CHIARA.
Trevor was thirteen years of age when he entered the office of Martin,
Swansea & Co., and occupied one of the lowest places in the house. But
luckily for him Sir John Martin had taken a fancy to the sharp-looking
lad, and had given him a good commercial education. He had a special
faculty for learning languages; and from time to time had been sent to
most of the foreign branches of the shipping agency, thus acquiring a
practical knowledge of many of the European dialects; an acquirement
exceedingly useful to him. He had risen to the position almost of a
confidential clerk, and received a good salary, but he had not been
promoted to any post of authority in the house. His ambition had
always been to be at the head of one of the branches of the business;
but the attainment of this end seemed farther away from him now Sir
John Martin was dead, and Sidney had succeeded him. Trevor was not
attached to Sidney as he had been to his early patron. He had a son
about the same age as Sidney; and from their earliest years he had
compared his boy's lot with that of his master's nephew, always
grudging the brilliant and successful career of the latter, and
secretly hoping that his uncle might marry and have an heir of his own.
There was something painfully dazzling to him in Sidney's present
position; while his son was nothing more than the underpaid usher of a
boys' school. Almost unconsciously to himself a deep jealousy and
hatred of his young master filled his heart; though he never
contemplated the idea of quitting his employment, the salary he drew
being higher than he could have obtained elsewhere.
Trevor studied his instructions with profound interest and a growing
suspicion. He remembered with perfect distinctness the time that
Sidney was away for a year's sojourn on the Continent before settling
down to business. It was the year that his boy had entered upon his
very different walk in life. He recollected, too, that Sidney had come
back unexpectedly a month or two before his time had expired. It was
seven years ago; and these instructions bade him take up an event that
had occurred seven years ago in this remote region, and to follow any
clew he could find whereby to trace the movements of an English girl
left alone there. Who was it that had left her alone?
Trevor was in no wise inclined to be unfaithful to the trust reposed in
him; he would not betray his master. But he was quite ready to take
advantage of any circumstance that would tend to promote his own
interest. Commercial life in the City does not usually foster the
highest principles of honor. Here was plainly a secret, which had been
lying dormant for some years, and which he was commissioned to take up
from its long slumber. Where there is a secret there is generally a
profit to be made by the discoverer of it. He pushed on toward the
Ampezzo Valley, and drove through the wondrous beauty and grandeur of
it with no thought beyond that of getting as quickly as possible to
Cortina, and setting to work on Sidney's instructions. He was, if
possible, to ascertain what had become of Sophy without referring to
any of the authorities of the village, such as the parish priest or
mayor, who might be inclined to ask some inconvenient questions. All
that he had to discover was to what place Sophy had gone after leaving
Cortina, and then to trace her steps from town to town as far as
possible, without bringing too much notice to bear upon his search.
The little one-horse carriage that he had hired at Toblach set him down
at the hotel to which Sidney's note had directed him; and he turned at
once into the rough and comfortless kitchen on the ground floor, glad
to seat himself on one of the high chairs, with his feet on the raised
hearth. For the cold was keen at this time of the year after the sun
was down, and it had been lost to sight for some hours behind the high
rocks which hem in the valley on each side. The great logs lying on
the hearth burnt brightly, and the copper pans resting in front of them
emitted an appetizing fragrance to those who had been long in the sharp
and frosty air. Trevor would not hear of going upstairs to the
solitary dining room, where there was neither fire nor company. A few
peasants were sitting patiently at a huge oak table; and a brisk,
elderly woman, in a short petticoat, and with white sleeves rolled up
above the elbows, was bustling to and fro, looking into the copper
cooking-pans, and from time to time exchanging a word or two with the
foreigner who made himself so much at home.
At length the landlord came in, and unlocking an old fashioned desk
elaborately carved, produced a large volume, strongly bound in leather.
It was the Register, in which all travelers were required to enter
their names and nationalities, the places from whence they came and
those to which they were going, with sundry other particulars possibly
interesting to the Austrian police. Trevor in a leisurely manner
entered the necessary records, and then turned over the past leaves of
the great book. At that time there were not many foreigners passing
through the Ampezzo Valley; and he had no difficulty in finding the
entries of seven years ago. There lay before him, in Sidney's own
handwriting, the words in Italian, "Sidney Martin, with his wife."
"With his wife!" muttered Trevor, half aloud.
Chiara was an unlearned woman, and could not read; but she watched
every movement of the stranger with sharp and suspicious eyes. She
knew the page on which the young English signore had inscribed his name
seven years ago; and now she saw the flash of mingled surprise and
triumph which crossed the face of Trevor as he uttered the words, "With
his wife." It was necessary to do something; but it behooved her to
act cautiously. She drew near to him as he bent over the Register, and
laid her hand on his shoulders, with a touch of homely familiarity in
no way displeasing.
"You are English?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"We have not many English here," she said. "Germans, yes, and
Italians, yes; but few, few English; two or three in the summer, but
not every summer."
"English ladies?" he inquired.
"Sometimes," she answered cautiously.
"Do you remember a young English gentleman staying here with his wife
seven years ago last June?" he asked.
Chiara paused. Very swiftly she calculated the chances of this
Englishman, who could speak Italian easily enough to enter into
conversation with anyone he came across, making more inquiries than
from herself alone; and she came to the rapid conclusion that it was
necessary to tell him everything that her neighbors knew. Other
English foreigners had passed through Cortina, but no question had ever
been asked about these young people before. She must tell her tale
cautiously, and with reserve.
"Ah," she said, with a sigh of recollection, "the young English
gentleman, Signore Martino! He was a fine, handsome gentleman; and the
young lady was as pretty as a butterfly. Did they belong to you,
Signore? Perhaps she was your daughter?"
"No," he answered, "the young lady was no daughter of mine."
"Is it not possible that the young signore was your son?" she said,
looking doubtfully at Trevor, who did not seem to her grand enough to
be the father of the rich young Englishman.
"No," he replied curtly.
It was a perplexing moment for Chiara. Upstairs, in her box secured
with two locks, lay the ducats and gulden, stamped with the Austrian
eagle, which she had found in Sophy's jewel-case. She had not parted
with one of them, and she was adding more gulden to them every month
from her wages. There was scarcely a richer woman than herself in all
the Ampezzo Valley, and the thought of it was an ever springing
fountain of satisfaction. But if this foreigner had come to claim her
treasure! Her heart sank at the mere suspicion of such a calamity; she
could not believe that the Englishman had traveled all the way from
England for anything less than to demand the inheritance of the dead
woman. It would not be possible to pretend that she had spent much of
the money upon the child; for every person in the village could reckon
up how much his maintenance had cost her, ever since his birth. There
was no reason why she should not be made to restore every one of those
beloved coins, which from time to time she counted over with such
fervent affection and delight. It was a very bitter moment to Chiara.
"Come," said Trevor, with a smile, showing to her a Napoleon lying in
the palm of his hand, "I see you know all about them. Sit down, and
tell me simply what you know, and this is yours. I am not come here to
give you trouble."
She sat down with her feet on the raised hearth, and in a low tone told
him the story exactly as he would have heard it from any other person
in the village. It was short and simple. Signore Martino had traveled
hither with a girl whom he called his wife; but had deserted her about
three weeks before the birth of their child, leaving no trace behind
him, and never returning to inquire after those whom he had forsaken.
The unhappy girl had died in giving birth to her infant, and was buried
in the village cemetery. He might see the grave in the morning, and
the priest or the mayor would answer any questions he might choose to
ask.
"And what became of the child?" Trevor inquired.
Then Chiara put her apron to her eyes, and replied that she herself had
taken charge of the poor child, and put him out to nurse with her
sister, who lived on the mountain, and had children of her own. He was
growing a big boy now; but she did not complain of the expense, for
after the costs of the funeral were paid, the mayor had permitted her
to keep the clothing of the young lady, which she had sold to
advantage. There was still a small sum left; but only a few florins.
But now an inquiry was being made, would the boy be taken off her hands?
"I can make no promises," answered Trevor, "for neither the father nor
the mother is related to me. But were there no papers left by the
young lady? They are of the utmost importance to me; and if you give
them up you shall be no loser."
"There were no papers," replied Chiara promptly. "The night before the
Signora died she made a great fire in the stove and burned bundles of
papers. That made me think that she was no married wife, poor thing!
There was only just money enough to pay the bill of the house here and
the doctor's fees and the grave in the cemetery. I don't know what
would have become of her if she had not died."
"Have you nothing that belonged to her?" he asked.
"Just a few little things left," she answered; "I will bring them to
you--not down here, where everybody can see, but in your
bedroom--presently."
She went away, up to her own attic, as soon as supper was laid on the
table. There she opened her strong box, and, kneeling beside it, held
for some time in her hand the thick packet which Sophy had sealed up
and directed the night before she died. Which would profit her most?
To give up these concealed papers, which most likely contained an
account of all the money and goods the Signora had had in her
possession, or to keep them secret still, and retain this wealth in her
own hands? Unless the stranger gave her very much more than she was
already sure of, it was not worth while to expose herself to the
indignation and contumely of her neighbors, if ever they should come to
know that she had laid hands upon wealth that ought by rights to have
been placed in the custody of the mayor. No, it was safer to keep
quiet; it would be safer to destroy these papers, as she had often
thought of doing. But there was no fire in her room, and it was
difficult to make away with them unobserved. She put it off again, as
she had done many times, and dropped the packet back into the box,
fastening it securely. Then she went down to the great back bedchamber
of the inn, where Sophy had died, and laid her handful of ornaments on
the table before Trevor. He picked them up one by one, and looked at
them with careful curiosity. They were not valuable trinkets--a cameo
or two from Rome, and some small mosaics from Florence and glass beads
from Venice. Chiara had known their value years ago, and had
considered it worth-while to keep them for her own adornment when she
went to a _festa_. The back of one of the cameo brooches opened, and
Trevor found an inscription written on a slip of paper: "For my dear
little wife, from Sidney." Chiara looked at it almost in a panic; but
Trevor translated it to her.
"Is it possible that he was married?" said Trevor to himself, when
Chiara carried away all the other trinkets, leaving this brooch in his
hands, after having received double its value in money. He sat long
beside the heated stove, weighing the probabilities. It was not an
unheard-of thing for a youth of one-and-twenty, with plenty of money
and no one to look after him, to travel about these remote and
unfrequented regions with a girl who was not by law his wife. He did
not know enough of Sidney's college career to decide whether or not he
would be likely to fall into such a crime. But the fact that he had
deserted this girl, a base and cowardly action, implied that she had no
legal claim upon his protection. On the other hand, there crossed his
mind Sidney's constant avoidance of ordinary social intercourse and
avowed disinclination to marriage, which might be accounted for by this
girl being already his wedded wife. Moreover, his anxiety now to learn
her fate was greater than it would have been if no binding tie was
involved in it. He was no longer dependent upon his uncle, and ran no
risk of disinheritance by the discovery of any illicit attachment. If
Sidney wished to marry now, the necessity of ascertaining what had
become of the woman he had forsaken and lost sight of had become of
primary importance, supposing her to be legally his wife, and the
mother of his heir. But who could this girl have been?