Chambers's Journal, December 4, 1886 2 – Various · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
Chambers's Journal, December 4, 1886 2By Fred. M. White
18
Literature · Romance
Chambers's Journal, December 4, 1886 2
By Fred. M. White
VariousEnglish
IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. XVII.
When Maxwell came to himself it was broad daylight. He was lying upon a straw mattress in a small room, containing no furniture besides the rude bed; and as he looked up, he could see the rafters, black with dirt and the smoke of ages. The place was partly a house, partly a hut. Gradually, as recollection came back to him, he remembered the events of the previous night, wondering vaguely why he had been selected as a victim for attack, and what brought him here. By the clear sound of voices and the rush of water, he judged himself to be in the country. He had no consciousness of fear, so he rose, and throwing open the heavy door, looked out. Towering away above his head were the snow-capped peaks of mountains, and below him the spreading valley of the Campagna. Wood upon wood was piled up before him, all aglow with bright sunlight, the green leaves whispering and trembling in the breeze. The hut was built on a long rocky plateau, approached by a narrow winding path, and ending in a steep precipice of two hundred feet, and backed up behind by almost perpendicular rocks, fringed and crowned by trees. In spite of his position, Maxwell drew a long breath of delight; the perfect beauty of the scene thrilled him, and appealed to his artistic soul and love of the beautiful. For some time he gazed upon the panorama, perfectly oblivious to his position, till gradually the sound of voices borne upon the wind came to his ears. He walked to the side of the hut and looked around.
Seated upon the short springy turf, in every picturesque and comfortable position the ingenuity of each could contrive, were four men, evidently, to Maxwell’s experienced eye, banditti. They seemed peacefully inclined now, as they lounged there in the bright sunshine smoking, and renewing the everlasting papilito, without which no such gentry are complete, either in the pages of fiction or as portrayed upon the modern stage. With the exception of one, evidently the leader, there was nothing gorgeous in their costume, it being the usual attire of the mountaineers; but the long carabines lying by their sides and the short daggers in their waistbands spoke of their occupation. Maxwell began to scent an adventure and enjoy the feeling; it would only mean the outlay of a few pounds, a little captivity; but when he approached nearer, and saw each bearing on some part of his person the gold moidore, his heart beat a trifle faster as he stepped forward and confronted the group.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asked, in the best Italian at his command. ‘I suppose it is merely a question of ransom. But it is useless to put the figure too high. Come, what is the amount?’
The brigands looked to each other in admiration of this coolness. Presently, the leader removed his cigarette from his mouth and spoke: ‘You have your watch, signor, and papers; you have your rings and purse. It is not our rule to forget these with an ordinary prisoner.’
Maxwell felt in his pocket, and, surely enough, his valuables were perfectly safe—nothing missing, even to his sketch-book. For the first time, he began to experience a sensation of fear. ‘Then, if plunder is not your object, why am I detained?’
‘Plunder is not a nice word to ears polite, signor,’ the leader replied with a dark scowl. ‘You are detained by orders. To hear, with us, is to obey. You will remain here during our pleasure.’
‘But suppose I refuse to remain?’
Without rising, the brigand turned on his side and pointed towards the sheer precipice, and then to the wall behind; with a gesture he indicated the narrow winding path, the only means of exit, and smiled ironically. ‘You may go; there is nothing to prevent you,’ he said; ‘but before you were half-way down the path yonder, you would be the target for a score of bullets, and we do not often fail.’
Maxwell was considerably impressed by this cool display; and indeed, when he considered the matter calmly, there appeared no prospect of immediate escape. Remonstrances or threats would be equally unavailing, and he determined to make the best of his position. ‘Perhaps you would not mind telling me why I am here, and by whose orders you have arrested me. It would be some slight consolation to know how long I am to stay. I am anxious to know this,’ he continued, ‘because I am afraid your mountain air, exhilarating as it is, will not suit me.’
The group burst into loud laughter at this little humour: it was a kind of wit they were in a position to appreciate.
‘It is impossible to say, signor. We only obey orders; we can only wait for further instructions as regards your welfare—or otherwise. We were told to bring one Maxwell here, and lo! we have done it.’
‘I see you are brothers of the League,’ Maxwell replied; ‘and for some act of omission or commission I am detained here. You can at least tell me by whose orders you do this.’
‘Signor, they say you are a traitor to our Order.’
‘That I am not!’ Maxwell cried indignantly. ‘Tell me why I am here, and at whose orders. There is some mistake here.’
‘Not on our part, signor. The instructions came from London. I only received them last night. You will be well treated here, provided you do not make any attempts to escape. For the time, you are our guest, and as such, the best I have is at your disposal. If orders come to release you, we shall conduct you to Rome. We shall do everything in our power to serve you. If, on the other hand, you are tried in the balance and found wanting, we shall not fail to do our duty.’ He said these last words sternly, in contrast to the polite, grave manner with which he uttered the first part of his speech.
Maxwell had perception enough to comprehend his meaning. ‘You mean that I should have to die,’ he observed. ‘I suppose it would be a matter of the utmost indifference to you, either way?’
‘As a matter of duty, signor, yes,’ he answered gravely; ‘though I do not wish to see a brave man die; but if the mandate came to that effect, I must obey. There is no refusing the word of the League.’
‘Then I really am a prisoner of the League,’ Maxwell returned bitterly. ‘Well, the cause of liberty must be in a bad way, when the very members of the League treat brothers as I have been treated.’
‘Ah, it is a fine word liberty,’ the brigand chief replied sardonically. ‘It is a good phrase to put into men’s mouths; but there can be no freedom where the shadow of the sword dwells upon the land. Even Italy herself has suffered, as she will again. Perfect liberty and perfect freedom can only be founded upon the doctrine of universal love.’
By this time, Maxwell and the chief had drawn a little aside from the others. The artist looked in his companion’s face, and noted the air of sorrow there. It was a fine manly countenance, haughty and handsome, though the dark eyes were somewhat sombre now. Maxwell, with his cosmopolitan instinct, was drawn towards this man, who had a history written on his brow. ‘You, too, have suffered,’ he said gently.
‘Suffered!’ the brigand echoed. ‘Yes, Englishman, I have suffered, and not more from the Austrian yoke than the cruelties of my own countrymen. There will be no true liberty here while a stiletto remains in an Italian’s belt.’
‘I suppose not,’ Maxwell mused. ‘These Societies seem to me a gigantic farce. Would that I had remained quietly at home, and let empires manage their own affairs. And Salvarini warned me too.’
‘Salvarini! What do you know of him?’ the chief exclaimed.
‘Nothing but what is good and noble, everything to make one proud to call him friend.—Do you know him too?’
‘He is my brother,’ the chief replied quietly.—‘You look surprised to find that a relative of Luigi should pursue such a profession as mine. Yes, he is my brother—the brother of an outlaw, upon whose head a price has been put by the state. I am known to men as Paulo Lucci.’
Maxwell started. The man sitting calmly by his side was the most famous and daring bandit chief of his time. Provinces rang with his fame, and the stories of his dashing exploits resounded far and near. Even away in the distant Apennines, the villagers sat round the winter firesides and discoursed of this man with bated breath, and children trembled in their beds at the mere thought of his name. He laughed scornfully now as he noted Maxwell’s startled look.
‘I am so very terrible,’ he continued, ‘that my very name strikes terror to you! Bah! you have been listening to the old women’s tales of my atrocities, about the tortures my victims undergo, and the thousand-and-one lies people are fond of telling about me. I can understand Luigi did not tell you I was his brother; I am not a relative to be proud of.’
‘He is in total ignorance of your identity. That I do know.—I wonder at you choosing such a life,’ Maxwell put in boldly. ‘With your daring, you would have made fame as a soldier; any path of life you had chosen would have brought you honour; but now’——
‘But now I am an outlaw,’ Paulo Salvarini interrupted. ‘And why? If you will listen, I will tell you my story in a few words.’
Maxwell threw himself upon the grass by the other’s side and composed himself to listen.
‘If you will look below you,’ the chief commenced, and pointing with his finger across the distant landscape, ‘you will see the sun shining upon a house-top. I can see the light reflected from it now. That house was once my home. I like sometimes to sit here and think of those days when Gillana and I were happy there—that is ten years ago now. I had done my best for my country; I had fought for her, and I retired to this peaceful spot with the woman of my heart, to live in peace, as I hoped, for the rest of my life. But the fiend of Liberty was abroad. My wife’s father, an aged man, was accused of complicity in political crimes, and one day, when I was absent, they came to arrest him. My wife clung to him, and one of the brutal soldiery struck her down with the butt of his rifle; I came in time to see that, for my blood was on fire, and I did not hesitate. You can understand the rest. My wife was killed, actually murdered by that foul blow. But I had my revenge. When I crossed the threshold of my house, on my flight to the mountains, I left three dead behind me, and another, the officer, wounded sore. He recovered, I afterwards heard; but some day we shall meet.’
He stopped abruptly, shaking in every limb from the violence of his emotion, his sombre eyes turned towards the spot where the sun shone upon the roof-tops of what was once a peaceful homestead.
‘Luigi can only guess at this,’ the speaker continued. ‘To him I have been dead for years; indeed, I do not know what makes me tell you now, only that you surprised me, and I like to hear a little news of him.’
‘I have heard this history before,’ Maxwell observed. ‘It is five years ago now; but I am not likely to forget it. Still, you cannot enjoy this life. It is wild and exciting, no doubt; but your companions’——
‘I live for revenge,’ Salvarini exclaimed sternly. ‘I am waiting to meet the brutal officer who ordered his follower to strike down my wife. I have waited long; but the time will come at length, and then, heaven help the man called Hector le Gautier!’
‘Le Gautier!’ Maxwell exclaimed. ‘He, an Italian officer! Why, he is at present Head Centre of the Brotherhood in London. He and your brethren are bosom friends. He was even present at the time when Luigi told us your sad history. Surely he cannot know; and yet I trusted him too. Signor Salvarini, you bewilder me.’
The outlaw laughed loud and long; but the mirth was strained, and jarred harshly upon the listener. ‘And that fiend is a friend of Luigi’s! Strange things happen in these times. Beware, Signor Maxwell—beware of that man, for he will work you mischief yet. It was by his orders you were arrested. He knows me by name, and as one of the Brotherhood only, so I did his bidding.’
‘Strange! And yet I have done him no harm.’
‘Not that you are aware of, perhaps. Still, no doubt you have crossed his path in some way. If I have a command in the morning to lead you out yonder to face a dozen rifles, I shall not be surprised.’
‘And you would countenance such murder?’
‘This morning, yes. Now, I am doubtful. You are my brother’s friend; I am Le Gautier’s enemy; I do not wish to help him.’
Three days passed uneventfully by, at the end of which time Maxwell had become a great favourite with the outlaw band. Following the lead of their chief, they treated him with every kindness; nor was he in his turn inclined to resent his captivity or chafe at this delay. His chief fear was for Enid; for Paulo Salvarini, though he was inclined to allow his prisoner every latitude, was firm upon the point of communication with the outer world; for, as he pointed out, he might after all be guilty of some great treachery to the League, and in that case must be answerable for anything that happened.
So the days passed on in that quiet spot, no further news coming to him till the morning of the fourth day. Then he was sitting at the door of his hut, watching the sunrise glowing on the distant hills, when Salvarini approached him, his face perturbed, and his whole manner agitated. ‘You are in danger,’ he whispered. ‘The orders have come, and you are proclaimed traitor. The men are mad against you, and declare you shall be brought out for instant execution. Ah! you have only seen the best side of their character; you have not seen them hungry for blood.’
‘Do they want to murder me?’ Maxwell exclaimed. ‘Cannot you’——
‘I am powerless now,’ Salvarini interrupted. ‘I will do what I can; but I fear nothing can save you now.’
‘Do not be afraid,’ said a calm voice behind. ‘I shall save him!’
‘Isodore!’
‘Yes, Paulo Lucci; it is I.’
Maxwell looked up, and saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. For a moment he could only gaze in rapt astonishment. This, then, was the Empress of the League—the woman Visci had mentioned, whose lightest word could free his feet and clear his path for ever.
‘You have come in time,’ Salvarini said with a low obeisance. ‘An hour hence and our prisoner would have been no more.’
‘I am always in time,’ Isodore replied quietly.—‘I have come to deliver you from a great danger,’ she continued, turning to Maxwell. ‘Come; we must be in Rome at once, and away, or we may yet be too late. Hark! Are the wolves clamouring for their prey already? We shall see.’
It was light now, and from the plateau beyond came the hoarse yells and cries for revenge from the brigands. On they came towards the hut, clamouring for blood, and mad with the heat of passion. They rushed in, seized Maxwell, and led him out on to the level grass, while six of the party stepped back a few paces and cocked their rifles. The whole thing was so sudden that Lucci and Isodore were totally unprepared to resist. But the girl roused herself now, and quitting the hut, swept across the open space and placed herself in front of Maxwell.
‘Drop your arms!’ she cried. ‘Are you mad, that you do this thing? Ground your rifles, or you shall pay dearly for this indignity.’
Appalled by her gestures and the dignity of her voice, the desperadoes hesitated for a moment, and then one, more daring than the rest, raised his carabine to the shoulder, standing in the act of firing.
‘You may fire,’ Isodore cried. ‘Fire! and every hair of my head shall be avenged for by a life! Fire! and then pray for the mercy of heaven, for you shall not meet with any from the hand of man!’
The desperate men were amazed by this beauty and daring, the audacity of which appealed to their rude instinct. One by one they dropped their firearms, and stood looking sullenly in the direction of the scornful woman, standing there without a particle of fear in her eyes.
‘Who are you,’ cried one bolder than the rest—‘who are you, that come between us and justice?’
They all took up the cry, and bade her stand aside.
‘If she falls, I fall!’ Lucci exclaimed in a firm steady voice. ‘Go on your knees, and ask for pardon.—Madam,’ he continued, falling upon one knee, ‘I did not think my followers would have shown such scant courtesy to Isodore.’
At the very mention of her name, a change came over the mutineers. One by one they dropped their firearms, and came forward humbly to implore her forgiveness for their rashness, but she waved them aside.
Long and earnestly the three talked together, listening to the revelation of Le Gautier’s treachery, and how the final act was about to be played over there in England: how Le Gautier had confessed his treachery, and how, out of his own mouth, he was going to be convicted. Silently and slowly they wound their way down the mountain path, under Lucci’s guidance, out on to the plains, beyond which the sun lighted upon the house-tops of distant Rome. When they had got so far, Isodore held out her hand to the guide.
‘Good-bye. It will not be safe for you to come any farther,’ she said. ‘Rest assured, in the general reckoning your account shall not be forgotten.’
‘It will not,’ Lucci answered sternly. ‘I shall see to that myself. By the time you reach England, I shall be there too.—Nay, do not strive to dissuade me. I do not take my revenge from another hand. I shall run a great risk; but, mark me, when the time comes, I shall be there!’ Without another word he disappeared; and Isodore and Maxwell walked on towards the Eternal City both wrapped in their own thoughts. Mile after mile passed on thus, ere Maxwell broke the silence.
‘Do you think he will keep his word?’ he said half timidly.
‘Who, Lucci? Yes; he will keep his word; nothing but death will prevent that.—And now, you and I must get back to England without a moment’s loss of time.’
‘I cannot say how grateful I am,’ Maxwell said earnestly. ‘If it had not been for your bravery and courage’—— He stopped and shuddered; the contemplation of what might have been was horrible.
Isodore smiled a little unsteadily in answer to these words. ‘I owe you a debt of gratitude,’ she replied. ‘My memory serves me well. I was not going to allow you to die, when you would have perished rather than raise a hand against Carlo Visci.’
‘Indeed, you only do me justice. I would have died first.’
‘I know it; and I thank you for your kindness to him at the last. You were with him when he died. Things could not have been better. He was always fond of you. For that, I am grateful.’
‘But I do not understand,’ Maxwell faltered. ‘He did not know you except by reputation.’
‘I think you are mistaken. Am I so changed that you do not recognise your friend Genevieve?’
‘Genevieve! You? Am I dreaming?’
‘Yes; I am Genevieve; though much changed and altered from those happy old days when you used to come to the Villa Mattio. You wonder why I am here now—why I left my home. Cannot you guess that Le Gautier was at the bottom of it?’
‘But he professed not to know you; he’——
‘Yes, he professed to be a friend of yours. But until I give you permission to speak, not a word that Isodore and Genevieve are one and the same.’
‘My lips are sealed. I leave everything in your hands.’
‘And cannot you guess why you have incurred Le Gautier’s enmity?—No? Simply, because he aspires to the hand of Enid Charteris.—You need not start,’ Isodore continued, laying her hand upon the listener’s arm. ‘You have no cause for anxiety. It will never be!’
‘Never, while I can prevent it!’ Maxwell cried warmly.
‘It is impossible. He has a wife already.’
Only tarrying for one mournful hour to visit the cemetery where lay Carlo Visci’s quiet grave, Isodore and Maxwell made their way, but not together, to England, as fast as steam could carry them.
