If I were offered my heart's desire in return for so doing, I could not
tell you how I got home after my interview with Nikola at the Palace
Revecce. I was unconscious of everything save that I had gone to
Nikola's house in the hope of being able to save the life of a man, whom
I had the best of reasons for hating, and that at the last moment I had
turned coward and fled the field. No humiliation could have been more
complete. Nikola had won a victory, and I knew it, and despaired of
retrieving it. On reaching the hotel I was about to disembark from my
gondola, when a voice hailed me from another craft, proceeding in the
direction I had come.
"Dick Hatteras, as I'm a sinner!" it cried. "Don't you know me, Dick?"
I turned to see a face I well remembered smiling at me from the gondola.
I immediately bade my own man put me out into the stream, which he did,
and presently the two gondolas lay side by side. The man who had hailed
me was none other than George Beckworth, a Queensland sugar-planter,
with whom I had been on terms of the most intimate friendship in bygone
days. And as there was a lady seated beside him, I derived the
impression that he had married since I had last seen him.
"This is indeed a surprise," he said, as we shook hands. "By the way,
let me introduce you to my wife, Dick." He said this with all the pride
of a newly-married man. "My dear, this is my old friend, Dick Hatteras,
of whom I have so often spoken to you. What are you doing in Venice,
Dick?"
"I have my wife and some friends travelling with me," I answered. "We
are staying at Galaghetti's hotel yonder. Cannot you and your wife dine
with us to-night?"
"Impossible, I am afraid," he answered. "We sail to-night in the P. and
O. boat. Won't you come and dine with us?"
"That is equally impossible," I replied. "We have friends with us. But I
should like to see something more of you before you go, and if you will
allow me I'll run down after dinner for a chat about old times."
"I shall be delighted," he answered. "Be sure that you do not forget
it."
Having assured him that I would not permit it to escape my memory, I
bade him "good-bye," and then returned to my hotel. A more fortunate
meeting could scarcely have occurred, for now I was furnished with an
excellent excuse for leaving my party, and for being alone for a time.
Once more I felt that I was a coward for not daring to face my
fellow-men. Under the circumstances, however, I knew that it was
impossible. I could no more have spent the evening listening to
Glenbarth's happy laughter than I could have jumped the Grand Canal. For
the time being the society of my fellow-creatures was absolutely
distasteful to me. On ascending to my rooms I discovered my wife and the
Duke in the drawing-room, and was informed by the latter that Miss
Trevor had again been compelled to retire to her room with a severe
headache.
"In that case I am afraid you will only be a small party for dinner," I
said. "I am going to ask you to excuse me. You have often heard me
speak, my dear, of George Beckworth, the Queensland sugar-planter, with
whom I used to be on such friendly terms in the old days?"
My wife admitted that she remembered hearing me speak of the gentleman
in question.
"Well, he is in Venice," I replied, "and he sails to-night by the P. and
O. boat for Colombo. As it is the last time I shall be likely to see
him for many years, I feel sure you will not mind my accepting his
invitation?"
"Of course not, if the Duke will excuse you," she said, and, when the
question was put to him, Glenbarth willingly consented to do so.
I accordingly went to my room to make my toilet. Then, having bade my
wife "good-bye," I chartered a gondola and ordered the man to row me to
the piazza of Saint Mark. Thence I set off for a walk through the city,
caring little in which way I went. It was growing dark by this time, and
I knew there was little chance of my being recognized, or of my
recognizing any one else. All the time, however, my memory was haunted
by the recollection of that room at the Palace Revecce, and of what was
in all probability going on in it. My gorge rose at the idea--all my
manhood revolted from it. A loathing of Nikola, such as I had never
known before, was succeeded by a deathly chill, as I realized how
impotent I was to avert the catastrophe. What could I do? To have
attempted to stay him in his course would have been worse than useless,
while to have appealed to the Authorities would only have had the effect
of putting myself in direct opposition to him, and who knew what would
happen then? I looked at it from another point of view. Why should I be
so anxious to interfere on the wretched Spaniard's behalf? I had seen
his murderous intention on the morning of the frustrated duel; I had
heard from Nikola of the assassination of those unfortunate lads in
Equinata; moreover, I was well aware that he was a thief, and also a
traitor to his country. Why should he not be punished as he deserved,
and why should not Nikola be his executioner? I endeavoured to convince
myself that this was only fit and proper retribution, but this argument
was no more successful than the last had been.
Arguing in this way I walked on and on, turning to right or left, just
as the fancy took me. Presently I found myself in a portion of the town
into which I had never hitherto penetrated. At the moment of which I am
about to write, I was standing in a narrow lane, paved with large
stones, having high dismal houses on either hand. Suddenly an old man
turned the corner and approached me. As he passed, I saw his face, and
recognized an individual to whom Nikola had spoken in the little church
on that memorable evening when he had taken us on a tour of inspection
through the city. He was visibly agitated, and was moreover in hot
haste. For some reason that I cannot explain, nor, I suppose, shall I
ever be able to do so, an intense desire to follow him took possession
of me. It must have been more than a desire, for I felt that I must go
with him whether I wished to or not. I accordingly dived into the house
after him, and followed him along the passage and up the rickety flight
of stairs that ascended from it. Having attained one floor we continued
our ascent; the sounds of voices reached us from the different rooms,
but we saw no one. On the second landing the old man paused before a
door, opened it very softly, and entered. I followed him, and looked
about me. It was a pathetic scene that met my eyes. The room was a poor
one, and scantily furnished. A rough table and a narrow bed were its
only furniture. On the latter a young man was lying, and kneeling on the
floor beside him, holding the thin hands in his own, was no less a
person than Doctor Nikola himself. I saw that he was aware of my
presence, but he took no more notice of me than if I had not existed.
"You called me too late, my poor Antonio," he said, addressing the old
man I had followed. "Nothing can save him now. He was dying when I
arrived."
On hearing this the old man fell on his knees beside the bed and burst
into a flood of weeping. Nikola placed his hand with a kindly gesture
upon the other's shoulder, and at the moment that he did so the man upon
the bed expired.
"Do not grieve for him, my friend," said Nikola. "Believe me, it was
hopeless from the first. He is better as it is."
Then, with all the gentleness of a woman, he proceeded to comfort the
old man, whose only son lay dead upon the bed. I knew no more of the
story than what I had seen, nor have I heard more of it since, but I had
been permitted to see another side of his character, and one which, in
the light of existing circumstances, was not to be denied. He had
scarcely finished his kindly offices before there was a heavy step
outside, and a black-browed priest entered the room. He looked from
Nikola to myself, and then at the dead man upon the bed.
"Farewell, my good Antonio," said Nikola. "Have no fear. Remember that
your future is my care."
Then, having said something in an undertone to the priest, he placed his
hand upon my arm and led me from the room. When we had left them he
murmured in a voice not unlike that in which he had addressed the old
man, "Hatteras, this is another lesson. Is it so difficult to learn?"
I do not pretend that I made any answer. We passed down the stairs
together, and, when we reached the street, stood for a moment at the
house-door.
"You will not be able to understand me," he said; "nevertheless, I tell
you that the end is brought nearer by that one scene. It will not be
long before it comes now. All things considered, I do not know that I
shall regret it."
Then, without another word, he strode away into the darkness, leaving me
to place what construction I pleased upon his last speech. For some
moments I stood where he had left me, pondering over his words, and then
set off in the direction I had come. As may be imagined, I felt even
less inclined than before for the happy, jovial party I knew I should
find on board the steamer, but I had given my promise, and could not get
out of it. When I reached the piazza of St. Mark once more I went to the
steps and hailed a gondola, telling the man to take me to the P. and O.
vessel then lying at anchor in the harbour. He did so, and I made my way
up the accommodation-ladder to the deck above, to find that the
passengers in the first saloon had just finished their dinner, and were
making their appearance on the promenade deck. I inquired of the steward
for Mr. Beckworth, and discovered him in the act of lighting a cigar at
the smoking-room door.
He greeted me effusively, and begged me to remain where I was while he
went in search of his wife. When she arrived, I found her to be a pretty
little woman, with big brown eyes, and a sympathetic manner. She was
good enough to say that she had heard such a lot concerning me from her
husband, and had always looked forward to making my acquaintance. I
accepted a cigar from Beckworth's case, and we then adjourned to the
smoking-room for a long talk together. When we had comfortably installed
ourselves, my friend's flow of conversation commenced, and I was made
aware of all the principal events that had occurred in Queensland since
my departure, was favoured with his opinion of England, which he had
never before visited, and was furnished with the details as to how he
had met his wife, and of the happy event with which their courtship had
been concluded.
"Altogether," he said, "taking one thing with another, I don't know that
you'd be able to find a much happier fellow in the world than I am at
this moment."
I said I was glad to hear it, and as I did so contrasted his breezy,
happy-go-lucky manner with those of certain other people I had been
brought in contact with that day. My interview with him must have done
me good, for I stayed on, and the hour was consequently late when I left
the ship. Indeed, it wanted only a few minutes of eleven o'clock as I
went down the accommodation-ladder to the gondola, which I had ordered
to come for me at ten.
"Galaghetti's hotel," I said to the man, "and as quickly as you can."
When I had bade my friends "good-bye" and left the ship, I felt
comparatively cheerful, but no sooner had the silence of Venice closed
in upon me again than all my old despondency returned to me. A
foreboding of coming misfortune settled upon me, and do what I would I
could not shake it off.
When I reached the hotel I found that my party had retired to rest. My
wife was sleeping quietly, and not feeling inclined for bed, and
dreading lest if I did go I might be assailed by more dreams of a
similar description to that I had had on the previous night, I resolved
to go back to the drawing-room and read there for a time. This plan I
carried into execution, and taking up a new book in which I was very
much interested, seated myself in an easy-chair and determined to peruse
it. I found some difficulty, however, in concentrating my attention upon
it. My thoughts continually reverted to my interview that afternoon with
Nikola, and also to the scene I had witnessed in the poorer quarter
after dark. I suppose eventually I must have fallen asleep, for I
remember nothing else until I awoke to find myself sitting up and
listening to a light step in the corridor outside. I looked at my watch
to discover that the time was exactly a quarter to one. In that case,
as we monopolized the whole of the corridor, who could it be? In order
to find out I went to the door, and softly opened it. A dim light was
always left in the passage throughout the night, and by it I was able to
see a tall and graceful figure, which I instantly recognized, making for
the secondary stairs at the further end. Now these stairs, so I had been
given to understand, led to another portion of the hotel into which I
had never penetrated. Why, therefore, Miss Trevor was using them at such
an hour, and, above all, dressed for going out, I could not for the life
of me determine. I could see that, if I was anxious to find out, I must
be quick; so, turning swiftly into the room again, I picked up my hat
and set off in pursuit. As the sequel will prove, it was, perhaps, as
well that I did so.
By the time I reached the top of the stairs she was at the bottom, and
was speeding along another passage to the right. At the end of this was
a door, the fastenings of which she undid, with an ease and assurance
that bewildered me. So certain was she of her whereabouts, and so easily
did she manipulate the heavy door, that I felt inclined to believe that
she must have used that passage many times before. At last she opened it
and passed out into the darkness, drawing it to after her. I had paused
to watch her; now I hastened on even faster than before, fearing that,
if I were not careful, I might lose her outside. Having passed the door
I found myself in a narrow lane, bounded on either side by high walls,
and some fifty or sixty yards in extent. The lane, in its turn, opened
into a small square, out of which led two or three other narrow streets.
She turned to the left and passed down one of these; I followed close
upon her heels. Of all the strange experiences to which our stay in
Venice had given rise, this was certainly one of the most remarkable.
That Gertrude Trevor, the honest English girl, the daughter of a
dignitary of the Church and a prospective bishop, should leave her hotel
in the middle of the night in order to wander about streets with which
she was most imperfectly acquainted, was a mystery I found difficult to
solve. When she had crossed a bridge, which spanned a small canal, she
once more turned to the left, passed along the footway before a
dilapidated palace, and then entered a narrow passage on the right. The
buildings hereabouts were all large, and, as a natural consequence, the
streets were so dark that I had some difficulty in keeping her in sight.
As a matter of fact she had stopped, and I was almost upon her before I
became aware of it. Even then she did not seem to realize my presence.
She was standing before a small door, which she was endeavouring to
push open. At last she succeeded, and without hesitation began to
descend some steps inside. Once more I took up the chase, though where
we were, and what we were going to do there, I had not the least idea.
The small yard in which we found ourselves was stone-paved, and for this
reason I wondered that she did not hear my footsteps. It is certain,
however, that she did not, for she made for a door I could just discern
on the opposite side to that by which we had entered, without turning
her head. It was at this point that I began to wish I had brought a
revolver or some weapon with me. When she was about to open the door I
have just mentioned, I called her softly by name, and implored her to
wait for me, but still she took no notice. Could she be a somnambulist?
I asked myself. But if this were so, why had she chosen this particular
house? Having passed the door we stood in a second and larger courtyard,
and it was then that the whole mystery became apparent to me. _The house
to which I had followed her was the Palace Revecce, and she was on her
way to Nikola!_ But for what reason? Was this a trick of Nikola's, or
had her terrible dreams taken such a hold upon her that she was not
responsible for her actions? Either alternative was bad enough. Pausing
for a moment in the courtyard beside the well, she turned quickly to
her right hand and began to ascend the stairs towards that awful room,
which, so far as I knew, she had never visited before. When she reached
it I scarcely knew how to act. Should I enter behind her and accuse
Nikola of having enticed her there, or should I wait outside and
overhear what transpired between them? At last I made up my mind to
adopt the latter course, and, when she had entered, I accordingly
remained outside and waited for her. Through the half-open door I could
see Nikola, stooping over what looked like a microscope at a side-table.
He looked up as Miss Trevor entered, and uttered a cry of surprise. As I
heard this a sigh of relief escaped me, for his action proved to me that
her visit had not been anticipated.
"Miss Trevor!" he said, moving forward to greet her, "what does this
mean? How did you get here?"
"I have come to you," she faltered, "because I could not remain away. I
have come to you that I may beg of you that wretched man's life. Doctor
Nikola, I implore you to spare him!"
"My dear young lady," said Nikola, with a softness in his voice that
reminded me of that I had heard in the death-chamber a few hours before,
"you cannot understand what you are doing. You must let me take you
back to your friends. You should not be here at this hour of the night."
"But I was bound to come--don't I tell you I could not remain away?
Spare him! Oh! for God's sake, spare him!"
"You do not know what you are asking. You are not yourself to-night."
"I only know that I am thinking of you," she answered. "You must not do
it! You are so great, so powerful, that you can afford to forgive. Take
my life rather than harm him. I will yield it gladly to save you from
this sin."
"To--save--me," I heard him mutter to himself. "She would save me!"
"God would never forgive," she continued, still in the same dreamy
voice.
He moved away from her, and from where I stood I could see how agitated
he was. For some moments she knelt, looking up at him, with arms
outstretched in supplication; then he said something to her in a low
voice, which I could not catch. Her answer, however, was plain to me.
"Yes, I have known it always in my dreams," she said.
"And knowing that, you would still wish me to pardon him?"
[Illustration: "She knelt, with arms outstretched, in supplication."]
"In the name of God I would urge you to do so," she answered. "The
safety of your soul depends upon it."
Once more Nikola turned away and paced the room.
"Are you aware that Sir Richard Hatteras was here on the same errand
this afternoon?" he asked.
"I know it," she replied, though how she could have done so I could not
conceive, nor have I been able to do so since.
"And does he know that you have come to me now asking me to forgive?"
"He knows it," she answered, as before. "He followed me here."
As she had never looked behind her, how had she known this also?
Then Nikola approached the door and threw it open.
"Come in, Hatteras," he said. "Your presence is discovered."
"For heaven's sake, Nikola, tell me what this means," I cried, seeing
that the girl did not turn towards me. "Is she asleep, or have you
brought your diabolical influence upon her?"
"She is not asleep, and yet she is not conscious of her actions," he
answered. "There is something in this that passes our philosophy. Had I
any idea that she contemplated such a thing, I would have used every
effort to prevent it. Miss Trevor, believe me, you must go home with
Sir Richard," he continued, tenderly raising the girl to her feet as he
spoke.
"I cannot go until you have sworn to forgive," was her reply.
"I must have time to think," he answered. "In the morning you will know
everything. Trust me until then, and remember always that while Nikola
lives he will be grateful."
Then he assisted me to conduct her down-stairs, and across the two
courtyards, to the little postern door through which we had entered the
palace.
"Have no fear for her," he said, addressing me. "She will go home as she
came. And in the morning she will remember nothing of what has
transpired."
Then taking her hand in his he raised it to his lips, and a moment later
had bade me farewell, and had vanished into the palace once more.
As I tracked her from the hotel, so I followed her back to it again. I
was none the less anxious, however. If only Nikola would abandon his
purpose, and release his enemy, her action and my anxiety would not be
in vain. But would he do so, and in the event of his doing this, would
his prophecy that Miss Trevor would, in the morning, remember nothing of
what had transpired, prove true?
Turning, twisting as before, we proceeded on our way. My chief fear was
that the door through which we had made our exit would be found to be
shut on our return. Happily, however, this did not prove to be the case.
I saw Miss Trevor enter, and then swiftly followed her. She hastened
down the passage, ascended the stairs, passed along the corridor, and
made her way to her own room. As soon as I had made certain that she was
safely there, I went on to my own dressing-room, and on entering my
wife's apartment had the good fortune to find her still asleep. I was
still more thankful in the morning when I discovered she had not missed
me, and being satisfied on this point, I decided to say nothing
whatsoever concerning our adventure.
Miss Trevor was the last to put in an appearance at breakfast, and, as
you may suppose, I scanned her face with some anxiety. She looked pale
and worn, but it was evident from her manner when she greeted me, that
she had not the least idea what she had done during the night. Nikola's
promise had proved to be true, and for that reason I was more determined
than ever to keep my information to myself. Events could not have turned
out more fortunately for all parties concerned.
Shortly after breakfast a letter was handed to me, and, glancing at the
writing, I saw that it was from Nikola. I was alone at the time of
receiving it, a fact for which I was grateful. I will leave you to
imagine with what impatience I opened it. It was short, and merely
contained a request that I would call at the Palace Revecce before noon
that day, if I could spare the hour. I decided to do so, and I reached
the palace twenty minutes or so before the appointed time. The old
servitor, who by this time had become familiar with my face, opened the
door and permitted me to enter. I inquired if Doctor Nikola were at
home, and to my surprise was informed that he was not.
"Perhaps your Excellency would like to see the other Senor?" the old man
asked, pointing up the stairs.
I was about to decline this invitation with all possible haste, when a
voice I recognized as that of the Don greeted me from the gallery above.
"Won't you come up-stairs, Sir Richard?" it said. "I have a letter for
you, from my friend, Doctor Nikola!"
I could scarcely believe the evidence of my eyes and ears, and when I
reached the room of which I had such terrible recollections, my surprise
was intensified rather than lessened. Martinos had undergone a complete
metamorphosis. In outward appearance he was no longer the same person,
who only the day before had filled me with such terrible repulsions. If
such a thing could be believed, he was more like his old self--as I had
first seen him.
"Where is Doctor Nikola?" I inquired, when I had looked round the room
and noticed the absence of the chemical paraphernalia, the multitude of
books, and the general change in it.
"He went away early this morning," the Don replied. "He left a letter
for you, and requested me to give it you as soon as you should call. I
have much pleasure in doing so now."
I took it and placed it almost mechanically in my pocket.
"Are you aware when he will return?" I asked.
"He will never do so," Martinos replied. "I heard the old man below
wailing this morning, because he had lost the best master he had ever
had."
"And you?"
"I am ruined, as you know," he said, without any reference to his
illness, "but the good doctor has been good enough to place twenty
thousand lira to my credit, and I shall go elsewhere and attempt to
double it."
He must have been much better, for he smiled in the old deceitful way as
he said this. Remembering what I knew of him, I turned from the man in
disgust, and bidding him good-day, left the room which I hoped never to
see again as long as I might live. In the courtyard I encountered the
old caretaker once more.
"So the Senor Nikola has gone away never to return?" I said.
"That is so, Senor," said the old man with a heavy sigh. "He has left me
a rich man, but I do not like to think that I shall never see him
again."
Sitting down upon the edge of the well I took from my pocket the letter
the Don had handed me.
"Farewell, friend Hatteras," it began. "By the time you receive
this I shall have left Venice, never more to set foot in it. We
shall not meet again. I go to the Fate which claims me, and of
which I told you. Think of me sometimes, and, if it be possible,
with kindness,
"NIKOLA."
I rose and moved towards the door, placing a gold piece in the old man's
hand as I passed him. Then, with a last look at the courtyard, I went
down the steps and took my place in the gondola, with a feeling of
sadness in my heart for the sad Destiny of the most wonderful man I had
ever known.