lifted the heavy leathern

portiere, he suddenly remembered how, on that other fatal morning of the

thirteenth of February last, he had paused upon those very steps,

listening to the chanting and half-disposed to enter. Why had he not

followed that impulse? He could not tell. Why need the coincidence

startle him now? He could not tell that, either. It was but a

coincidence, commonplace and natural enough--and yet it troubled him.

He went in.

The chapel was small and held but few seats, and the crowd spread far

out into the body of the church, so that the new comer had to take up

his position on the outskirts of the congregation. From this place he

could hear, but not see the preacher. Finding it impossible, however, to

work his way nearer without disturbing others, he contented himself with

listening.

The voice of the preacher was low and clear, and sounded like the voice

of a young man; but it rose every now and then to a higher key, and that

higher key jarred somewhat harshly upon the ear. The subject of his

discourse was death. He held it up to his hearers from every point of

view--as a terror; as a reward; as a punishment; as a hope beside which

all other hopes were but as the shadows of shadows. He compared the last

moments of the just man with those of the sinner. He showed under what

circumstances death was robbed of its sting and the grave of its

victory. To the soldier falling on the field, to the martyr consuming at

the stake, death was glory; to the sick and the heartbroken it was

peace; to the philosopher, infinite knowledge; to the poor, infinite

wealth; to all faithful Christians, joy everlasting. Happy, he said,

were those who died young, for they had not lived to accumulate the full

burden of human sin; happier still those who died penitent, since for

them was reserved the special mercy of Heaven.

"But what," he said--and here his voice rose to a strange pitch of

tremulous exaltation--"but what shall we say to this event which is

to-day on every man's tongue? What shall we say to the death of this

little child--this little child who but yesterday partook of his first

communion in this very church, and whose fate is even now moving all

hearts to indignation and pity? Was ever pity so mistaken? Was ever

death so happily timed? In the first bloom of his innocence, in the very

moment of his solemn reception into the bosom of our holy Church,

sinless, consecrated, absolved, he passed, pure as an angel, into the

presence of his Maker. Had he lived but one day longer, he had been less

pure. Had he lived to his full term of years, who shall say with what

crimes his soul might not have been blackened? He might have lived to

become a heretic, an atheist, a blasphemer. He might have died with all

his sins upon his head, an outcast upon earth, and an outcast from

heaven! Who then shall dare to pity him? Which among us shall not envy

him? Has he not gone from earth to heaven, clothed in a wedding garment,

like a guest to the banquet of the saints? Has he not gone with the

chaplet on his brow, the ring upon his finger, the perfume of the

incense yet clinging to his hair, the wine of Christ yet fresh upon his

lips? Silence, then, Oh ye of little faith! Why grieve that another

voice is given to the heavenly choir? Why lament that another martyr is

added to the noble army of the Lord? Let us rejoice rather than weep.

Let our requiems be changed for songs of praise and thanksgiving. Shall

we pity him that he is beyond the reach of sorrow? Shall we shudder at

the fate that has given him to Paradise? Shall we even dare to curse the

hand that sent him thither? May not that very hand have been consecrated

to the task?--have been guided by the finger of God?--have been

inspired by a strength ... a wisdom ... no murderer; but a priest ... a

priest of the tabernacle ... it was the voice of God ... a voice from

Heaven ... saying...." He faltered--became inarticulate--stopped.

A sudden confusion fell upon the congregation; a sudden murmur rose and

filled the church. In an instant all were moving, speaking,

gesticulating; in an instant Hugh Girdlestone was pushing his way

towards the chapel.

And the preacher? Tall, slender, wild-eyed, looking utterly helpless and

bewildered, he stood before his hearers, unable, as it seemed, to speak

or think. He looked quite young--about twenty-eight, or it might be

thirty years, of age--but worn and haggard, as one that had prayed and

fasted overmuch. Seeing Hugh Girdlestone push through the crowd and

stand suddenly before him, he shrank back like a hunted creature, and

began trembling violently.

"At last! at last!" gasped the Englishman. "Confess it, murderer;

confess it, before I strike you dead with my own hands!"

The priest put his hand to his head. His lips moved, but no utterance

came.

"Do you know who I am?" continued Hugh, in a deep, hoarse voice that

trembled with hatred. "Do you know who I am? I am the husband of Ethel

Girdlestone--that Ethel Girdlestone who used to come to this very church

to confess to you--to you, who slew her in her bed as you yesterday

slew a little child that loved you. Devil! I remember you now. Why did

I not suspect you sooner?"

"Hush!" said a grave voice in his ear. "Does the Signore forget in Whose

house we are?"

It was another priest of the order, who had just come upon the scene.

"I forget nothing," replied the Englishman. "Bear witness, all present,

that I charge this man with murder!"

The new comer turned to the congregation.

"And bear witness, all present," he added solemnly, with uplifted hand,

"that the Padre Lorenzo is responsible for neither his words nor his

deeds. He is mad."

* * * * *

And so it was. Young, eloquent, learned, an impassioned orator, and one

of the most brilliant ornaments of his order, the Padre Lorenzo had for

more than two years betrayed symptoms of insanity. He had committed some

few extravagancies from time to time, and had broken down once or twice

in a discourse; but it had never been supposed that his eccentricity had

danger in it. Of the murder of Ethel Girdlestone no one had ever for one

moment dreamed that he was guilty. With the instinctive cunning of

madness he had kept his first secret well. But he could not keep the

second. Having ventured on the perilous subject, he betrayed himself.

From that hour he became a raving maniac, and disappeared for ever from

the world. By what motive his distempered brain had been moved to the

commission of these crimes, and where he had obtained the long slender

dagger, scarcely thicker than a needle, with which they were

perpetrated, were secrets never discovered; but it was thought by some

of those who knew him best that he had slain the child to save his soul

from possible sin and send him straight to Heaven. As for Ethel

Girdlestone, it was probable that he had murdered her from some similar

motive--most likely to preserve her against the danger of perversion by

a heretic husband.

Hugh Girdlestone lives, famous and prosperous, learned in the law, and

not unlikely, it is said, to attain the woolsack by-and-by. But he lives

a solitary life, and the gloom that fell upon his youth overshadows all

his prosperity. He will never marry again.

THE FOUR-FIFTEEN EXPRESS.

CHAPTER I.

The events which I am about to relate took place between nine and ten

years ago. Sebastopol had fallen in the early Spring; the peace of Paris

had been concluded since March; our commercial relations with the

Russian empire were but recently renewed; and I, returning home after my

first northward journey since the war, was well pleased with the

prospect of spending the month of December under the hospitable and

thoroughly English roof of my excellent friend Jonathan Jelf, Esquire,

of Dumbleton Manor, Clayborough, East Anglia. Travelling in the

interests of the well-known firm in which it is my lot to be a junior

partner, I had been called upon to visit not only the capitals of Russia

and Poland, but had found it also necessary to pass some weeks among the

trading ports of the Baltic; whence it came that the year was already

far spent before I again set foot on English soil, and that instead of

shooting pheasants with him, as I had hoped, in October, I came to be my

friend's guest during the more genial Christmastide.

My voyage over, and a few days given up to business in Liverpool and

London, I hastened down to Clayborough with all the delight of a

schoolboy whose holidays are at hand. My way lay by the Great East

Anglian line as far as Clayborough station, where I was to be met by one

of the Dumbleton carriages and conveyed across the remaining nine miles

of country. It was a foggy afternoon, singularly warm for the fourth of

December, and I had arranged to leave London by the 4.15 express. The

early darkness of Winter had already closed in; the lamps were lighted

in the carriages; a clinging damp dimmed the windows, adhered to the

door-handles, and pervaded all the atmosphere; while the gas jets at the

neighbouring bookstand diffused a luminous haze that only served to make

the gloom of the terminus more visible. Having arrived some seven

minutes before the starting of the train, and, by the connivance of the

guard, taken sole possession of an empty compartment, I lighted my

travelling lamp, made myself particularly snug, and settled down to the

undisturbed enjoyment of a book and a cigar. Great, therefore, was my

disappointment when, at the last moment, a gentleman came hurrying along

the platform, glanced into my carriage, opened the locked door with a

private key, and stepped in.

It struck me at the first glance that I had seen him before--a tall,

spare man, thin-lipped, light-eyed, with an ungraceful stoop in the

shoulders, and scant grey hair worn somewhat long upon the collar. He

carried a light water-proof coat, an umbrella, and a large brown

japanned deed-box, which last he placed under the seat. This done, he

felt carefully in his breast-pocket, as if to make certain of the safety

of his purse or pocket-book; laid his umbrella in the netting overhead;

spread the water-proof across his knees; and exchanged his hat for a

travelling cap of some Scotch material. By this time the train was

moving out of the station, and into the faint grey of the wintry

twilight beyond.

I now recognized my companion. I recognized him from the moment when he

removed his hat and uncovered the lofty, furrowed and somewhat narrow

brow beneath. I had met him, as I distinctly remembered, some three

years before, at the very house for which, in all probability, he was

now bound like myself. His name was Dwerrihouse; he was a lawyer by

profession; and, if I was not greatly mistaken, was first cousin to the

wife of my host. I knew also that he was a man eminently "well to do,"

both as regarded his professional and private means. The Jelfs

entertained him with that sort of observant courtesy which falls to the

lot of the rich relation; the children made much of him; and the old

butler, albeit somewhat surly "to the general," treated him with

deference. I thought, observing him by the vague mixture of lamplight

and twilight, that Mrs. Jelf's cousin looked all the worse for the three

years' wear and tear which had gone over his head since our last

meeting. He was very pale, and had a restless light in his eye that I

did not remember to have observed before. The anxious lines, too, about

his mouth were deepened, and there was a cavernous hollow look about his

cheeks and temples which seemed to speak of sickness or sorrow. He had

glanced at me as he came in, but without any gleam of recognition in his

face. Now he glanced again, as I fancied, somewhat doubtfully. When he

did so for the third or fourth time, I ventured to address him.

"Mr. John Dwerrihouse, I think?"

"That is my name," he replied.

"I had the pleasure of meeting you at Dumbleton about three years ago."

Mr. Dwerrihouse bowed.

"I thought I knew your face," he said. "But your name, I regret to

say--"

"Langford--William Langford. I have known Jonathan Jelf since we were

boys together at Merchant Taylor's, and I generally spend a few weeks at

Dumbleton in the shooting season. I suppose we are bound for the same

destination?"

"Not if you are on your way to the Manor," he replied. "I am travelling

upon business--rather troublesome business, too--whilst you, doubtless,

have only pleasure in view."

"Just so. I am in the habit of looking forward to this visit as to the

brightest three weeks in all the year."

"It is a pleasant house," said Mr. Dwerrihouse.

"The pleasantest I know."

"And Jelf is thoroughly hospitable."

"The best and kindest fellow in the world!"

"They have invited me to spend Christmas week with them," pursued Mr.

Dwerrihouse, after a moment's pause.

"And you are coming?"

"I cannot tell. It must depend on the issue of this business which I

have in hand. You have heard, perhaps, that we were about to construct a

branch line from Blackwater to Stockbridge."

I explained that I had been for some months away from England and had

therefore heard nothing of the contemplated improvement.

Mr. Dwerrihouse smiled complacently.

"It _will_ be an improvement," he said; "a great improvement.

Stockbridge is a flourishing town, and only needs a more direct railway

communication with the metropolis to become an important centre of

commerce. This branch was my own idea. I brought the project before the

board, and have myself superintended the execution of it up to the

present time."

"You are an East Anglian director, I presume?"

"My interest in the company," replied Mr. Dwerrihouse, "is threefold. I

am a director; I am a considerable shareholder; and, as head of the firm

of Dwerrihouse, Dwerrihouse, and Craik, I am the company's principal

solicitor."

Loquacious, self-important, full of his pet project, and apparently

unable to talk on any other subject, Mr. Dwerrihouse then went on to

tell of the opposition he had encountered and the obstacles he had

overcome in the cause of the Stockbridge branch. I was entertained with

a multitude of local details and local grievances. The rapacity of one

squire; the impracticability of another; the indignation of the rector

whose glebe was threatened; the culpable indifference of the Stockbridge

townspeople, who could _not_ be brought to see that their most vital

interests hinged upon a junction with the Great East Anglian line; the

spite of the local newspaper; and the unheard-of difficulties attending

the Common question, were each and all laid before me with a

circumstantiality that possessed the deepest interest for my excellent

fellow-traveller, but none whatever for myself. From these, to my

despair, he went on to more intricate matters: to the approximate

expenses of construction per mile; to the estimates sent in by different

contractors; to the probable traffic returns of the new line: to the

provisional clauses of the new Act as enumerated in Schedule D of the

company's last half-yearly report; and so on, and on, and on till my

head ached, and my attention flagged, and my eyes kept closing in spite

of every effort that I made to keep them open. At length I was roused by

these words:--

"Seventy-five thousand pounds, cash down."

"Seventy-live thousand pounds, cash down," I repeated, in the liveliest

tone I could assume. "That is a heavy sum."

"A heavy sum to carry here," replied Mr. Dwerrihouse, pointing

significantly to his breast-pocket; "but a mere fraction of what we

shall ultimately have to pay."

"You do not mean to say that you have seventy-five thousand pounds at

this moment upon your person?" I exclaimed.

"My good Sir, have I not been telling you so for the last half hour?"

said Mr. Dwerrihouse, testily. "That money has to be paid over at

half-past eight o'clock this evening, at the office of Sir Thomas's

solicitors, on completion of the deed of sale."

"But how will you get across by night from Blackwater to Stockbridge

with seventy-five thousand pounds in your pocket?"

"To Stockbridge!" echoed the lawyer. "I find I have made myself very

imperfectly understood. I thought I had explained how this sum carries

our new line only as far as Mallingford--this first stage, as it were,

of our journey--and how our route from Blackwater to Mallingford lies

entirely through Sir Thomas Liddell's property."

"I beg your pardon," I stammered. "I fear my thoughts were wandering. So

you only go as far as Mallingford to-night?"

"Precisely. I shall get a conveyance from the 'Blackwater Arms.' And

you?"

"Oh, Jelf sends a trap to meet me at Clayborough. Can I be the bearer of

any message from you?"

"You may say if you please, Mr. Langford, that I wished I could have

been your companion all the way, and that I will come over if possible

before Christmas."

"Nothing more?"

Mr. Dwerrihouse smiled grimly.

"Well," he said, "you may tell my cousin that she need not burn the hall

down in my honour _this_ time, and that I shall be obliged if she will

order the blue-room chimney to be swept before I arrive."

"That sounds tragic. Had you a conflagration on the occasion of your

last visit to Dumbleton?"

"Something like it. There had been no fire lighted in my bedroom since

the spring, the flue was foul, and the rooks had built in it; so when I

went up to dress for dinner, I found the room full of smoke, and the

chimney on fire. Are we already at Blackwater?"

The train had gradually come to a pause while Mr. Dwerrihouse was

speaking, and on putting my head out of the window, I could see the

station some few hundred yards ahead. There was another train before us

blocking the way, and the ticket-taker was making use of the delay to

collect the Blackwater tickets. I had scarcely ascertained our position,

when the ruddy-faced official appeared at our carriage door.

"Ticket, Sir!" said he.

"I am for Clayborough," I replied, holding out the tiny pink card.

He took it; glanced at it by the light of his little lantern; gave it

back; looked, as I fancied, somewhat sharply at my fellow-traveller, and

disappeared.

"He did not ask for yours," I said with some surprise.

"They never do," replied Mr. Dwerrihouse. "They all know me; and of

course, I travel free."

"Blackwater! Blackwater!" cried the porter, running along the platform

beside us, as we glided into the station.

Mr. Dwerrihouse pulled out his deed box, put his travelling-cap in his

pocket, resumed his hat, took down his umbrella, and prepared to be

gone.

"Many thanks, Mr. Langford, for your society," he said, with

old-fashioned courtesy. "I wish you a good evening."

"Good evening," I replied, putting out my hand.

But he either did not see it, or did not choose to see it, and, slightly

lifting his hat, stepped out upon the platform. Having done this, he

moved slowly away, and mingled with the departing crowd.

Leaning forward to watch him out of sight, I trod upon something which

proved to be a cigar-case. It had fallen, no doubt, from the pocket of

his water-proof coat, and was made of dark morocco leather, with a

silver monogram upon the side. I sprang out of the carriage just as the

guard came up to lock me in.

"Is there one minute to spare?" I asked eagerly. "The gentleman who

travelled down with me from town has dropped his cigar-case--he is not

yet out of the station!"

"Just a minute and a half, Sir," replied the guard. "You must be quick."

I dashed along the platform as fast as my feet could carry me. It was a

large station, and Mr. Dwerrihouse had by this time got more than

half-way to the farther end.

I, however, saw him distinctly, moving slowly with the stream. Then, as

I drew nearer, I saw that he had met some friend--that they were talking

as they walked--that they presently fell back somewhat from the crowd,

and stood aside in earnest conversation, I made straight for the spot

where they were waiting. There was a vivid gas-jet just above their

heads, and the light fell full upon their faces. I saw both

distinctly--the face of Mr. Dwerrihouse and the face of his companion.

Running, breathless, eager as I was, getting in the way of porters and

passengers, and fearful every instant lest I should see the train going

on without me, I yet observed that the new-comer was considerably

younger and shorter than the director, that he was sandy-haired,

mustachioed, small-featured, and dressed in a close-cut suit of Scotch

tweed. I was now within a few yards of them. I ran against a stout

gentleman--I was nearly knocked down by a luggage-truck--I stumbled over

a carpet-bag--I gained the spot just as the driver's whistle warned me

to return.

To my utter stupefaction they were no longer there. I had seen them but

two seconds before--and they were gone! I stood still. I looked to right

and left. I saw no sign of them in any direction. It was as if the

platform had gaped and swallowed them.

"There were two gentlemen standing here a moment ago," I said to a

porter at my elbow; "which way can they have gone?"

"I saw no gentlemen, Sir," replied the man.

The whistle shrilled out again. The guard, far up the platform, held up

his arm, and shouted to me to "Come on!"

"If you're going on by this train, Sir," said the porter, "you must run

for it."

I did run for it--just gained the carriage as the train began to

move--was shoved in by the guard, and left breathless and bewildered,

with Mr. Dwerrihouse's cigar-case still in my hand.

It was the strangest disappearance in the world. It was like a

transformation trick in a pantomime. They were there one

moment--palpably there--talking--with the gaslight full upon their

faces; and the next moment they were gone. There was no door near--no

window--no staircase. It was a mere slip of barren platform, tapestried

with big advertisements. Could anything be more mysterious?

It was not worth thinking about; and yet, for my life, I could not help

pondering upon it--pondering, wondering, conjecturing, turning it over

and over in my mind, and beating my brains for a solution of the enigma.

I thought of it all the way from Blackwater to Clayborough. I thought of

it all the way from Clayborough to Dumbleton, as I rattled along the

smooth highway in a trim dog-cart drawn by a splendid black mare, and

driven by the silentest and dapperest of East Anglian grooms.

We did the nine miles in something less than an hour, and pulled up

before the lodge-gates just as the church clock was striking half-past

seven. A couple of minutes more, and the warm glow of the lighted hall

was flooding out upon the gravel; a hearty grasp was on my hand; and a

clear jovial voice was bidding me "Welcome to Dumbleton."

"And now, my dear fellow," said my host, when the first greeting was

over, "you have no time to spare. We dine at eight, and there are people

coming to meet you; so you must just get the dressing business over as

quickly as may be. By the way, you will meet some acquaintances. The

Biddulphs are coming, and Prendergast (Prendergast, of the Skirmishers)

is staying in the house. Adieu! Mrs. Jelf will be expecting you in the

drawing-room."

I was ushered to my room--not the blue room, of which Mr. Dwerrihouse

had made disagreeable experience, but a pretty little bachelor's

chamber, hung with a delicate chintz, and made cheerful by a blazing

fire. I unlocked my portmanteau. I tried to be expeditious; but the

memory of my railway adventure haunted me. I could not get free of it. I

could not shake it off. It impeded me--it worried me--it tripped me

up--it caused me to mislay my studs--to mistie my cravat--to wrench the

buttons off my gloves. Worst of all, it made me so late that the party

had all assembled before I reached the drawing-room. I had scarcely paid

my respects to Mrs. Jelf when dinner was announced, and we paired off,

some eight or ten couples strong, into the dining-room.

I am not going to describe either the guests or the dinner. All

provincial parties bear the strictest family resemblance, and I am not

aware that an East Anglian banquet offers any exception to the rule.

There was the usual country baronet and his wife; there were the usual

country parsons and their wives; there was the sempiternal turkey and

haunch of venison. _Vanitas vanitatum._ There is nothing new under the

sun.

I was placed about midway down the table. I had taken one rector's wife

down to dinner, and I had another at my left hand. They talked across

me, and their talk was about babies. It was dreadfully dull. At length

there came a pause. The entrees had just been removed, and the turkey

had come upon the scene. The conversation had all along been of the

languidest, but at this moment it happened to have stagnated altogether.

Jelf was carving the turkey. Mrs. Jelf looked as if she was trying to

think of something to say. Everybody else was silent. Moved by an

unlucky impulse, I thought I would relate my adventure.

"By the way, Jelf," I began, "I came down part of the way to-day with a

friend of yours."

"Indeed!" said the master of the feast, slicing scientifically into the

breast of the turkey. "With whom, pray?"

"With one who bade me tell you that he should, if possible, pay you a

visit before Christmas."

"I cannot think who that could be," said my friend, smiling.

"It must be Major Thorp," suggested Mrs. Jelf.

I shook my head.

"It was not Major Thorp," I replied. "It was a near relation of your

own, Mrs. Jelf."

"Then I am more puzzled than ever," replied my hostess. "Pray tell me

who it was."

"It was no less a person than your Cousin, Mr. John Dwerrihouse."

Jonathan Jelf laid down his knife and fork. Mrs. Jelf looked at me in a

strange, startled way, and said never a word.

"And he desired me to tell you, my dear madam, that you need not take

the trouble to burn the Hall down in his honour this time; but only to

have the chimney of the blue room swept before his arrival."

Before I had reached the end of my sentence, I became aware of something

ominous in the faces of the guests. I felt I had said something which I

had better have left unsaid, and that for some unexplained reason my

words had evoked a general consternation. I sat confounded, not daring

to utter another syllable, and for at least two whole minutes there was

dead silence round the table.

Then Captain Prendergast came to the rescue.

"You have been abroad for some months, have you not, Mr. Langford?" he

said, with the desperation of one who flings himself into the breach. "I

heard you had been to Russia. Surely you have something to tell us of

the state and temper of the country after the war?"

I was heartily grateful to the gallant Skirmisher for this diversion in

my favour. I answered him, I fear, somewhat lamely; but he kept the

conversation up, and presently one or two others joined in, and so the

difficulty, whatever it might have been, was bridged over. Bridged over,

but not repaired. A something, an awkwardness, a visible constraint

remained. The guests hitherto had been simply dull; but now they were

evidently uncomfortable and embarrassed.

The dessert had scarcely been placed upon the table when the ladies left

the room. I seized the opportunity to drop into a vacant chair next

Captain Prendergast.

"In Heaven's name," I whispered, "what was the matter just now? What had

I said?"

"You mentioned the name of John Dwerrihouse."

"What of that? I had seen him not two hours before."

"It is a most astounding circumstance that you should have seen him,"

said Captain Prendergast. "Are you sure it was he?"

"As sure as of my own identity. We were talking all the way between

London and Blackwater. But why does that surprise you?"

"_Because_," replied Captain Prendergast, dropping his voice to the

lowest whisper--"_because John Dwerrihouse absconded three months ago,

with seventy-five thousand pounds of the Company's money, and has never

been heard of since_."

CHAPTER II.

John Dwerrihouse had absconded three months ago--and I had seen him only

a few hours back. John Dwerrihouse had embezzled seventy-five thousand

pounds of the Company's money--yet told me that he carried that sum upon

his person. Were ever facts so strangely incongruous, so difficult to

reconcile? How should he have ventured again into the light of day? How

dared he show himself along the line? Above all, what had he been doing

throughout those mysterious three months of disappearance?

Perplexing questions these. Questions which at once suggested themselves

to the minds of all concerned, but which admitted of no easy solution. I

could find no reply to them. Captain Prendergast had not even a

suggestion to offer. Jonathan Jelf, who seized the first opportunity of

drawing me aside and learning all that I had to tell, was more amazed

and bewildered than either of us. He came to my room that night when all

the guests were gone, and we talked the thing over from every point of

view--without, it must be confessed, arriving at any kind of conclusion.

"I do not ask you," he said, "whether you can have mistaken your man.

That is impossible."

"As impossible as that I should mistake some stranger for yourself."

"It is not a question of looks or voice, but of facts. That he should

have alluded to the fire in the blue room is proof enough of John

Dwerrihouse's identity. How did he look?"

"Older, I thought. Considerably older, paler, and more anxious."

"He has had enough to make him look anxious, anyhow," said my friend,

gloomily; "be he innocent or guilty."

"I am inclined to believe he is innocent," I replied. "He showed no

embarrassment when I addressed him, and no uneasiness when the guard

came round. His conversation was open to a fault. I might almost say

that he talked too freely of the business which he had in hand."

"That again is strange; for I know no one more reticent on such

subjects. He actually told you that he had the seventy-five thousand

pounds in his pocket?"

"He did."

"Humph! My wife has an idea about it, and she may be right--"

"What idea?"

"Well, she fancies--women are so clever, you know, at putting themselves

inside people's motives--she fancies that he was tempted; that he did

actually take the money; and that he has been concealing himself these

three months in some wild part of the country--struggling possibly with

his conscience all the time, and daring neither to abscond with his

booty, nor to come back and restore it."

"But now that he has come back?"

"That is the point. She conceives that he has probably thrown himself

upon the Company's mercy; made restitution of the money; and, being

forgiven, is permitted to carry the business through as if nothing

whatever had happened."

"The last," I replied, "is an impossible case. Mrs. Jelf thinks like a

generous and delicate-minded woman; but not in the least like a board of

railway directors. They would never carry forgiveness so far."

"I fear not; and yet it is the only conjecture that bears a semblance of

likelihood. However, we can run over to Clayborough to-morrow, and see

if anything is to be learned. By the way, Prendergast tells me you

picked up his cigar-case."

"I did--and here it is."

Jelf took the cigar-case, examined it, and said at once that it was

beyond doubt Mr. Dwerrihouse's property, and that he remembered to have

seen him use it.

"Here, too, is his monogram on the side," he added. "A big J transfixing

a capital D. He used to carry the same on his note paper."

"It proves, at all events, that I was not dreaming."

"Ay; but it is time you were asleep and dreaming now. I am ashamed to

have kept you so long. Good night."

"Good night, and remember that I am more than ready to go with you to

Clayborough, or Blackwater, or London, or anywhere, if I can be of the

least service."

"Thanks! I know you mean it, old friend, and it may be that I shall put

you to the test. Once more, good night."

So we parted for that night, and met again in the breakfast-room at

half-past eight next morning. It was a hurried, silent, uncomfortable

meal. None of us had slept well, and all were thinking of the same

subject. Mrs. Jelf had evidently been crying; Jelf was impatient to be

off; and both Captain Prendergast and myself felt ourselves to be in the

painful position of outsiders, who are involuntarily brought into a

domestic trouble. Within twenty minutes after we had left the

breakfast-table, the dog-cart was brought round, and my friend and I

were on the road to Clayborough.

"Tell you what it is, Langford," he said, as we sped along between the

wintry hedges, "I do not much fancy bringing up Dwerrihouse's name at

Clayborough. All the officials know that he is my wife's relation, and

the subject just now is hardly a pleasant one. If you don't much mind,

we will take the 11.10 train to Blackwater. It's an important station,

and we shall stand a far better chance of picking up information there

than at Clayborough."

So we took the 11.10, which happened to be an express, and, arriving at

Blackwater about a quarter before twelve, proceeded at once to prosecute

our inquiry.

We began by asking for the station-master--a big, blunt, business-like

person, who at once averred that he knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse perfectly

well, and that there was no director on the line whom he had seen and

spoken to so frequently.

"He used to be down here two or three times a-week, about three months

ago," said he, "when the new line was first set afoot; but since then,

you know, gentlemen----"

He paused, significantly.

Jelf flushed scarlet.

"Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, "we know all about that. The point now to

be ascertained is whether anything has been seen or heard of him

lately."

"Not to my knowledge," replied the station-master.

"He is not known to have been down the line any time yesterday, for

instance?"

The station-master shook his head.

"The East Anglian, sir," said he, "is about the last place where he

would dare to show himself. Why, there isn't a station-master, there

isn't a guard, there isn't a porter, who doesn't know Mr. Dwerrihouse by

sight as well as he knows his own face in the looking-glass; or who

wouldn't telegraph for the police as soon as he had set eyes on him at

any point along the line. Bless you, sir! there's been a standing order

out against him ever since the twenty-fifth of September last."

"And yet," pursued my friend, "a gentleman who travelled down yesterday

from London to Clayborough by the afternoon express, testifies that he

saw Mr. Dwerrihouse in the train, and that Mr. Dwerrihouse alighted at

Blackwater station."

"Quite impossible, sir," replied the station-master, promptly.

"Why impossible?"

"Because there is no station along the line where he is so well known,

or where he would run so great a risk. It would be just running his head

into the lion's mouth. He would have been mad to come nigh Blackwater

station; and if he had come, he would have been arrested before he left

the platform."

"Can you tell me who took the Blackwater tickets of that train?"

"I can, sir. It was the guard--Benjamin Somers."

"And where can I find him?"

"You can find him, sir, by staying here, if you please, till one

o'clock. He will be coming through with the up Express from Crampton,

which stays at Blackwater for ten minutes."

We waited for the up Express, beguiling the time as best we could by

strolling along the Blackwater road till we came almost to the outskirts

of the town, from which the station was distant nearly a couple of

miles. By one o'clock we were back again upon the platform, and waiting

for the train. It came punctually, and I at once recognized the

ruddy-faced guard who had gone down with my train the evening before.

"The gentlemen want to ask you something about Mr. Dwerrihouse,

Somers," said the station-master, by way of introduction.

The guard flashed a keen glance from my face to Jelf's, and back again

to mine.

"Mr. John Dwerrihouse, the late director?" said he, interrogatively.

"The same," replied my friend. "Should you know him if you saw him?"

"Anywhere, sir."

"Do you know if he was in the 4.15 Express yesterday afternoon?"

"He was not, sir."

"How can you answer so positively?"

"Because I looked into every carriage, and saw every face in that train,

and I could take my oath that Mr. Dwerrihouse was not in it. This

gentleman was," he added, turning sharply upon me. "I don't know that I

ever saw him before in my life, but I remember _his_ face perfectly. You

nearly missed taking your seat in time at this station, sir, and you got

out at Clayborough."

"Quite true," I replied; "but do you not also remember the face of the

gentleman who travelled down in the same carriage with me as far as

here?"

"It was my impression, sir, that you travelled down alone," said Somers,

with a look of some surprise.

"By no means. I had a fellow-traveller as far as Blackwater, and it was

in trying to restore him the cigar-case which he had dropped in the

carriage, that I so nearly let you go on without me."

"I remember your saying something about a cigar-case, certainly,"

replied the guard, "but----"

"You asked for my ticket just before we entered the station."

"I did, sir."

"Then you must have seen him. He sat in the corner next the very door to

which you came."

"No, indeed. I saw no one."

I looked at Jelf. I began to think the guard was in the ex-director's

confidence, and paid for his silence.

"If I had seen another traveller I should have asked for his ticket,"

added Somers. "Did you see me ask for his ticket, sir?"

"I observed that you did not ask for it, but he explained that by

saying----"

I hesitated. I feared I might be telling too much, and so broke off

abruptly.

The guard and the station-master exchanged glances. The former looked

impatiently at his watch.

"I am obliged to go in four minutes more, sir," he said.

"One last question, then," interposed Jelf, with a sort of desperation.

"If this gentleman's fellow-traveller had been Mr. John Dwerrihouse, and

he had been sitting in the corner next the door by which you took the

tickets, could you have failed to see and recognize him?"

"No, sir; it would have been quite impossible."

"And you are certain you did _not_ see him?"

"As I said before, sir, I could take my oath I did not see him. And if

it wasn't that I don't like to contradict a gentleman, I would say I

could also take my oath that this gentleman was quite alone in the

carriage the whole way from London to Clayborough. Why, sir," he added,

dropping his voice so as to be inaudible to the station-master, who had

been called away to speak to some person close by, "you expressly asked

me to give you a compartment to yourself, and I did so. I locked you in,

and you were so good as to give me something for myself."

"Yes; but Mr. Dwerrihouse had a key of his own."

"I never saw him, sir; I saw no one in the compartment but yourself. Beg

pardon, sir, my time's up."

And with this the ruddy guard touched his cap and was gone. In another

minute the heavy panting of the engine began afresh, and the train

glided slowly out of the station.

We looked at each other for some moments in silence. I was the first to

speak.

"Mr. Benjamin Somers knows more than he chooses to tell," I said.

"Humph! do you think so?"

"It must be. He could not have come to the door without seeing him. It's

impossible."

"There is one thing not impossible, my dear fellow."

"What is that?"

"That you may have fallen asleep, and dreamt the whole thing."

"Could I dream of a branch line that I had never heard of? Could I dream

of a hundred and one business details that had no kind of interest for

me? Could I dream of the seventy-five thousand pounds?"

"Perhaps you might have seen, or heard, some vague account of the affair

while you were abroad. It might have made no impression upon you at the

time, and might have come back to you in your dreams--recalled, perhaps,

by the mere names of the stations on the line."

"What about the fire in the chimney of the blue room--should I have

heard of that during my journey?"

"Well, no; I admit there is a difficulty about that point."

"And what about the cigar-case?"

"Ay, by Jove! there is the cigar-case. That _is_ a stubborn fact. Well,

it's a mysterious affair, and it will need a better detective than

myself, I fancy, to clear it up. I suppose we may as well go home."

CHAPTER III.

A week had not gone by when I received a letter from the Secretary of

the East Anglian Railway Company, requesting the favour of my attendance

at a special board meeting, not then many days distant. No reasons were

alleged, and no apologies offered, for this demand upon my time; but

they had heard, it was clear, of my inquiries about the missing

director, and had a mind to put me through some sort of official

examination upon the subject. Being still a guest at Dumbleton Hall, I

had to go up to London for the purpose, and Jonathan Jelf accompanied

me. I found the direction of the Great East Anglian line represented by

a party of some twelve or fourteen gentlemen seated in solemn conclave

round a huge green-baize table in a gloomy Board-room adjoining the

London terminus.

Being courteously received by the chairman (who at once began by saying

that certain statements of mine respecting Mr. John Dwerrihouse had come

to the knowledge of the direction, and that they in consequence desired

to confer with me on those points), we were placed at the table, and the

inquiry proceeded in due form.

I was first asked if I knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse, how long I had been

acquainted with him, and whether I could identify him at sight. I was

then asked when I had seen him last. To which I replied, "On the fourth

of this present month, December, eighteen hundred and fifty-six."

Then came the inquiry of where I had seen him on that fourth day of

December; to which I replied that I met him in a first-class compartment

of the 4.15 down-Express; that he got in just as the train was leaving

the London terminus, and that he alighted at Blackwater station. The

chairman then inquired whether I had held any communication with my

fellow-traveller; whereupon I related, as I could remember it, the whole

bulk and substance of Mr. John Dwerrihouse's diffuse information

respecting the new branch line.

To all this the board listened with profound attention, while the

chairman presided and the secretary took notes. I then produced the

cigar-case. It was passed from hand to hand, and recognised by all.

There was not a man present who did not remember that plain cigar-case

with its silver monogram, or to whom it seemed anything less than

entirely corroborative of my evidence.

When, at length, I had told all that I had to tell, the chairman

whispered something to the secretary; the secretary touched a silver

hand-bell; and the guard, Benjamin Somers, was ushered into the room. He

was then examined as carefully as myself. He declared that he knew Mr.

John Dwerrihouse perfectly well; that he could not be mistaken in him;

that he remembered going down with the 4.15 Express on the afternoon in

question; that he remembered me; and that, there being one or two empty

first-class compartments on that especial afternoon, he had, in

compliance with my request, placed me in a carriage by myself. He was

positive that I remained alone all the way in that compartment from

London to Clayborough. He was ready to take his oath that Mr.

Dwerrihouse was neither in that carriage with me, nor in any compartment

of that train. He remembered distinctly to have examined my ticket at

Blackwater; was certain that there was no one else at that time in the

carriage; could not have failed to observe a second person, if there had

been one; had that second person been Mr. John Dwerrihouse, should have

quietly double-locked the door of carriage, and have given information

to the Blackwater station-master. So clear, so decisive, so ready, was

Somers with this testimony, that the board looked fairly puzzled.

"You hear this person's statement, Mr. Langford," said the chairman. "It

contradicts yours in every particular. What have you to say in reply?"

"I can only repeat what I said before. I am quite as positive of the

truth of my own assertions as Mr. Somers can be of the truth of his."

"You say that Mr. Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwater, and that he was in

possession of a private key. Are you sure that he had not alighted by

means of that key before the guard came round for the tickets?"

"I am quite positive that he did not leave the carriage till the train

had fairly entered the station and the other Blackwater passengers

alighted. I even saw that he was met there by a friend."

"Indeed! Did you see that person distinctly?"

"Quite distinctly."

"Can you describe his appearance?"

"I think so. He was short and very slight, sandy-haired, with a bushy

moustache and beard, and he wore a closely-fitting suit of grey tweed.

His age I should take to be about thirty-eight or forty."

"Did Mr. Dwerrihouse leave the station in this person's company?"

"I cannot tell. I saw them walking together down the platform, and then

I saw them standing aside under a gas-jet, talking earnestly. After that

I lost sight of them quite suddenly; and just then my train went on, and

I with it."

The chairman and secretary conferred together in an undertone. The

directors whispered to each other. One or two looked suspiciously at the

guard. I could see that my evidence remained unshaken, and that, like

myself, they suspected some complicity between the guard and the

defaulter.

"How far did you conduct that 4.15 express on the day in question,

Somers?" asked the chairman.

"All through, sir," replied the guard; "from London to Crampton."

"How was it that you were not relieved at Clayborough? I thought there

was always a change of guards at Clayborough."

"There used to be, sir, till the new regulations came in force last

Midsummer; since when, the guards in charge of Express trains go the

whole way through."

The chairman turned to the secretary.

"I think it would be as well," he said, "if we had the day-book to refer

to upon this point."

Again the secretary touched the silver hand-bell, and desired the porter

in attendance to summon Mr. Raikes. From a word or two dropped by

another of the directors, I gathered that Mr. Raikes was one of the

under-secretaries.

He came--a small, slight, sandy-haired, keen-eyed man, with an eager,

nervous manner, and a forest of light beard and moustache. He just

showed himself at the door of the board-room, and being requested to

bring a certain day-book from a certain shelf in a certain room, bowed

and vanished.

He was there such a moment, and the surprise of seeing him was so great

and sudden, that it was not till the door had closed upon him that I

found voice to speak. He was no sooner gone, however, than I sprang to

my feet.

"That person," I said, "is the same who met Mr. Dwerrihouse upon the

platform at Blackwater!"

There was a general movement of surprise. The chairman looked grave, and

somewhat agitated.

"Take care, Mr. Langford," he said, "take care what you say!"

"I am as positive of his identity as of my own."

"Do you consider the consequences of your words? Do you consider that

you are bringing a charge of the gravest character against one of the

company's servants?"

"I am willing to be put upon my oath, if necessary. The man who came to

that door a minute since is the same whom I saw talking with Mr.

Dwerrihouse on the Blackwater platform. Were he twenty times the

company's servant, I could say neither more nor less."

The chairman turned again to the guard.

"Did you see Mr. Raikes in the train, or on the platform?" he asked.

Somers shook his head.

"I am confident Mr. Raikes was not in the train," he said; "and I

certainly did not see him on the platform."

The chairman turned next to the secretary.

"Mr. Raikes is in your office, Mr. Hunter," he said. "Can you remember

if he was absent on the fourth instant?"

"I do not think he was," replied the secretary; "but I am not prepared

to speak positively. I have been away most afternoons myself lately, and

Mr. Raikes might easily have absented himself if he had been disposed."

At this moment the under-secretary returned with the day-book under his

arm.

"Be pleased to refer, Mr. Raikes," said the chairman, "to the entries of

the fourth instant, and see what Benjamin Somers' duties were on that

day."

Mr. Raikes threw open the cumbrous volume, and ran a practised eye and

finger down some three or four successive columns of entries. Stopping

suddenly at the foot of a page, he then read aloud that Benjamin Somers

had on that day conducted the 4.15 express from London to Crampton.

The chairman leaned forward in his seat, looked the under-secretary full

in the face, and said, quite sharply and suddenly:--

"Where were _you_, Mr. Raikes, on the same afternoon?"

"_I_, sir?"

"You, Mr. Raikes. Where were you on the afternoon and evening of the

fourth of the present month?"

"Here, sir--in Mr. Hunter's office. Where else should I be?"

There was a dash of trepidation in the under-secretary's voice as he

said this; but his look of surprise was natural enough.

"We have some reason for believing, Mr. Raikes, that you were absent

that afternoon without leave. Was this the case?"

"Certainly not, sir. I have not had a day's holiday since September. Mr.

Hunter will bear me out in this."

Mr. Hunter repeated what he had previously said on the subject, but

added that the clerks in the adjoining office would be certain to know.

Whereupon the senior clerk, a grave, middle-aged person, in green

glasses, was summoned and interrogated.

His testimony cleared the under-secretary at once. He declared that Mr.

Raikes had in no instance, to his knowledge, been absent during office

hours since his return from his annual holiday in September.

I was confounded.

The chairman turned to me with a smile, in which a shade of covert

annoyance was scarcely apparent.

"You hear, Mr. Langford?" he said.

"I hear, sir; but my conviction remains unshaken."

"I fear, Mr. Langford, that your convictions are very insufficiently

based," replied the chairman, with a doubtful cough. "I fear that you

'dream dreams,' and mistake them for actual occurrences. It is a

dangerous habit of mind, and might lead to dangerous results. Mr. Raikes

here would have found himself in an unpleasant position, had he not

proved so satisfactory an _alibi_."

I was about to reply, but he gave me no time.

"I think, gentlemen," he went on to say, addressing the board, "that we

should be wasting time to push this inquiry farther. Mr. Langford's

evidence would seem to be of an equal value throughout. The testimony of

Benjamin Somers disproves his first statement, and the testimony of the

last witness disproves his second. I think we may conclude that Mr.

Langford fell asleep in the train on the occasion of his journey to

Clayborough, and dreamt an unusually vivid and circumstantial dream--of

which, however, we have now heard quite enough."

There are few things more annoying than to find one's positive

convictions met with incredulity. I could not help feeling impatience at

the turn that affairs had taken. I was not proof against the civil

sarcasm of the chairman's manner. Most intolerable of all, however, was

the quiet smile lurking about the corners of Benjamin Somers' mouth, and

the half-triumphant, half-malicious gleam in the eyes of the

under-secretary. The man was evidently puzzled, and somewhat alarmed.

His looks seemed furtively to interrogate me. Who was I? What did I

want? Why had I come there to do him an ill turn with his employers?

What was it to me whether or not he was absent without leave?

Seeing all this, and perhaps more irritated by it than the thing

deserved, I begged leave to detain the attention of the board for a

moment longer. Jelf plucked me impatiently by the sleeve.

"Better let the thing drop," he whispered. "The chairman's right enough.

You dreamt it; and the less said now, the better."

I was not to be silenced, however, in this fashion. I had yet something

to say, and I would say it. It was to this effect:--That dreams were not

usually productive of tangible results, and that I requested to know in

what way the chairman conceived I had evolved from my dream so

substantial and well-made a delusion as the cigar-case which I had had

the honour to place before him at the commencement of our interview.

"The cigar-case, I admit, Mr. Langford," the chairman replied, "is a

very strong point in your evidence. It is your _only_ strong point,

however, and there is just a possibility that we may all be misled by a

mere accidental resemblance. Will you permit me to see the case again?"

"It is unlikely," I said, as I handed it to him, "that any other should

bear precisely this monogram, and also be in all other particulars

exactly similar."

The chairman examined it for a moment in silence, and then passed it to

Mr. Hunter. Mr. Hunter turned it over and over, and shook his head.

"This is no mere resemblance," he said. "It is John Dwerrihouse's

cigar-case to a certainty. I remember it perfectly. I have seen it a

hundred times."

"I believe I may say the same," added the chairman. "Yet how shall we

account for the way in which Mr. Langford asserts that it came into his

possession?"

"I can only repeat," I replied, "that I found it on the floor of the

carriage after Mr. Dwerrihouse had alighted. It was in leaning out to

look after him that I trod upon it; and it was in running after him for

the purpose of restoring it that I saw--or believed I saw--Mr. Raikes

standing aside with him in earnest conversation."

Again I felt Jonathan Jelf plucking at my sleeve.

"Look at Raikes," he whispered. "Look at Raikes!"

I turned to where the under-secretary had been standing a moment before,

and saw him, white as death, with lips trembling and livid, stealing

towards the door.

To conceive a sudden, strange, and indefinite suspicion; to fling myself

in his way; to take him by the shoulders as if he were a child, and turn

his Craven face, perforce, towards the board, was with me the work of an

instant.

"Look at him!" I exclaimed. "Look at his face! I ask no better witness

to the truth of my words."

The chairman's brow darkened.

"Mr. Raikes," he said, sternly, "if you know anything, you had better

speak."

Vainly trying to wrench himself from my grasp, the under-secretary

stammered out an incoherent denial.

"Let me go!" he said. "I know nothing--you have no right to detain

me--let me go!"

"Did you, or did you not, meet Mr. John Dwerrihouse at Blackwater

Station? The charge brought against you is either true or false. If

true, you will do well to throw yourself upon the mercy of the board,

and make full confession of all that you know."

The under-secretary wrung his hands in an agony of helpless terror.

"I was away," he cried. "I was two hundred miles away at the time! I

know nothing about it--I have nothing to confess--I am innocent--I call

God to witness I am innocent!"

"Two hundred miles away!" echoed the chairman. "What do you mean?"

"I was in Devonshire. I had three weeks' leave of absence--I appeal to

Mr. Hunter--Mr. Hunter knows I had three weeks' leave of absence! I was

in Devonshire all the time--I can prove I was in Devonshire!"

Seeing him so abject, so incoherent, so wild with apprehension, the

directors began to whisper gravely among themselves; while one got

quietly up, and called the porter to guard the door.

"What has your being in Devonshire to do with the matter?" said the

chairman. "When were you in Devonshire?"

"Mr. Raikes took his leave in September," said the secretary; "about the

time when Mr. Dwerrihouse disappeared."

"I never even heard that he had disappeared till I came back!"

"That must remain to be proved," said the chairman. "I shall at once put

this matter in the hands of the police. In the meanwhile, Mr. Raikes,

being myself a magistrate, and used to deal with these cases, I advise

you to offer no resistance; but to confess while confession may yet do

you service. As for your accomplice...."

The frightened wretch fell upon his knees.

"I had no accomplice!" he cried. "Only have mercy upon me--only spare my

life, and I will confess all! I didn't mean to harm him--I didn't mean

to hurt a hair of his head! Only have mercy upon me, and let me go!"

The chairman rose in his place, pale and agitated.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "what horrible mystery is this? What does

it mean?"

"As sure as there is a God in heaven," said Jonathan Jelf, "it means

that murder has been done."

"No--no--no!" shrieked Raikes, still upon his knees, and cowering like a

beaten hound. "Not murder! No jury that ever sat could bring it in

murder. I thought I had only stunned him--I never meant to do more than

stun him! Manslaughter--manslaughter--not murder!"

Overcome by the horror of this unexpected revelation, the chairman

covered his face with his hand, and for a moment or two remained silent.

"Miserable man," he said at length, "you have betrayed yourself."

"You bade me confess! You urged me to throw myself upon the mercy of the

board!"

"You have confessed to a crime which no one suspected you of having

committed," replied the chairman, "and which this board has no power

either to punish or forgive. All that I can do for you is to advise you

to submit to the law, to plead guilty, and to conceal nothing. When did

you do this deed?"

The guilty man rose to his feet, and leaned heavily against the table.

His answer came reluctantly, like the speech of one dreaming.

"On the twenty-second of September!"

On the twenty-second of September! I looked in Jonathan Jelf's face, and

he in mine. I felt my own paling with a strange sense of wonder and

dread. I saw his blench suddenly, even to the lips.

"Merciful heaven!" he whispered, "_what was It, then, that you saw in

the train?_"

What was it that I saw in the train? That question remains unanswered to

this day. I have never been able to reply to it. I only know that it

bore the living likeness of the murdered man, whose body had been lying

some ten weeks under a rough pile of branches, and brambles, and rotting

leaves, at the bottom of a deserted chalk-pit about half way between

Blackwater and Mallingford. I know that it spoke, and moved, and looked

as that man spoke, and moved, and looked in life; that I heard, or

seemed to hear, things related which I could never otherwise have

learned; that I was guided, as it were, by that vision on the platform

to the identification of the murderer; and that, a passive instrument

myself, I was destined, by means of these mysterious teachings, to bring

about the ends of justice. For these things I have never been able to

account.

As for that matter of the cigar-case, it proved, on inquiry, that the

carriage in which I travelled down that afternoon to Clayborough had not

been in use for several weeks, and was, in point of fact, the same in

which poor John Dwerrihouse had performed his last journey. The case

had, doubtless, been dropped by him, and had lain unnoticed till I found

it.

Upon the details of the murder I have no need to dwell. Those who desire

more ample particulars may find them, and the written confession of

Augustus Raikes, in the files of the "Times" for 1856. Enough that the

under-secretary, knowing the history of the new line, and following the

negotiation step by step through all its stages, determined to waylay

Mr. Dwerrihouse, rob him of the seventy-five thousand pounds, and escape

to America with his booty.

In order to effect these ends he obtained leave of absence a few days

before the time appointed for the payment of the money; secured his

passage across the Atlantic in a steamer advertised to start on the

twenty-third; provided himself with a heavily-loaded "life-preserver,"

and went down to Blackwater to await the arrival of his victim. How he

met him on the platform with a pretended message from the board; how he

offered to conduct him by a short cut across the fields to Mallingford;

how, having brought him to a lonely place, he struck him down with the

life-preserver, and so killed him; and how, finding what he had done, he

dragged the body to the verge of an out-of-the-way chalk-pit, and there

flung it in, and piled it over with branches and brambles, are facts

still fresh in the memories of those who, like the connoisseurs in De

Quincey's famous essay, regard murder as a fine art. Strangely enough,

the murderer, having done his work, was afraid to leave the country. He

declared that he had not intended to take the director's life, but only

to stun and rob him; and that finding the blow had killed, he dared not

fly for fear of drawing down suspicion upon his own head. As a mere

robber he would have been safe in the States, but as a murderer he would

inevitably have been pursued, and given up to justice. So he forfeited

his passage, returned to the office as usual at the end of his leave,

and locked up his ill-gotten thousands till a more convenient

opportunity. In the meanwhile he had the satisfaction of finding that

Mr. Dwerrihouse was universally believed to have absconded with the

money, no one knew how or whither.

Whether he meant murder or not, however, Mr. Augustus Raikes paid the

full penalty of his crime, and was hanged at the Old Bailey in the

second week in January, 1857. Those who desire to make his further

acquaintance may see him any day (admirably done in wax) in the Chamber

of Horrors at Madame Tussaud's exhibition in Baker Street. He is there

to be found in the midst of a select society of ladies and gentlemen of

atrocious memory, dressed in the close-cut tweed suit which he wore on

the evening of the murder, and holding in his hand the identical

life-preserver with which he committed it.

SISTER JOHANNA'S STORY.

If you have ever heard of the Groedner Thal, then you will also have

heard of the village of St. Ulrich, of which I, Johanna Roederer, am a

native. And if, as is more likely, you have never heard of either, then

still, though without knowing it, many of you have, even from your

earliest childhood, been familiar with the work by which, for many

generations, we have lived and prospered. Your rocking-horse, your

Noah's ark, your first doll, came from St. Ulrich--for the Groedner Thal

is the children's paradise, and supplies the little ones of all Europe

with toys. In every house throughout the village--I might almost say in

every house throughout the valley--you will find wood-carving, painting,

or gilding perpetually going on; except only in the hay-making and

harvest-time, when all the world goes up to the hills to mow and reap,

and breathe the mountain air. Nor do our carvers carve only grotesque

toys. All the crucifixes that you see by the wayside, all the carved

stalls and tabernacles, all the painted and gilded saints decorating

screens and side altars in our Tyrolean churches, are the work of their

hands.

After what I have said, you will no doubt have guessed that ours was a

family of wood-carvers. My father, who died when my sister and I were

quite little children, was a wood-carver. My mother was also a

wood-carver, as were her mother and grandmother before her; and Katrine

and I were of course brought up by her to the same calling. But, as it

was necessary that one should look after the home duties, and as Katrine

was always more delicate than myself, I gradually came to work less and

less at the business; till at last, what with cooking, washing, mending,

making, spinning, gardening, and so forth, I almost left it off

altogether. Nor did Katrine work very hard at it, either; for, being so

delicate, and so pretty, and so much younger than myself, she came, of

course, to be a great deal spoiled and to have her own way in

everything. Besides, she grew tired, naturally, of cutting nothing but

cocks, hens, dogs, cats, cows, and goats; which were all our mother had

been taught to make, and, consequently, all she could teach to her

children.

"If I could carve saints and angels, like Ulrich, next door," Katrine

used sometimes to say; "or if I might invent new beasts out of my own

head, or if I might cut caricature nutcrackers of the Herr Puerger and

Don Wian, I shouldn't care if I worked hard all day; but I hate the

cocks and hens, and I hate the dogs and cats, and I hate all the birds

and beasts that ever went into the ark--and I only wish they had all

been drowned in the Deluge, and not one left for a pattern!"

And then she would fling her tools away, and dance about the room like

a wild creature, and mimic the Herr Puerger, who was the great wholesale

buyer of all our St. Ulrich ware, till even our mother, grave and sober

woman as she was, could not help laughing, till the tears ran down her

cheeks.

Now the Ulrich next door, of whom our little Katrine used to speak, was

the elder of two brothers named Finazzer, and he lived in the house

adjoining our own; for at St. Ulrich, as in some of the neighbouring

villages, one frequently sees two houses built together under one roof,

with gardens and orchards surrounded by a common fence. Such a house was

the Finazzer's and ours; or I should rather say both houses were theirs,

for they were our landlords, and we rented our cottage from them by the

year.

Ulrich, named after the patron saint of our village, was a tall, brown,

stalwart man, very grave, very reserved, very religious, and the finest

wood-sculptor in all the Groedner Thal. No Madonnas, no angels, could

compare with his for heavenly grace and tenderness; and as for his

Christs, a great foreign critic who came to St. Ulrich some ten or

twelve years ago said that no other modern artist with whose works he

was acquainted could treat that subject with anything like the same

dignity and pathos. But then, perhaps, no other modern artist went to

his work in the same spirit, or threw into it, not only the whole force

of a very noble and upright character, but all the loftiest aspirations

of a profoundly religious nature.

His younger brother, Alois, was a painter--fairhaired, light-hearted,

pleasure-loving; as unlike Ulrich, both in appearance and disposition,

as it is possible to conceive. At the time of which I am telling you, he

was a student in Venice and had already been three years away from home.

I used to dream dreams, and weave foolish romances about Alois and my

little Katrine, picturing to myself how he would some day come home, in

the flush, perhaps, of his first success, and finding her so beautiful

and a woman grown, fall in love with her at first sight, and she with

him; and the thought of this possibility became at last such a happy

certainty in my mind, that when things began to work round in quite the

other way, I could not bring myself to believe it. Yet so it was, and,

much as I loved my darling, and quick-sighted as I had always been in

everything that could possibly concern her, there was not a gossip in

St. Ulrich who did not see what was coming before I even suspected it.

When, therefore, my little Katrine came to me one evening in the orchard

and told me, half laughing, half crying, that Ulrich Finazzer had that

day asked her to be his wife, I was utterly taken by surprise.

"I never dreamed that he would think of me, dear," she said, with her

head upon my bosom. "He is so much too good and too clever for such a

foolish birdie as poor little Katrine."

"But--but my birdie loves him?" I said, kissing her bright hair.

She half lifted her head, half laughed through her tears, and said with

some hesitation:--

"Oh, yes, I love him. I--I think I love him--and then I am quite sure

he loves me, and that is more than enough."

"But, Katrine----"

She kissed me, to stop the words upon my lips.

"But you know quite well, dear, that I never could love any lover half

as much as I love you; and he knows it, too, for I told him so just now,

and now please don't look grave, for I want to be very happy to-night,

and I can't bear it."

And I also wanted her to be very happy, so I said all the loving things

I could think of, and when we went in to supper we found Ulrich Finazzer

waiting for us.

"Dear Johanna," he said, taking me by both hands, "you are to be my

sister now."

And then he kissed me on the forehead. The words were few; but he had

never spoken to me or looked at me so kindly before, and somehow my

heart seemed to come into my throat, and I could not answer a word.

It was now the early summer time, and they were to be married in the

autumn. Ulrich, meanwhile, had his hands full of work, as usual, and

there was, besides, one important task which he wanted to complete

before his wedding. This task was a Christ, larger than life, which he

designed as a gift to our parish church, then undergoing complete

restoration. The committee of management had invited him in the first

instance to undertake the work as an order, but Ulrich would not accept

a price for it. He preferred to give it as a freewill offering, and he

meant it to be the best piece of wood-sculpture that had ever yet left

his hand. He had made innumerable designs for it both in clay and on

paper, and separate studies from life for the limbs, hands, and feet. In

short, it was to be no ordinary piece of mere conventional Groedner Thal

work, but a work of art in the true sense of the word. In the meanwhile,

he allowed no one to see the figure in progress--not even Katrine; but

worked upon it with closed doors, and kept it covered with a linen cloth

whenever his workshop was open.

So the Summer time wore on, and the roses bloomed abundantly in our

little garden, and the corn yellowed slowly on the hillsides, and the

wild white strawberry-blossoms turned to tiny strawberries, ruby-red, on

every mossy bank among the fir-forests of the Seisser Alp. And still

Ulrich laboured on at his great work, and sculptured many a gracious

saint besides; and still the one object of his earthly worship was our

little laughing Katrine.

Whether it was that, being so grave himself, and she so gay, he loved

her the better for the contrast, I cannot tell; but his affection for

her seemed to deepen daily. I watched it as one might watch the growth

of some rare flower, and I wondered sometimes if she prized it as she

ought. Yet I scarcely know how, child that she was, she should ever have

risen to the heights or sounded the depths of such a nature as his. That

she could not appreciate him, however, would have mattered little, if

she had loved him more. There was the pity of it. She had accepted him,

as many a very young girl accepts her first lover, simply because he was

her first. She was proud of his genius--proud of his preference--proud

of the house, and the lands, and the worldly goods that were soon to be

hers; but for that far greater wealth of love, she held it all too

lightly.

Seeing this day after day, with the knowledge that nothing I could say

would make things better, I fell, without being conscious of it, into a

sad and silent way that arose solely out of my deep love for them both,

and had no root of selfishness in it, as my own heart told me then, and

tells me to this day.

In the midst of this time, so full of happiness for Ulrich, so full of

anxiety for me, Alois Finazzer came home suddenly. We had been expecting

him in a vague way ever since the Spring, but the surprise when he

walked in unannounced was as great as if we had not expected him at all.

He kissed us all on both cheeks, and sat down as if he had not been away

for a day.

"What a rich fellow I am!" he said, joyously. "I left only a grave elder

brother behind when I went to Venice, and I come back finding two dear

little sisters to welcome me home again."

And then he told us that he had just taken the gold medal at the

Academy, that he had sold his prize-picture for two hundred florins, and

that he had a pocketful of presents for us all--a necklace for Katrine,

a spectacle-case for our mother, and a housewife for myself. When he put

the necklace round my darling's neck he kissed her again, and praised

her eyes, and said he should some day put his pretty little sister into

one of his pictures.

He was greatly changed. He went away a curly-headed lad of eighteen; he

came back a man, bearded and self-confident.

Three years, at certain turning-points on the road of life, work with us

more powerfully, whether for better or worse, than would ten years at

any other period. I thought I liked Alois Finazzer better when he was

those three years younger.

Not so Katrine, however--not so our mother--not so the St. Ulrich folk,

all of whom were loud in his praise. Handsome, successful, gay,

generous, he treated the men, laughed with the girls, and carried all

before him.

As for Ulrich, he put his work aside, and cleared his brow, and made

holiday for two whole days, going round with his brother from house to

house, and telling everyone how Alois had taken the great gold medal in

Venice. Proud and happy as he was, however, he was prouder and happier

still when, some three or four days later, at a meeting of the Church

Committee of management, the Commune formally invited Alois to paint an

altar-piece for the altar of San Marco at the price of three hundred

florins.

That evening Ulrich invited us to supper, and we drank Alois's health in

a bottle of good Barbera wine. He was to stay at home now, instead of

going back to Venice, and he was to have a large room at the back of

Ulrich's workshop for a studio.

"I'll bring your patron saint into my picture if you will sit for her

portrait, Katrine," said Alois, laughingly.

And Katrine blushed and said, "Yes;" and Ulrich was delighted; and Alois

pulled out his pocket-book, and began sketching her head on the spot.

"Only you must try to think of serious things, and not laugh when you

are sitting for a saint, my little Maedchen," said Ulrich, tenderly;

whereupon Katrine blushed still more deeply, and Alois, without looking

up from his drawing, promised that they would both be as grave as judges

whenever the sittings were going on.

And now there began for me a period of such misery that even at this

distance of time I can scarcely bear to speak or think of it. There, day

after day, was Alois painting in his new studio, and Katrine sitting to

him for Santa Catarina, while Ulrich, unselfish, faithful, trustful,

worked on in the next room, absorbed in his art, and not only

unconscious of treachery, but incapable of conceiving it as a

possibility. How I tried to watch over her, and would fain have watched

over her still more closely if I could, is known to myself alone. My

object was to be with her throughout all those fatal sittings; Alois's

object was to make the appointments for hours when my household duties

compelled me to remain at home. He soon found out that my eyes were

opened. From that moment it was a silent, unacknowledged fight between

us, and we were always fighting it.

And now, as his work drew nearer to completion, Ulrich seemed every day

to live less for the people and things about him, and more for his art.

Always somewhat over-silent and reserved, he now seemed scarcely

conscious, at times, of even the presence of others. He spoke and moved

as in a dream; went to early mass every morning at four; fasted three

days out of seven; and, having wrought himself up to a certain pitch of

religious and artistic excitement, lived in a world of his own creation,

from which even Katrine was for the time excluded. Things being thus,

what could I do but hold my peace? To speak to Ulrich would have been

impossible at any time; to speak to my darling (she being, perhaps,

wholly unconscious) might be to create the very peril I dreaded; to

appeal to Alois, I felt beforehand, would be worse than useless. So I

kept my trouble to myself, and prayed that the weeks might pass quickly,

and bring their wedding-day.

Now, just about this time of which I am telling (that is towards the

middle of August) came round the great annual fete, or Sagro, as we call

it, at Botzen; and to this fete Katrine and I had for some years been in

the habit of going--walking to Atzwang the first day by way of

Castelruth; sleeping near Atzwang in the house of our aunt, Maria

Bernhard, whose husband kept the Gasthaus called the Schwarze Adler;

taking the railway next morning from Atzwang to Botzen, and there

spending the day of the Sagro; and returning in the same order as we

came. This year, however, having the dread of Alois before my eyes, and

knowing that Ulrich would not leave his work, I set my face against the

Botzen expedition, and begged my little sister, since she could not have

the protection of her betrothed husband, to give it up. And so I think

she would have done at first, but that Alois was resolute to have us go;

and at last even Ulrich urged it upon us, saying that he would not have

his little Maedchen balked of her festa simply because he was too busy to

take her there himself. Would not Johanna be there to take care of her,

Alois to take care of them both? So my protest was silenced, and we

went.

It is a long day's walk from St. Ulrich to Atzwang, and we did not reach

our aunt's house till nearly supper-time; so that it was quite late

before we went up to our room. And now my darling, after being in wild

spirits all day, became suddenly silent, and instead of going to bed,

stayed by the window, looking at the moon.

"What is my birdie thinking of?" I said, putting my arm about her waist.

"I am thinking," she said, softly, "how the moon is shining now at St.

Ulrich on our mother's bedroom window, and on our father's grave."

And with this she laid her head down upon my shoulder, and cried as if

her heart would break.

I have reproached myself since for letting that moment pass as I did. I

believe I might have had her confidence if I had tried, and then what a

world of sorrow might have been averted from us all!

We reached Botzen next morning in time for the six o'clock mass; went

to high mass again at nine; and strolled among the booths between the

services. Here Alois, us usual, was very free with his money, buying

ribbons and trinkets for Katrine, and behaving in every way as if he,

and not Ulrich, were her acknowledged lover. At eleven, having met some

of our St. Ulrich neighbours, we made a party and dined all together at

a Gasthaus in the Silbergasse; and after dinner the young men proposed

to take us to see an exhibition of rope-dancers and tumblers. Now I knew

that Ulrich would not approve of this, and I entreated my darling for

his sake, if not for mine, to stay away. But she would not listen to me.

"Ulrich, Ulrich!" she repeated, pettishly. "Don't tease me about Ulrich;

I am tired of his very name!"

The next moment she had taken Alois's arm, and we were in the midst of

the crowd.

Finding she would go, I of course went also, though sorely against my

inclination; and one of our St. Ulrich friends gave me his arm, and got

me through. The crowd, however, was so great that I lost sight somehow

of Alois and Katrine, and found myself landed presently inside the booth

and sitting on a front seat next to the orchestra, alone with the St.

Ulrich people. We kept seats for them as long as we could, and stood

upon the bench to look for them, till at last the curtain rose, and we

had to sit down without them.

I saw nothing of the performance. To this day I have no idea how long it

lasted, or what it consisted of. I remember nothing but the anxiety

with which I kept looking towards the door, and the deadly sinking at my

heart as the minutes dragged by. To go in search of them was impossible,

for the entrance was choked, and there was no standing-room in any part

of the booth, so that even when the curtain fell we were fully another

ten minutes getting out.

You have guessed it, perhaps, before I tell you. They were not in the

market-place; they were not at the Gasthaus; they were not in the

Cathedral.

"The tall young man in a grey and green coat, and the pretty girl with a

white rose in her hair?" said a bystander. "Tush, my dear, don't be

uneasy. They are gone home; I saw them running towards the station more

than half an hour ago."

So we flew to the station, and there one of the porters, who was an

Atzwang man and knew us both, confirmed the dreadful truth. They were

gone indeed, but they were not gone home. Just in time to catch the

Express, they had taken their tickets through to Venice, and were at

this moment speeding southwards.

How I got home--not stopping at all at Atzwang, but going straight away

on foot in the broiling afternoon sun--never resting till I reached

Castelruth, a little after dusk--lying down outside my bed and sobbing

all the night--getting up at the first glimmer of grey dawn and going on

again before the sun was up--how I did all this, faint for want of food,

yet unable to eat; weary for want of rest, yet unable to sleep--I know

not. But I did it, and was home again at St. Ulrich, kneeling beside

our mother's chair, and comforting her as best I could, by seven.

"How is Ulrich to be told?"

It was her first question. It was the question I had been asking myself

all the way home. I knew well, however, that I must be the one to break

it to him. It was a terrible task, and I put it from me as long as

possible.

When at last I did go, it was past mid-day. The workshop door stood

open--the Christ, just showing a vague outline through the folds, was

covered with a sheet, and standing up against the wall--and Ulrich was

working on the drapery of a St. Francis, the splinters from which were

flying off rapidly in every direction.

Seeing me on the threshold, he looked up and smiled.

"So soon back, liebe Johanna?" he said. "We did not expect you till

evening."

Then, finding I made no answer, he paused in his work, and said,

quickly:--

"What is the matter? Is she ill?"

I shook my head.

"No," I said, "she is not ill."

"Where is she, then?"

"She is not ill," I said, again, "but--she is not here."

And then I told him.

He heard me out in dead silence, never moving so much as a finger, only

growing whiter as I went on. Then, when I had done, he went over to the

window, and remained standing with his back towards me for some minutes.

"And you?" he said, presently, still without turning his head. "And

you--through all these weeks--you never saw or suspected anything?"

"I feared--I was not sure--"

He turned upon me with a terrible pale anger in his face.

"You feared--you were not sure!" he said, slowly. "That is to say, you

saw it going on, and let it go on, and would not put out your hand to

save us all! False! false! false!--all false together--false love, false

brother, false friend!"

"You are not just to me, Ulrich," I said; for to be called false by him

was more than I could bear.

"Am I not just? Then I pray that God will be more just to you, and to

them, than I can ever be; and that His justice may be the justice of

vengeance--swift, and terrible, and without mercy."

And saying this he laid his hand on the veiled Christ, and cursed us all

three with a terrible, passionate curse, like the curse of a prophet of

old.

For one moment my heart stood still, and I felt as if there was nothing

left for me but to die--but it was only for that one moment; for I knew,

even before he had done speaking, that no words of his could harm either

my poor little erring Katrine or myself. And then, having said so as

gently as I could, I formally forgave him in her name and mine, and went

away.

That night Ulrich Finazzer shut up his house and disappeared, no one

knew whither. When I questioned the old woman who lived with him as

servant, she said that he had paid and dismissed her a little before

dusk; that she then thought he was looking very ill, and that she had

observed how, instead of being as usual hard at work all day in the

workshop, he had fetched his gun out of the kitchen about two o'clock,

and carried it up to his bedroom, where, she believed, he had spent

nearly all the afternoon cleaning it. This was all she had to tell; but

it was more than enough to add to the burden of my terrors.

Oh, the weary, weary time that followed--the long, sad, solitary

days--the days that became weeks--the weeks that became months--the

Autumn that chilled and paled as it wore on towards Winter--the changing

wood--the withering leaves--the snow that whitened daily on the great

peaks round about! Thus September and October passed away, and the last

of the harvest was gathered in, and November came with bitter winds and

rain; and save a few hurried lines from Katrine, posted in Perugia, I

knew nothing of the fate of all whom I had loved and lost.

"We were married," she wrote, "in Venice, and Alois talks of spending

the Winter in Rome. I should be perfectly happy if I knew that you and

Ulrich had forgiven us."

This was all. She gave me no address; but I wrote to her at the Poste

Restante Perugia, and again to the Poste Restante, Rome; both of which

letters, I presume, lay unclaimed till destroyed by the authorities, for

she never replied to either.

And now the Winter came on in earnest, as Winter always comes in our

high valleys, and Christmas-time drew round again; and on the eve of St.

Thomas, Ulrich Finazzer returned to his house as suddenly and silently

as he had left it.

Next door neighbours as we were, we should not have known of his return

but for the trampled snow upon the path, and the smoke going up from the

workshop chimney. No other sign of life or occupation was to be seen.

The shutters remained unopened. The doors, both front and back, remained

fast locked. If any neighbour knocked, he was left to knock unanswered.

Even the old woman who used to be his servant, was turned away by a

stern voice from within, bidding her begone and leave him at peace.

That he was at work was certain; for we could hear him in the workshop

by night as well as by day. But he could work there as in a tomb, for

the room was lighted by a window in the roof.

Thus St. Thomas's Day, and the next day which was the fourth Sunday in

Advent, went by; and still he who had ever been so constant at mass

showed no sign of coming out amongst us. On Monday our good cure walked

down, all through the fresh snow (for there had been a heavy fall in the

night), on purpose to ask if we were sure that Ulrich was really in his

house; if we had yet seen him; and if we knew what he did for food,

being shut in there quite alone. But to these questions we could give

no satisfactory reply.

That day when we had dined, I put some bread and meat in a basket and

left it at his door; but it lay there untouched all through the day and

night, and in the morning I fetched it back again, with the food still

in it.

This was the fourth day since his return. It was very dreadful--I cannot

tell you how dreadful--to know that he was so near, yet never even to

see his shadow on a blind. As the day wore on my suspense became

intolerable. To-night, I told myself, would be Christmas Eve; to-morrow

Christmas Day. Was it possible that his heart would not soften if he

remembered our Happy Christmas of only last year, when he and Katrine

were not yet betrothed; how he supped with us, and how we all roasted

nuts upon the hearth and sang part-songs after supper? Then, again, it

seemed incredible that he should not go to church on Christmas Day.

Thus the day went by, and the evening dusk came on, and the village

choir came round singing carols from house to house, and still he made

no sign.

Now what with the suspense of knowing him to be so near, and the thought

of my little Katrine far away in Rome, and the remembrance of how he--he

whom I had honoured and admired above all the world my whole life

long--had called down curses on us both the very last time that he and I

stood face to face--what with all this, I say, and what with the season

and its associations, I had such a great restlessness and anguish upon

me that I sat up trying to read my Bible long after mother had gone to

bed. But my thoughts wandered continually from the text, and at last the

restlessness so gained upon me that I could sit still no longer, and so

got up and walked about the room.

And now suddenly, while I was pacing to and fro, I heard, or fancied I

heard, a voice in the garden calling to me by name. I stopped--I

listened--I trembled. My very heart stood still! Then, hearing no more,

I opened the window and outer shutters, and instantly there rushed in a

torrent of icy cold air and a flood of brilliant moonlight, and there,

on the shining snow below, stood Ulrich Finazzer.

Himself, and yet so changed! Worn, haggard, grey.

I saw him, I tell you, as plainly as I see my own hand at this moment.

He was standing close, quite close, under the window, with the moonlight

full upon him.

"Ulrich!" I said, and my own voice sounded strange to me, somehow, in

the dead waste and silence of the night--"Ulrich, are you come to tell

me we are friends again?"

But instead of answering me he pointed to a mark on his forehead--a

small dark mark, that looked at this distance and by this light like a

bruise--cried aloud with a strange wild cry, less like a human voice

than a far-off echo, "The brand of Cain! The brand of Cain!" and so

flung up his arms with a despairing gesture, and fled away into the

night.

The rest of my story may be told in a few words--the fewer the better.

Insane with the desire of vengeance, Ulrich Finazzer had tracked the

fugitives from place to place, and slain his brother at mid-day in the

streets of Rome. He escaped unmolested, and was well nigh over the

Austrian border before the authorities began to inquire into the

particulars of the murder. He then, as was proved by a comparison of

dates, must have come straight home by way of Mantua, Verona, and

Botzen, with no other object, apparently, than to finish the statue that

he had designed for an offering to the church. He worked upon it,

accordingly, as I have said, for four days and nights incessantly,

completed it to the last degree of finish, and then, being in who can

tell how terrible a condition of remorse, and horror, and despair,

sought to expiate his crime with his blood. They found him shot through

the head by his own hand, lying quite dead at the feet of the statue

upon which he had been working, probably, up to the last moment; his

tools lying close by; the pistol still fast in his clenched hand, and

the divine pitying face of the Redeemer whose law he had outraged,

bending over him as if in sorrow and forgiveness.

Our mother has now been dead some years; strangers occupy the house in

which Ulrich Finazzer came to his dreadful death, and already the double

tragedy is almost forgotten. In the sad, faded woman, prematurely grey,

who lives with me, ever working silently, steadily, patiently, from

morning till night at our hereditary trade, few who had known her in the

freshness of her youth would now recognise my beautiful Katrine. Thus

from day to day, from year to year, we journey on together, nearing the

end.

Did I indeed see Ulrich Finazzer that night of his self-murder? If I did

so with my bodily eyes and it was no illusion of the senses, then most

surely I saw him not in life, for that dark mark which looked to me in

the moonlight like a bruise was the bullet-hole in his brow.

But did I see him? It is a question I ask myself again and again, and

have asked myself for years. Ah! who can answer it?

ALL-SAINTS' EVE.

A STORY OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

[This story, written some seventeen or eighteen years ago, was founded,

to the best of my recollection, on the particulars of a French trial

that I read in some old volume of _Causes Celebres_, or _Causes

Judiciaires_, the title of which I have now forgotten. I no longer

remember how much of it is fact, or how much fiction; or even whether

the names and dates are retained unaltered.]

CHAPTER I.

The Mountaineers.

It was a sultry day in the month of August, A.D. 1710. The place was

wild and solitary enough--a narrow ledge of rock jutting out from a

precipitous mountain-side in the department of the Haute Auvergne. The

mountain was volcanic--bare and blackened towards the west; grassy to

the east and south; clothed with thick chestnut-woods about the base. A

sea of dusky peaks stretched all around. The deep blue sky burned

overhead. All was repose; all was silence--silence in the grass, in the

air, on the mountain-side.

Upon this shelf of rock lay three men, sound asleep; with their heads in

the shade, their feet in the sun, and the remains of a brown loaf and a

big cheese lying beside them on the grass.

The air up here was as still to-day, and as languid, as down in the

green valleys below. Towards the south, a faint white mist dulled the

distance; but in the direction of Clermont, on the north, every summit

rose clear and keen against the sky. Most conspicuous amongst these was

the long-toothed ridge of the Mont Dor; and loftiest of all, though

apparently farthest, the solitary summit of the Puy de Dome. Here and

there a few scattered sheep or cows might be seen as mere moving specks

on some green slope of high level pasture. Now and then, the faint

bleating of a stray lamb, or the bark of a herdsman's dog, or the piping

of some distant shepherd boy "piping as though he should never grow

old," just stirred the silence. But for these vague sounds and the low

humming of insects in the grass, all was so profoundly still that it

seemed as if Nature herself were holding her breath, and as if the very

perfumes were asleep in the hearts of the wild flowers.

Suddenly, in the midst of this charmed silence, the prolonged blast of a

huntsman's horn, and the deep baying of many hounds, came sweeping up

the ravine below. The sleepers sprang to their feet, rubbed their eyes,

and peered over the brink of the precipice.

"'Tis Madame la Comtesse out with the hounds!" said the elder of the

three--a big, burly, sun-browned mountaineer of some fifty-five or sixty

years of age.

"_Peste!_ It is my luck never to be in the way when she rides!"

exclaimed one of the two younger herdsmen. "Here is the third time our

new mistress has hunted of late, and I have never yet seen her."

The horns rang out again, but this time farther away and more faintly.

Once more, and it was but a breath upon the breeze. Then all was silent

as before.

"They have gone round by the Gorge des Loups," said the elder of the

trio.

Then, looking round the horizon, he added:--

"There is a storm brewing somewhere--and the shadows are lengthening.

'Tis time we went down to the Buron, lads, and saw to the milking."

Now these three constituted the usual triumvirate of the Haute

Auvergne--the _vacher_, or cowkeeper, (sometimes called the _buronnier_)

who makes the cheeses which form the principal revenue of the landowners

in this part of France; the _boutilier_ who makes the butter; and the

_patre_, or herdsman, who looks after the cows, and keeps the Buron and

dairy in order. The distinctions of rank among these three are strictly

observed.

The _varher_ is a person of authority, "a wise fellow, and, what is

more, an officer" the _boutilier_ comes next in dignity; and the _patre_

is under both. The Buron, or little wooden hut, in which they live

during the six Summer months, in Switzerland would be called a chalet.

It is generally built of wood, and divided into three chambers, the

first of which is for living and cooking in, and is provided with a rude

fire-place and chimney; the second is for the cheese-making, and

contains milk-pails, churns, and other implements; the third serves for

a cheese-room, store-room, and sleeping-room. A small kitchen-garden, a

stable, a pigsty, and an enclosure in which the cattle take refuge in

rough weather, completes the establishment.

The Buron to which the three herdsmen now took their way stood on a

green slope surrounded by oaks, about six hundred feet below the spot on

which they had been sleeping. As they went along, the cows came to their

call and followed them, knowing that milking-time was come. Every

cow--and there were fifty in all--was branded on the flank with a

coronet and an initial P, thus showing them to be the property of the

Countess de Peyrelade, a young and wealthy widow whose estates extended

for many miles to the eastward of the Plomb de Cantal. Other herds,

other Burons, other dependents, she had scattered about the neighbouring

hillsides, all portioned off in the same way--namely, fifty cows and

three men to each district.

"Tell us, Pere Jacques," said the _boutilier_ when, the milking being

done, the men sat outside the Buron door, smoking and chatting, "tell us

what our new lady is like."

"Like!" repeated the cowkeeper. "Eh, _mon garcon_, it would take a more

skilful tongue than mine to describe her! She is more beautiful than the

Madonna in the Cathedral of St. Flour."

"When did you see her, Pere Jacques, and where?" asked the _patre_.

"_Mon enfant_, I have seen her from near by and from afar off. I have

seen her as a child, a demoiselle, a bride, a widow. I have carried her

in my arms, and danced her on my knee, many and many a time. Ah! that

surprises you; but the snow has fallen for many a Winter on the summit

of Mount Cantal since that time."

"Then it was a great many years ago, Father Jacques. How old is Madame

la Comtesse?"

"Twenty-five years at the most, come September," replied Jacques. "And

she's so fresh and beautiful that she does not yet look above eighteen.

We always used to call her the little Queen Marguerite; and sure, if a

young girl were to be made a queen for her beauty, Marguerite would have

been crowned ten years ago. Ah, when she married the old Comte de

Peyrelade and went away to the King's court, there was not a soul in the

province but missed her. It was a blessing even to look upon her; she

was so fair, so smiling, so gracious! From everybody you heard, 'Well,

have you been told the news? The little Queen Marguerite is gone!' And

all the men sighed, and the women cried; and it was a sad day for the

poor folks. Well, nine years have gone by since then. She has at last

come back to us; the old Count is dead; and our little Queen will live

with us once more, till the end of her days!"

"Perhaps," said the _boutilier_, who had hitherto been silent.

"Why perhaps?" said Pere Jacques, knitting his grey brows, "why

perhaps?"

"Is not Madame young and beautiful?" asked the _boutilier_. "Is she not

rich? Why, then, should she bury herself for life in an old chateau?

What will you bet that she does not go back to court before twelve

months are over, and there marry some rich and handsome lord?"

"Hush! Pierre," replied Jacques, in a moody voice; "I tell you she will

neither marry nor leave us. She has made a vow to that effect."

"Do ladies keep those vows?" asked the incredulous Pierre.

"She will. Listen, and I will tell you all that passed nine years ago in

the Chateau de Pradines, the home of our little Queen Marguerite before

her marriage."

The two lads drew nearer, and the cowkeeper thus began:--

"The handsomest and noblest among all Marguerite's lovers was M. le

Chevalier de Fontane. She preferred him; and though he was but a younger

son, with a lieutenant's commission, the old Baron de Pradines consented

to the marriage for love of his daughter. The wedding day was fixed.

Then news came that Monsieur George, the brother of Mademoiselle

Marguerite, was to have leave of absence from his regiment; and M. le

Baron deferred the marriage till his arrival--and sorely he repented of

it afterwards! Monsieur George was as much disliked as his father and

sister were beloved in the province; and the day when he had first left

it was a day of rejoicing amongst us. It was late one evening when he

arrived at the chateau, bringing with him an old gentleman. This

gentleman was the Count de Peyrelade. As soon as supper was over,

Monsieur George went to his father's chamber, and there remained with

him for a long time in conversation. No one ever knew what passed

between them; but the night was far spent when he came out, and the next

day M. le Baron, who had been full of life and health before the

arrival of his son, was confined to his bed in the extremity of illness.

A priest was sent for, and the last sacraments were administered; and

then the poor old gentleman summoned all the household to take his

farewell.

"'Marguerite,' said he to his daughter, who was crying

bitterly--'Marguerite, I have but a few moments to live, and before I

leave thee I have a prayer to address to thee.' And as Mademoiselle

kissed his hands without being able to speak a word, he added, 'My

daughter, promise me to marry M. de Peyrelade!'

"At these words the poor young lady gave a great cry, and fell on her

knees at the foot of her father's bed. Then the Baron turned to the late

Count:--

"'Monsieur,' said he, 'I know my daughter; she will obey my commands.

Promise me to make her happy.'

"The Count, greatly moved, promised to devote his life to her; and the

poor dear master fell back quite dead!

"It was exactly twenty-four hours after his son's arrival that M. le

Baron breathed his last. What a terrible night it was, boys! The rain

and snow had never ceased falling since that fatal return. M. le

Chevalier de Fontane, who knew nothing of what had passed, came riding

into the courtyard about an hour after the Baron had died. I ran out to

him, for I was a stableman in the chateau, and I told him all that had

happened. As he listened to me, he became as pale as a corpse, and I saw

him reel in his saddle. Then he plunged his spurs into his horse's

flanks, and fled away like a madman into the storm. From that time he

was never seen or heard of again; but, as he took the road to the

mountains, it was supposed that he fell, with his horse, into some

chasm, and was buried in the snow. Every year, on the anniversary of

that day, his family have a mass said for the repose of his soul."

Here the cowkeeper crossed himself devoutly, and his companions followed

his example.

After a few minutes' silence, "Well, Pierre," he said, "now do you

understand why Madame la Comtesse de Peyrelade has retired at the age of

twenty-five to live in a ruinous old Chateau of Auvergne, and why she

should never marry a second time?"

The _boutilier_ was so concerned that he had not the heart to say a

word; but the herdsman, who was excessively curious, returned to the

charge.

"You have not told us, Pere Jacques," said he, "why the Baron desired

his daughter to marry the late Count instead of the Chevalier de

Fontane."

"I can only tell you the reports," replied Jacques; "for nobody knows

the truth of it. They said that M. George owed more money to the Count

de Peyrelade than his father could pay, and that he had sold the hand of

his sister to defray the debt. Every one knows that the Count was very

much in love with her, and that she had refused him several times

already."

"Alas!" exclaimed Pierre, "I don't wonder at the poor lady's

determination. It is not her old husband that she grieves for, but her

father and her lover; is it not, Pere Jacques?"

"Ay," replied the cowkeeper, "and it is not only past troubles that the

gentle soul has to bear, but present troubles also! 'Tis not much peace,

I fear, that she will find in Auvergne."

"Why so, friend?" said a deep voice behind the speakers, and a man of

about thirty-eight or forty years of age, with a pale face, a stooping

figure, and a melancholy expression of countenance came suddenly into

the midst of them. The mountaineer and the ecclesiastic were oddly

combined in his attire; for with the cassock and band he wore leathern

gaiters, a powder-pouch and a cartridge-box; while across his shoulders

was slung a double-barrelled musket. A _couteau de chasse_ was thrust in

his leathern belt, and a magnificent mountain-dog walked leisurely at

his side.

"Good day, Monsieur le Cure," said the cowkeeper, respectfully. "Welcome

to the Buron. Have you had good sport?"

"Not very, my good friend, not very," replied the priest.

"You are tired, Monsieur le Cure; come and rest awhile in the Buron. We

can give you fresh milk and bread, and new cheese. Ah _dame_! you will

not find such refreshments here as at the chateau, but they are heartily

at your service."

"I will sit here with you, friends, and willingly accept a draught of

milk," said the priest, as he took his place beside them on the grass;

"but upon one condition; namely, that you will continue the subject of

your conversation as freely as if I were not amongst you."

Pere Jacques was abashed and confounded. He looked uneasily to the

right, and then to the left; and at last, having no other resource, "_Eh

bien!_" he exclaimed, "I will e'en speak the truth, Monsieur le Cure,

because it is wicked to tell a lie, and because you are a holy man and

will not be offended with me. We were talking of Madame and M. George,

the present Baron de Pradines. He is actually living here in the

chateau, and here he is going to remain--M. George, the spendthrift

brother of Madame, to whom, through your intercession, Monsieur le Cure,

she is lately reconciled."

"Hush! Jacques," said the priest, gravely. "M. de Pradines was wild in

his youth; but he has repented. It was he who made the first advances

towards a reconciliation with Madame."

"I know that, M. le Cure," said the mountaineer, "I know that; but the

Baron is poor, and knows how to look after his own interests. He is here

for no good, and no good will come of his return. It is certain that the

old well in the courtyard of the chateau, which was dry for years, has

refilled these last few days; and you know _that_ to be a sure sign of

some misfortune to the family."

"It is true," said the Cure superstitiously, "it is true, Jacques."

And he grew thoughtful.

The mountaineers were silent; suddenly the priest's dog started and

pricked up his ears. At the same moment the report of a gun echoed

through the glen, and a white partridge, such as is sometimes to be seen

in the mountains after a severe Winter, fell fluttering at the feet of

the Cure. Then followed a crashing of underwood and a sound of rapid

footsteps, and in another moment a gentleman appeared, parting the

bushes and escorting a young lady who held the train of her

hunting-habit thrown across her arm. The gentleman was laughing loudly,

but the lady looked pale and distressed, and running towards the group

under the chestnut-trees, took up the wounded bird and kissed it

tenderly, exclaiming:--

"Ah, M. le Cure, _you_ would not have killed the pretty creature if I

had begged its life, would you?"

The priest coloured crimson.

"Madame," said he, falteringly, "this partridge is wounded in the wing,

but is not dead. Who shot it?"

The young lady looked reproachfully at the gentleman; the gentleman

shrugged his shoulders and laughed again, but less heartily than before.

"Oh, _mea culpa_!" he said, lightly. "I am the culprit, Monsieur

l'Abbe."