Produced by Suzanne Shell, Cathy Maxam, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
'FAREWELL, NIKOLA'
[Illustration: "He swept his fingers over the strings ... and commenced
to sing." (Page 140.)]
'Farewell, Nikola'
BY
GUY BOOTHBY
AUTHOR OF 'DR. NIKOLA,' 'THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL,'
'PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN,' ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY HAROLD PIFFARD
LONDON
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE
1901
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
HE SWEPT HIS FINGERS OVER THE STRINGS ... AND
COMMENCED TO SING _Frontispiece_
HE PRESSED A SPRING IN THE WALL 46
PRESENTLY A PICTURE SHAPED ITSELF IN THE CLOUD 100
THROWING OPEN THE SECRET DOOR ... HE CONFRONTED
THEM 177
HE LAID HIS HAND UPON HER FOREHEAD 208
"PUT DOWN YOUR PISTOLS," SAID NIKOLA 249
HE CRAWLED UPON THE FLOOR LIKE A DOG 273
SHE KNELT, WITH ARMS OUTSTRETCHED, IN SUPPLICATION 306
'FAREWELL, NIKOLA'
CHAPTER I
We were in Venice; Venice the silent and mysterious; the one European
city of which I never tire. My wife had not enjoyed good health for some
months past, and for this reason we had been wintering in Southern
Italy. After that we had come slowly north, spending a month in
Florence, and a fortnight in Rome _en route_, until we found ourselves
in Venice, occupying a suite of apartments at Galaghetti's famous hotel
overlooking the Grand Canal. Our party was a small one; it consisted of
my wife, her friend, Gertrude Trevor, and myself, Richard Hatteras, once
of the South Sea Islands, but now of the New Forest, Hampshire, England.
It may account for our fondness of Venice when I say that four years
previous we had spent the greater part of our honeymoon there. Whatever
the cause may have been, however, there could be no sort of doubt that
the grand old city, with its palaces and churches, its associations
stretching back to long-forgotten centuries, and its silent waterways,
possessed a great fascination for us. We were never tired of exploring
it, finding something to interest us in even the most out-of-the-way
corners. In Miss Trevor we possessed a charming companion, a vital
necessity, as you will admit, when people travel together. She was an
uncommon girl in more ways than one; a girl, so it seems to me, England
alone is able to produce. She could not be described as a pretty girl,
but then the word "pretty" is one that sometimes comes perilously near
carrying contempt with it; one does not speak of Venus de Medici as
pretty, nor would one describe the Apollo Belvedere as very
nice-looking. That Miss Trevor was exceedingly handsome would, I fancy,
be generally admitted. At any rate she would command attention wherever
she might go, and that is an advantage which few of us possess. Should a
more detailed description of her be necessary, I might add that she was
tall and dark, with black hair and large luminous eyes that haunted one,
and were suggestive of a southern ancestor. She was the daughter, and
indeed the only child, of the well-known Dean of Bedminster, and this
was the first time she had visited Italy, or that she had been abroad.
The wonders of the Art Country were all new to her, and in consequence
our wanderings were one long succession of delight. Every day added some
new pleasure to her experiences, while each night saw a life desire
gratified.
In my humble opinion, to understand Italy properly one should not
presume to visit her until after the first blush of youth has departed,
and then only when one has prepared oneself to properly appreciate her
many beauties. Venice, above all others, is a city that must be taken
seriously. To come at a proper spirit of the place one must be in a
reverent mood. Cheap jokes and Cockney laughter are as unsuited to the
place, where Falieri yielded his life, as a downcast face would be in
Nice at carnival time. On the afternoon of the particular day from which
I date my story, we had been to the island of Murano to pay a visit to
the famous glass factories of which it is the home. By the time we
reached Venice once more it was nearly sunset. Having something like an
hour to spare we made our way, at my wife's suggestion, to the Florian
_cafe_ on the piazza of Saint Mark in order to watch the people. As
usual the place was crowded, and at first glance it looked as if we
should be unable to find sufficient vacant chairs. Fortune favoured us,
however, and when we had seated ourselves and I had ordered coffee, we
gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of what is perhaps one of the most
amusing scenes in Venice. To a thoughtful mind the Great Square must at
all times be an object of absorbing interest. I have seen it at every
hour, and under almost every aspect: at break of day, when one has it to
oneself and is able to enjoy its beauty undisturbed; at midday, when the
importunate shop-keepers endeavour to seduce one into entering their
doors (by tales of the marvels therein); at sunset, when the _cafes_ are
crowded, the band plays, and all is merriment; and last, but not least,
at midnight, when the moon is sailing above Saint Mark's, the square is
full of strange shadows, and the only sound to be heard is the cry of a
gull on the lagoon, or the "_Sa Premi_" of some belated gondolier.
"This is the moment to which I have looked forward all my life," said
Miss Trevor, as she sat back in her chair and watched the animated crowd
before her. "Look at that pretty little boy with the pigeons flocking
round him. What a picture he would make if one only had a camera."
"If you care to have a photo of him one can easily be obtained," I
remarked. "Any one of these enterprising photographers would be only too
pleased to take one for you for a few centissimi. I regret to say that
many of our countrymen have a weakness for being taken in that way."
"Fancy Septimus Brown, of Tooting," my wife remarked, "a typical English
paterfamilias, with a green veil, blue spectacles, and white umbrella,
daring to ask the sun to record his image with the pigeons of St. Mark's
clustering about his venerable head. Can't you picture the pride of that
worthy gentleman's family when they produce the album on Sunday
afternoons and show it to their friends? 'This is pa,' the eldest girl
will probably remark, 'when he was travelling in Venice' (as if Venice
were a country in which one must be perpetually moving on), 'and that's
how the pigeons came down to him to be fed. Isn't it splendid of him?'
Papa, who has never ventured beyond Brighton beach before, will be a
person of importance from that moment."
"You forget one circumstance, however," Miss Trevor replied, who enjoyed
an argument, and for this reason contradicted my wife on principle,
"that in allowing himself to be taken at all, Brown of Tooting has
advanced a step. For the moment he dared to throw off his insularity, as
the picture at which you are laughing is indisputable testimony. Do you
think he would dare to be photographed in a similar fashion in his own
market-place, standing outside his shop-door with his assistants
watching him from behind the counter? I am quite sure he would not!"
"A very excellent argument," I answered. "Unfortunately, however, it
carries with it its own refutation. The mere fact that Brown takes the
photograph home to show to his friends goes a long way towards proving
that he is still as insular as when he set out. If he did not consider
himself of sufficient importance to shut out a portion of Saint Mark's
with his voluminous personality, he would not have employed the
photographer at all, in which case we are no further advanced than
before."
These little sparring-matches were a source of great amusement to us.
The Cockney tourist was Miss Trevor's _bete noir_. And upon this failing
my wife and I loved to twit her. On the whole I rather fancy she liked
being teased by us.
We had finished our coffee and were still idly watching the people about
us when I noticed that my wife had turned a little pale. I was about to
remark upon it, when she uttered an exclamation as if something had
startled her.
"Good gracious! Dick," she cried, "surely it is not possible. It must be
a mistake."
"What is it cannot be possible?" I inquired. "What do you think you
see?"
I glanced in the direction she indicated, but could recognize no one
with whom I was acquainted. An English clergyman and his daughter were
sitting near the entrance to the _cafe_, and some officers in uniform
were on the other side of them again, but still my wife was looking in
the same direction and with an equally startled face. I placed my hand
upon her arm. It was a long time since I had seen her so agitated.
"Come, darling," I said, "tell me what it is that troubles you."
"Look," she answered, "can you see the table a little to the right of
that at which those officers are seated?"
I was about to reply in the affirmative, but the shock I received
deprived me of speech. The person to whom my wife referred had risen
from his chair, and was in the act of walking towards us. I looked at
him, looked away, and then looked again. No! there was no room for
doubt; the likeness was unmistakable. I should have known him anywhere.
_He was Doctor Nikola_; the man who had played such an important part in
our life's drama. Five years had elapsed since I had last seen him, but
in that time he was scarcely changed at all. It was the same tall, thin
figure; the same sallow, clean-shaven face; the same piercing black
eyes. As he drew nearer I noticed that his hair was a little more grey,
that he looked slightly older; otherwise he was unchanged. But why was
he coming to us? Surely he did not mean to speak to us? After the manner
in which he had treated us in by-gone days I scarcely knew how to
receive him. He on his side, however, was quite self-possessed. Raising
his hat with that easy grace that always distinguished him, he advanced
and held out his hand to my wife.
"My dear Lady Hatteras," he began in his most conciliatory tone, "I felt
sure you would recognize me. Observing that you had not forgotten me, I
took the liberty of coming to pay my respects to you."
Then before my wife could reply he had turned to me and was holding out
his hand. For a moment I had half determined not to take it, but when
his glittering eyes looked into mine I changed my mind and shook hands
with him more cordially than I should ever have thought it possible for
me to do. Having thus broken the ice, and as we had to all intents and
purposes permitted him to derive the impression that we were prepared to
forgive the Past, nothing remained for us but to introduce him to Miss
Trevor. From the moment that he had approached us she had been watching
him covertly, and that he had produced a decided impression upon her was
easily seen. For the first time since we had known her she, usually so
staid and unimpressionable, was nervous and ill at ease. The
introduction effected she drew back a little, and pretended to be
absorbed in watching a party of our fellow-countrymen who had taken
their places at a table a short distance from us. For my part I do not
mind confessing that I was by no means comfortable. I remembered my
bitter hatred of Nikola in days gone by. I recalled that terrible house
in Port Said, and thought of the night on the island when I had rescued
my wife from his clutches. In my estimation then he had been a villain
of the deepest dye, and yet here he was sitting beside me as calm and
collected, and apparently as interested in the _resume_ of our travels
in Italy that my wife was giving him, as if we had been bosom friends
throughout our lives. In any one else it would have been a piece of
marvellous effrontery; in Nikola's case, however, it did not strike one
in the same light. As I have so often remarked, he seemed incapable of
acting like any other human being. His extraordinary personality lent a
glamour to his simplest actions, and demanded for them an attention they
would scarcely have received had he been less endowed.
"Have you been long in Venice?" my wife inquired when she had completed
the record of our doings, feeling that she must say something.
"I seldom remain anywhere for very long," he answered, with one of his
curious smiles. "I come and go like a Will-o'-the-wisp; I am here to-day
and gone to-morrow."
It may have been an unfortunate remark, but I could not help uttering
it.
"For instance, you are in London to-day," I said, "in Port Said next
week, and in the South Sea Islands a couple of months later."
He was not in the least disconcerted.
"Ah! I see you have not forgotten our South Sea adventure," he replied
cheerfully. "How long ago it seems, does it not? To me it is like a
chapter out of another life." Then, turning to Miss Trevor, who of
course had heard the story of our dealings with him sufficiently often
to be weary of it, he added, "I hope you are not altogether disposed to
think ill of me. Perhaps some day you will be able to persuade Lady
Hatteras to forgive me, that is to say if she has not already done so.
Yet I do not know why I should plead for pardon, seeing that I am far
from being in a repentant mood. As a matter of fact I am very much
afraid that, should the necessity arise, I should be compelled to act as
I did then."
"Then let us pray most fervently that the necessity may never arise," I
answered. "I for one do not entertain a very pleasant recollection of
that time."
I spoke so seriously that my wife looked sharply up at me. Fearing, I
suppose, that I might commit myself, she added quickly--
"I trust it may not. For I can assure you, Doctor Nikola, that my
inclinations lie much nearer Bond Street than the South Sea Islands."
All this time Miss Trevor said nothing, but I could tell from the
expression upon her face that Nikola interested her more than she would
have been willing to admit.
"Is it permissible to ask where you are staying?" he inquired, breaking
the silence and speaking as if it were a point upon which he was most
anxious to be assured.
"At Galaghetti's," I answered. "While in Venice we always make it our
home."
"Ah! the good Galaghetti," said Nikola softly. "It is a long time since
I last had the pleasure of seeing him. I fancy, however, he would
remember me. I was able to do him a slight service some time ago, and I
have always understood that he possesses a retentive memory."
Then, doubtless feeling that he had stayed long enough, he rose and
prepared to take leave of us.
"Perhaps, Lady Hatteras, you will permit me to do myself the honour of
calling upon you?" he said.
"We shall be very pleased to see you," my wife replied, though with no
real cordiality.
He then bowed to Miss Trevor, and shook hands with myself.
"Good-bye, Hatteras," he continued. "I shall hope soon to see you
again. I expect we have lots of news for each other, and doubtless you
will be interested to learn the history and subsequent adventures of
that peculiar little stick which caused you so much anxiety, and myself
so much trouble, five years ago. My address is the Palace Revecce, in
the Rio del Consiglio, where, needless to say, I shall be delighted to
see you if you care to pay me a visit."
I thanked him for his invitation, and promised that I would call upon
him.
Then with a bow he took his departure, leaving behind him a sensation of
something missing, something that could not be replaced. To sit down and
continue the conversation where he had broken into it was out of the
question. We accordingly rose, and after I had discharged the bill,
strolled across the piazza towards the lagoon. Observing that Miss
Trevor was still very silent, I inquired the cause.
"If you really want me to tell you, I can only account for it by saying
that your friend, Doctor Nikola, has occasioned it," she answered. "I
don't know why it should be so, but that man has made a curious
impression upon me."
"He seems to affect every one in a different manner," I said, and for
some reason made no further comment upon her speech.
When we had called a gondola, and were on our way back to our hotel, she
referred to the subject again.
"I think I ought to tell you that it is not the first time I have seen
Doctor Nikola," she said. "You may remember that yesterday, while
Phyllis was lying down, I went out to do some shopping. I cannot
describe exactly which direction I took, save that I went towards the
Rialto. It is sufficient that in the end I reached a chemist's shop. It
was only a small place, and very dark, so dark indeed that I did not see
that it contained another customer until I was really inside. Then I
noticed a tall man busily engaged in conversation with the shopman. He
was declaiming against some drugs he had purchased there on the previous
day, and demanding that for the future they should be of better quality,
otherwise he would be compelled to take his patronage elsewhere. In the
middle of this harangue he turned round, and I was permitted an
opportunity of seeing his face. He was none other than your friend,
Doctor Nikola."
"But, my dear Gertrude," said Phyllis, "with all due respect to your
narrative, I do not see that the mere fact of your having met Doctor
Nikola in a chemist's shop yesterday, and your having been introduced to
him to-day, should have caused you so much concern."
"I do not know why it should," she answered, "but it is a fact,
nevertheless. Ever since I saw him yesterday, his face, with its
terrible eyes, has haunted me. I dreamt of it last night. All day long I
have had it before me, and now, as if to add to the strangeness of the
coincidence, he proves to be the man of whom you have so often told
me--your demoniacal, fascinating Nikola. You must admit that it is very
strange."
"A coincidence, a mere coincidence, that is all," I replied. "Nikola
possesses an extraordinary face, and it must have impressed itself more
deeply upon you than the average countenance is happy enough to do."
Whether my explanation satisfied her or not, she said no more upon the
subject. But that our strange meeting with Nikola had had an
extraordinary effect upon her was plainly observable. As a rule she was
as bright and merry a companion as one could wish to have; on this
particular evening, however, she was not herself at all. It was the more
annoying for the reason that I was anxious that she should shine on this
occasion, as I was expecting an old friend, who was going to spend a few
days with us in Venice. That friend was none other than the Duke of
Glenbarth, who previous to his succession to the Dukedom had been known
as the Marquis of Beckenham, and who, as the readers of the history of
my adventures with Doctor Nikola may remember, figured as a very
important factor in that strange affair. Ever since the day when I had
the good fortune to render him a signal service in the bay of a certain
south-coast watering-place, and from the time that he had accepted my
invitation to join us in Venice, I had looked forward to his coming with
the greatest possible eagerness. As it happened it was well-nigh seven
o'clock by the time we reached our hotel. Without pausing in the hall
further than to examine the letter-rack, we ascended to our rooms on the
floor above. My wife and Miss Trevor had gone to their apartments, and I
was about to follow their example as soon as I had obtained something
from the sitting-room.
"A nice sort of host, a very nice host," said a laughing voice as I
entered. "He invites me to stay with him, and is not at home to bid me
welcome. My dear old Dick, how are you?"
"My dear fellow," I cried, hastening forward to greet him, "I must beg
your pardon ten thousand times. I had not the least idea that you would
be here so early. We have been sitting on the piazza, and did not hurry
home."
"You needn't apologize," he answered. "For once an Italian train was
before its time. And now tell me about yourself. How is your wife, how
are you, and what sort of holiday are you having?"
I answered his questions to the best of my ability, keeping back my most
important item as a surprise for him.
"And now," I said, "it is time to dress for dinner. But before you do
so, I have some important news for you. Who do you think is in Venice?"
Needless to say he mentioned every one but the right person.
"You had better give it up, you will never guess," I said. "Who is the
most unlikely person you would expect to see in Venice at the present
moment?"
"Old Macpherson, my solicitor," he replied promptly. "The rascal would
no more think of crossing the Channel than he would contemplate standing
on his head in the middle of the Strand. It must be Macpherson."
"Nonsense," I cried. "I don't know Macpherson in the first place, and I
doubt if he would interest me in the second. No! no! this man is neither
a Scotchman nor a lawyer. He is an individual bearing the name of
Nikola."
I had quite expected to surprise him, but I scarcely looked for such an
outbreak of astonishment.
"What?" he cried, in amazement. "You must be joking. You don't mean to
say that you have seen Nikola again?"
"I not only mean that I have seen him," I replied, "but I will go
further than that, and say that he was sitting on the piazza with us not
more than half-an-hour ago. What do you think his appearance in Venice
means?"
"I don't know what to think," he replied, with an expression of almost
comic bewilderment upon his face. "It seems impossible, and yet you
don't look as if you were joking."
"I tell you the news in all sober earnestness," I answered, dropping my
bantering tone. "It is a fact that Nikola is in Venice, and, what is
more, that he has given me his address. He has invited me to call upon
him, and if you like we will go together. What do you say?"
"I shall have to take time to think about it," Glenbarth replied
seriously. "I don't suppose for a moment he has any intention of
abducting me again; nevertheless, I am not going to give him the
opportunity. By Jove, how that fellow's face comes back to me. It haunts
me!"
"Miss Trevor has been complaining of the same thing," I said.
"Miss Trevor?" the Duke repeated. "And pray who may Miss Trevor be?"
"A friend of my wife's," I answered. "She has been travelling with us
for the last few months. I think you will like her. And now come along
with me and I'll show you your room. I suppose your man has discovered
it by this time?"
"Stevens would find it if this hotel were constructed on the same
principle as the maze at Hampton Court," he answered. "He has the virtue
of persistence, and when he wants to find a thing he secures the person
who would be the most likely to tell him, and sticks to him until his
desire has been gratified."
It turned out as he had predicted, and three-quarters of an hour later
our quartet sat down to dinner. My wife and Glenbarth, by virtue of an
old friendship, agreed remarkably well, while Miss Trevor, now somewhat
recovered from her Nikola indisposition, was more like her old self. It
was a beautiful night, and after dinner it was proposed, seconded, and
carried unanimously, that we should charter a gondola and go for a row
upon the canal. On our homeward voyage the gondolier, by some strange
chance, turned into the Rio del Consiglio.
"Perhaps you can tell me which is the Palace Revecce?" I said to the
man.
He pointed to a building we were in the act of approaching.
"There it is, signor," he said. "At one time it was a very great palace
but now--" here he shrugged his shoulders to enable us to understand
that its glory had departed from it. Not another word was said upon the
subject, but I noticed that all our faces turned in the direction of the
building. With the exception of one solitary window it was in total
darkness. As I looked at the latter I wondered whether Nikola were in
the room, and if so, what he was doing? Was he poring over some of his
curious books, trying some new experiment in chemistry, or putting to
the test some theory such as I had found him at work upon in that
curious house in Port Said? A few minutes later we had left the Rio del
Consiglio behind us, had turned to the right, and were making our way
back by another watery thoroughfare towards the Grand Canal.
"Thanks to your proposition we have had a delightful evening," Miss
Trevor said, as we paused to say good-night at the foot of the staircase
a quarter of an hour or so later. "I have enjoyed myself immensely."
"You should not tell him that, dear," said my wife. "You know how
conceited he is already. He will take all the credit, and be unbearable
for days afterwards." Then turning to me, she added, "You are going to
smoke, I suppose?"
"I had thought of doing so," I replied; and then added with mock
humility, "If you do not wish it of course I will not do so. I was only
going to keep Glenbarth company."
They laughed and bade us good-night, and when we had seen them depart in
the direction of their rooms we lit our cigars and passed into the
balcony outside.
At this hour of the night the Grand Canal looked very still and
beautiful, and we both felt in the humour for confidences.
"Do you know, Hatteras," said Glenbarth, after the few moments' pause
that followed our arrival in the open air, "that Nikola's turning up in
Venice at this particular juncture savours to me a little of the
uncanny. What his mission may be, of course I cannot tell, but that it
is some diabolical thing or another I haven't a doubt."
"One thing is quite certain," I answered, "he would hardly be here
without an object, and, after our dealings with him in the past, I am
prepared to admit that I don't trust him any more than you do."
"And now that he has asked you to call upon him what are you going to
do?"
I paused before I replied. The question involved greater
responsibilities than were at first glance apparent. Knowing Nikola so
well, I had not the least desire or intention to be drawn into any of
the plots or machinations he was so fond of working against other
people. I must confess, nevertheless, that I could not help feeling a
large amount of curiosity as to the subsequent history of that little
stick, to obtain which he had spent so much money, and had risked so
many lives.
"Yes, I think I shall call upon him," I said reflectively, as if I had
not quite made up my mind. "Surely to see him once more could do no
harm? Good heavens! what an extraordinary fellow he is! Fancy you or I
being afraid of any other man as we are afraid of him, for mind you, I
know that you stand quite as much in awe of him as I do. Why, do you
know when my eyes fell upon him this afternoon I felt a return of the
old dread his presence used to cause in me five years ago! The effect he
had upon Miss Trevor was also very singular, when you come to think of
it."
"By the way, Hatteras, talking of Miss Trevor, what an awfully nice girl
she is. I don't know when I have ever met a nicer. Who is she?"
"She is the daughter of the Dean of Bedminster," I answered; "a splendid
old fellow."
"I like his daughter," the Duke remarked. "Yes, I must say that I like
her very much."
I was glad to hear this, for I had my own little dreams, and my wife,
who, by the way, is a born matchmaker, had long ago come to a similar
conclusion.
"She is a very nice girl," I replied, "and what is more, she is as good
as she is nice." Then I continued, "He will be indeed a lucky man who
wins Gertrude Trevor for his wife. And now, since our cigars are
finished, what do you say to bed? It is growing late, and I expect you
are tired after your journey."
"I am quite ready," he answered. "I shall sleep like a top. I only hope
and pray that I shall not dream of Nikola."