It was a severe night of early winter,--one of those stormy intervals in
which Italy seems to assume all the rigors of some northern land, with
an impetuosity derived from her own more excitable latitude. The rain
beat against the windows with distinct and separate plashes, and the
wind rattled and shook the strong walls with a violence that seemed
irresistible.
In a large old room of a very old palace at Lucca, Alfred Layton walked
to and fro, stopping every now and then to listen to some heightened
effort of the gale without, and then resuming his lonely saunter. There
were two large and richly ornamented fireplaces, and in one of them a
small fire was burning, and close to this stood a table with a shaded
lamp, and by these frail lights a little brightness was shed over this
portion of the vast chamber, while the remainder was shrouded in deep
shadow. As the fitful flashes of the wood-fire shone from time to time
on the walls, little glimpses might be caught of a much-faded tapestry,
representing some scenes from the “Æneid;” but on none of these did
Layton turn an eye nor bestow a thought, for he was deep in sorrowful
reflections of his own,--cares too heavy to admit of any passing
distraction. He was alone, for Agincourt had gone to spend the day at
the “Caprini,” whither Alfred would have accompanied him but for a
letter which the morning's post had brought to his hands, and whose
contents had overwhelmed him with sorrow.
It was from his mother, written from a sick-bed, and in a hand that
betokened the most extreme debility. And oh! what intense expression
there is in these weak and wavering lines, wherein the letters seemed to
vibrate still with the tremulous motion of the fevered fingers!--what a
deep significance do we attach to every word thus written! till at
length, possessed of every syllable and every stop, we conjure up the
scene where all was written, and feel as though we heard the hurried
breathing of the sick-room. She had put off writing week after week, but
now could defer no longer. It was upwards of two months since his father
had left her to go to Dublin, and, from the day he went, she had never
heard from him. A paragraph, however, in a morning paper, though not
giving his name, unmistakably alluded to him as one who had grievously
fallen from the high and honorable station he had once occupied, and
spoke of the lamentable reverse that should show such a man in the dock
of a police-court on the charge of insulting and libelling a public
character in a ribald handbill. The prisoner was so hopelessly sunk in
drunkenness, it added, that he was removed from the court, and the
examination postponed.
By selling one by one the little articles of furniture she had, she
contrived, hitherto, to eke out a wretched support, and it was only when
at last these miserable resources had utterly failed her that she was
driven to grieve her son with her sad story. Nor was the least touching
part of her troubles that in which she spoke of her straits to avoid
being considered an object of charity by her neighbors. The very fact of
the rector having overpaid for a few books he had purchased made her
discontinue to send him others, so sensitive had misery made her. And
yet, strangely enough, there did not exist the same repugnance to accept
of little favors and trifling kindnesses from the poor people about her,
of whom she spoke with a deep and affectionate gratitude. Her whole
heart was, however, full of one thought and one hope,--to see her dear
son before she died. It was a last wish, and she felt as though
indulging it had given her the energy which had prolonged her life.
Doubts would cross her mind from time to time if it were possible for
him to come; if he could be so far his own master as to be able to
hasten to her; and even if doing so, he could be yet in time; but all
these would give way before the strength of her hope.
“That I should see you beside my bed,--that you should hold my hand as I
go hence,--will be happiness enough to requite me for much sorrow!”
wrote she. “But if this may not be, and that we are to meet no more
here, never forget that in my last prayer your name was mingled, and
that when I entreated forgiveness for myself, I implored a blessing for
_you!_”
“That letter was written on the Monday before; and where had he been on
that same Monday evening?” asked he of himself. “How had he been
occupied in those same hours when she was writing this? Yes, that
evening he was seated beside May Leslie at the piano, while she played
and sang for him. They had been talking of German songwriters, and she
was recalling here and there such snatches of Uhland and Schiller as she
could remember; while Clara, leaning over the back of his chair, was
muttering the words when May forgot them, and in an accent the purest
and truest. What a happy hour was that to _him!_ and to _her_ how
wretched, how inexpressibly wretched, as, alone and friendless, she
wrote those faint lines!”
Poor Layton felt very bitterly the thought that, while he was living in
an easy enjoyment of life, his mother, whom he loved dearly, should be
in deep want and suffering.
In the easy carelessness of a disposition inherited from his father, he
had latterly been spending money far too freely. His constant visits to
Marlia required a horse, and then, with all a poor man's dread to be
thought poor, he was ten times more liberal to servants than was called
for, and even too ready to join in whatever involved cost or expense.
Latterly, too, he had lost at play; small sums, to be sure, but they
were the small sums of a small exchequer, and they occurred every day,
for at the game of pool poor Layton's ball was always the first on the
retired list; and the terrible Mr. O'Shea, who observed a sort of
reserve with Charles Heathcote, made no scruple of employing sharp
practice with the tutor.
He emptied the contents of his purse on the table, and found that all
his worldly wealth was a trifle over fifteen pounds, and of this he was
indebted to Charles Heathcote some three or four,--the losses of his
last evening at the “Caprini.” What was to be done? A journey to Ireland
would cost fully the double of all he possessed, not to say that, once
there, he would require means. So little was he given to habits of
personal indulgence, that he had nothing--absolutely nothing--to dispose
of save his watch, and that was of little value; a few books, indeed, he
possessed, but their worth, even if he could obtain it, would have been
of no service. With these embarrassing thoughts of his poverty came also
others, scarcely less fraught with difficulty. How should he relieve
himself of his charge of Lord Agincourt? There would be no time to write
to his guardians and receive their reply. He could not leave the boy in
Italy; nor dare he, without the consent of his relatives, take him back
to England. How to meet these difficulties he knew not, and time was
pressing,--every hour of moment to him. Was there one, even one, whose
counsel he could ask, or whose assistance he could bespeak? He ran over
the names of those around him, but against each, in turn, some
insuperable objection presented itself. There possibly had been a time
he might have had recourse to Sir William, frankly owning how he was
circumstanced, and bespeaking his aid for the moment; but of late the
old Baronet's manner towards him had been more cold and reserved than at
first,--studiously courteous, it is true, but a courtesy that excluded
intimacy. As to Charles, they had never been really friendly together,
and yet there was a familiarity between them that made a better
understanding more remote than ever.
While he revolved all these troubles in his head, he walked up and down
his room with the feverish impatience of one to whom rest was torture.
At last, even the house seemed too narrow for his restless spirit, and,
taking his hat, he went out, careless of the swooping rain, nor mindful
of the cold and cutting wind as it swept down from the last spur of the
Apennines. As the chill rain drenched him, there seemed almost a sense
of relief in the substitution of a bodily suffering to the fever that
burned in his brain, and seeking out the bleakest part of the old
ramparts, he stood breasting the storm, which had now increased to a
perfect hurricane.
“The rain cannot beat upon one more friendless and forlorn,” muttered
he, as he stood shivering there; the strange fascination of misery
suggesting a sort of bastard heroism to his spirit. “The humblest
peasant in that dreary Campagna has more of sympathy and kindness than I
have. He has those poor as himself and powerless to aid, but willing to
befriend him.” There was ever in his days of depression a fierce revolt
in his nature against the position he occupied in the world. The
acceptance on sufferance, the recognition accorded to his pupil being
his only claim to attention, were painful wounds to a haughty
temperament, and, with the ingenuity of a self-tormentor, he ascribed
every reverse he met in life to his false position. He accepted it, no
doubt, to be able to help those who had made such sacrifices for him,
and yet even in this it was a failure. There lay his poor mother, dying
of very want, in actual destitution, and he could not help--could not
even be with her!
Though his wet clothes, now soaked with half-frozen drift, sent a deadly
chill through him, the fever of his blood rendered him unconscious of
it, and his burning brain seemed to defy the storm, while in the wild
raging of the elements he caught up a sort of excitement that sustained
him. For more than two hours he wandered about in that half-frenzied
state, and at length, benumbed and exhausted, he turned homeward. To his
surprise, he perceived, as he drew near, that the windows were all
alight, and a red glow of a large wood-fire sent its mellow glare across
the street; but greater was his astonishment on entering to see the tall
figure of a man stretched at full length on three chairs before the
fire, fast asleep, a carpet-bag and a travelling-cloak beside him.
Never was Layton less disposed to see a stranger and play the host to
any one, and he shook the sleeper's shoulder in a fashion that speedily
awoke him; who, starting up with a bound, cried out, “Well, Britisher, I
must say this is a kinder droll way to welcome a friend.”
“Oh, Colonel, is it you?” said Layton. “Pray forgive my rudeness. But
coming in as I did, without expecting any one, wet and somewhat tired--”
He stopped and looked vacantly about him, as though not clearly
remembering where he was.
Quackinboss had, however, been keenly examining him while he spoke, and
marked in his wildly excited eyes and flushed cheeks the signs of some
high excitement “You ain't noways right; you 're wet through and cold,
besides,” said he, taking his hand in both his own. “Do you feel ill?”
“Yes; that is--I feel as if--I--had--lost my way,” muttered he, with
long pauses between the words.
“There 's nothing like bed and a sound sleep for that,” said the other,
gently; while, taking Layton's arm, he led him quietly along towards the
half-open door of his bedroom. Passively surrendering himself to the
other's care, Alfred made no resistance to all he dictated, and,
removing his dripping clothes, he got into bed.
“It is here the most pain is now,” said he, placing his palm on his
temple,--“here, and inside my head.”
“I wish I could talk to that servant of yours; he don't seem a very
bright sort of creetur, but I could make him of use.” With this muttered
remark, Quackinboss walked back into the sitting-room, where Layton's
man was now extinguishing the lights and the fire. “You have to keep
that fire in, I say--fire--great fire--hot water. Understand me?”
“'Strissimo! si,” said the Tuscan, bowing courteously.
“Well, then, do you fetch some lemons--lemons. You know lemons, don't
you?”
A shrug was the unhappy reply.
“Lemong--lemong! You know _them?_”
“Limoni! oh si.” And he made the sign of squeezing them; and then,
hastening out of the room, he speedily reappeared with lemons and other
necessaries to concoct a drink.
“That's it,--bravo, that's it! Brew it right hot, my worthy fellow,”
said Quackinboss, with a gesture that implied the water was to be boiled
immediately. He now returned to Layton, whom he found sitting up in the
bed, talking rapidly to himself, but with all the distinctness of one
perfectly collected.
“By Marseilles I could reach Paris on Tuesday night, and London on
Wednesday. Isn't there a daily packet for Genoa?” asked he, as
Quackinboss entered.
“Well, I guess there's more than 's good of 'em,” drawled out the other;
“ill-found, ill-manned, dirty craft as ever I put foot in!”
“Yes, but they leave every day, don't they?” asked Layton, impatiently.
“I ain't posted up in their doin's, nor I don't want to, that's a fact.
We went ashore with a calm sea and a full moon, coming up from Civita-
Vecchia--”
Layton burst into a laugh at the strange pronunciation,--a wild,
unearthly sort of laugh that ended in a low, faint sigh, after which he
lay back like one exhausted.
“I 'm a-goin' to take a little blood from you, I am!” said Quackinboss,
producing a lancet which, from its shape and size, seemed more
conversant with horse than human practice.
“I 'll not be bled! How am I to travel a journey of seven, eight, or ten
days and nights, if I 'm bled?” cried the sick man, angrily.
“I 've got to bleed you, and I 'll do it!” said Quackinboss, as, taking
ont his handkerchief, he tore a long strip, like a ribbon, from its
border.
“Francesco--Francesco!” screamed out Layton, wildly, “take this man
away; he has no right to be here. I 'll not endure it. Leave me--go--
leave me!” screamed he, angrily.
There was that peculiar something about the look of Quackinboss that
assured Francesco it would be as well not to meddle with him; and, like
all his countrymen, he was quick to read an expression and profit by his
knowledge. Even to the sick man, too, did the influence extend, and the
determinate, purpose-like tone of his manner enforced obedience without
even an effort.
“I was mystery-man for three years among the Choctaws,” said he, as he
bound up Layton's arm, “and I 'll yield to no one livin' how to treat a
swamp fever, and that's exactly what you 've got.” While the blood
trickled from the open vein he continued to talk on in the same strain.
“I 've seen a red man anoint hisself all over with oil, and set fire to
it, and then another stood by with a great blanket to wrap him up afore
he was more than singed, and it always succeeded in stoppin' the fever.
It brought it out to the surface like. Howsomever, it's only an Indian's
fixin', and I don't like it with a white man. How d' ye feel now,--
better?”
A muttering, dissatisfied sound, but half articulate, seemed to say, “No
better.”
“It ain't to be expected yet,” said Quackinboss. “Lie down, and be quiet
a bit.”
Although the first effect of the bleeding seemed to calm the sufferer
and arrest his fever, the symptoms of the malady came back in full force
afterwards, and, ere day broke, he was raving wildly. At one moment he
fancied he was at work in the laboratory with his father, and he ran
over great calculations of mental arithmetic with a marvellous
volubility; then he was back in his chambers at Trinity, but he could
not find his books; they were gone--lost--no, not lost, he suddenly
remembered that he had sold them--sold them to send a pittance to his
poor sick mother. “It's a sad story, every part of it,” whispered he in
Quackinboss's ear, while he clutched him closely with his hands. “It was
a great man was lost, mark you; and in a great shipwreck even the
fragments of the wreck work sad destruction, and, of course, none will
say a word for him. But remember, sir, I am his son, and will not hear a
syllable against him, from you nor any other.” From this he abruptly
broke off to speak of O'Shea, and his late altercation with him. “I
waited at home all the morning for him, and at last got a note to say
that he had forgotten to tell me of an appointment he had made to ride
out with Miss Leslie, but he 'll be punctual to the hour to-morrow. So
it's better as it is, Colonel, for you 'll be here, and can act as my
friend,--won't you? Your countrymen understand all these sort of things
so well. And then, if I be called away suddenly to England, don't tell
them,” whispered he, mysteriously,--“don't tell them at the villa
whither I 've gone. They know nothing of me nor of my family; never
heard of my ruined father, nor my poor, sick, destitute mother, dying of
actual want,--think of that,--while I was playing the man of fortune
here, affecting every extravagance,--yes, it was you yourself said so; I
overheard you in the garden, asking why or how was it, with such ample
means, I would become a tutor.”
It was not alone that these words were uttered in a calm and collected
tone, but they actually recalled to the American a remark he had once
made about Layton. “Well,” said he, as if some apology was called for,
“it warn't any business of mine, but I was sorry to see it.”
“But you didn't know--you couldn't know,” cried the other, eagerly,
“that I had no choice; my health was breaking. I had overworked my head;
I could n't go on. Have you ever tried what it is to read ten hours a
day? Answer me that.”
“No; but I've been afoot sixteen out of the twenty-four for weeks
together, on an Indian trail; and that's considerable worse, I take it.”
“Who cares for mere fatigue of body?” said Layton, contemptuously.
“And who says it's mere fatigue of body?” rejoined the other, “when
every sense a man has is strained and stretched to breakin', his ear to
the earth, and his eyes rangin' over the swell of the prairies, till his
brain aches with the strong effort; for, mark ye, Choctaws isn't
Pawnees: they 're on you with a swoop, just like a white squall in the
summer time.” There is no saying how far Quackinboss, notwithstanding
all his boasted skill in physic, might have been tempted to talk on
about a theme he loved so well, when he was suddenly admonished, by the
expression of Layton's face, that the sick man was utterly unconscious
of all around him. The countenance had assumed that peculiar stern and
stolid gaze which is so markedly the characteristic of an affected
brain.
“There,” muttered Quackinboss to himself, “I 've been a-talkin' all this
time to a poor creetur as is ravin' mad; all I 've been doin' is to make
him worse.”