promotion to young L'Estrange, and, indeed, believed he had done so: but
some difficulty has arisen. It is either not his turn, or the Bishop
is troublesome, or the Ecclesiastical Commissioners--if there be such
people--are making objections. If he--I mean L'Estrange--be still
disengaged, would it be wise to offer him the chaplaincy to the embassy?
I mean wise as regards ourselves; but I take it the sister may be still
unmarried, and if she be like what I remember her, a person not easily
suppressed, nor at all indisposed to assume airs of perfect equality,
even with those separated from her by a whole hemisphere of station.
Give me your candid advice on this point, not thinking of _them_, but
of _me_, for though I feel Julia--is not that her name?--would be
insupportable, the parson himself would be very useful, and I think a
comfort to me.
“Of course you will not consult any one upon this matter. It is your
own personal opinion I want, and you will give it to me, knowing me and
my prejudices,--I suppose I had better call them,--and not thinking of
your own leanings and likings for the girl. She may, for aught I know,
have changed. Culduff has some wise saw about acid wines growing dry by
age; I don't know whether young ladies mellow in this fashion, but Julia
was certainly tart enough once to have tested the theory, and might be
the 'Amontillado' of old maids by this time.”
It may be imagined that after a sally of this kind it was not easy for
the writer to recover that semi-moralizing vein in which the letter
opened. Nor did she. The conclusion was abrupt, and merely directed
Nelly to address her next to the Summer Palace at Therapia; “for those
horrid people, our predecessors, have left the embassy house in such
a condition it will take weeks and several thousand pounds to make it
habitable. There must be a vote taken 'in supply' on this. I am writing
Greek to you, poor child; but I mean they must give us money, and, of
course, the discussion will expose us to many impertinences. One writer
declared that he never knew of a debate on the estimates without an
allusion to Lord Culduff's wig. We shall endure this--if not with
patience, without resentment. Love to dear Gusty, and believe me your
affectionate sister,
“Marion Culduff.”
Such were the most striking passages of a long letter which, fortunately
for Nelly, Mr. Cutbill's presence at the breakfast-table rescued her
from the indiscretion of reading aloud. One or two extracts she did
give, but soon saw that the document was one which could not be laid
on the table, nor given without prejudice to the public service. Her
confusion, as she crumpled up the paper, and thrust it back into its
envelope, was quickly remarked, and Mr. Cutbill, with his accustomed
tact, observed, “I'd lay a 'fiver' we 've all of us been led out for a
canter in that epistle. It 's enough to see Miss Ellen's face to know
that she wouldn't read it out for fifty pounds. Eh, what!” cried he,
stooping and rubbing his leg; “I told you to say, 'Stop her, Master
Jack,' when you wanted to take weigh off, but I never said, 'Kick my
shins.'”
This absurd exclamation, and the laugh it provoked, was a lucky
diversion, and they arose from table without another thought on Marion's
epistle.
“Has Nelly shown you Marion's note?” asked Jack, as he strolled with
Julia through the garden.
“No, and it is perhaps the only letter I ever knew her to get without
handing me to read.”
“I suspect, with Cutbill, that we all of us catch it in that pleasant
document.”
“_You_ perhaps are the only one who has escaped.”
“As for me, I am not even remembered. Well, I'll bear even that, if I
can be sure of a little sympathy in another quarter.”
“Master Jack, you ask for too many professions. I have told you already
to-day, and I don't mean to repeat it for a week, that you are not
odious to me.”
“But will you not remember, Julia, the long months of banishment I have
suffered? Will you not bear in mind that if I have lived longingly for
this moment, it is cruel now to dash it with a doubt.”
“But it is exactly what I am not doing! I have given you fully as
much encouragement as is good for you. I have owned--and it is a rash
confession for a girl to make at any time--that I care for you more than
any part of our prospects for the future could warrant, and if I go one
step further there will be nothing for it but for you to buy a bragotza
and turn fisherman, and for me to get a basket and sell pilchards in the
piazza.”
“You need n't taunt me with my poverty, I feel it bitterly enough
already. Nor have you any right to think me unable to win a living.”
“There, again, you wrong me. I only said, Do not, in your impatience to
reach your goal, make it not worth the winning. Don't forget what I told
you about long engagements. A man's share of them is the worst.”
“But you love me, Julia?” said he, drawing her close to him.
“How tiresome you are!” said she, trying to free herself from his arm.
“Let me once--only once--hear you say this, and I swear to you, Julia,
I 'll never tease you more.”
“Well, then if I must--”
More was not spoken, for the lips were pressed by a rapturous kiss, as
he clasped her to his heart, muttering, “My own, my own!”
“I declare there is Nelly,” cried Julia, wresting herself from his
embrace, and starting off; not, however, towards Ellen, but in the
direction of the house.
“Oh, Nelly,” said Jack, rushing towards his sister, “she loves me--she
has said so--she is all my own.”
“Of course she is, Jack. I never doubted it, though I own I scarcely
thought she'd have told it.”
And the brother and sister walked along hand in hand without speaking,
a closer pressure of the fingers at intervals alone revealing how they
followed the same thoughts and lived in the same joys.
CHAPTER LXII. DEALING WITH CUTBILL
“What's to be done with Cutbill?--will any one tell me this?” was the
anxious question Augustus asked as he stood in a group composed of Jack,
Nelly, and the L'Estranges. “As to Sedley meeting him at all, I know
that is out of the question; but the mere fact of finding the man here
will so discredit us in Sedley's eyes that it is more than likely he
will pitch up the whole case and say good-bye to us forever.”
“But can he do that?” asked Julia. “Can he, I mean, permit a matter of
temper or personal feeling to interfere in a dry affair of duty?”
“Of course he can; where his counsels are disregarded and even
counteracted he need not continue his guidance. He is a hot-tempered
man besides, and has more than once shown me that he will not bear
provocation beyond certain limits.”
“I think,” began L'Estrange, “if I were in _your_ place, I'd tell
Cutbill. I'd explain to him how matters stood; and--”
“No, no,” broke in Jack; “that won't do at all. The poor dog is too
hard up for that.”
“Jack is right,” said Nelly, warmly.
“Of course he is, so far as Mr. Cutbill goes,” broke in Julia; “but
we want to do right to every one. Now, how about your brother and his
suit?”
“What if I were to show him this letter,” said Augustus, “to let him
see that Sedley means to be here to-morrow, to remain at farthest three
days; is it not likely Cutbill would himself desire to avoid meeting
him?”
“Not a bit of it,” cried Jack. “It's the thing of all others he 'd glory
in; he 'd be full of all the lively impertinences that he could play off
on the lawyer; and he 'd write a comic song on him--ay, and sing it in
his own presence.”
“Nothing more likely,” said Julia, gravely.
“Then what is to be done? Is there no escape out of the difficulty?”
asked Augustus.
“Yes,” said Nelly, “I think there is. The way I should advise would
be this: I 'd show Mr. Cutbill Sedley's letter, and taking him into
counsel, as it were, on the embarrassment of his own position, I 'd say,
'We must hide you somewhere for these three days.'”
“But he wouldn't see it, Nelly. He'd laugh at your delicate scruples; he
'd say, 'That's the one man in all Europe I 'm dying to meet.'”
“Nelly is quite right, notwithstanding,” said Julia. “There is more
than one side to Mr. Cutbill's nature. He 'd like to be thought a very
punctilious gentleman fully as much as a very jocose companion. Make
him believe that in keeping out of sight here at this moment he will
be exercising a most refined delicacy--doing what nothing short of a
high-bred sensibility would ever have dreamed of,--and you 'll see
he 'll be as delighted with his part as ever he was with his coarse
drollery. And here he comes to test my theory about him.”
As she spoke Cutbill came lounging up the garden walk, too busily
engaged in making a paper cigarette to see those in front of him.
“I'm sure, Mr. Cutbill, that cigarette must be intended for me,” cried
Julia, “seeing all the pains you are bestowing on its manufacture.”
“Ah, Miss Julia, if I could only believe that you'd let me corrupt your
morals to the extent of a pinch of Latakia--”
“Give me Sedley's letter, Gusty,” said Nelly, “and leave the whole
arrangement to me. Mr. Cutbill, will you kindly let me have three
minutes of your company? I want a bit of advice from you.” And she took
his arm as she spoke and led him down the garden. She wasted no time in
preliminaries, but at once came to the point, saying, “We're in what you
would call 'a fix' this morning, Mr. Cutbill: my brother's lawyer, Mr.
Sedley, is coming here most unexpectedly. We know that some unpleasant
passages have occurred between you and that gentleman, making a meeting
between you quite impossible; and in the great difficulty of the moment
I have charged myself with the solution of the embarrassment, and now
begin to see that without your aid I am powerless. Will you help me;
that is, will you advise with or for me?”
“Of course I will; but, first of all, where's the difficulty you speak
of? I 'd no more mind meeting this man--sitting next him at dinner,
if you like--than I would an old creditor--and I have a good many of
them--that I never mean to pay.”
“We never doubted _your_ tact, Mr. Cutbill,” said she, with a strong
emphasis on the pronoun.
“If so, then the matter is easy enough. Tact always serves for two. If
_I_ be the man you take me for, that crabbed old fellow will love me
like a brother before the first day is over.”
“That's not the question, Mr. Cutbill. Your personal powers of
captivation no one disputes, if only they get a fair field for their
exercise; but what we fear is that Mr. Sedley, being the hot-tempered,
hasty man he is, will not give you this chance. My brother has twice
already been on the verge of a rupture with him for having acted on his
own independent judgment. I believe nothing but his regard for poor dear
papa would have made him forgive Augustus; and when I tell you that in
the present critical state of our cause his desertion of us would be
fatal, I am sure you will do anything to avert such a calamity.”
“Let us meet, Miss Ellen; let us dine together once--I only ask
once--and if I don't borrow money from him before he takes his bedroom
candle, you may scratch Tom Cutbill, and put him off 'the course'
forever. What does that impatient shrug of the shoulders mean? Is it as
much as to say, 'What a conceited snob it is!' eh?”
“Oh, Mr. Cutbill, you could n't possibly--”
“Could n't I, though? And don't I know well that I am Just as vain of
my little talents--as your friend, Miss Julia, called them--as you and
others are ready to ridicule them; but the real difference between us
after all is this: _You_ think the world at large is a monstrous
clever creature, with great acuteness, great discrimination, and great
delicacy; and I _know_ it to be a great overgrown bully, mistaking half
it hears, and blundering all it says, so that any one, I don't care
who he is, that will stand out from the crowd in life, think his own
thoughts and guide his own actions, may just do what he pleases with
that unwieldy old monster, making it believe it's the master, all the
while it is a mere slave and a drudge. There's another shrug of the
shoulders. Why not say it out--you're a puppy, Tom Cutbill?”
“First of all it would n't be polite, and secondly--”
“Never mind the secondly. It's quite enough for me to see that I have
not convinced you, nor am I half as clever a fellow as I think myself;
and do you know, you 're the first I ever knew dispute the position.”
“But I do not. I subscribe to it implicitly; my presence here, at this
moment, attests how I believe it. It is exactly because I regard Mr.
Cutbill as the cleverest person I know--the very ablest to extricate one
from a difficulty--that I have come to him this morning.”
“My honor is satisfied!” said he, laying his hand on his heart, and
bowing with a grand seriousness.
“And now,” said Nelly, hurriedly, for her patience had wellnigh given
in, “what's to be done? I have a project of my own, but I don't know
whether you would agree to it.”
“Not agree to a project of yours! What do you take me for, Miss Ellen?”
“My dear Mr. Cutbill, I have exhausted all my compliments. I can only
say I indorse all the preceding with compound interest.”
Slightly piqued by the half sarcasm of her manner, he simply said--“And
your project; what is it?”
“That you should be a close prisoner for the short time Mr. Sedley
stays here; sufficiently near to be able to communicate and advise with
you--for we count much on your counsel--and yet totally safe from even
the chance of meeting him. There is a small chapel about a mile oft,
where the family confessor used to live, in two neat little rooms
adjoining the building. These shall be made comfortable for you. We will
take care--I will--that you are not starved; and some of us will be sure
to go and see you every day, and report all that goes on. I foresee a
number of details, but I have no time now to discuss them; the great
point is, do you agree?”
“This is Miss Julia's scheme, is it not?”
“No, I assure you; on my word, it is mine.”
“But you have concerted it with her?”
“Not even that; she knows nothing of it.”
“With whom, then, have you talked it over?”
“With none, save Mr. Cutbill.”
“In that case, Mr. Cutbill complies,” said he, with a theatrical air of
condescension.
“You will go there?”
“Yes, I promise it.”
“And remain close prisoner till I liberate you?”
“Everything you command.”
“I thank you much, and I am very proud of my success,” said she,
offering her hand. “Shall I own to you,” said she, after a pause, “that
my brother's nerves have been so shaken by the agitation he has passed
through, and by the continual pressure of thinking that it is his own
personal fault that this battle has been so ill contested, that the
faintest show of censure on him now would be more than he could bear? I
have little doubt that the cause is lost, and I am only eager that poor
Augustus should not feel it was lost through _him_.”
She was greatly agitated as she spoke, and, with a hurried farewell, she
turned and left him.
CHAPTER LXIII. THE CLIENT AND HIS LAWYER.
When the rest of the party had left the dinner-room, and Augustus
Bramleigh and Mr. Sedley found themselves alone, a silence of several
minutes ensued; a very solemn pause each felt it, well knowing that at
such a moment the slightest word may be the signal for disclosures which
involve a destiny. Up to this, nothing had been said on either side of
“the cause;” and though Sedley had travelled across Europe to speak of
it, he waited with decorous reserve till his host should invite him to
the topic.
Bramleigh, an awkward and timid man at the best of times, was still
more so when he found himself in a situation in which he should give
the initiative. As the entertainer of a guest, too, he fancied that to
introduce his personal interests as matter of conversation would be in
bad taste, and so he fidgeted, and passed the decanters across the table
with a nervous impatience, trying to seem at his ease, and stammering
out at last some unmeaning question about the other's journey.
Sedley replied to the inquiry with a cold and measured politeness, as a
man might to a matter purely irrelevant.
“The Continent is comparatively new ground to you, Mr. Sedley?”
“Entirely so. I have never been beyond Brussels before this.”
“Late years have nearly effaced national peculiarities. One crosses
frontiers now, and never remembers a change of country.”
“Quite so.”
“The money, the coinage, perhaps, is the great reminder after all.”
“Money is the great reminder of almost everything, everywhere, sir,”
said Sedley, with a stern and decisive tone.
“I am afraid you are right,” said Bramleigh, with a faint sigh; and now
they seemed to stand on the brink of a precipice, and look over.
“What news have you for me?” said he at last, gulping as he spoke.
“None to cheer, nothing to give encouragement. The discovery at Castello
will insure them a verdict. We cannot dispute the marriage; it was
solemnized in all form and duly witnessed. The birth of the child was
also carefully authenticated--there is n't a flaw in the registry, and
they 'll take care to remind us on the second trial of how freely
we scattered our contemptuous sarcasms on the illegitimacy of this
connection on the first record.”
“Is the case hopeless, then?”
“Nothing is hopeless where a jury enters, but it is only short of
hopeless. Kelson of course says he is sure, and perhaps so should I, in
his place. Still they might disagree again: there's a strong repugnance
felt by juries against dispossessing an old occupant. All can feel the
hardship of his case, and the sympathy for him goes a great way.”
“Still this would only serve to protract matters--they 'd bring another
action.”
“Of course they would, and Kelson has money!”
“I declare I see no benefit in continuing a hopeless contest.”
“Don't be hopeless then, that's the remedy.”
Bramleigh made a slight gesture of impatience, and slight as it was,
Sedley observed it.
“You have never treated this case as your father would have done, Mr.
Bramleigh. He had a rare spirit to face a contest. I remember one day
hinting to him that if this claim could be backed by money it would be
a very formidable suit, and his answer was:--'When I strike my flag,
Sedley, the enemy will find the prize was scarcely worth fighting for.'
I knew what he meant was, he 'd have mortgaged the estate to every
shilling of its value, before there arose a question of his title.”
“I don't believe it, sir; I tell you to your face I don't believe it,”
cried Bramleigh, passionately. “My father was a man of honor, and never
would have descended to such duplicity.”
“My dear sir, I have not come twelve hundred miles to discuss a
question in ethics, nor will I risk myself in a discussion with you.
I repeat, sir, that had your father lived to meet this contention, we
should not have found ourselves where we are to-day. Your father was a
man of considerable capacity, Mr. Bramleigh. He conducted a large and
important house with consummate skill; brought up his family handsomely;
and had he been spared, would have seen every one of them in positions
of honor and consequence.”
“To every word in his praise I subscribe heartily and gratefully;” and
there was a tremor in his voice as Bramleigh spoke.
“He has been spared a sad spectacle, I must say,” continued Sedley.
“With the exception of your sister who married that Viscount,
ruin--there's only one word for it--ruin has fallen upon you all.”
“Will you forgive me if I remind you that you are my lawyer, Mr.
Sedley, not my chaplain nor my confessor?”
“Lawyer without a suit! Why, my dear sir, there will be soon nothing to
litigate. You and all belonging to you were an imposition and a fraud.
There, there! It's nothing to grow angry over; how could you or any of
you suspect your father's legitimacy? You accepted the situation as you
found it, as all of us do. That you regarded Pracontal as a cheat was
no fault of yours,--he says so himself. I have seen him and talked
with him; he was at Kelson's when I called last week, and old Kelson
said,--'My client is in the next room: he says you treated him rudely
one day he went to your office. I wish you 'd step in and say a civil
word or two. It would do good, Sedley. I tell you it would do good!' and
he laid such a significant stress on the word, that I walked straight in
and said how very sorry I felt for having expressed myself in a way that
could offend him. 'At all events, sir,' said I, 'if you will not accept
my apology for myself, let me beseech you to separate the interest of my
client from my rudeness, and let not Mr. Bramleigh be prejudiced
because his lawyer was ill-mannered.' 'It's all forgotten, never to be
recalled,' said he, shaking my hand. 'Has Kelson told you my intentions
towards Bramleigh?'”
“'He has told me nothing,' said I.”
“'Tell him, Kelson. I can't make the matter plain as you can. Tell Mr.
Sedley what we were thinking of.'”
“In one word, sir, his plan was a partition of the property. He would
neither disturb your title nor dispute your name. You should be the
Bramleighs of Castello, merely paying him a rent-charge of four thousand
a year. Kelson suggested more, but he said a hundred thousand francs was
ample, and he made no scruple of adding that he never was master of as
many sous in his life.”
“'And what does Kelson say to this?' asked I.”
“'Kelson says what Sedley would say--that it is a piece of Quixotism
worthy of Hanwell.'”
“'_Ma foi_,' said Pracontal, it is not the first time I have fired in
the air.'”
“We talked for two hours over the matter. Part of what Pracontal said
was good sound sense, well reasoned and acutely expressed; part was
sentimental rubbish, not fit to listen to. At last I obtained leave
to submit the whole affair to you, not by letter--that they would
n't have--but personally, and there, in one word, is the reason of my
journey.
“Before I left town, however, I saw the Attorney-General, whose opinion
I had already taken on certain points of the case. He was a personal
friend of your father, and willingly entered upon it. When I told
him Pracontal's proposal, he smiled dubiously, and said, 'Why, it's a
confession of defeat; the man must know his case will break down, or he
never would offer such conditions.'
“I tried to persuade him that without knowing, seeing, hearing this
Frenchman, it would not be easy to imagine such an action proceeding
from a sane man, but that his exalted style of talk and his inflated
sentimentality made the thing credible. He wants to belong to a family,
to be owned and accepted as some one's relative. The man is dying of the
shame of his isolation.”
“'Let him marry.'”
“'So he means, and I hear to Bramleigh's widow, Lady Augusta.'”
“He laughed heartily at this and said, 'It's the only encumbrance on the
property.' And now, Mr. Bramleigh, you are to judge, if you can; is
this the offer of generosity, or is it the crafty proposal of a beaten
adversary? I don't mean to say it is an easy point to decide on, or
that a man can hit it off at once. Consult those about you; take into
consideration the situation you stand in and all its dangers; bethink
you what an adverse verdict may bring if we push them to a trial; and
even if the proposal be, as Mr. Attorney thinks, the cry of weakness, is
it wise to disregard it?”
“Would you have laid such a proposal before my father, Sedley?” said
Bramleigh, with a scarcely perceptible smile.
“Not for five hundred pounds, sir.”
“I thought not.”
“Ay, but remember your father would never have landed us where we stand
now, Mr. Bramleigh.”
Augustus winced under this remark, but said nothing.
“If the case be what you think it, Sedley,” said he at last, “this is a
noble offer.”
“So say I.”
“There is much to think over in it. If I stood alone here, and if my
own were the only interests involved, I think--that is, I hope--I
know what answer I should give; but there are others. You have seen my
sister: you thought she looked thin and delicate--and she may well
do so, her cares overtax her strength; and my poor brother, too, that
fine-hearted fellow, what is to become of _him?_ And yet, Sedley,” cried
he suddenly, “if either of them were to suspect that this--this--what
shall I call it?--this arrangement--stood on no basis of right, but was
simply an act of generous forbearance, I 'd stake my life on it, they 'd
refuse it.”
“You must not consult _them_, then, that's clear.”
“But I will not decide till I do so.”
“Oh, for five minutes--only five minutes--of your poor father's strong
sense and sound intellect, and I might send off my telegram to-night!”
And with this speech, delivered slowly and determinately, the old man
arose, took his bedroom candle, and walked away.
CHAPTER LXIV. A FIRST GLEAM OF LIGHT.
After a sleepless, anxious night, in which he canvassed all that Sedley
had told him, Bramleigh presented himself at Jack's bedside as the day
was breaking. Though the sailor was not worldly wise, nor endowed with
much knowledge of life, he had, as Augustus knew, a rough-and-ready
judgment which, allied to a spirit of high honor, rarely failed in
detecting that course which in the long run proved best. Jack, too, was
no casuist, no hair-splitter; he took wide, commonplace views, and in
this way was sure to do what nine out of ten ordinary men would approve
of, and this was the sort of counsel that Bramleigh now desired to set
side by side with his own deeply considered opinion.
Jack listened attentively to his brother's explanation, not once
interrupting him by a word or a question till he had finished, and then,
laying his hand gently on the other's, said, “You know well, Gusty, that
you could n't do this.”
“I thought you would say so, Jack.”
“You'd be a fool to part with what you owned, or a knave to sell what
did not belong to you.”
“My own judgment precisely.”
“I'd not bother myself then with Sedley's pros and cons, nor entertain
the question about saving what one could out of the wreck. If you have
n't a right to a plank in the ship, you have no right to her because she
is on the rocks. Say 'No,' Gusty: say 'No' at once.”
“It would be at best a compromise on the life of one man, for
Pracontal's son, if he should leave one, could revive the claim.”
“Don't let us go so far, Gusty. Let us deal with the case as it stands
before us. Say 'No,' and have done with the matter at once.”
Augustus leaned his head between his hands, and fell into a deep vein of
thought.
“You 've had your trial of humble fortune now, Gusty,” continued Jack,
“and I don't see that it has soured you; I see no signs of fretting or
irritability about you, old fellow; I'll even say that I never remember
you jollier or heartier. Isn't it true, this sort of life has no terror
for you?”
“Think of Nelly, Jack.”
“Nelly is better able to brave hard fortune than either of us. She
never was spoiled when we were rich, and she had no pretensions to lay
down when we became poor.”
“And yourself, my poor fellow? I 've had many a plan of what I meant by
you.”
“Never waste a thought about me. I 'll buy a trabaccolo. They 're
the handiest coasting craft that ever sailed; and I 'll see if the
fruit-trade in the Levant won't feed me, and we 'll live here, Gusty,
all together. Come now, tell me frankly, would you exchange that for
Castello, if you had to go back there and live alone--eh?”
“I 'll not say I would; but--”
“There's no 'but;' the thing is clear and plain enough. This place
would n't suit, Marion or Temple; but they'll not try it. Take my word
for it, of all our fine acquaintances, not one will ever come down here
to see how we bear our reduced lot in life. We 'll start fresh in the
race, and we 'll talk of long ago and our grand times without a touch of
repining.”
“I'm quite ready to try it, Jack.”
“That's well said,” said he, grasping his hand, and pressing it
affectionately. “And you'll say 'No' to this offer? I knew you would.
Not but the Frenchman is a fine fellow, Gusty. I did n't believe it was
in his nation to behave as nobly; for, mark you, I have no doubts, no
misgivings about his motives. I 'd say all was honest and above board in
his offer.”
“I join you in that opinion, Jack; and one of these days I hope to tell
him so.”
“That's the way to fight the battle of life,” cried the sailor,
enthusiastically. “Stand by your guns manfully, and, if you 're beaten,
haul down your flag in all honor to the fellow who has been able to
thrash you. The more you respect _him_, the higher you esteem yourself.
Get rid of that old lawyer as soon as you can, Gusty; he's not a
pleasant fellow, and we all want Cutty back again.”
“Sedley will only be too glad to escape; he's not in love with our
barbarism.”
“I'm to breakfast with Cutty this morning. I was nigh forgetting it. I
hope I may tell him that his term of banishment is nearly over.”
“I imagine Sedley will not remain beyond to-morrow.”
“That will be grand news for Cutty, for he can't bear solitude. He says
himself he 'd rather be in the Marshalsea with plenty of companions,
than be a king and have no associates. By the way, am I at liberty to
tell him about this offer of Pracontal's? He knows the whole history,
and the man too.”
“Tell him if you like. The Frenchman is a favorite with him, and this
will be another reason for thinking well of him.”
“That's the way to live, Gusty. Keep the ship's company in good humor,
and the voyage will be all the happier.”
After a few words they parted, Augustus to prepare a formal reply to
his lawyer, and Jack to keep his engagement with Cutbill. Though it was
something of a long walk, Jack never felt it so; his mind was full of
pleasant thoughts of the future. To feel that Julia loved him, and to
know that a life of personal effort and enterprise was before him, were
thoughts of overwhelming delight. He was now to show himself worthy of
her love, and he would do this. With what resolution he would address
himself to the stern work of life! It was not enough to say affluence
had not spoiled him, he ought to be able to prove that the gentleman
element was a source of energy and perseverance which no reverses could
discourage. Julia was a girl to value this. She herself had learned how
to meet a fallen condition and had sacrificed nothing that graced or
adorned her nature in the struggle. Nay, she was more lovable now than
he had ever known her. Was it not downright luck that had taught them
both to bear an altered lot before the trial of their married life
began? It was thus he reasoned as he went, canvassing his condition in
every way, and contented with it in all.
“What good news have you got this morning?” cried Cutbill, as he
entered. “I never saw you look so jolly in my life.”
“Well, I did find half-a-crown in the pocket of an old letter-case this
morning; but it's the only piece of unexpected luck that has befallen
me.”
“Is the lawyer gone?”
“No.”
“Nor thinking of going?”
“I won't say that. I suspect he 'll not make a long halt after he has a
talk with Gusty to-day.”
And now Jack told in a few words the object of Sedley's coming, what
Pracontal had offered, and what Augustus had resolved to send for
answer.
“I'd have said the Frenchman was the biggest fool in Europe if I had
n't heard of your brother,” said Cutbill, puffing out a long column of
smoke, and giving a deep sigh.
“That's not exactly how I read each of them,” said Jack, sternly.
“Possibly; but it's the true rendering after all. Consider for one
moment--”
“Not for half a moment, Master Cutbill. That my brother might make a
very good bargain, by simply bartering such an insignificant thing as
his honor as a gentleman, is easy to see; and that scores of people
would n't understand that such a compromise was in question, or was of
much consequence if it were, is also easy to see; and we need waste no
time in discussing this. I say Gusty's right, and I maintain it; and if
you like to hold a different opinion, do so in Heaven's name, but don't
disparage motives simply because you can't feel them.”
“Are you better after all that?” said Cutbill, dryly, as he filled
Jack's glass with water, and pushed it towards him. “Do you feel
refreshed?”
“Much better--considerably relieved.”
“Could I offer you anything cooling or calming?”
“Nothing half as cool as yourself, Cutty. And now let's change the
subject, for it's one I'll not stand any chaff about.”
“Am I safe in recommending you that grilled chicken, or is it
indiscreet in me to say you 'll find those sardines good?”
Jack helped himself, and ate on without a word. At last he lifted his
head, and, looking around him, said, “You 've very nice quarters here,
Cutbill.”
“As neat as paint. I was thinking this morning whether I 'd not ask
your brother to rent me this little place. I feel quite romantic since
I 've come up here, with the nightingales, and the cicalas, and the rest
of them.”
“If there were only a few more rooms like this, I 'd dispute the
tenancy with you.”
“There 's a sea-view for you!” said he, throwing wide the jalousies.
“The whole Bocca di Cattaro and the islands in the distance. Naples is
nothing to it! And when you have feasted your eye with worldly beauty,
and want a touch of celestial beatitude, you've only to do this.” And
he arose, and walking over to one side of the room, drew back a small
curtain of green silk, disclosing behind it an ornamental screen or
“grille” of iron-work.
“What does that mean?” asked Jack.
“That means that the occupant of this room, when devoutly disposed,
could be able to hear mass without the trouble of going for it. This
little grating here looks into the chapel; and there are evidences about
that members of the family who lived at the villa were accustomed to
come up here at times to pass days of solitude, and perhaps penance,
which, after all, judging from the indulgent character of this little
provision here, were probably not over severe.”
“Nelly has told me of this chapel. Can we see it?”
“No; it's locked and barred like a jail. I 've tried to peep in through
this grating; but it's too dark to see anything.”
“But this grating is on a hinge,” said Jack. “Don't you see, it was
meant to open, though it appears not to have done so for some years
back? Here 's the secret of it.” And pressing a small knob in the wall,
the framework became at once movable, and opened like a window.
“I hope it's not sacrilege, but I mean to go in,” said Jack, who,
mounting on a chair, with a sailor's agility insinuated himself through
the aperture, and invited Cutbill to follow.
“No, no; I wasn't brought up a rope-dancer,” said he, gruffly. “If you
can't manage to open the door for me--”
“But it's what I can. I can push back every bolt. Come round now, and
I'll admit you.”
By the time Cutbill had reached the entrance, Jack had succeeded in
opening the massive doors; and as he flung them wide, a flood of light
poured into the little crypt, with its splendid altar and its silver
lamps; its floor of tessellated marble, and its ceiling a mass of gilded
tracery almost too bright to look on: but it was not at the glittering
splendor of gold or gems that they now stood enraptured. It was in
speechless wonderment of the picture that formed the altar-piece, which
was a Madonna,--a perfect copy, in every lineament and line, of the
Flora at Castello. Save that an expression of ecstatic rapture
had replaced the look of joyous delight, they were the same, and
unquestionably were derived from the same original.
“Do you know that?” cried Cutbill.
“Know it! Why, it's our own fresco at Castello.”
“And by the same hand, too,” cried Cutbill. “Here are the initials in
the corner,--G. L.! Of all the strange things that I have ever met in
life, this is the strangest!” And he leaned on the railing of the altar,
and gazed on the picture with intense interest.
“I can make nothing of it,” muttered Jack.
“And yet there 's a great story in it,” said Cutbill, in a low, serious
tone. “That picture was a portrait,--a portrait of the painter's
daughter; and that painter's daughter was the wife of your grandfather,
Montague Bramleigh; and it is her grandchild now, the man called
Pracontal, who claims your estates.”
“How do you pretend to know all this?”
“I know it, chapter and verse. I have gone over the whole history with
that old painter's journal before me. I have seen several studies of
that girl's face,--'Enrichetta Lami,' she was called,--and I have read
the entry of her marriage with your grandfather in the parish register.
A terrible fact for your poor brother, for it clenches his ruin. Was
there ever as singular a chance in life as the reappearance of this face
here?”
“Coming as though to taunt us with our downfall; though certainly that
lovely brow and those tearful eyes have no scorn in them. She must have
been a great beauty.”
“Pracontal raves of her beauty, and says that none of these pictures do
her justice, except one at Urbino. At least, he gathers this from the
journal, which he swears by as if it were gospel.”
“I 'd call her handsomer in that picture than in our fresco. I wonder if
this were painted earlier or later?”
“I can answer that question, for the old sacristan who came up here
yesterday, and fell to talking about the chapel, mentioned how the
painter--a gran' maestro he called him--bargained to be buried at the
foot of the altar, and the Marchese had not kept his word, not liking
to break up the marble pavement, and had him interred outside the walls,
with the prior's grave and a monk at either side of him. His brushes and
colors, and his tools for fresco-work, were all buried in the chapel;
for they had been blessed by the Pope's Nuncio, after the completion of
the basilica at Udine. Have n't I remembered my story well, and the old
fellow didn't tell it above nine times over? This was old Lami's last
work, and here his last resting-place.”
“What is it seems so familiar to me in that name? Every time you have
uttered it I am ready to say I have heard it before.”
“What so likely, from Augustus or your sister.”
“No. I can answer for it that neither of them ever spoke of him to me. I
know it was not from _them_ I heard it.”
“But how tell the story of this suit without naming him?”
“They never did tell me the story of the suit, beyond the fact that my
grandfather had been married privately in early life, and left a son
whom he had not seen nor recognized, but took every means to disavow and
disown. Wait now a moment; my mind is coming to it. I think I have the
clew to this old fellow's name. I must go back to the villa, however, to
be certain.”
“Not a word of our discovery here to any one,” cried Cutbill. “We must
arrange to bring them all here, and let them be surprised as we were.”
“I 'll be back with you within an hour,” said Jack. “My head is full of
this, and I 'll tell you why when I return.”
And they parted.
Before Cutbill could believe it possible, Jack, flushed and heated,
re-entered the room. He had run at top-speed, found what he sought for,
and came back in intense eagerness to declare the result.
“You 've lost no time, Jack; nor have I, either. I took up the flags
under the altar-steps, and came upon this oak box. I suppose it was
sacrilege, but I carried it off here to examine at our leisure.”
“Look here,” cried Jack, “look at this scrap of paper. It was given to
me at the galleys at Ischia by the fellow I was chained to. Read these
names: Giacomo Lami,--whose daughter was Enrichetta,--I was to trace him
out, and communicate, if I could, with this other man, Tonino Baldassare
or Pracontal,--he was called by both names. Bolton of Naples could trace
him.”
A long low whistle was Cutbill's only reply as he took the paper and
studied it long and attentively.
“Why, this is the whole story,” cried he at last. “This old galley-slave
is the real claimant, and Pracontal has no right, while Niccolo, or
whatever his name be, lives. This may turn out glorious news for your
brother, but I 'm not lawyer enough to say whether it may not be the
Crown that will benefit, if his estates be confiscated for felony.”
“I don't think that this was the sort of service Old Nick asked me to
render him when we parted,” said Jack, dryly.
“Probably not. He only asked you to help his son to take away your
brother's estate.”
“Old Nick knew nothing about whose brother I was. He trusted me to do
him a service, and I told him I would.”
Though Cutbill paid but little attention to him, Jack talked on for some
time of his old comrade, recounting the strange traits of his nature,
and remembering with gratitude such little kindness as it was in his
power to show.
“I 'd have gone clean out of my mind but for him,” said he, at last.
“And we have all believed that this fellow was lost at sea,” muttered
Cutbill. “Bolton gave up all his papers and the remnant of his property
to his son in that belief.”
“Nor does he wish to be thought living now. He charged me to give no
clew to him. He even said I was to speak of him as one I had met at
Monte Video years ago.”
“These are things for a 'cuter head than yours or mine, Jack,” said
Cutbill, with a cunning look. “We 're not the men to see our way through
this tangle. Go and show that scrap of paper to Sedley, and take this
box with you. Tell him how you came by each. That old fox will soon see
whether they confirm the case against your brother or disclose a flaw in
it.”
“And is that the way I'm to keep my word to Old Nick?” said Jack,
doggedly.
“I don't suppose you ever bound yourself to injure your own flesh and
blood by a blank promise. I don't believe there 's a family in Europe
with as many scruples, and as little sense how to deal with them.”
“Civil that, certainly.”
“Not a bit civil, only true; but let us not squabble. Go and tell
Sedley what we have chanced upon. These men have a way of looking at the
commonest events--and this is no common event--that you nor I have never
dreamed of. If Pracontal's father be alive, Pracontal cannot be the
claimant to your estates; that much, I take it, is certain. At all
events, Sedley's the man to answer this.”
Half pushing Jack out of the room while he deposited the box in his
hands, Cutbill at last sent him off, not very willingly indeed, or
concurringly, but like one who, in spite of himself, saw he was obliged
to take a particular course, and travel a road without the slightest
suspicion of where it led to.
CHAPTER LXV. THE LIGHT STRONGER.
“Sedley asks for the best Italian scholar amongst us,” said Augustus the
next morning, at breakfast, “and the voice of public opinion calls upon
you, Julia.”
“You know what Figaro said of 'common report.' I'll not repeat it,” said
she, laughing, “and I 'll even behave as if I did n't believe it. And
now what is wanted of me, or my Italian scholarship?”
“The matter is thus: Sedley has received some papers”--here a look of
intelligence passed between Augustus and Jack--“which he imagines may
be of consequence, but being in Italian, he can't read them. He needs a
translator--”
“I am equal to that,” broke she in, “but why don't we do it in
committee, as you political people call it? Five heads are better than
one.”
“Mr Sedley is absolute, and will have but one.”
“And am I to be closeted for a whole morning with Mr. Sedley? I declare
it seems compromising. Jack frowns at me. There is nothing so prudish as
a sailor. I wish any one would tell me why it is so.”
“Well, the matter is as you have stated it,” said Augustus. “Mr. Sedley
says, 'Let me have the aid of some one who will not grudge me two hours,
mayhap three. '”
“What if the documents should turn out love-letters?”
“Julia! Julia!” cried Jack, reprovingly; for in reality her sallies kept
him in constant anxiety.
“I can't help it, Jack; I must be prudent, even if I shock you by my
precautions. I repeat, if these be love-letters?”
“Well, I can answer so far,” said Augustus. “They are not,--at least, I
can almost assert they are not.”
“I wish Nelly would go,” said Julia, with mock seriousness. “I see Jack
is wretched about it; and, after all, Mr. Sedley, though not exactly a
young man--”
“I declare this is too bad,” said Jack, rising angrily from the table,
and then throwing himself back in his chair, as in conflict with his own
temper.
“She _is_ provoking, there is no doubt of it, and on board ship we 'd
not stand that sort of thing five minutes,” said Julia, with a demure
air; “but on land, and amongst terrestrial creatures, Master Jack, I
know nothing for it but patience.”
“Patience!” muttered he, with an expression that made them all burst out
laughing.
“So I may tell Sedley you will aid him?” asked Bramleigh.
“I'm ready, now. Indeed, the sooner begun the better; for we have a long
walk project--haven 't we, Jack?--for this afternoon.”
“Yes, if we have patience for it,” said he. And once more the laugh
broke forth as they arose from table and separated into little knots and
groups through the room.
“I may tell you, Julia,” said Augustus, in a half whisper, “that though
I have given up hoping this many a day, it is just possible there may be
something in these papers of moment to me, and I know I have only to say
as much to secure your interest in them.”
“I believe you can rely upon that,” said she; and within less than five
minutes afterwards she was seated at the table with Mr. Sedley in the
study, an oblong box of oak clasped with brass in front of them, and a
variety of papers lying scattered about.
“Have you got good eyes, Miss L'Estrange?” said Sedley, as he raised his
spectacles, and turned a peering glance towards her.
“Good eyes?” repeated she, in some astonishment.
“Yes; I don't mean pretty eyes, or expressive eyes. I mean, have you
keen sight?”
“I think I have.”
“That's what I need from you at this moment; here are some papers with
erasures and re-writings, and corrections in many places, and it will
take all your acuteness to distinguish between the several contexts.
Aided by a little knowledge of Latin, I have myself discovered some
passages of considerable interest. I was half the night over them; but
with your help, I count on accomplishing more in half an hour.”
While he spoke he continued to arrange papers in little packets before
him, and, last of all, took from the box a painter's palette and several
brushes, along with two or three of those quaintly shaped knives men use
in fresco-painting.
“Have you ever heard of the painter Giacomo Lami?” asked he.
“Of course I have. I know the whole story in which he figures. Mr.
Bramleigh has told it to me.”
“These are his tools. With these he accomplished those great works which
have made him famous among modern artists, and by his will--at least I
have spelled out so much--they were buried along with him.”
“And where was he buried?”
“Here! here in Cattaro. His last work was the altar-piece of the little
chapel of the villa.”
“Was there ever so strange a coincidence!”
“The world is full of them, for it is a very small world after all. This
old man, driven from place to place by police persecutions,--for he had
been a great conspirator in early life, and never got rid of the taste
for it,--came here as a sort a refuge, and painted the frescos of the
chapel at the price of being buried at the foot of the altar, which was
denied him afterwards; for they only buried there this box, with his
painting utensils and his few papers. It is to these papers I wish now
to direct your attention, if good luck will have it that some of
them may be of use. As for me, I can do little more than guess at the
contents of most of them.
“Now these,” continued he, “seem to me bills and accounts; are they
such?”
“Yes, these are notes of expenses incurred in travelling; and he
would seem to have been always on the road. Here is a curious note:
'Nuremberg: I like this old town much; its staid propriety and quietness
suit me. I feel that I could work here; work at something greater and
better than these daily efforts for mere bread. But why after all should
I do more? I have none now to live for,--none to work for! Enrichetta,
and her boy, gone! and Carlotta--'”
“Wait a moment,” said the lawyer, laying his hand on hers. “Enrichetta
was the wife of Montague Bramleigh, and this boy their son.”
“Yes, and subsequently the father of Pracontal.”
“And how so, if he died in boyhood?” muttered he; “read on.”
“'Now, Carlotta has deserted me! and for whom? For the man who betrayed
me! for that Niccolo Baldassare who denounced five of us at Verona, and
whose fault it is not that I have not died by the hangman.'”
“This is very important; a light is breaking on me through this cloud,
too, that gives me hope.”
“I see what you mean. You think that probably--”
“No matter what I think; search on through the papers. What is this?
here is a drawing. Is it a mausoleum?”
“Yes; and the memorandum says, 'If I ever be rich enough, I shall place
this over Enrichetta's remains at Louvain, and have her boy's body laid
beside her. Poor child, that if spared might have inherited a princely
state and fortune, he lies now in the pauper burial-ground at St.
Michel. They let me, in consideration of what I had done in repairing
their frescos, place a wooden cross over him. I cut the inscription with
my own hands,--G. L. B., aged four years; the last hope of a shattered
heart.'
“Does not this strengthen your impression?” asked Julia, turning and
confronting him.
“Aged four years: he was born, I think, in '99,--the year after the
rebellion in Ireland; this brings us nigh the date of his death. One
moment. Let me note this.” He hurriedly scratched off a few lines. “St.
Michel; where is St. Michel? It may be a church in some town.”
“Or it may be that village in Savoy, at the foot of the Alps.”
“True! We shall try there.”
“These are without interest; they are notes of sums paid on the road,
or received for his labor. All were evidently leaves of a book and torn
out.”
“What is this about Carlotta here?”
“Ah, yes. 'With this I send her all I had saved and put by. I knew he
would ill-treat her; but to take her boy from her,--her one joy and
comfort in life,--and to send him away, she knows not whither, his very
name changed, is more than I believed possible. She says that Niccolo
has been to England, and found means to obtain money from M. B.'”
“Montague Bramleigh,” muttered Sedley; but she read on: “'This is too
base; but it explains why he stole all the letters in poor Enrichetta's
box, and the papers that told of her marriage.'”
“Are we on the track now?” cried the old lawyer, triumphantly. “This
Baldassare was the father of the claimant, clearly enough. Enrichetta's
child died, and the sister's husband substituted himself in his place.”
“But this Niccolo who married Carlotta,” said Julia, “must have been
many years older than Enrichetta's son would have been had he lived.”
“Who was to detect that? Don't you see that he never made personal
application to the Bramleighs? He only addressed them by letter, which,
knowing all Enrichetta's story, he could do without risk or danger.
Kelson could n't have been aware of this,” muttered he; “but he had some
misgivings,--what were they?”
While the lawyer sat in deep thought, his face buried in his hands,
Julia hurriedly turned over the papers. There were constant references
to Carlotta's boy, whom the old man seemed to have loved tenderly; and
different jottings showed how he had kept his birthday, which fell on
the 4th of August. He was born at Zurich, where Baldassare worked as a
watchmaker, his trade being, however, a mere mask to conceal his real
occupation,--that of conspirator.
“No,” said Sedley, raising his head at last, “Kelson knew nothing of it.
I'm certain he did not. It was a cleverly planned scheme throughout;
and all the more so by suffering a whole generation to lapse before
litigating the claim.”
“But what is this here?” cried Julia, eagerly. “It is only a fragment;
but listen to it: 'There is no longer a doubt about it. Baldassare's
first wife--a certain Marie de Pracontal--is alive, and living with her
parents at Aix, in Savoy. Four of the committee have denounced him, and
his fate is certain.
“'I had begun a letter to Bramleigh, to expose the fraud this scoundrel
would pass upon him; but why should I spare him who killed my child?'”
“First of all,” said Sedley, reading from his notes, “we have the place
and date of Enrichetta's death; secondly, the burial-place of Godfrey
Lami Bramleigh set down as St. Michel, perhaps in Savoy. We have then
the fact of the stolen papers, the copies of registries, and other
documents. The marriage of Carlotta is not specified, but it is clearly
evident, and we can even fix the time; and, last of all, we have this
second wife, whose name, Pracontal, was always borne by the present
claimant.”
“And are you of opinion that this same Pracontal was a party to the
fraud?” asked Julia.
“I am not certain,” muttered he. “It is not too clear; the point is
doubtful.”
“But what have we here? It is a letter, with a postmark on it.” She
read, “Leghorn, February 8, 1812.” It was addressed to the Illustrissimo
Maestro Lami, Porta Rossa, Florence, and signed N. Baldassare. It was
but a few lines, and ran thus:--
“Seeing that Carlotta and her child now sleep at Pisa, why deny me your
interest for my boy Anatole? You know well to what he might succeed, and
how. Be unforgiving to me if you will. I have borne as hard things even
as your hatred, but the child that has never wronged you deserves
no part of this hate. I want but little from you; some dates, a few
names,--that I know you remember,--and, last of all, my mind refreshed
on a few events which I have heard you talk of again and again. Nor is
it for _me_ that you will do this; for I leave Europe within a week,--I
shall return to it no more. Answer this Yes or No at once, as I am
about to quit this place. You know me well enough to know that I never
threaten, though I sometimes counsel; and my counsel now is, consent to
the demand of--N. Baldassare.”
Underneath was written, in Lami's hand, “I will carry this to my grave,
that I may curse him who wrote it, here and hereafter.”
“Now the story stands out complete,” said Julia, “and this Pracontal
belonged to neither Bramleigh nor Lami.”
“Make me a literal translation of that letter,” said Sedley. “It is of
more moment than almost all we have yet read. I do not mean now, Miss
Julia,” said he, seeing she had already commenced to write, “for we have
these fragments still to look over.”
While the lawyer occupied himself with drawing up a memorandum for
his own guidance, Julia, by his directions, went carefully over the
remaining papers. Few were of any interest; but these she docketed
accurately, and with such brevity and clearness combined, that Sedley,
little given to compliments, could not but praise her skill. It was not
till the day began to decline that their labors drew to a close. It was
a day of intense attention and great work; but only when it was over did
she feel the exhaustion of overwrought powers.
“You are very, very tired,” said Sedley. “It was too thoughtless of me.
I ought to have remembered how unused you must be to fatigue like this.”
“But I couldn't have left it; the interest was intense, and nothing
would have persuaded me to leave the case without seeing how it ended.”
“It will be necessary to authenticate these,” said he, laying his hand
on the papers; “and then we must show how we came by them.”
“Jack can tell you this,” said she; and now her strength failed her
outright, and she lay back, overcome, and almost fainting. Sedley
hurriedly rang for help; but before any one arrived Julia rallied, and
with a faint smile, said, “Don't make a fuss about _me_. You have what
is really important to occupy you. I will go and lie down till evening;”
and so she left him.
CHAPTER LXVI. SEDLEY'S NOTES.
Julia found herself unable to come down to dinner, and Mr. Sedley had to
confess that he had overtaxed her strength and imposed too far upon her
zeal. “To tell truth,” added he, “I forgot she was not a colleague.
So shrewd and purpose-like were all her remarks, such aptitude she
displayed in rejecting what was valueless, and such acuteness in
retaining all that was really important, it went clean out of my head
that I was not dealing with a brother of the craft, instead of a very
charming and beautiful young lady.”
“And you really have fallen upon papers of importance?” asked Nelly,
eagerly; for Julia had already, in answer to the same question, said,
“Mr. Sedley has pledged me to silence.”
“Of the last importance, Miss Bramleigh.” He paused for an instant,
and then added, “I am well aware that I see nothing but friends, almost
members of one family, around this table, but the habits of my calling
impose reserve; and, besides, I am unwilling to make revelations until,
by certain inquiries, I can affirm that they may be relied on.”
“Oh, Mr. Sedley, if you have a gleam--even a gleam--of hope, do give it
us. Don't you think our long-suffering and patience have made us worthy
of it?”
“Stop, Nelly,” cried Augustus, “I will have no appeals of this kind. Mr.
Sedley knows our anxieties, and if he does not yield to them he has his
own good reasons.”
“I don't see that,” broke in Jack. “We are not asking to hear our
neighbor's secrets, and I take it we are of an age to be intrusted with
our own.”
“You speak sharply, sir,” said Sedley, “but you speak well. I would only
observe that the most careful and cautious people have been known to
write letters, very confidential letters, which somehow get bruited
about, so that clews are discovered and inferences traced which not
unfrequently have given the most serious difficulties to those engaged
in inquiry.”
“Have no fears on that score, Mr. Sedley,” said Jack. “There are no four
people in Europe at this moment with fewer correspondents. I believe I
might say that the roof of this house covers our whole world.”
“Jack is right, there,” added Augustus. “If we don't write to the
'Times' or the 'Post,' I don't see to whom we are to tell our news.”
“George has n't even a pulpit here to expound us from,” cried Jack,
laughingly.
“You have an undoubted right to know what is strictly your own concern.
The only question is, shall I be best consulting your interests by
telling it?”
“Out with it, by all means,” said Jack. “The servants have left the room
now, and here we are in close committee.”
Sedley looked towards Augustus, who replied by a gesture of assent; and
the lawyer, taking his spectacles from his pocket, said, “I shall simply
read you the entry of my notebook. Much of it will surprise, and much
more gratify you; but let me entreat that if you have any doubts to
resolve or questions to put, you will reserve them till I have finished.
I will only say that for everything I shall state as fact there
appears to me to be abundant proofs, and where I mention what is simply
conjecture I will say so. You remember my condition, then? I am not to
be interrupted.”
“Agreed,” cried Jack, as though replying for the most probable
defaulter. “I 'll not utter a word, and the others are all discretion.”
“The case is this,” said Sedley. “Montague Bramleigh, of Cossenden
Manor, married Enrichetta, daughter of Giacomo Lami, the painter. The
marriage was celebrated at the village church of Portshandon, and duly
registered. They separated soon after,--she retiring to Holland with her
father, who had compromised himself in the Irish rebellion of '98. A son
was born to this marriage, christened and registered in the Protestant
church at Louvain as Godfrey Lami Bramleigh. To his christening
Bramleigh was entreated to come; but under various pretexts he excused
himself, and sent a costly present for the occasion. His letters,
however, breathed nothing but affection, and fully recognized the boy as
his son and his heir. Captain Bramleigh is, I know, impatient at the
length of these details, but I can't help it. Indignant at the treatment
of his daughter, Lami sent back the gift with a letter of insulting
meaning. Several letters were interchanged of anger and recrimination;
and Enrichetta, whose health had long been failing, sunk under the
suffering of her desertion, and died. Lami left Holland, and repaired to
Germany, carrying the child with him. He was also accompanied by a
younger daughter, Carlotta, who, at the time I refer to, might have been
sixteen or seventeen years of age. Lami held no intercourse with
Bramleigh from this date, nor, so far as we know, did Bramleigh take
measures to learn about the child,--how he grew up, or where he was.
Amongst the intimates of Lami's family was a man whose name is not
unfamiliar to newspaper readers of some thirty or forty years back,--a
man who had figured in various conspiracies, and contrived to escape
scathless where his associates had paid the last penalty of their
crimes. This man became the suitor of Carlotta, and won her affections,
although Giacomo neither liked nor trusted Niccolo Baldassare--”
“Stop, there,” cried Jack, rising, and leaning eagerly across the table.
“Say that name again.”
“Niccolo Baldassare.”
“My old companion,--my comrade at the galleys,” exclaimed Jack; “we were
locked to each other, wrist and ankle, for eight months.”
“He lives, then?”
“I should think he does. The old beggar is as stout and hale as any one
here. I can't guess his age; but I'll answer for his vigor.”
“This will be all important hereafter,” said Sedley, making a note. “Now
to my narrative. From Lami, Baldassare learned the story of Enrichetta's
unhappy marriage and death, and heard how the child, then a playful
little boy of three years or so, was the rightful heir of a vast
fortune,--a claim the grandfather firmly resolved to prosecute at some
future day. The hope was, however, not destined to sustain him, for the
boy caught a fever and died. His burial-place is mentioned, and his age,
four years.”
“So that,” cried Augustus, “the claim became extinct with him?”
“Of course; for though Montague Bramleigh re-married, it was not till
six years after his first wife's death.”
“And our rights are unassailable?” cried Nelly, wildly.
“Your estates are safe; at least, they will be safe.”
“And who is Pracontal de Bramleigh?” asked Jack.
“I will tell you. Baldassare succeeded in winning Carlotta' s heart, and
persuaded her to elope with him. She did so, carrying with her all the
presents Bramleigh had formerly given to her sister,--some rings of
great price, and an old watch with the Bramleigh arms in brilliants,
among the number. But these were not all. She also took the letters and
documents that established her marriage, and a copy of the registration.
I must hasten on, for I see impatience on every side. He broke the heart
of this poor girl, who died, and was buried with her little boy, in
the same grave, leaving old Lami desolate and childless. By another
marriage, and by a wife still living, Marie Pracontal, Baldassare had a
son; and he bethought him, armed as he was with papers and documents, to
prefer the claim to the Bramleigh estates for this youth; and had even
the audacity to ask Lami's assistance to the fraud, and to threaten him
with his vengeance if he betrayed him.
“So perfectly propped was the pretension by circumstances of actual
events,--Niccolo knew everything,--that Bramleigh not only sent
several sums of money to stifle the demand, but actually despatched a
confidential person abroad to see the claimant, and make some compromise
with him; for it is abundantly evident that Montague Bramleigh only
dreaded the scandal and the _éclat_ such a story would create, and had
no fears for the title to his estates, he all along believing that there
were circumstances in the marriage with Enrichetta which would show it
to be illegal, and the issue consequently illegitimate.”
“I must say, I think our respected grandfather,” said Augustus, gravely,
“does not figure handsomely in this story.”
“With the single exception of old Lami,” cried Jack, “they were a set of
rascals,--every man of them.”
“And is this the way you speak of your dear friend Niccolo Baldassare?”
asked Nelly.
“He was a capital fellow at the galleys; but I suspect he 'd prove a
very shady acquaintance in more correct company.”
“And, Mr. Sedley, do you really say that all this can be proven?” cried
Nelly. “Do you believe it all yourself?”
“Every word of it. I shall test most of it within a few days. I have
already telegraphed to London for one of the clever investigators of
registries and records. I have ample means of tracing most of the events
I need. These papers of old Lami's are full of small details; they form
a closer biography than most men leave behind them.”
“There was, however, a marriage of my grandfather with Enrichetta Lami?”
asked Augustus.
“We give them that,” cried the lawyer, who fancied himself already
instructing counsel. “We contest nothing,--notice, registry, witnesses,
all are as legal as they could wish. The girl was Mrs. Bramleigh, and
her son, Montague Bramleigh's heir. Death, however, carried away both,
and the claim fell with them. That these people will risk a trial now
is more than I can believe; but if they should, we will be prepared
for them. They shall be indicted before they leave the court, and Count
Pracontal de Bramleigh be put in the dock for forgery.”
“No such thing, Sedley!” broke in Bramleigh, with an energy very rare
with him. “I am well inclined to believe that this young man was no
party to the fraud,--he has been duped throughout; nor can I forget the
handsome terms he extended to us when our fortune looked darkest.”
“A generosity on which late events have thrown a very ugly light,”
muttered Sedley.
“My brother is right. I 'll be sworn he is,” cried Jack. “We should be
utterly unworthy of the good luck that has befallen us, if the first use
we made of it was to crush another.”
“If _your_ doctrines were to prevail, sir, it would be a very puzzling
world to live in,” said Sedley, sharply.
“We 'd manage to get on with fewer lawyers, anyway.”
“Mr. Sedley,” said Nelly, mildly, “we are all too happy and too
gratified for this unlooked-for deliverance to have a thought for what
is to cause suffering anywhere. Let us, I entreat you, have the full
enjoyment of this great happiness.”
“Then we are probably to include the notable Mr. Cutbill in this act of
indemnity?” said Sedley, sneeringly.
“I should think we would, sir,” replied Jack. “Without the notable Mr.
Cutbill's aid we should never have chanced on those papers you have just
quoted to us.”
“Has he been housebreaking again?” asked Sedley, with a grin.
“I protest,” interposed Bramleigh, “if the good fairy who has been so
beneficent to us were only to see us sparring and wrangling in this
fashion, she might well think fit to withdraw her gift.”
“Oh, here's Julia,” cried Nelly; “and all will go right now.”
“Well,” said Julia, “has any one moved the thanks of the house to
Mr. Sedley; for if not, I 'm quite ready to do it. I have my speech
prepared.”
“Move! move!” cried several, together.
“I first intend to have a little dinner,” said she; “but I have ordered
it in the small dining-room; and you are perfectly welcome, any or all
of you, to keep me company, if you like.”
To follow the conversation that ensued would be little more than
again to go over a story which we feel has been already impressed with
tiresome reiteration on the reader. Whatever had failed in Sedley's
narrative, Julia's ready wit and quick intelligence had supplied by
conjecture, and they talked on till late into the night, bright gleams
of future projects shooting like meteors across the placid heaven of
their enjoyment, and making all bright around them.
Before they parted it was arranged that each should take his separate
share of the inquiry; for there were registries to be searched, dates
confirmed in several places; and while L'Estrange was to set out for
Louvain, and Jack for Savoy, Sedley himself took charge of the weightier
question to discover St. Michel, and prove the burial of Godfrey
Bramleigh.
CHAPTER LXVII. A WAYFARER
When the time came for the several members of the family at the villa
to set out on the search after evidence, Jack, whose reluctance to leave
home--he called it “home”--increased with every day, induced Cutbill to
go in his stead, a change which even Mr. Sedley himself was forced to
admit was not detrimental to the public service.
Cutbill's mission was to Aix, in Savoy, to see and confer with Marie
Pracontal, the first wife of Baldassare. He arrived in the nick of time;
for only on that same morning had Baldassare himself entered the town,
in his galley-slave uniform, to claim his wife and ask recognition
amongst his fellow-townsmen. The house where she lived was besieged by
a crowd, all more or less eager in asserting the woman's cause,
and denouncing the pretensions of a fellow covered with crimes, and
pronounced dead to all civil rights. Amid execrations and insults, with
threats of even worse, Baldassare stood on a chair in the street, in the
act of addressing the multitude, as Cutbill drew nigh. The imperturbable
self-possession, the cool courage of the man--who dared to brave public
opinion in this fashion, and demand a hearing for what in reality was
nothing but a deliberate insult to the people around him whose lives
he knew, and whose various social derelictions he was all familiar
with--was positively astounding. “I have often thought of you, good
people,” said he, “while at the galleys; and I made a vow to myself that
the first act of my escape, if ever I should escape, should be to visit
this place and thank you for every great lesson I have learned in life.
It was here, in this place, I committed my first theft. It was yonder
in that church I first essayed sacrilege. It was you, amiable and gentle
people, who gave me four associates who betrayed each other, and who
died on the drop or by the guillotine, with the courage worthy of Aix;
and it was from you I received that pearl of wives who is now married
to a third husband, and denies the decent rights of hospitality to her
first.”
This outrage was now unbearable; a rush was made at him, and he
fell amongst the crowd, who had torn him limb from limb but for the
intervention of the police, who were driven to defend him with fixed
bayonets. “A warm reception, I must say,” cried the fellow, as they led
him away, bleeding and bruised, to the jail.
It was not a difficult task for Cutbill to obtain from Marie Pracontal
the details he sought for. Smarting under the insults and scandal she
had been exposed to on the day before, she revealed everything, and
signed in due form a _procès verbal_ drawn up by a notary of the place,
of her marriage with Baldassare, the birth of her son Anatole with the
dates of his birth and baptism, and gave up, besides, some letters which
he had written while at the naval school of Genoa. What became of him
afterwards she knew not, nor, indeed, seemed to care. The cruelties
of the father had poisoned her mind against the son, and she showed no
interest in his fate, and wished not to hear of him.
Cutbill left Aix on the third day, and was slowly strolling up the
Mont Cenis pass in front of his horses, when he overtook the very
galley-slave he had seen addressing the crowd at Aix. “I thought they
had sent you over the frontier into France, my friend,” said Cutbill,
accosting him like an old acquaintance.
“So they did; but I gave them the slip at Culoz, and doubled back.
I have business at Rome, and could n't endure that roundabout way by
Marseilles.”
“Will you smoke? May I offer you a cigar?”
“My best thanks,” said he, touching his cap politely. “They smashed my
pipe, those good people down there. Like all villagers, they resent free
speech, but they 'd have learned something had they listened to me.”
“Perhaps your frankness was excessive.”
“Ha! you were there, then? Well, it was what Diderot calls
self-sacrificing sincerity; but all men who travel much and mix
with varied classes of mankind, fall into this habit. In becoming
cosmopolitan you lose in politeness.”
“Signor Baldassare, your conversation interests me much. Will you accept
a seat in my carriage over the mountain, and give me the benefit of your
society?”
“It is I that am honored, sir,” said he, removing his cap, and bowing
low. “There is nothing so distinctively well bred as the courtesy of a
man in _your_ condition to one in _mine_.”
“But you are no stranger to me.”
“Indeed! I remarked you called me by my name; but I'm not aware that you
know more of me.”
“I can afford to rival your own candor, and confess I know a great deal
about you.”
“Then you have read a very checkered page, sir. What an admirable cigar.
You import these, I'd wager?”
“No, but it comes to the same. I buy them in bond, and pay the duty.”
“Yours is the only country to live in, sir. It has been the dream of my
life to pass my last days in England.”
“Why not do so? I can't imagine that Aix will prefer any strong claims
in preference.”
“No, I don't care for Aix, though it is pretty, and I have passed some
days of happy tranquillity on that little Lac de Bourges; but to return:
to what fortunate circumstance am I indebted for the knowledge you
possess of my biography?”
“You have been a very interesting subject to me for some time back.
First of all, I ought to say that I enjoy the pleasure of your son's
acquaintance.”
“A charming young man, I am told,” said he, puffing out a long column of
smoke.
“And without flattery, I repeat it,--a charming young man, good-looking,
accomplished, high-spirited and brave.”
“You delight me, sir. What a misfortune for the poor fellow that his
antecedents have not been more favorable; but you see, Mr.------”
“Cutbill is my name.”
“Mr. Cutbill, you see that I have not only had a great many irons in
the fire through life, but occasionally it has happened to me that I
took hold of them by the hot ends.”
“And burned your fingers?”
“And burned my fingers.”
They walked on some steps in silence, when Baldassare said,--
“Where, may I ask, did you last see my son?”
“I saw him last in Ireland, about four months ago. We travelled over
together from England, and I visited a place called Castello, in his
company,--the seat of the Bramleigh family.”
“Then you know his object in having gone there? You know who he is, what
he represents, what he claims?”
“I know the whole story by heart.”
“Will you favor me with your version of it?”
“With pleasure; but here is the carriage. Let us get in, for the
narrative is somewhat long and complicated.”
“Before you begin, sir, one question: where is my son now? is he at
Rome?”
“He is; he arrived there on Tuesday last.”
“That is enough,--excuse my interrupting,--I am now at your orders.”
The reader will readily excuse me if I do not follow Mr. Cutbill in
his story, which he told at full length, and with what showed a
perfect knowledge of all the circumstances. It is true he was so far
disingenuous that he did not confess the claim had ever created alarm
to the minds of the Bramleighs. There were certain difficulties, he
admitted, and no small expense incurred in obtaining information abroad,
and proving, as it was distinctly proved, that no issue of Montague
Bramleigh had survived, and that the pretensions of Pracontal were
totally groundless.
“And your visit to Savoy was on this very business?” asked Baldassare.
“You are right; a small detail was wanting which I was able to supply.”
“And how does Anatole bear the discovery?”
“He has not heard of it; he is at Rome, paying court to an English lady
of rank to whom he hopes to be married.”
“And how will he bear it; in what spirit will he meet the blow?”
“From what I have seen of him, I 'd say he 'd stand up nobly under
misfortune, and not less so here, that I know he firmly believed in his
right; he was no party to the fraud.”
“These frauds, as you call them, succeed every day, and when they occur
in high places we have more courteous names to call them by. What say
you to the empire in France?”
“I'll not discuss that question with you; it takes too wide a range.”
“Anatole must bethink him of some other livelihood now, that's clear. I
mean to tell him so.”
“You intend to see him--to speak with him?”
“What, sir, do you doubt it? Is it because my wife rejects me that I
am to be lost to the ties of parental affection?” He said this with a
coarse and undisguised mockery, and then, suddenly changing to a tone of
earnestness, added, “We shall have to link our fortunes now, and there
are not many men who can give an adventurer such counsels as I can.”
“From what I know of the Bramleighs, they would willingly befriend him
if they knew how, or in what way to do it.”
“Nothing easier. All men's professions can be brought to an easy
test,--so long as money exists.”
“Let me know where to write to you, and I will see what can be done.”
“Or, rather, let _me_ have _your_ address, for my whereabouts is
somewhat uncertain.”
Cutbill wrote his name and Cattaro on a slip of paper, and the old
fellow smiled grimly, and said, “Ah! _that_ was your clew, then, to this
discovery. I knew Giacomo died there, but it was a most unlikely spot to
track him to. Nothing but chance, the merest chance, could have led to
it?”
This he said interrogatively; but Cutbill made no reply.
“You don't care to imitate _my_ frankness, sir; and I am not surprised
at it. It is only a fellow who has worn rags for years that does n't
fear nakedness. Is my son travelling alone, or has he a companion?”
“He had a companion some short time back; but I do not know if they are
together now.”
“I shall learn all that at Rome.”
“And have you no fears to be seen there? Will the authorities not meddle
with you?”
“Far from it. It is the one state in Europe where men like myself enjoy
liberty. They often need us,--they fear us always.”
Cutbill was silent for some time. He seemed like one revolving some
project in his mind, but unable to decide on what he should do. At last
he said,--
“You remember a young Englishman who made his escape from Ischia last
June?”
“To be sure I do,--my comrade.”
“You will be astonished to know he was a Bramleigh,--a brother of the
owner of the estate.”
“It was so like my luck to have trusted him,” said the other, bitterly.
“You are wrong there. He was always your friend,--he is so at this
moment. I have heard him talk of you with great kindliness.”
A careless shrug of the shoulders was the reply.
“Tell him from me,” said he, with a savage grin, “that Onofrio,--don't
forget the name,--Onofrio is dead. We threw him over the cliff the night
we broke the jail. There, let me write it for you,” said he, taking the
pencil from Cutbill's hand, and writing the word Onofrio in a large bold
character.
“Keep that pencil-case, will you, as a souvenir?” said Cutbill.
“Give me ten francs instead, and I'll remember you when I pay for my
dinner,” said he, with a grating laugh; and he took the handful of loose
silver Cutbill offered him, and thrust it into his pocket. “Is n't that
Souza we see in the valley there? Yes; I remember it well. I'll go no
further with you--there's a police-station where I had trouble once.
I 'll take the cross-path here that leads down to the Pinarola Road. I
thank you heartily. I wanted a little good-nature much when you overtook
me. Goodbye.”
He leaped from the carriage as he spoke, and crossing the little
embankment of the road, descended a steep slope, and was out of sight
almost in an instant.
CHAPTER LXVIII. A MEETING AND A PARTING
In the same room where Pracontal and Longworth had parted in anger, the
two men, reconciled and once more friends, sat over their dessert and
a cigar. The handsome reparation Pracontal had offered in a letter
had been frankly and generously met, and it is probable that their
friendship was only the more strongly ratified by the incident.
They were both dressed with unusual care, for Lady Augusta “received” a
few intimate friends on that evening, and Pracontal was to be presented
to them in his quality of accepted suitor.
“I think,” said Longworth, laughingly, “it is the sort of ordeal most
Englishmen would feel very awkward in. You are trotted out for the
inspection of a critical public, who are to declare what they think
of your eyes and your whiskers, if they augur well of your temper, and
whether, on the whole, you are the sort of person to whom a woman might
confide her fate and future.”
“You talk as if I were to be sent before a jury and risk a sentence,”
said Pracontal, with a slight irritation in his tone.
“It is something very like it.”
“And I say, there is no resemblance whatever.”
“Don't you remember what Lord Byron in one of his letters says of a
memorable drive through Ravenna one evening, where he was presented as
the accepted?--There's that hang-dog rascal that followed us through the
gardens of the Vatican this morning, there he is again, sitting directly
in front of our window, and staring at us.”
“Well, I take it those benches were placed there for fellows to rest on
who had few arm-chairs at home.”
“I don't think, in all my experience of humanity, I ever saw a face
that revolted me more. He is n't ugly, but there is something in the
expression so intensely wicked, that mockery of all goodness, that
Retsch puts into Mephistopheles; it actually thrills me.”
“I don't see that--there is even drollery in the mouth.”
“Yes, diabolic humor, certainly. Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“Did n't you see that when I lifted my glass to my lips, he made a
pantomime of drinking too, and bowed to me, as though in salutation?”
“I knew there was fun in the fellow. Let us call him over and speak to
him.”
“No, no, Pracontal; do not, I beseech you. I feel an aversion towards
him that I cannot explain. The rascal poisons the very claret I 'm
drinking just by glancing at me.”
“You are seldom so whimsical.”
“Would n't you say the fellow knew we were talking of him? See he is
smiling now; if that infernal grin can be called a smile.”
“I declare, I will have him over here; now don't go, sit down like a
good fellow; there's no man understands character better than yourself,
and I am positively curious to see how you will read this man on a
closer inspection.”
“He does not interest, he merely disgusts, me.”
Pracontal arose, drew nigh the window, and waved his napkin in sign
to the man, who at once got up from his seat, and slowly, and half
indolently, came over to the window. He was dressed in a sort of gray
uniform of jacket and trousers, and wore a kerchief on his head for a
cap, a costume which certainly in no degree contributed to lessen the
unfavorable impression his face imparted, for there was in his look a
mixture of furtiveness and ferocity positively appalling.
“Do you like him better now?” asked Longworth, in English.
And the fellow grinned at the words.
“You understand English, eh?” asked Pracontal.
“Ay, I know most modern languages.”
“What nation are you?”
“A Savoyard.”
“Whence do you come now?”
“From the galleys at Ischia.”
“Frank that, anyhow,” cried Longworth. “Were you under sentence there?”
“Yes, for life.”
“For what offence?”
“For a score that I committed, and twice as many that I failed in.”
“Murder, assassination?”
He nodded.
“Let us hear about some of them,” said Pracontal, with interest.
“I don't talk of these things; they are bygones, and I 'd as soon forget
them.”
“And do you fancy they 'll be forgotten up there,” said Pracontal,
pointing upwards as he spoke.
“What do you know about 'up there,'” said he, sternly, “more than
myself? Are not your vague words, 'up there,' the proof that it 's as
much a mystery to _you_ as to _me?_”
“Don't get into theology with him, or you 'll have to listen to more
blasphemy than you bargain for,” whispered Longworth; and whether the
fellow overheard or merely guessed the meaning of the words, he grinned
diabolically, and said,--
“Yes, leave that question there.”
“Are you not afraid of the police, my friend?” asked Longworth. “Is it
not in their power to send you back to those you have escaped from?”
“They might with another, but the Cardinal Secretary knows _me_. I have
told him I have some business to do at Rome, and want only a day or two
to do it, and he knows I will keep my word.”
“My faith, you are a very conscientious galley-slave!” cried Pracontal.
“Are you hungry?” and he took a large piece of bread from the sideboard
and handed it to him. The man bowed, took the bread, and laid it beside
him on the window-board.
“And so you and Antonelli are good friends?” said Longworth sneeringly.
“I did not say so. I only said he knew me, and knew me to be a man of my
word.”
“And how could a Cardinal know--” when he got thus far he felt the
unfairness of saying what he was about to utter, and stopped, but the
man took up the words with perfect calmness, and said:--
“The best and the purest people in this world will now and then have to
deal with the lowest and the worst, just as men will drink dirty water
when they are parched with thirst.”
“Is it some outlying debt of vengeance, an old vendetta, detains you
here?” asked Longworth.
“I wouldn't call it that,” replied he, slowly, “but I'd not be surprised
if it took something of that shape, after all.”
“And do you know any other great folk?” asked Pracontal, with a laugh.
“Are you acquainted with the Pope?”
“No, I have never spoken to him. I know the French envoy here,
the Marquis de Caderousse. I know Field-Marshall Kleinkoff. I know
Brassieri--the Italian spy--they call him the Duke of Brassieri.”
“That is to say, you have seen them as they drove by on the Corso, or
walked on the Pincian?” said Longworth.
“No, that would not be acquaintance. When I said 'know' I meant it.”
“Just as you know my friend here, and know _me_ perhaps?” said
Pracontal.
“Not only him, but _you_,” said the fellow, with a fierce
determination.
“_Me_, know me? what do you know about _me?_”
“Everything,” and now he drew himself up, and stared at him defiantly.
“I declare I wonder at you, Anatole,” whispered Longworth. “Don't you
know the game of menace and insolence these rascals play at?” And again
the fellow seemed to divine what passed, for he said:--
“Your friend is wrong this time. I am not the cheat he thinks me.”
“Tell me something you know about me,” said Pracontal, smiling; and he
filled a goblet with wine, and handed it to him.
The other, however, made a gesture of refusal, and coldly said,--“What
shall it be about? I 'll answer any question you put to me.”
“What is he about to do?” cried Longworth. “What great step in life is
he on the eve of taking?”
“Oh, I'm not a fortune teller,” said the man, roughly; “though I could
tell you that he's not to be married to this rich Englishwoman. That
fine bubble is burst already.”
Pracontal tried to laugh, but he could not; and it was with difficulty
he could thunder out,--“Servants' stories and lackeys' talk!”
“No such thing, sir. I deal as little with these people as yourself.
You seem to think me an impostor; but I tell you I am less of a cheat
than either of you. Ay, sir, than you, who play fine gentlemen, mi
Lordo, here in Italy, but whose father was a land-steward; or than
you--”
“What of me--what of _me?_” cried Pracontal, whose intense eagerness now
mastered every other emotion.
“You I who cannot tell who or what you are, who have a dozen names, and
no right to any of them; and who, though you have your initials burned
in gunpowder in the bend of your arm, have no other baptismal registry.
Ah! do I know you now?” cried he, as Pracontal sank upon a seat, covered
with a cold sweat and fainting.
“This is some rascally trick. It is some private act of hate. Keep him
in talk till I fetch a gendarme.” Longworth whispered this, and left
the room.
“Bad counsel that he has given you,” said the man. “_My_ advice is
better. Get away from this at once--get away before he returns. There's
only shame and disgrace before you now.”
He moved over to where Pracontal was seated, and placing his mouth close
to his ear, whispered some words slowly and deliberately.
“And are you Niccolo Baldassare?” muttered Pracontal.
“Come with me, and learn all,” said the man, moving to the door; “for I
will not wait to be arrested and made a town talk.”
Pracontal arose and followed him.
The old man walked with a firm and rapid step. He descended the stairs
that led to the Piazza del Popolo, crossed the wide piazza, and issued
from the gate out upon the Campagna, and skirting the ancient wall, was
soon lost to view among the straggling hovels which cluster at intervals
beneath the ramparts. Pracontal continued to walk behind him, his
head sunk on his bosom, and his steps listless and uncertain, like one
walking in sleep. Neither were seen more after that night.
CHAPTER LXIX. THE LAST OF ALL.
All the emissaries had returned to the villa except Sedley, who found
himself obliged to revisit England suddenly, but from whom came a few
lines of telegram, stating that the “case of Pracontal de Bramleigh v.
Bramleigh had been struck out of the cause list; Kelson a heavy loser,
having made large advances to plaintiff.”
“Was n't it like the old fox to add this about his colleague? As if any
of us cared about Kelson, or thought of him!”
“Good fortune is very selfish, I really believe,” said Nelly. “We have
done nothing but talk of ourselves, our interests, and our intentions
for the last four days, and the worst of it is we don't seem tired of
doing so yet.”
“It would be a niggardly thing to deny us that pleasure, seeing what we
have passed through to reach it,” cried Jack.
“Who 'll write to Marion with the news?” said Augustus.
“Not I,” said Jack; “or if I do it will be to sign myself 'late Sam
Rogers.'”
“If George accepts the embassy chaplaincy,” said Julia, “he can convey
the tidings by word of mouth.”
“To guess by his dreary face,” said Jack, “one would say he had really
closed with that proposal. What's the matter, old fellow; has the
general joy here not warmed your heart?”
L'Estrange, pale and red alternately, blundered out a few scarcely
coherent words; and Julia, who well knew what feelings were agitating
him, and how the hopes that adversity had favored might be dashed, now
that a brighter fortune had dawned, came quickly to his rescue, and
said, “I see what George is thinking of. George is wondering when we
shall all be as happy and as united again, as we have been here, under
this dear old roof.”
“But why should we not?” broke in Augustus. “I mean to keep the
anniversary of our meeting here, and assemble you all every year at this
place. Perhaps I have forgotten to tell you that I am the owner of the
villa. I have signed the contract this morning.”
A cry of joy--almost a cheer--greeted this announcement, and Augustus
went on,--
“My ferns, and my green beetles, and my sea anemones, as Nelly
enumerates them, can all be prosecuted here, and I purpose to remain and
live here.”
“And Castello?”
“Jack will go and live at Castello,” continued he. “I have interceded
with a lady of my acquaintance”--he did not glance at Julia, but she
blushed as he spoke--“to keep a certain green room, with a little stair
out of it down to the garden, for me when I go there. Beyond that I
reserve nothing.”
“We 'll only half value the gift without you, old fellow,” said Jack,
as he passed his arm around her, and drew her fondly towards him.
“As one of the uninstructed public,” interposed Cutbill, “I desire to
ask, who are meant by 'We'?”
A half insolent toss of the head from Julia, meant specially for the
speaker, was, however, seen by the others, who could not help laughing
at it heartily.
“I think the uninstructed public should have a little deference for
those who know more,” broke in Jack, tartly, for he resented hotly
whatever seemed to annoy Julia.
“Tom Cutbill is shunted off the line, I see,” said Cutbill, mournfully.
“If he were,” cried Augustus, “we should be about the most worthless
set of people living. We owe him much, and like him even more.”
“Now, that's what I call handsome,” resumed Cutbill, “and if it was
n't a moment when you are all thinking of things a precious sight more
interesting than T. C, I 'd ask permission to return my acknowledgments
in a speech.”
“Oh, don't make a speech, Mr. Cutbill,” said Julia.
“No, ma'am, I'll reserve myself till I return thanks for the
bridesmaids.”
“Will no one suppress him?” said Julia, in a whisper.
“Oh, I am so glad you are to live at Castello, dearest,” said Nelly, as
she drew Julia to her, and kissed her. “You are just the châtelaine to
become it.”
“There is such a thing as losing one's head, Nelly, out of sheer
delight, and when I think I shall soon be one of you I run this risk;
but tell me, dearest”--and here she whispered her lowest--“why is
not our joy perfect? Why is poor George to be left out of all this
happiness?”
“You must ask _him_ that,” muttered she, hiding her head on the other's
shoulder.
“And may I, dearest?” cried Julia, rapturously. “Oh, Nelly, if there
be one joy in the world I would prize above all it would be to know you
were doubly my sister--doubly bound to me in affection. See, darling,
see--even as we are speaking--George and your brother have walked away
together. Oh, can it be--can it be? Yes, dearest,” cried she, throwing
her arms around her; “your brother is holding him by the hand, and the
tears are falling along George's cheek; his happiness is assured, and
you are his own.”
Nelly's chest heaved violently, and two low deep sobs burst from her,
but her face was buried in Julia's bosom, and she never uttered a word.
And thus Julia led her gently away down one of the lonely alleys of the
garden, till they were lost to sight.
Lovers are proverbially the very worst of company for the outer world,
nor is it easy to say which is more intolerable--their rapture or their
reserve. The overweening selfishness of the tender passion conciliates
no sympathy; very fortunately, it is quite indifferent to it. If it were
not all-sufficing, it would not be that glorious delirium that believes
the present to be eternal, and sees a world peopled only by two.
What should we gain, therefore, if we loitered in such company? They
would not tell us _their_ secrets--they would not care to hear ours.
Let it be enough to say that, after some dark and anxious days in life,
fortune once more shone out on those whom we saw so prosperous when
first we met them. If they were not very brilliant nor very good,
they were probably--with defects of temper and shortcomings in high
resolve--pretty much like the best of those we know in life. Augustus,
with a certain small vanity that tormented him into thinking that he
had a lesson to read to the world, and that he was a much finer
creature than he seemed or looked, was really a generously minded and
warm-hearted fellow, who loved his neighbor--meaning his brother or his
sister--a great deal better than himself.
Nelly was about as good as--I don't think better than--nineteen out of
every twenty honestly brought-up girls, who, not seduced by the luxuries
of a very prosperous condition, come early to feel and to know what
money can and what it cannot do.
Jack had many defects of hot temper and hastiness, but on the whole was
a fine, sailor-like fellow, carrying with him through life the dashing
hardihood that he would have displayed in a breach or on a boarding, and
thus occasionally exuberant, where smaller and weaker traits would
have sufficed. Such men, from time to time, make troublesome first
lieutenants, but women do not dislike them, and there is an impression
abroad that they make good husbands, and that all the bluster they
employ towards the world subsides into the mildest possible murmur
beside the domestic hearthrug.
Marion was not much more or much less than we have seen her; and though
she became, by the great and distinguished services of her husband, a
countess, she was not without a strange sentiment of envy for a certain
small vicarage in Herts, where rosy children romped before the latticed
porch, beneath which sat a very blooming and beautiful mother, and
worked as her husband read for her. A very simple little home sketch;
but it was the page of a life where all harmonized and all went smoothly
on: one of those lives of small ambitions and humble pleasures which are
nearer Paradise than anything this world gives us.
Temple Bramleigh was a secretary of legation, and lived to see
himself--in the uniformity of his manuscript, the precision of his
docketing, and the exactness of his sealing wax--the pet of “the
Office.” Acolytes who swung incense before permanent secretaries, or
held up the vestments of chief clerks, and who heard the words which
drop from the high priests of foolscap, declared Temple was a rising
man; and with a brother-in-law in the Lords, and a brother rich enough
to contest a seat in the Lower House, one whose future pointed to a high
post and no small distinction: for, happily for us, we live in an
age where self-assertion is as insufficient in public life as
self-righteousness in religion, and our merits are always best cared for
by imputed holiness.
The story of this volume is of the Bramleighs, and I must not presume to
suppose that my reader interests himself in the fate of those secondary
personages who figure in the picture. Lady Augusta, however, deserves a
passing mention, but perhaps her own words will be more descriptive than
any of mine; and I cannot better conclude than with the letter she wrote
to Nelly, and which ran thus:--
“Villa Altieri, Rome.
“Dearest Child,--How shall I ever convey to you one-half the transport,
the joy, the ecstasy I am filled with by this glorious news! There is no
longer a question of law or scandal or exposure. Your estates are your
own, and your dear name stands forth untarnished and splendid as it has
ever done. It is only as I bethink me of what you and dearest Augustus
and darling Jack must have gone through that I spare you the narrative
of my own sufferings, my days of sorrow, my nights of crying. It was
indeed a terrific trial to us all, and those horrid stories of hair
turning white from grief made me rush to the glass every morning at
daybreak with a degree of terror that I know well I shall never be able
to throw off for many a year; for I can assure you, dearest, that
the washes are a mistake, and most pernicious! They are made of what
chemists call Ethiops mineral, which is as explosive as nitro-glycerine;
and once penetrating the pores, the head becomes, as Doctor Robertson
says, a 'charged shell.' Can you fancy anything as horrible? Incipient
grayness is best treated with silver powder, which, when the eyelashes
are properly darkened _at the base_, gives a very charming lustre to the
expression. On no account use gold powder.
“It was a Mr. Longworth, a neighbor of yours, whom you don't know,
brought me the first news; but it was soon all over Rome, for his
father--I mean Pracontal's--was formerly much employed by Antonelli, and
came here with the tidings that the mine had exploded, and blown up only
themselves. A very dreadful man his father, with a sabre scar down the
cheek, and deep marks of manacles on his wrists and ankles; but would
n't take money from the Cardinal, nor anything but a passport. And they
went away, so the police say, on foot, P. dressed in some horrid coarse
clothes like his father; and oh, darling, how handsome he was, and how
distinguished-looking! It was young France, if you like; but, after all,
don't we all like the Boulevard de Ghent better than the Faubourg St.
Germain? He was very witty, too; that is, he was a master of a language
where wit comes easy, and could season talk with those nice little
flatteries which, like _fioriture_ in singing, heighten the charm, but
never impair the force of the melody. And then, how he sang! Imagine
Mario in a boudoir with a cottage piano accompaniment, and then you have
it. It is very hard to know anything about men, but, so far as I can
see, he was not a cheat; he believed the whole stupid story, and fancied
that there had been a painter called Lami, and a beautiful creature who
married somebody and was the mother of somebody else. He almost made me
believe it, too; that is, it bored me ineffably, and I used to doze over
it, and when I awoke I was n't quite sure whether I dreamed he was a man
of fortune or that such was a fact. Do you think he 'll shoot himself? I
hope he 'll not shoot himself. It would throw such a lasting gloom over
the whole incident that one could never fall back upon it in memory
without deep sorrow; but men are so essentially selfish I don't think
that this consideration would weigh with him.
“Some malicious people here circulated a story that he had made me an
offer of marriage, and that I had accepted it. Just as they said some
months ago that I had gone over to Rome, and here I am still, as the
police-sheet calls me, a 'Widow and a Protestant.' My character for
eccentricity exposes me naturally to these kinds of scandal; but, on the
other hand, it saves me from the trouble of refuting or denying them.
So that I shall take no notice whatever either of my conversion or my
marriage, and the dear world--never ill-natured when it is useless--will
at last accept the fact, small and insignificant though it be, just as
creditors take half a crown in the pound after a bankruptcy.
“And now, dearest, is it too soon, is it too importunate, or is it too
indelicate to tell your brother that, though I'm the most ethereal
of creatures, I require to eat occasionally, and that, though I am
continually reproved for the lowness of my dresses, I still do wear some
clothes. In a word, dearest, I am in dire poverty, and to give me
simply a thousand a year is to say, be a casual pauper. No one--my worst
enemy--and I suppose I have a few who hate and would despitefully use
me--can say I am extravagant. The necessaries of life, as they are
called, are the costly things, and these are what I can perfectly well
dispense with. I want its elegancies, its refinements, and these one
has so cheaply. What, for instance, is the cost of the bouquet on your
dinner-table? Certainly not more than one of your entrées; and it is
infinitely more charming and more pleasure-giving. My coffee costs me no
more out of Sèvres than out of a white mug with a lip like a milk-pail;
and will you tell me that the Mocha is the same in the one as the other?
What I want is that life should be picturesque, that its elegancies
should so surround one that its coarser, grosser elements be kept out of
sight; and this is a cheap philosophy. My little villa here--and nothing
can be smaller--affords it; but come and see dearest--that is the true
way--come and see how I live. If ever there was an existence of simple
pleasures it is mine. I never receive in the morning--I study. I either
read improving books--I 'll show you some of them--or I converse with
Monsignore Galloni. We talk theology and mundane things at times, and
we play besique, and we flirt a little; but not as you would understand
flirtation. It is as though a light zephyr stirred the leaves of the
affections and shook out the perfume, but never detached a blossom nor
injured a bud. Monsignore is an adept at this game; so serious, and yet
so tender, so spiritual, and at the same time so compassionate to poor
weak human nature--which, by the way, he understands in its conflicts
with itself, its motives, and its struggles, as none of your laymen do.
Not but poor Pracontal had a very ingenious turn, and could reconcile
much that coarser minds would have called discrepant and contradictory.
“So that, dearest, with less than three thousand, or two five hundred,
I must positively go to jail. It has occurred to me that, if none care
to go over to that house in Ireland, I might as well live there, at
least for the two or three months in the year that the odious climate
permits. As to the people, I know they would dote on me. I feel for them
very much, and I have learned out here the true chords their natures
respond to. What do you say to this plan? Would it not be ecstasy if
you agreed to share it? The cheapness of Ireland is a proverb. I had
a grand-uncle who once was Viceroy there, and his letters show that he
only spent a third of his official income.
“I 'd like to do this, too, if I only knew what my official income was.
Ask Gusty this question, and kiss every one that ought to be kissed, and
give them loves innumerable, and believe me ever your 'Doting mamma” (or
mamina, that is prettier),
“Augusta Bramleigh.
“I shall write to Marion to-morrow. It will not be as easy a task as
this letter; but I have done even more difficult ones. So they are
saying now that Culduff's promotion was a mere mistake; that there
never was such a man as Sam Rogers at all--no case--no indemnity--no
escape--no anything. Oh, dear me, as Monsignore says, what rest have our
feet once we leave total incredulity?”
THE END.