Part 22

Cicely sank down at his feet. "Oh, don't say that, Paul; it is not true. All this--these are the things that are underneath, they are the things that touch me; you never see them when I am dressed. It is only that I always liked to be nice for _him_; that is the reason I had all this lace; and I keep it up, because I want him to think of me always as just the same; yes, even when I am old. For I know he does think of me, and he sees me too; he is often here. Listen,--I can't help hating Eve, Paul. But it only comes in little whiffs, now and then. Supposing _I_ had shot _her_, could you like _me_, after that?" She rose, holding up her hands to him pleadingly. "In one way I love Eve."

"Yet you let her go! Heaven knows where she is now."

He turned his head away sharply. But she saw his tears. "No, Paul," she cried, terrified, "she isn't dead--if you mean that; she told me once, 'As long as he is in the world, I want to live!'"

"Well--I shall go after her," said Paul, controlling himself. He turned towards the door.

Cicely followed him. "Say good-by to me." She put up her face.

He touched her forehead with his lips. Then he held her off for a moment, and looked at her. "Poor child!" he said.

He returned to the house for his travelling-bag; he remembered that he had left it in the parlor upon his arrival, five hours before.

The pleasant, shabby room, as he opened the door, held a characteristic group: Miss Sabrina, gliding about with plum-cake; the judge, pouring cherry-bounce; Mistress Nannie Singleton, serenely seated, undergoing the process of being brushed by Clementine and Powlyne, who made hissing sounds like hostlers, and, standing on one foot in a bent attitude, held out behind a long leg. Rupert Singleton, seated in the largest arm-chair, was evidently paying compliments to Miss Leontine, who, gratified and embarrassed, and much entangled with her wineglass, her gloves, and her plate of cake, hardly knew, to use a familiar expression, whether she was on her head or her heels. Not that Miss Sabrina would have mentioned her heels; to her, heels, shins, and ribs did not exist, in a public way; they were almost medical terms, belonging to the vocabulary of the surgeon.

"I beg your pardon; I think I left my bag here," said Paul.

"I had it taken to your room," answered Miss Sabrina, coming forward. "Powlyne, go with Mr. Tennant."

"Let her bring it down, please; I am leaving immediately," said Paul, shaking hands with his hostess in farewell.

The judge followed him out. "Leaving, did you say? But you've only just come."

"I am going to Charleston.--I must follow Miss Bruce without a moment's delay."

"Has _she_ gone!" There was a gleam of triumph in the old Georgian's eyes as he said this. "You will find Charleston a very pleasant place," he added, politely.

XXXIV.

"Drive to the New York steamer."

"She's off, boss. Past her time."

"Drive, I tell you."

The negro coachman cracked his whip, his two rawboned steeds broke into a gallop; the loose-jointed landau behind clattered and danced over the stones.

"Faster," said Paul.

The negro stood up, he shook the reins over the backs of his team with a galloping motion that corresponded with the sound of their feet; in addition, he yelled without intermission. They swayed round corners, they lurched against railings and other carriages; every head turned, people made way for them as for a fire-engine; at last they reached the harbor, and went clattering down the descent to the dock. Here there met them the usual assemblage of loiterers, who were watching the steamer, which was already half a mile distant, churning the blue water into foam behind her, her nose pointed straight towards Sumter.

Paul watched the line of her smoke for a moment; then he got out of his carriage, paid the coachman mechanically, told him to take his luggage to the Charleston Hotel, and walked away, unconscious alike of the mingled derision and sympathy which his late arrival had drawn from the group--boys with market-baskets, girls with baby-wagons, slouching mulattoes with fishing-tackle, and little negroes of tender age with spongy lips and bare prehensile toes, to whose minds the departure of the steamer was a daily drama of intensest interest and excitement.

There was nothing to be done until evening, when he could take the fast train to New York. Paul went to the Battery; but noticed nothing. A band from the arsenal began to play; immediately over all the windows of the tall old houses which looked seaward the white shades descended; Northern music was not wanted there. He went up Meeting Street; and noticed nothing. Yet on each side, within sight, were picturesque ruins, and St. Michael's spire bore the marks of the bomb-shells of the siege. He opened the gate of the church-yard of the little Huguenot church and entered; the long inscriptions on the flat stones were quaint, but he did not read them. He walked into the country by the shaded road across the neck. Then he came back again. He strolled hither and thither, he stared at the old Manigault House. Finally, at three o'clock, he went to the hotel.

Half an hour later an omnibus came up; waiters in white and bell-boys with wisp-brushes rushed out, dusty travellers descended; Paul, standing under the white marble columns, looked on. He still stood there after the omnibus had rolled away, and all was quiet, so quiet that a cat stole out and crossed the street, walking daintily on its clean white paving-stones, and disappearing under a wall opposite.

A figure came to the doorway behind, Paul became conscious that he was undergoing inspection; he turned, and scanned the gazer. It proved to be a muscular, broad-shouldered man of thirty-five, with a short yellow beard and clumsy features, which were, however, lighted by keen blue eyes; his clothes were dusty, he carried a travelling-bag; evidently he was one of the travellers who had just arrived, coming from the Northern train. A bell-boy came out and looked up and down the colonnade; then, with his wisp-brush, he indicated Paul.

"Dat's him, sah.--You was a-asking."

"All right," said the traveller. Putting his travelling-bag on a bench, he walked up to Paul. "Think I know you. Mr. Tennant, isn't it--Port aux Pins? Saw your name on the book. I'm Dr. Knox--the one who was with your brother."

Paul's face changed, its fixed look disappeared. "Will you come to my room?"

"In twenty minutes. I must have a wash first, and something to eat. Be here long?"

"I go North at six o'clock."

"All right, I'll look sharp, then; we'll have time."

In twenty minutes he appeared at Paul's door. The door was open, revealing the usual bachelor's room, with one window, a narrow bed, a washstand, one chair, a red velvet sofa, with a table before it; the bed was draped in white mosquito netting; the open window looked down upon a garden, where were half a dozen negro nurses with their charges--pretty little white children, overdressed, and chattering in the sweet voices of South Carolina.

"Curious that I should have run against you here, when this very moment I am on my way to hunt you up," said Knox, trying first the chair, and then the sofa. "I landed twenty-four hours ago in New York; been off on a long yachting excursion; started immediately after your brother's death,--perhaps Miss Abercrombie told you? Whole thing entirely unexpected; had to decide in ten minutes, and go on board in an hour, or lose the chance; big salary, expenses paid; couldn't afford to lose it. I'd have written before starting, if it had been possible; but it wasn't. And after I was once off, my eyes gave way suddenly, and I had to give them a rest. It wasn't a thing to write, anyway; it was a thing to _tell_. There was nothing to be done in any case, and such kind of news will keep; so I decided that as soon as I landed, I'd come down here and find out about you and Miss Abercrombie; then I was going up to Port aux Pins--or wherever you were--to see you."

"I suppose you can tell me--in three words--what all this is about," said Paul, who had not seated himself.

"Yes, easy. What do you suppose was the cause of your brother's death?"

"Pistol-shot," Paul answered, curtly.

"No, that was over, I had cured him of that; I telegraphed you that the wound wasn't dangerous, and it wasn't. No, sir; he died of a spree--of a series of 'em."

Paul sat down.

"I say, have some brandy? No? Well, then I'll go on, and get it over. But don't you go to thinking that I'm down on Ferdie; I'm not, I just loved that fellow; I don't know when I've seen anybody that took me so. I was called to him, you know, after those negroes shot him. 'Twasn't in itself a vital wound; only a tedious one; the difficulty was fever, but after a while we subdued that. Of course I saw what was behind,--he had had an attack of something like delirium tremens; it was that which complicated matters. Well, I went over there every day, sometimes twice a day; I took the biggest sort of interest in the case, and, besides, we got to be first-rate chums. I set about doing everything I could for him, not only in the regular line of business, but also morally, as one may call it; as a friend. You see, I wanted to open his eyes to the danger he was in; he hadn't the least conception of it. He thought that it was only a question of will, and that his will was particularly strong;--_that_ sort of talk. Well, after rather a slow job of it, I pronounced him cured--as far as the wound was concerned; all he needed was rest. Did he take it? By George, sir, he didn't! He slipped off to Savannah, not letting me know a gleam of it, and there he was joined by--I don't know whether you have heard that there was a woman in the case?"

Paul nodded.

"And she wasn't the only one, though she supposed she was. From the first, the drink got hold of him again. And this time it killed him,--he led an awful life of it there for days. As soon as I found out that he had gone--which wasn't at once, as I had given up going over there regularly--I chased up to Savannah after him as fast as I could tear,--I had the feeling that he was going to the devil! I couldn't find him at first, though I scoured the town. And when I did, he was past helping;--all I could do was to try to get him back to Romney; I wanted him to die decently, at home, and not up there among those-- Well, sir, he died the next day. I couldn't tell those women down there--Miss Abercrombie, Mrs. Singleton, and her aunt, Miss Peggy. They were all there, of course, and crying; but they would have cried a great deal worse if they had known the truth, and, as there was nothing to be gained by it for any one, it seemed cruel to tell them. For good women are awful fools, you know; they are a great deal harder than we are; they think nothing of sending a man to hell; they're awfully intolerant. 'Tany rate, I made up my mind that I'd say nothing except to you, leaving it to you to inform the wife or not, as you thought best. Then, suddenly, off I had to go on that yachting expedition. But as soon as I landed I started; and, here I am--on the first stage of the journey."

Paul did not speak.

"I say, do you take it so hard, then?" said Knox, with an embarrassed laugh.

Paul got up. "You have done me the greatest service that one man can do another." He put out his hand.

Knox, much relieved, gave it a prolonged shake. "Faults and all, he was the biggest kind of a trump, wasn't he? Drunkards are death to the women--to the wives and mothers and sisters; but some of 'em are more lovable than lots of the moral skinflints that go nagging about, saving a penny, and grinding everybody but themselves. The trouble with Ferdie was that he was born without any conscience, just as some people have no ear for music; it was a case of heredity; and heredity, you know--"

"You needn't excuse him to _me_," said Paul.

XXXV.

Outside of a walled town in North Italy there stands, on a high hill, an old villa, which, owing to its position, is visible for miles in every direction. It was built in the fourteenth century. Its once high tower was lowered in A. D. 1423. Its blank yellow walls are long, pierced irregularly by large windows, which are covered with iron cages; massive doors open upon a square court-yard within; an avenue of cypresses leads up the bare hill to the entrance.

Sixteen days after the conversation between Paul Tennant and Edward Knox, three persons were standing in the court-yard of this villa behind the closed outer doors. The court-yard was large, open to the sky; a stone shield, bearing three carved wolves, was tilted forward on one of the walls; opposite, over a door, there was a headless figure of a man in armor; a small zinc cross over a smaller door marked the entrance to the family chapel. In one corner stood a circular stone well, with a yellow marble parapet supported by grinning masks; in another hung a wire cord that led to a bell above, which was covered by a little turret roof, also bearing a cross. There were no vines or flowers, not a green leaf; the yard was bare, paved with large stones, which, though ancient, were clean; the blades of grass marking the interstices, usual in Italy, were absent here.

Of the three persons who stood together near the well, one was a stout woman with a square face, an air of decision and business-like cheerfulness, and pretty hands which she kept crossed on her black dress. The second was a small, thin man of fifty. The third was Paul Tennant.

"I have heard your reasons, I am not satisfied with them," Paul was saying; "I must insist upon seeing her."

"But consider, pray--when I tell you that she does not _wish_ to see you," said the woman, rubbing her hands together, and then looking at them inspectingly.

"How can I be sure of that?"

"You have my word for it."

"It is as Mrs. Wingate says," interposed the small, thin man, earnestly. His voice was clear and sweet.

"Miss Bruce may have said it. But when we have once met--"

"Well, I think I'll go in now," interrupted Mrs. Wingate, giving her hands a last rub, looking at them, and then crossing them on her black dress again. "I've given you twenty minutes, but I've a thousand things to do; all the clothes to cut out--fancy! I leave you with Mr. Smith. Good-day."

"Instead of leaving me, you had better take me to Miss Bruce," said Paul.

She shook her finger at him. "Do you think I'd play her such a trick as that?" She crossed the court, opened a door, and disappeared.

Paul turned impatiently to Mr. Smith. "There is something that Miss Bruce must know. Call her down immediately."

Mr. Smith was silent. Then he said: "I might evade, but I prefer not to; the lady you speak of has asked our protection, and especially from you; she is soon to be taken into the Holy Church."

"So you're a priest, are you?" said Paul, in a fury.

"And that woman Wingate is your accomplice? Now I know where to have you!"

Mr. Smith did not quail, though Paul's fist was close under his nose. "I am not a priest; Mrs. Wingate is an English lady of fortune, who devotes her life to charitable works. Miss Bruce came to us of her own accord, only three days ago. She was ill and unhappy. Now she is--tranquil."

"Is she--is she alive?" said Paul, his voice suddenly beginning to tremble. It had come to him that Eve was dead.

"She is. I may as well tell you that she did not wish to be; but--but it has been represented to her that our lives are not our own, to cut short as we please; and so she has repented."

"I don't believe she has repented!" said Paul, with inconsequent anger. He hated the word, and the quiet little man.

"She told me that she had killed some one," Mr. Smith went on, in a whisper, his voice, even in a whisper, however, preserving its sweetness.

"See here!" said Paul, taking him by the arm eagerly; "that is what I have come for; all these months she has thought so, but it is a mistake; he died from another cause."

"Thank God!" said Mr. Smith.

"Thank God and bring her out, man! _She_ is the one to know."

"I'll do what I can. But it may not be thought best by those in authority; I must warn you that I shall obey the orders of my superior, in any case."

"Yet you don't look like an ass!"

"Wait here, please," said Mr. Smith, without noticing this comment. He opened a door beside the chapel (not the one by which Mrs. Wingate had entered), and, going in, gently closed it behind him.

Paul waited. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. He tried all the doors; they were locked. He went over to the corner where the bell-rope hung and pulled it twice; "cling-clang! cling-clang!" sounded the bell in its turret.

In answer a window opened above, and a large, placid Italian peasant appeared, looking at him amiably.

"Mr. Smith?" said Paul.

"Fuori."

"Mrs. Wingate, then?"

"Fuori."

"There's only one road--the one by which I came up, and I haven't heard any carriage drive away; if 'Fuori' means out, you are not telling the truth; they are not out, they are here."

The Italian smiled, still amiably.

"Is there any one here who speaks English?" said Paul, in despair.

"Ingleese? Si." She went off with the same serene expression. Before long she appeared again at a door below, which she left open; Paul could see a bare stone-floored hall, with a staircase at the end.

Presently down the staircase came a quick-stepping little old woman, with a black lace veil on her head; she came briskly to the door. "I hear you wish to speak to me?"

"You're an American," said Paul. "I'm glad of that."

"Well, you're another, and I'm not glad of it! Americans are limited. Besides, they are Puritans. My being an American doesn't make any difference to _you_, that I know of."

"Yes, it does. You come from a country where no one is shut up."

"_How about the prisons_?"

"_For criminals, yes_. _Not for girls_."

"Girls are silly. Have nothing to do with them until they are older; that's _my_ advice," said the old lady, alertly.

"Do you know Miss Bruce?"

"A little."

"Take me to her."

"I can't, she is in retreat."

"You wouldn't approve of force being used for any one; I am sure you would not," said Paul, trying to speak gently.

"Force? Force is never used here, you must be out of your mind. If you do not see Miss Bruce, you may depend that it is because she does not _wish_ to see you."

"She would--if she could hear me say one word!"

"No doubt you'd cajole her! I'm glad she is where you can't get at her, poor dear!"

"She was to have been my wife two weeks ago," said Paul, making a last effort to soften her.

"Well, go home now; she'll never be your wife _this_ side the grave," said the old lady, laughing.

"I'll make all Italy ring with it, madam. This old house shall come down about your ears."

"Mercy me! We're not Italians, we're English. And we've got a government protection; it's a charitable institution."

"For inveigling people, and getting their money! Miss Bruce, you know, has money."

"I didn't know a thing about it--not a thing! Money, has she? Well, Ernestine Wingate _does_ like money; she wants to build a new wing. Look here, young man, Father Ambrose is coming here to-day; you want to see _him_. He'll do what's right, he is a very good man; and he commands all the others; they have to do as he says, whether they like it or not,--I guess you'd better not _hurry_ away." And, with a nod in which there was almost a wink, the American convert went back down the hall and up the stairway, disappearing through a door which closed with a sharp bang behind her.

Paul crossed the court-yard, and, opening one of the great portals, he passed through, shutting it behind him. Outside, attached to the wall of the villa, there ran a long, low stone bench, crumbling and overgrown with ivy; he sat down here, and remained motionless.

An hour later a carriage drove up, and a priest descended; he was a man of fifty-eight or there-abouts, tall, with a fine bearing and an agreeable face. Paul went up to him, touching his hat as he did so. "Are you going in?"

"That is what I have come for," answered the priest, smiling.

The doors, meanwhile, had been thrown open; the priest passed in, followed by Paul.

When they reached the court-yard the priest stopped. "Will you kindly tell me your business?"

"It concerns Miss Bruce, an American who has only been here a few days. She came, supposing that the death of my brother was due to an act of hers; I have just learned that she is completely mistaken, he died from another cause."

"God be praised! She has been very unhappy--very," said the priest, with sympathy. "This will relieve her."

"I should like to see her.--The whole community can be present, if you please."

"That will hardly be necessary," said Father Ambrose, smiling again. He went towards the door by the side of the chapel. "I will tell her myself, I will go at once." He opened the door.

"I prefer to see her. You have no real authority over her, she has not yet taken the vows."

"There has been no talk of vows," said Father Ambrose, waving his hand with an amused air. "Every one is free here, I don't know what you are thinking of! If you will give me your address, Miss Bruce will write to you."

"Do you refuse to let me see her?"

"For the present--yes. You must remember that we don't know who you are."

"She will tell you."

"Yes; she is very intelligent," answered the priest, entering the doorway and preparing to mount the stairs.

But Paul knocked him down.

Then he ran forward up the stairs; he opened doors at random, he ran through room after room; women met him, and screamed. At last, where the hall turned sharply, Mr. Smith confronted him. Mr. Smith was perfectly composed.

"Let me pass," said Paul.

"In a moment. All shall be as you like, if you will wait--"

"Wait yourself!" cried Paul, felling him to the floor. Then he ran on.

At the end of the hall Mrs. Wingate stopped him. Her manner was unaltered; it was business-like and cheerful; her plump hands were clasped over her dress.

"Now," she said, "no more violence! You'll hardly knock down a woman, I suppose?"

"Forty, if necessary."

He thrust her against the wall, and began trying the doors. There were three of them. Two were locked. As his hand touched the third, Mrs. Wingate came to his side, and opened it promptly and quietly.

"No one has ever wished to prevent your entrance," she said. "Your violence has been unnecessary--the violence of a boor!"

Paul laughed in her face.

There was no one in the room. But there was a second door. He opened it. And took Eve in his arms.

THE END.