Called Back

by Hugh Conway

  Ceneri gave him no encouragement. He did not wish to offend him, and seeing that the girl was proof against his blandishments, let things alone, hoping that Macari would grow weary of urging those requests which were always met by refusals. He believed that he was not seeking Pauline for the sake of the money which should have been hers. Macari knew what large sums Ceneri had poured into the patriot’s treasury, and, no doubt guessed whence they came.

  Pauline remained at school until she was nearly eighteen; then she spent two years with her uncle in Italy. It was a dull life for the girl, and she sighed audibly for England. Although meeting him seldom, she was passionately attached to her brother, and was greatly delighted when Ceneri told her that business would take him for a while to London, and that she might accompany him. She was growing tired of Macari’s pertinacity, and, moreover, longed to see her brother again.

  Ceneri, for the sake of receiving his many political friends at what hours of the day or night he chose, took a furnished house for a short term. Pauline’s disgust was great when she found that one of their first visitors was Macari. His presence was so indispensable to Ceneri that he took up his abode with them in Horace Street. As old Teresa, the doctor’s servant, accompanied the party and waited upon them, the change to Pauline was a very slight one.

  Macari still persecuted the girl without success. At last, almost desperate, he formed the wild plan of trying to enlist her brother on his side His idea was that Pauline’s love for Anthony would induce her to yield to any wish he expressed He was no particular friend of the young man’s, but, having once rendered him a signal service, felt himself entitled to ask a favour at his hands. Knowing that both brother and sister were penniless, he had less hesitation in so doing.

  He called on Anthony and made his request. Anthony, who seems to have been a proud, arrogant and not a very pleasant young man, simply laughed at his impertinence and bade him begone. Poor boy, he little knew what that laugh would cost him!

  It may have been the retort made by Macari, as he departed in a whirlwind of rage, that opened Anthony’s eyes as to the jeopardy in which his fortune was placed. Anyway he wrote at once to his uncle, insisting upon an immediate settlement. In the event of any delay he would consult a solicitor, and if necessary take criminal proceedings against the trustee.

  The moment which Ceneri had so long dreaded—so long postponed—had come; only now, the confession, instead of being as he intended a voluntary one, would be wrung from him.

  Whether he would be amenable to the Italian or English law he did not know, but he felt certain that Anthony would at once take steps to ensure his arrest and detention. The latter, if only temporary, would ruin the scheme upon which he was now engaged. At any cost Anthony March must be silenced for a time.

  He assured me with the solemnity of a dying man that no thought of the dreadful means which effected this was in his mind. He had revolved many plans and finally settled on one which, although difficult to execute and very hazardous, seemed to give the best promise of success. His intention was, with the assistance of his friends and subordinates, to carry Anthony abroad and deposit him for some months in a lunatic asylum. The confinement was only to be temporary; yet although Ceneri did not confess to it, I have little doubt but the young man would have been asked to buy his freedom by a promise to forgive the misappropriation of the trust money.

  And now as to carrying this precious plan into execution. Macari, vowing vengeance for the words of insult, was ready to aid in every way. Petróff, the man with the scarred face, was the doctor’s, body and soul. Teresa, the old servant, would have committed any crime at her master’s command. The necessary papers could be obtained or forged. Let the conspirators get Anthony to visit them at the house in Horace Street and he should leave it only as a lunatic in charge of his doctor and his keepers. It was a vile, treacherous scheme, the success of which was very doubtful, necessitating, as it must, carrying the victim to Italy. How this was to be done Ceneri did not exactly explain—perhaps he had not quite worked out the details of the plot—perhaps the boy was to be drugged—perhaps he counted upon his frantic state when he discovered the true position of affairs to give colour to the statement that he was of unsound mind.

  The first thing was to induce Anthony to come to Horace Street at an hour suitable for development of the plot. Ceneri made his preparations; gave his instructions to his confederates, and then wrote to his nephew begging him to call upon him that night and hear his explanation of matters.

  Perhaps Anthony mistrusted his relative and his associates more than was suspected. Anyway, he replied by declining the invitation, but suggested that his uncle should call upon him instead. Then, by Macari’s advice. Pauline was made the innocent means of luring her brother to the fatal house. Ceneri expressed his perfect indifference as to where the meeting took place, but, being very much engaged, postponed it for a day or two. He then told Pauline that as business would keep him from home until late the next night, it would be a good opportunity for her to spend some time with her brother—she had better ask him to come and see her during his absence. As he also wished to see Anthony, she must endeavour to keep him until his return.

  Pauline, suspecting nothing, wrote to her brother, and, saying she would be all alone until late at night, begged him to come to her, or, if he would, take her to some place of amusement. They went to the theatre together, and it was twelve o’clock before he brought her back to Horace Street. No doubt she begged him to remain with her awhile—perhaps against his will. Awful as the shock of what followed was to the girl, it must have been doubly so when she knew that her entreaties had led him to his death.

  The brother and sister sat alone for some time; then Ceneri and his two friends made their appearance. Anthony seemed displeased at the encounter, but made the best of matters and greeted his uncle civilly. Macari he simply turned his back upon.

  It was no part of Ceneri’s plan that any act of violence or restraint should take place in the presence of Pauline. Whatever was to be done should be done when Anthony was about to leave the house. Then he might be seized and conveyed to the cellar: his cries if needful being stifled. Pauline was to know nothing about it. Arrangements had been made for her to go on the morrow to a friend of her uncle’s, with whom she was to stay, ignorant of the purport of the business which suddenly called the plotters away.

  ‘Pauline,’ said Ceneri, ‘I think you had better go to bed. Anthony and I have some affairs to speak about.’

  ‘I will wait until Anthony leaves,’ she said, ‘but if you want to talk I will go into the other room.’

  So saying, she passed through the folding doors and went to the piano, where she sat playing and singing for her own amusement.

  ‘It is too late to talk about business tonight,’ said Anthony, as his sister left the room.

  ‘You had better take this opportunity. I find I must leave England tomorrow.’

  Anthony, having no wish to let his uncle escape without an explanation, reseated himself.

  ‘Very well,’ he said; ‘but there is no need to have strangers present.’

  ‘They are scarcely strangers. They are friends of mine, who will vouch for the truth of what I am going to say.’

  ‘I will not have my affairs talked about before a man like that,’ said Anthony, with a motion of contempt toward Macari.

  The two men were conversing in a low tone. Pauline was not far off, and neither wished to alarm her by high words or by the appearance of a pending quarrel; but Macari heard the remark and saw the gesture. His eyes blazed and he leaned forward toward young March.

  ‘It may be, in a few days,’ he said, ‘you will be willing enough to give me freely the gift you refused a short time ago.’

  Ceneri noticed that the speaker’s right hand was inside the breast of his coat, but this being a favourite attitude of his, thought nothing of it.

  Anthony did not condescend to reply. He turned from the man with a look of utter conte
mpt—a look which, no doubt, drove Macari almost beside himself with rage.

  ‘Before we talk about anything else,’ he said to his uncle, ‘I shall insist that from now Pauline is placed under my care. Neither she nor her fortune shall become the prey of a low-bred, beggarly Italian adventurer like this man, your friend.’

  These were the last words the poor boy ever spoke. Macari took one step toward him—he made no exclamation of rage—hissed out no oath which might warn his victim. Grasped in his right hand, the long bright steel leapt from its lurking place, and as Anthony March looked up, and then threw himself back in his chair to avoid him, the blow was struck downward with all the force of that strong arm—the point of the dagger entering just below the collar-bone and absolutely transfixing the heart. Anthony March was silenced forever!

  Then, even as he fell, Pauline’s song stopped, and her cry of horror rang through the room. From her seat at the piano she could see what had happened. Is it any wonder that the sight bereft her of her senses?

  Macari was standing over his victim. Ceneri was stupefied at the crime which in a moment had obviated any necessity for carrying out his wild plot. The only one who seemed in possession of his wits was Petróff. It was imperative that Pauline should be silenced. Her cries would alarm the neighbours. He rushed forward, and throwing a large woollen sofa-cover over her head, placed her on the couch, where he held her by force.

  At that moment I made my frantic entrance—blind and helpless, but, for all they knew, a messenger of vengeance.

  Even the ruthless Macari was staggered at my appearance. It was Ceneri who, following the instincts of self-preservation, drew a pistol and cocked it. It was he who understood the meaning of my passionate appeal to their mercy—he who, he averred, saved my life.

  Macari, as soon as he recovered from his surprise, insisted that I should share Anthony March’s fate. His dagger was once more raised to take human life, whilst Petróff, who had been forced by the new turn of affairs to leave Pauline, pinned me down where I had fallen. Ceneri struck the steel aside and saved me. He examined my eyes and vouched for the truth of my statement. There was no time for recriminations or accusations, but he swore that another murder should not be committed.

  Petróff supported him, and Macari at last sullenly yielded, with the stipulation that I should be disposed of in the manner already related. Had the means been at hand I should have been drugged at once; as it was, the old servant, who as yet knew nothing of the tragedy which had taken place, was roused up and sent out in search of the needful draught. The accomplices dared not let me leave their sight, so I was compelled to sit and listen to all their actions.

  Why did Ceneri not denounce the murder? Why was he, at least, an accessory after the crime? I can only believe that he was a worse man than he confessed himself to be, or that he trembled at his share in the transaction. After all, he had been planning a crime almost as black, and when the truth as to the trust money was known, no jury in the world would have acquitted him. Perhaps both he and Petróff held human life lightly; their hands were certainly not clean from political assassinations. Feeling that a trial must go hard with them, they threw their lot in with Macari’s, and at once set about baffling inquiry and hiding all traces of the crime. From that moment there was little to choose between the degrees in criminality of the three men.

  Now that they were all sailing in the same boat, they had little doubt of success. Teresa was perforce taken into their confidence. This was no matter, as, devoted to Ceneri, she would have aided in a dozen murders had her master decreed them. First of all, they must get rid of me. Petróff—for Ceneri would not trust me in Macari’s hands—went out and found a belated cab. For a handsome consideration the driver consented to lend it to him for an hour and a half. It was still night, so there was no difficulty in carrying my senseless form to it without observation.

  Petróff drove off, and having deposited me in a by-way a long distance from the house, returned the cab to its owner and rejoined his companions.

  And now for Pauline. Her moans had gradually died away, and she lay in a death-like stupor. The great danger to the accomplices would be from her. Until she recovered nothing could be done save to carry her to her room and place her under Teresa’s charge. When she awoke they must decide what course to pursue.

  But the pressing thing was, how to make away with the dead body of the murdered man. All sorts of plans were discussed, until one at last was adopted, the very audacity of which no doubt made it a success. They were now growing desperate and prepared to risk much.

  Early in the morning a letter was dispatched to Anthony’s lodging, saying that Mr March had been taken seriously ill the night before, and was at his uncle’s. This served to stop any inquiry from that quarter. In the meantime the poor young fellow had been laid out as decently as possible, and with everything that could be done to suggest a natural death. A doctor’s certificate of death was then forged. Ceneri did not tell me how the form was obtained. The man he got it from knew nothing of its object. An undertaker then was ordered to send a coffin and deal case for the same the next night. The body, in Ceneri’s presence, was simply placed inside it, with none of the usual paraphernalia, the reason given for such apparent indecency being that it was only a temporary arrangement, as it was to be taken abroad for interment. The undertaker marvelled, but being well paid, held his peace. Then, by the aid of the forged certificate, the proper formalities were complied with, and in two days’ time the three men, in the garb of mourners, were travelling to Italy with the body of their victim. There was nothing to stop them, nothing suspicious in their manner or in the circumstances of the case. They actually took the coffin to the town where Anthony’s mother died, and they buried the son by the side of the mother, with his name and the date of his death recorded on the stone. Then they felt safe from everybody except Pauline.

  They were safe even from her. When she at last awoke from her stupor, even Teresa could see that something had gone wrong. She said nothing about the scene she had witnessed; she asked no questions. Her past had vanished. According to instructions given her, Teresa, as soon as possible, took her to join Ceneri in Italy, and he saw that Macari’s crime had deprived the brother of life and the sister of reason.

  No search or inquiry was made for Anthony March. Carrying out his bold plan to the very letter, Ceneri instructed an agent to take possession of his few personal effects at his lodgings, and to inform the people there that he had died at his house and been taken to Italy to be buried with his mother. A few friends for a while regretted a companion, and there was an end of the affair. Nothing having been heard of the blind man, it was supposed he had been wise enough to keep his own counsel.

  Months and months passed by, whilst Pauline remained in the same state. Teresa took charge of her, and lived with her in Turin until that time when I saw them at San Giovanni. Ceneri, who had no fixed home, saw little of the girl. His presence did not awaken any painful recollections in her mind, but to him the sight of his niece was unbearable. It recalled what he was eager to forget. She never seemed happy in Italy; in her uncertain way she was pining for England. Anxious to get her out of his sight, he had consented that Teresa should take her to London—had, in fact, come to Turin that particular day to arrange as to their departure. Macari, who, even with a brother’s blood between them, considered her in some way his property, accompanied him. He had been continually urging Ceneri to let him marry her, even as she was now. He had threatened to carry her off by force. He had sworn she should be his. She remembered nothing—why should he not wed her?

  Bad as Ceneri was, he had recoiled from this. He would even, had it been possible, have broken off all intercourse with Macari; but the men were too deep in each other’s secrets to be divided on account of a crime, however atrocious; so he sent Pauline to England. There she was safe from Macari. Then came my proposal, the acceptance of which would take her, at my expense, entirely off his hands and out of his companio
n’s way.

  Hence our strange marriage, which even now he justified by saying that should the girl grow attached to anyone, should any feeling corresponding to affection be awakened in her clouded mind, that mind would gradually be built up again.

  This, not in his own words, was Ceneri’s tale. I now knew all I wanted to know. Perhaps he had painted himself in better colours than he deserved; but he had given me the whole dark history freely and unreservedly, and in spite of the loathing and abhorrence with which he now inspired me, I felt that he had told me the truth.

  CHAPTER XIV

  DOES SHE REMEMBER?

  IT was time to bring our interview to an end. It had lasted so long that the civil Captain had more than once peeped in with a significant look on his face, as much as to say there was such a thing as overstepping the limits of even such an authority as I held. I had no desire to protract the conversation with the convict. The object of my long journey had been attained. I had learned all that I could learn. I knew Pauline’s history. The crime had been fully confessed. The man with me had no claim upon my consideration. Even had I felt inclined to help him I had no means of so doing. Why should I linger?

  But I did linger for a while. The thought that my rising and giving the signal that my business was finished would immediately consign the prisoner to that loathsome den from which he had emerged was inexpressively painful to me. Every moment I could keep him with me would be precious to him. Never again would he see the face of a friend or acquaintance.

  He had ceased speaking. He sat with his head bent forward; his eyes resting on the ground. A tattered, haggard, hopeless wretch; so broken down that one dare not reproach him. I watched him in silence

  Presently he spoke: ‘You can find no excuse for me, Mr Vaughan?’