In the night of the seven-hill’d city, disrobed, and uncrown’d,
and undone,
Thou moanest, O Rizpah, Madonna, and countest the hones of
thy son.
The bier is vacant above thee, His corpse is no longer thereon,
A wind came out of the dark, and he fell as a leaf, and is gone!
They have taken thy crown, O Rizpah, and driven thee forth
with the swine,
But the bones of thy Son they have left thee--yea, wash them
with tears--they are thine!
Thou moanest an old incantation, thou troublest earth with thy
cries....
Ah, God, if the bones should hear thee, and join once again,
and arise!--_Home: a Poem._
As the days passed, Bradley found his state of suspense and anxiety
intolerable. Day after day he had hoped to hear from Alma, until at
length disappointment culminated in despair.
He then determined he should know with certainty what had become of her,
and resolved to go to Milan.
What he had seen at the _séance_ had impressed him more than he would
admit to himself. He could not believe that any evil had happened--he
would not believe it without the most positive evidence of the fact. So
he said to himself one hour, and the next his heart grew sick with an
uncontrollable dread; and he refused to hope that the revelation of the
_séance_ was a delusion.
He left his home and proceeded to the station in the former mood, but
the train had hardly moved from the platform when his despair seized
him, and if he could he would have relinquished the journey. Alternating
thus between hope and despair, he travelled without a break, and in due
course he reached Milan.
His inquiries about Alma were promptly answered.
The beautiful and wealthy English lady was well known. She had, until
quite recently, been the occupant of a splendid suite of apartments in
the best quarter of the city; but she had gone.
Bradley heard all this, and almost savagely he repeated after his
informant, an old Italian waiter who spoke English well, the word
‘Gone!’
‘Gone where?’ he demanded. ‘You must know where she has gone to?’
‘Yes, Signor; she has gone to Rome!’
‘To Rome! And her address there is----?’
‘That I do not know, Signor.’
‘Have me taken to the house she occupied when here,’ Bradley ordered;
and he was driven to the house Alma had dwelt in.
There also he failed to learn Alina’s address. All that was known was
that she had gone to Rome; that her departure had been sudden, and that
she had said she would not return to Milan.
Dismissing the carriage that had brought him, he walked back to his
hotel.
It was night; the cool breeze from the Alps was delightfully refreshing
after the sultry heat of the day; the moon was full and the fair old
city was looking its fairest, but these things Bradley heeded not.
Outward beauty he could not see, for all his mind and soul was dark--the
ancient palaces, the glorious Cathedral, the splendid Carrara marble
statue of Leonardo, and the bronze one of Cavour, were passed unnoticed
and uncared for. One thing only was in his mind--to get to Rome to find
Alma. One thing was certain: she had left Milan in good health, and must
surely be safe still.
‘Ah!’ he said to himself, ‘when did she leave Milan? Fool that I am,
not to have learned,’ and, almost running, he returned to the house and
inquired.
He was disappointed with the information he received. Alma had left
Milan some time before the _séance_ in London had been held.
Entering a restaurant, he found that he could get a train to Tome at
midnight. He returned to his hotel, ate a morsel of food, drank some
wine, and then went to the railway station.
It was early morning when he entered the Eternal City, and the lack of
stir upon the streets troubled and depressed him. It accentuated the
difference between his present visit and the last he had made, and he
cried in his heart most bitterly that the burden of his sorrow was too
great.
He was about to tell the driver of the fiacre to take him to his old
quarters on the Piazza di Spagna, when he changed his mind. If he went
there he would be in the midst of his countrymen, and in his then mood
the last being he wished to see was an Englishman. So he asked the
driver to take him to any quiet and good boarding-house he knew, and was
taken to one in the Piazza Sta. Maria in Monti.
In the course of the day he went out to learn what he could of Alma.
He met several acquaintances, but they had neither seen nor heard of
her; indeed, they were not in her circle, and though they had seen or
heard of her, they would hardly have remembered. Bradley well knew the
families Alma would be likely to visit, but he shrank from inquiring at
their houses; he went to the doors of several and turned away without
asking to be admitted.
By-and-by he went into the Caffé Nuovo, and eagerly scanned the papers,
but found no mention of Alma in them. A small knot of young Englishmen
and Americans sat near to him, and he thought at last that he caught the
name of Miss Craik mentioned in their conversation.
He listened with painful attention, and found that they were speaking of
some one the Jesuits had ‘hooked,’ as they put it.
‘And, by Jove, it was a haul!’ one young fellow said. ‘Any amount of
cash, I am told.’
‘That is so,’ replied one of his comrades; and the girl is wonderfully
beautiful, they say.’
Bradley started at this, and listened more intently than before.
‘Yes,’ the first speaker said, ‘she is beautiful. I had her pointed
out to me in Milan, and I thought her the best-looking woman I had ever
seen.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Bradley, stepping up to the speakers. ‘I--I would like
to know the name of the lady you refer to.’
‘Oh, certainly; her name is Miss Alma Craik.’
‘Alma living!’ Bradley shrieked, and staggered, like one in drink, out
of the caffé.
Dazed and half maddened, he found his way to the lodging. He locked the
door of his room and paced the floor, now clenching his hands together,
then holding his forehead in them as if to still its bounding pain.
‘Taken by the Jesuits!’ he muttered.
‘Then she is dead indeed--ay, worse than dead!’
He paused at length at the window and looked out. The next instant he
sprang back with a look of utter horror on his face.
‘What if she is over _there!_’ he gasped, and sank into a chair.
By over there he meant the convent of the Farnesiani nus. From the
window he could see down the _cul-de-sac_ that led to the convent. He
knew the place well; he knew it to be well deserving of its name, the
Living Tomb, and that of its inmates it was said ‘they daily die and dig
their own graves.’
If Alma was indeed in there, then she was lost.
Bradley shook off as far as he could his feeling of helplessness and
hopelessness, and with frenzied haste he rose from the chair, left the
house, and went over towards the convent.
He knew that the only way to communicate with the inmates was to mount
to a platform above the walls of the houses, and to rap on a barrel
projecting from the platform. He had once been there and had been
admitted. He forgot that then he had proper credentials, and that now he
had none.
He was soon on the platform, and not only rapped, but thundered on the
barrel.
A muffled voice from the interior demanded his business.
His reply was whether an Englishwoman named Craik was within the
convent. To that question he had no answer, and the voice within did not
speak again.
He stayed long and repeated his question again and again in the hope of
obtaining an answer, and only left when he had attracted attention, and
was invited by the police to desist.
What was to be done? he asked himself as he stood in the street. Do
something he must, but what?
‘I have it!’ he said. ‘I will go to the Jesuit head-quarters and demand
to be informed;’ and putting his resolve into action he walked thither.
He was courteously received, and asked his business.
‘My business is a painful one,’ Bradley began. ‘I wish to know if an
English lady named Craik has joined your church?’
‘She did return to the true faith,’ replied the priest, raising his
eyes to heaven, ‘and for her return the Holy Virgin and the Saints be
praised!’
‘And _now_--where is she _now?_’
With painful expectancy he waited for the priest to answer.
‘Now! now, Signor, she is _dead!_’ was the reply.
Bradley heard, and fell prone upon the floor.
On recovering from his swoon, Bradley found himself surrounded by
several priests, one of whom was sprinkling his face with water, while
another was beating the palms of his hands. Pale and trembling, he
struggled to his feet, and gazed wildly around him, until his eyes
fell upon the face of the aged official whom he had just accosted. He
endeavoured to question him again, but the little Italian at his command
seemed to have forsaken him, and he stammered and gasped in a kind of
stupefaction.
At this moment he heard a voice accost him in excellent English; a
softly musical voice, full of beautiful vibrations.
‘I am sorry, sir, at your indisposition. If you will permit me, I will
conduct you back to your hotel.’
The speaker, like his companions, had the clean-shaven face of a priest,
but his expression was bright and good-humoured. His eyebrows were black
and prominent, but his hair was white as snow.
Bradley clutched him by the arm.
‘What--what does it mean? I must have been dreaming. I came here to
inquire after a dear friend--a lady; and that man told me--told me----’
‘Pray calm yourself,’ said the stranger gently. ‘First let me take you
home, and then I myself will give you whatever information you desire.’
‘No!’ cried Bradley, ‘I will have the truth _now!_’
And as he faced the group of priests his eyes flashed and his hands
were clenched convulsively. To his distracted gaze they seemed like evil
spirits congregated for his torture and torment.
‘What is it you desire to know?’ demanded he who had spoken in English.
As he spoke he glanced quietly at his companions, with a significant
movement of the eyebrows; and, as if understanding the sign, they
withdrew from the apartment, leaving himself and Bradley quite alone.
‘Pray sit down,’ he continued gently, before Bradley could answer his
former question.
But the other paid no attention to the request.
‘Do not trifle with me,’ he cried, ‘but tell me at once what I demand
to know. I have been to the convent, seeking one who is said to have
recently joined your church--which God forbid! When I mentioned her name
I received no answer; but it is common gossip that a lady bearing her
name was recently taken there. You can tell me if this is true.’
The priest looked at him steadfastly, and, as it seemed, very sadly.
‘Will you tell me the lady’s name?’
‘She is known as Miss Alma Craik, but she has a right to another name,
which she shall bear.’
‘Alas!’ said the other, with a deep sigh and a look full of infinite
compassion, ‘I knew the poor lady well. Perhaps, if you have been in
correspondence with her, she mentioned my name--the Abbé Brest?’
‘Never,’ exclaimed Bradley.
‘What is it you wish to know concerning her? I will help you as well as
I can.’
‘First, I wish to be assured that that man lied (though of course I
_know_ he lied) when he said that evil had happened to her, that--that
she had died. Next, I demand to know where she is, that I may speak to
her. Do not attempt to keep her from me! I _will_ see her!’ The face of
the Abbé seemed to harden, while his eyes retained their sad, steadfast
gaze.
‘Pardon me,’ he said after a moment’s reflection, ‘and do not think
that I put the question in rudeness or with any want of brotherly
sympathy--but by what right do you, a stranger, solicit this
information? If I give it you, I must be able to justify myself before
my superiors. The lady, or, as I should rather say, our poor Sister, is,
as I understand, in no way related to you by blood?’
‘She is my _wife!_’ answered Bradley.
It was now the other’s turn to express, or at least assume,
astonishment. Uttering an incredulous exclamation, he raised his eyes to
heaven, and slightly elevated his hands.
‘Do you think I lie?’ cried Bradley sternly. ‘Do you think I lie, like
those of your church, whose trade it is to do so? I tell you I have come
here to claim her who is my wife, by the laws of man and God!’
Again the Abbé repeated his pantomime expressive of pitiful incredulity.
‘Surely you deceive yourself,’ he said. ‘Miss Craik was never married.
She lived unmated, and in blessed virginity was baptised into our
church.’
‘Where is she? Let me speak to her!’ cried Bradley, with a sudden access
of his old passion.
The Abbé pointed upward.
‘She is with the saints of heaven!’ he said, and crossed himself.
Again the unfortunate clergyman’s head went round, and again he seemed
about to fall; but recovering himself with a shuddering effort, he
clutched the priest by the arm, exclaiming--
‘Torture me no more! You are juggling with my life, as you have done
with hers. But tell me it is all false, and I will forgive you. Though
you are a priest, you have at least the heart of a man. Have pity! If
what you have said is true, I am destroyed body and soul--yes, body and
soul! Have mercy upon me! Tell me my darling is not dead!’
The Abbe’s face went white as death, and at the same moment his lustrous
eyes seemed to fill with tears. Trembling violently, he took Bradley’s
hand, and pressed it tenderly. Then releasing him, he glanced upward and
turned towards the door of the chamber.
‘Stay here till I return,’ he said in a low voice, and disappeared.
Half swooning, Bradley sank into a chair, covering his face with his
hands. A quarter of an hour passed, and he still remained in the same
position. Tears streamed from his eyes, and from time to time he moaned
aloud in complete despair. Suddenly he felt a touch upon his shoulder,
and looking up he again encountered the compassionate eyes of the Abbé
Brest.
‘Come with me!’ the Abbé said.
Bradley was too lost in his own wild fears and horrible conjectures to
take any particular note of the manner of the priest. Had he done so,
he would have perceived that it betrayed no little hesitation and
agitation. But he rose eagerly, though as it were mechanically, and
followed the Abbé to the door.
A minute afterwards they were walking side by side in the open sunshine.
To the bewildered mind of Ambrose Bradley it all seemed like a dream.
The sunlight dazzled his brain so that his eyes could scarcely see,
and he was only conscious of hurrying along through a crowd of living
ghosts.
Suddenly he stopped, tottering.
‘What is the matter?’ cried the Abbé, supporting him. ‘You are ill
again, I fear; let me call a carriage.’
And, suiting the action to the word, he beckoned up a carriage which was
just then passing. By this time Bradley had recovered from his momentary
faintness.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he demanded.
‘Get in, and I will tell you!’ returned the other; and when Bradley had
seated himself, he leant over to the driver and said something in a low
voice.
Bradley repeated his question, while the vehicle moved slowly away.
‘I am going to make inquiries,’ was the reply; ‘and as an assurance
of my sympathy and good faith, I have obtained permission for you to
accompany me. But let me now conjure you to summon all your strength
to bear the inevitable; and let it be your comfort if, as I believe and
fear, something terrible has happened, to know that there is much in
this world sadder far than death.’
‘I ask you once more,’ said Bradley in a broken voice, ‘where are you
taking me?’
‘To those who can set your mind at rest, once and for ever.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The Farnesiani sisters,’ returned the Abbé.
Bradley sank back on his seat stupefied, with a sickening sense of
horror.
The mental strain and agony were growing almost too much for him to
bear. Into that brief day he had concentrated the torture of a lifetime;
and never before had he known with what utterness of despairing passion
he loved the woman whom he indeed held to be, in the sight of God, his
wife. With frenzied self-reproach he blamed himself for all that had
taken place. Had he never consented to an ignoble deception, never gone
through the mockery of a marriage ceremony with Alma, they might still
have been at peace together; legally separated for the time being, but
spiritually joined for ever; pure and sacred for each other, and for all
the world. But _now_--now it seemed that he had lost her, body and soul!
The carriage presently halted, and Bradley saw at a glance that they
were at the corner of the _cul-de-sac_ leading to the convent. They
alighted, and the Abbé paid the driver. A couple of minutes later they
were standing on the platform above the walls of the houses.
All around them the bright sunshine burnt golden over the quivering
roofs of Rome, and the sleepy hum of the Eternal City rolled up to them
like the murmur of a summer sea.
There they stood like two black spots on the aerial brightness; and
again Bradley fell into one of those waking trances which he had of late
so frequently experienced, and which he had frequently compared, in his
calmer moments, to the weird seizures of the young Prince, ‘blue-eyed
and fair of face,’ in the ‘Princess.’
He moved, looked, spoke as usual, showing no outward indication of his
condition; but a mist was upon his mind, and nothing was real; he seemed
rather a disembodied spirit than a man; the Abbe’s voice strange and far
off, though clear and distinct as a bell; and when the Abbé rapped on
the barrel, as he himself had done so recently, the voice that answered
the summons sounded like a voice from the very grave itself.