CHAPTER XIV.
On the Saturday night, an excellent supper was ready: the Signor's ownparticular plate was at the head of the table, and by it gleamed, in aportly bottle, his favourite Rogliano. Little Harry, who could sayanything he was told, and knew right well what was good, or at leastwhat tasted good--that beloved child was allowed to stop up, thatgrandpapa might kiss him; this was a sovereign specific, believed in thenursery creed, to ensure sweet sleep for both.
That silver beard never kissed the chubby cheek again. All night wewaited and wondered: Harry was sent to bed roaring; no grandpapaappeared. The olives rustled at midnight, and out I ran; the doorscreaked afterwards, and I opened them, all in vain; the sound of hoofscame up the valley before the break of day; but no step or voice of man,no bark of his favourite mountain hound, no neigh of the jennet to hersleepy brother-horses.
All Sunday we remained in terrible uneasiness, trying to cheer eachother with a hundred assurances that the dear old man must have turnedaside to see an ancient friend living now at Prato. When Monday morningcame, but brought no tidings of him, I set off, amid a shower of tears,to seek the beloved father. The old fusileer was left on guard, and Itook two young and active men, well acquainted with the mountain passes.All well mounted, and well armed, we purposed to ride hard, and searchthe track quite up to the town of Corte. There, if indeed he had everarrived, we should be sure to hear of him. But it proved unnecessary togo so far from home.
Along that dreary mountain road, often no more than a shepherd's walkdifficult to descry, we found no token of any traveller either living ordead, until we came to the Ponte Leccia, where the main roads meet.Here our fears were doubled, and the last hope nearly quenched; for onasking at the shepherd's hut, where Signor Dezio meant to put up, wefound that he had slept there on the Friday night, as he was returningfrom the town. The shepherd's wife, who had known him for years,assured us that he was in wonderful spirits and health, insisted uponher supping with them--which is contrary to Corsican usage--and boastedmuch of the great things he would do, and still more of his beautifulgrandson. His goatskin wallet was full of sample tools, which were toastonish his English son, and he had a toy gun no bigger than the tailof a dog, with which he intended to teach the baby to shoot. Telling usall these little things, and showing us her presents, the poor womancried at the thought of what must have happened to him. Right early onSaturday morning he set off, as impatient as a child, to see his belovedones again, and exhibit all his treasures. For love of the Della Croceher husband had groomed the mare thoroughly, and she neighed merrilydown the hill at thought of her stable friends. Moreover, theshepherd's wife told us that there had been in those parts no banditworth the name, since the death of the great Teodoro, king of themountains, whose baby still received tribute.
After resting our horses awhile, with heavy hearts we began to retraceour steps through that awful wilderness. Instead of keeping together,as we had done in the morning, we now rode in parallel lines, right andleft of the desert track, wherever the ground permitted it. All thisdistrict is very barren and rugged, and the way winds up and down, oftenalong the brink of crags, or through narrow mountain gorges. Thedesolation and loneliness grew more oppressive, as the shadowslengthened.
We had thoroughly searched two-thirds of the distance homeward, and hadcrossed some granite heights whence the sea was visible; the sun was lowover Cape Bevellata, and the vapours from the marsh were crouching atthe mountain's foot. Here as I rode to the left of my two companions, Iheard the faint bay of a dog far down a deep ravine, that trendedleftward from our course. Putting my jaded animal to his utmost speed,I made for the hollow which echoed the dismal sound--a feeble barkprolonged into a painful howl. Turning the corner sharply I scared twomonstrous vultures, who were hovering over and craning at a dog. Thedog so gaunt and starved, that at every bark the ribs seemed burstingthe skin, still was fighting past despair with his loathsome enemies. Hestood across the breast of the noble Signor Dezio. There lay thatgallant cavalier, stark and rigid, with his eyes wide open, and hiswhite beard tipped with crimson. There he lay upon his back, his kinglyhead against a rock, his left hand on his clotted breast and gluedthereto with blood; his right hand hung beside his chin whence it hadslipped in death, and in it still securely grasped was a trinket newlymade, containing a little sheaf of the baby's flossy hair tied with ablack wisp of the mother's. The poor old man had dragged himselfthither to die, and died with that keepsake on his lips. The fatal shothad been fired from above, and passed completely through his body. Itpierced his lungs, and I believe that he felt little pain, but gaspedhis simple life away. Near him was his wallet, with the tools still init; I think he had been playing with the toy gun when he received thewound; at any rate it lay separate from the rest, and at the old man'sside.
Examining by the waning light, with icy awe upon me, the scene of thisdamned atrocity, I found that the hoary traveller must have dismountedhere, to eat his frugal dinner. A horn cup and a crust of bread were ona rocky shelf, and a little spring welled down the dingle, with the markof the dog's feet here and there. The craven foe had been sneaking alongbehind, and took advantage of the old man's position, as he sat upon astone to make certain of him from the granite loophole. We found thevery place where the murderer must have crouched, but the cliff-sidekept no footprint. The victim's gun was gone, and so was the Spanishmare: no other robbery seemed to have been committed.
This glen led to a shorter but more difficult track towards home, whichthe Signor, in his impatience, must have resolved to try. Reverently welaid him on the freshest horse; while I with the faithful mountain dogon my saddle--for he was too exhausted to walk--rode on to break themelancholy news, and send assistance back.
To break bad news--the phrase is a failure, the attempt it implies amuch worse one. Lily knew all in a moment, and in her delicate stateshe received so appalling a shock, that for a week she lay on the verythreshold of death. At the end of that time, and three days after theold man's funeral--at which for his daughter's sake I allowed nowailings or voceros--a lively little girl was born, who seemed to benone the worse for her mother's bitter sufferings. Her innocentcaresses, or some baby doings optimised by her mother--though even as anew-born babe she seemed a most loving creature--all those softendearing ways, which I could not understand, did more to bring myLily's spirit back than even my fond attentions.
But as yet, though able to walk again, and nurse her child, whom shewould not commit to another, my wife remained in a fearfully sensitiveand tremulous condition. The creak of a door, the sound of a foot, therustle of the wind--and she, so brave and proud of yore, started like acicale, and shook like a forest shadow. In everything she feared theambush of that sleuth cold-blooded reptile, on whom alone, truly or notGod knows, she charged the blood of her venerable father. But still shehad the comfort of a husband's love, a husband even fonder than when theflowers fell on his path; and still she had the joy of watching, with amother's tender insight, the budding promise of two sweet infants.Infants I call them, why Master Harry was now a thorough chatterbox!With all this love around her, she by far the loveliest, the pride andglory of all, was sure to find her comfort soon upon the breast of time,even as small Lily found it in her own sweet bosom. Deeply and long wemourned that ancient Signor, chivalrous and true gentleman, counsellorof all things. Every day we missed him; but could talk of it more astime flowed on. Rogliano had no sparkle, Luri not the tint of old:never could I pour out either from his favourite flagon, without athought of him who taught us the proper way to do it; who ought to beteaching us still, but was lying foully murdered in his lonely grave atSt. Katharine's on the Cliff.
We had done our utmost to avenge him: soon as I could leave my wife, Ihad scoured all the neighbourhood. The Sbirri too had done their best,but discovered nothing. Brave fellows they are, when it comes tofighting, but very poor detectives. Only two things we heard thatseemed at all significant. One of
these was that a Spanish jennet, likethe Signor's favourite "Marana," but dreadfully jaded and nearlystarved, had been sold on the Friday after the murder, being the veryday of the funeral, at the town of Porto Vecchio on the south-easterncoast. I sent my coxswain Petro, an intelligent and trusty Corsican, tofollow up this clue; for I durst not leave my wife as yet. Petrodiscovered the man who had bought the mare, and re-purchased her fromhim, as I had directed: but the description of the first seller did nottally with my recollections of Lepardo. However, it proved to be thetrue Marana; and glad she was to get home once more.
The other report, that seemed to bear upon the bloody mystery, was thata swift felucca, flush-built and banked for triple sweeps, had been seenlying close in shore near point Girolata, during the early part of theweek in which the Signor left home. And it was even said that twoMaltese sailors, belonging to this felucca, had encamped on shore in alonely place near Otta, and were likely to be found there still.
Lily being stronger now, I determined to follow this last clue myself;and so I put the little yacht into commission again, and manned her withCalvi men, for all my English crew had been dismissed long ago. Leavingmy wife and children under the care of the old fusileer, away I sailedfrom St. Katharine's, intending to return in three days' time. All thiscoast I now knew thoroughly, and Otta was not far beyond the poorSignor's cave of alabaster. It is a wild and desert region, far awayfrom any frequented road, and little visited except by outlaws.
We found no trace of any tent, no sign of any landing, and an agedfisherman, whom we met, declared that no felucca or vessel of any sorthad lately been near the bay. I began to fear that, for some darkpurpose, I had been beguiled from home, and despatched upon a fool'serrand. The dreary coast was still the home of solitude, the alabastercave untouched since our pic-nic survey; the marks of which wereundisturbed except by wind and weather. So I crowded sail, and hurriedback to St. Katharine's, with a strange weight on my heart. To add tomy vexation, a strong north wind set in, and smartly as our cuttersailed, we were forced to run off the land. When at last we made thecove, it was unsafe for the yacht to anchor, and so I was compelled tosend her on to Calvi.
It was nearly midnight on the 2d of October, when Petro and myselfplodded up the wooded hill on which the old tower stands. Weary anddispirited, though glowing every now and then with the thought of all mydarlings, in vain I called myself a fool for fearing where no fear was.When we reached the brow of the hill, my vague alarm was doubled. Therude oil-lamps that marked the entrance, why were they unlighted? I hadespecially ordered that they should be kindled every night, and Lily hadpromised to see to it herself. No challenge from the watchman, no clickof the musket hammer, even the vinea was not in its place. In vain weknocked and knocked at the old chesnut doors; no one answered, no onecame to open. None of the loopholes showed a light; the house was darkand silent as the ivy. Wild with terror I ran to the little side-door,whence first my Lily met me. This too was locked, or fastened somehow;and only the echo of my knock was heard. Petro and I caught up a greatbough of ilex, which myself had lopped last week, rushed at the doorwith the butt, and broke it in with one blow. Shrieking for Lily, Lily,I flew from room to room, tumbling over the furniture, blundering at thedoorways. No voice of wife, no cry of child, no answer of domestic; allas silent as if ten fathoms under water.
Having dashed through every room, I turned to rush off to the hamlet,when my foot struck something--something soft and yielding; was it asack or bolster? I stooped to feel it; it was Lily, laid out, stiff andcold Dead, my Lily dead! Oh, God can never mean it; would He let melove her so?
For all intents of actual life, for all that we are made for, for allthe soul's loan of this world, I died that very moment; and yet a madlife burned within me, the flare of hope that will not die. How Iforced her clenched hands open, bowed her rigid arms around me, threwmyself upon her, breathed between her lips and listened, tore her simpledress asunder and laid my cheek upon her heart; feeling not a singlethrob, flooded her cold breast with tears, and lay insensible awhile.Then, as if awaking, felt that she was with me, but somehow not asusual; called her all our names of love, and believed we were in heaven.But there stood Petro with a light, sobbing, and how his beardshook!--What right had he in heaven? Would they let him in withoutshaving? I rose to order him out; when he restored my wits awhile bypointing with his finger.
"Look, look, Signor! She is not dead, I saw her eyelid tremble."
Wide she opened those glorious eyes, looked at me with no love in them,shuddered, and closed them again.
Mad with rapture, I caught her up, sent Petro headlong lamp and all, andkissed her enough to kill her. She was not dead, my Lily, my pet ofeternal ages. There she fell trembling, fluttering, nestling in my arms,her pale cheek on my breast, her white hand on my shoulder; thenfrightened at her nest shrunk back, and gazed with unutterable reproach,where love like the fallen lamp was flickering: then clung to me oncemore, as if she ought to hate, but could not yet help loving. She diedthe next morning. Clara, I can't tell you any more now.
Clara Vaughan, Volume 3 (of 3) Page 5