A RAY OF MOONLIGHT ON THE BAY OF GAETA.
There is more truth in De la Rochefoucauld’s maxim than we are often
willing to allow--“Dans l’adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons
souvent quelque chose qui ne nous déplaît pas.” I mean that a source of
consolation may be legitimately derived from witnessing their errors.
Nothing could be stronger than Norah’s feeling of compassion for the
suffering Duke, yet when she compared his fate and the effect
disappointment had had in subjecting him to the deteriorating influence
of the worst portions of mankind, she felt obliged to make more excuses
for the errors of Sir Alfred Rivers.
It was true he had met with no such misfortunes as those which had
befallen the Duke, yet Sir Alfred had plunged into dissipation, and had
been induced to act quite contrary to the high standard which she knew
he once hoped to attain. Certainly she had refused to become positively
engaged to him, but that ought not to have made him plunge so recklessly
into the world of fashion.
Yet he too was most fascinating in his way, and quite as handsome as the
Duke, and she saw that they had both fallen victims to the effect their
own great charms exercised on others. In London and Paris, Vienna and
Rome, the Duke had been the fêted idol of society. This she had heard,
and from the effect such kind of idolatry had had on Sir Alfred, she
well knew its baneful temptations.
Hence the extreme kindness of her manner during the interview which led
to his consenting to see Father Anselmo, and hence also a softened kind
of feeling towards Sir Alfred.
As she stood at her window that night, and looked on the moonlit sea,
her prayers for Sir Alfred, perhaps even her love and her longing to see
him once more, were stronger than ever. While these thoughts and prayers
occupied her mind, her eye rested on the silvery moonbeams as they
gleamed from the shore of the garden below to the distant promontory of
Mola di Gaeta; and as she looked, a little boat, with the broad lateen
sails, crossed the line of light and approached the shore.
“Oh! if he were in that boat,” she thought, with a vivid kind of longing
and strange presentiment that it might be possible. And she watched for
some time, for there was but little wind, and its progress was slow.
At last it touched the shore about the middle of the bay, and she
thought that she could distinguish some figures landing. She ran for an
opera-glass which they used for looking at distant scenery, and then she
distinctly saw four men near the boat. One was much taller than the
others, and there was something in this one’s walk which resembled his.
Oh! could it be? The next minute they all disappeared behind the trees
on the shore. She watched for some time, in hopes they might emerge from
the wood. They did not appear again; but as they had turned in the
direction of the road to the hotel, she hoped they might possibly be
coming into the town.
She went to bed, but found it impossible to sleep, and about an hour
afterwards she heard some bell ring, and fancied it might be an arrival.
Again all was silent, and she remembered that Valentino said that every
room was full, and that several families had been obliged to put up at
the other hotel, or pursue their journey to the next town. But it might
have been Sir Alfred, who may have inquired for rooms, and he might
possibly hear that she was there; and then? She would not trust herself
to ask any more questions, but resolved to be strong-minded and go to
sleep, otherwise she would be unable to help her father, or be of any
use to the suffering Duke de Luna.
But, however strong the mind, it was not easily lulled to sleep after a
day of such extraordinary excitement; and then her dreams were full of
vivid realities, in which hope predominated, and she awoke with a
feeling of vague happiness and wonder at what produced it.
“He must have come,” she thought, as she remembered the tall figure on
the distant moonlit road; and then a pang of self-reproach at the
elation of her spirits reminded her of the suffering Duke in the room
underneath.
She began to dress quickly, that she might go and inquire about him; but
before she had finished Cattarina came into her room, and told her that
the Duke was in great danger--that the doctor and the priest had never
left him all night, and they were afraid he would die before the arrival
of Valentino with the English doctor.
“I know he would like to see the Signorina,” she added, with an odd kind
of expression in her large eyes, which Norah did not like, for she had
often observed it when the girl was saying what was not true. Yet in
this case it seemed natural--that perhaps the poor sufferer might like
to see any one who could speak of hope, and sympathise with his misery.
So she went to her father’s room, and found that he was already dressed,
and was intending to go and inquire whether he could be of use. So they
both went downstairs, and Doctor Mangello met them at the door, and
begged they would come into his patient’s room.
“His mind is much more tranquil,” he whispered, “and he wishes to thank
the Signorina for her kindness, and for having persuaded him to see
Father Anselmo. But,” he added, in a still lower tone, “I fear there is
but little chance of his recovery.”
As they were about to enter the room, a light carriage dashed up to the
hotel door, and out jumped Valentino, followed by a grave but
pleasant-looking old man, Doctor Nelson. He was at once taken into the
sick-room, and the father and daughter remained outside, anxiously
awaiting the report he could give of the sufferer.
The place where they stood was one of those large ante-rooms, or inner
halls, peculiar to Italian houses, which seem to open in all directions.
Some of the windows opened on the garden, and the doors on passages
which ran through the house, and led to the street entrance. Norah saw
that Cattarina came in for a moment at one of the distant doors, as if
she were looking for some one, and then disappeared along the passages
to the principal entrance.
Again Norah saw that odd expression on her face; she fancied that the
wily creature was intent on some mischief. After waiting for some
minutes near the door, Norah fancied that her father would be tired, and
persuaded him to sit down on a bench which was near the window that
looked on the road.
Soon afterwards a travelling-carriage drove up, and they saw that it
contained the Spendfasts, and Lady Selina Bugginfield. They saw the
master of the hotel go out, and also Valentino; and he probably
explained that there was no room, for they did not get out of the
carriage, although a long talk ensued, and Mr. Chandos observed that the
courier was probably relating their adventures with the banditti, and
describing the poor Duke’s dangerous state, for they were full of
gesticulation expressive of horror and dismay.
At last the carriage drove off in the direction of another hotel to
which the master had pointed.
“Could that have been Sir Alfred last night; and was he possibly at that
very hotel to which Lady Selina, his evil genius, was going?” thought
Norah, with sudden dismay. Cattarina was gone out in that direction--she
might have gone to see some friend at the other hotel, for she always
seemed to know everybody, and the hotel people always appeared delighted
to see her; and Lady Selina, too, had been a great friend of her late
mistress, the Countess Rossi.