LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2221, 9 April 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTEET OF LORD BRACKENBURY: A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS, Author of “ Barbara’s History,” ’* Debenbam’s Vow,” &c. (Continued.) Wos he so early then—or was she so late ? The clock pointed to a quarter-post seven. Cielo 1 so late ? How could she have slept to such an hour ? And the little nncle, rather than awaken her, had gone away fasting ! She would ran down at once to the Trattoria, and learn whether he had

taken a cup of coffee before starting. If not she must boil his milk, without a moment’s delay, and take it in a stone bottle to the Piazza Bra

Opening the outer door, however, she fonnd herself face to face with Monna Brigita. ‘ Eooo, my child! ’ said the clog-maker’s wife ; * I was just coming to you with a message from young Uncle Beni. He is gone to work ; and will get a bit and sup at Donde’s Cafe in the Leonans, as he goes along.’

* Oh, Monna Brigita, I am so vexed. I cannot think how I came to sleep so late I ’ * Late or early, my child, you have nothing to be vexed about,’ said Monna Brigita, fHe only did not care to take the time or trouble to come np all these stairs again.’ ‘ Had he gone down, then, for anything ? ’ ‘ Gone down! Why, don’t yon know ? ’ * Don’t I know what ? ’

* Oh, the Blessed Saints! Snch a scene as we’ve bad, and yon to have heard and seen nothing ! Nay, then, ‘ cara ’ Glulietta, I mast come in for a minnte, and tell yon all about it! ’

So Monna Briglta came in and eat herself down ; and, -with such embellishments and exaggerations as her imaginations suggested, told the whole marvellous story from beginning to end. Meanwhile, La Ginlietta, listening with parted lips and frightened eyes, grew paler and paler as the narrative went on.

'Your nnole may scoff as he pleases,’ said Monna Brigita, when she had talked herself out of breath ; ‘ but I maintain that a black deed o( seme sort was done last night under our gateway ; and if it wasn’t murder, it was something very like it! Ton should have seen the blood ! Two big pools ; and the stones all splashed between, as if the poor wounded wretch had tried to get away, and was stabbed a second time, But there ! I declare you're as white os a ghost, child!’ White, indeed. She might well look white ; for her thoughts flew at onoe to her lover, and her very soul turned sick with horror. Not vainly had she felt that vague presentiment of evil when they parted. Not vainly had she wetted her pillow with tears, and sobbed herself to tears. Then that sound that Cesare noticed once or twice, when they were talking on the balcony—that sound, as of some one lurking and listening below. One name rose to her lips ; bat she dared not utter it—one question ; but she dared not ask it. Where was 'Tonia Morettl ?

When Monna Brigita was gone, she dragged herself to the window, tremblingly, heavily, as one drags along in dreams ; and there—although it was now nearly eight o’clock—there in its accustomed corner stood Moretti’s vettura.

The other men had cleaned their carriages, put their horses to, and driven away long since. The women had filled cans, and gone about their household duties.

Maria, the serving maid, was running to and fro with hot dishes between the kitchen and the Trattoria. The landlord and a country carter were busy loading a caretta with empty wine barrels. The children were whooping and racing about the yard ; the cocks and hens were scratching over the rubbish heaps ; the daily life of the place was going on just as though no dread unknown thing happened but a few hours before.

The only unusual feature in this familiar scene—unusaal, that is to say, at so late »n hour of the day—waa Tonio Moretti’s return.

The yard was generally clear by half-past six—at latest by seven—and Tonio, as a rale, was one of the first np and about. But there stood the vettuia with closed blinds and empty shafts, all splashed and muddy from yesterday’s driving. And yonder, through the open doorway, she could hear the uneasy stamping and whinnying of his horses, waiting for their morning feed, and wondering why their master neglected them. Where was Tonio Moretti ?

In after years Gnllietta Beni could never recall that day’s agony and suspense without a shudder.

Somehow or another, by force of habit, as it were, and half unconsciously, she went through her ordinary household duties. But to sit down calmly to embroider when these ware done was impossible. She could only walk restlessly to and fro, listening, watching, wringing her hands. When Stefano Beni came home at midday she met him on the threshold.

• Uncle, ’ she said, ‘my Cesare is dead or dying. That was his blood; and “ Tonio Moretti Ja his murderer. ” ’ Her cheeks were white; her hands were like fire; her voice sounded harsh and strange. Startled and alarmed, the wheelwright strove in vain to calm her.

‘lt is of no use,’she said, ‘there stands Tonio's vettura. It has stood there all the morning. His horses are starving in the stable—there is no one to feed them. He is afraid to come near the place. His hands are red—he dare not show them ? The brand of Cain is on his brow.’

‘ But I teil you it is all folly!’ remonstarted the wheelwright. ‘ Lina Pezzi picked up the dagger !‘ ‘Lina Pezzi picked up a bit of broken blade with no blood on it, Now, in the name of reason, my little girl. . ‘ Season!’ she cried, holding her head wildly with both bands. * Don’t talk to me of reason. Find out the truth for me, or I shall go mad!’ Then Stefano Beni, being fairly at his wits’ end, promised to do what he could —to go round to Tonio Moretti’s lodging ; to make enquiry at the police bureau and at both the hospitals ; to do anything, everything if she would only try to bo patient. So the poor child promised patience, and kissed him with a look that sent him downstairs with the tears in his eyes; and when he was gone she went to her room and poured out her heart in prayer and petition to ‘Our Lady of Sorrow. ’ hen ho came back soma three hours later, the vettura was no longer In the yard. Ernesto Moretti, Tonio’s cousin, who lived down by the Porta Oanossa, had been round meanwhile, paid an indemnity of a week's rent, and fetched the carriage and both horses away, ‘ We were the best friends in the world ! ’ said the landlord, in astonishment. ‘ I’ve stabled his beasts for two years ; he has had his dinner at onr Trattoria pretty nearly every day ; and we have never had a word of difference. I cannot understand it. But ecco ! it is the way of the world ! ’

4 Ay, neighbour,’ echoed Stefano Beni, ' it is the way of the world ! ’ But he chuckled softly to himself as he went up the stairs. The door opened before he reached his own landing. She had been listening for his footfall; but now that he had come, she could not speak. 4 Cheer up, my little girl! * ho said, coming quickly in, and shutting the door behind him. 4 Cheer up ! all is well—it is Tonio who is in trouble—it was Tonio's blood that was spilt, and not oar Signor Capitano’s ! The poor brute is in bed, and a surgeon attending him. I saw his landlady. He tells her he met with an accident last night i but he seems to have been drubbed within an inch of his life. His face and bead, she says, are one mass of bruises —three or four of his front teeth knocked out —and his eyes swollen up as big as a couple of oranges. He won’t be able to see, much less to get up—fora week or more, the miserable devil!’

4 You are sure that this is true ?’ she asked breathlessly. 4 Sure—positive ; for after I had seen the landlady, I went on and saw the doctor. Now, are you satisfied ?'

‘ I—l don’t know,' she faltered. 4 lf I do not get a letter to-morrow morning, little nncle, yon must take me to Venice.’ But when morning came, the dear, welcome letter came with it. Cesare Donato was safe, and well, and very busy ; and expecting to weigh anchor for Trieste in a con pie of days.

• r HAPTEB LIV. STRANGE, IF FORTUITOUS. No; there was evidently nothing wrong with Cesare Donato. Busy as he was, he wrote daily, though briefly from Venice; end from Trieste despatched a letter written during the trip from port to port. The letters were plain straightforward letters enough ; not high flown, like love letters in 0 romances, but simple, and earnest, and full of manly tenderness. Such news as they contained was purely about business. At t Venice, everything reminded bin of the , happy diy they had spent there together. 7 It was especially delightful to him to ro- > member that she had been on board the 1 She was now associated with t the vessel in his mind for ever. He could j recall her as she looked, as she spoke, on i deck, in the saloon, even in his own little cabin and counting-house. It enabled him i to realise the happim ss that would hereafter i he his, when her presence there should be not a dre-m, not u remembrance, but a blissful reality. It was his consolation, being parted from her, to know that each sunset brought that happy future one day nearer. Then he told her how at Venice he had shipped an unusually heavy cargo, the greater part of which would be immediately discharged at Trieste ; while at Trieste he waa about to take in goods of delivery at Ancona, Barletta, Bari, Zanto and Smyrna, It had been bis intention to go direct from Trieste to Bari, and thence to make straight for Smyrna. But man proposes and trade disposes; and those new commissions, besides delaying his arrival at Bari till the middle or end of the following week, would add a fortnight or three weeks to his outward journey. Such was the substance of his first letters. Re told her in each of them that he was well—quite well—never better; repeating the statement so often and so emphatically that a less unsophisticated correspondent might have suspected it to be written with a motive. La Gfuletta, however, had no such suspicion ; and her content was absolute. That there had been an affray of some kind that night under the gateway of the Osteria del Capello was certain ; and that ’Tenia Moretti had come tc grief In that affray was no less certain. But that Cesare Donato was unhurt—not only unhurt, but entirely unaware of what had taken place—was now quite evident. If It had been his blood 1 This was the thought that crossed her mind, whenever she crossed the spot. There was no faintest stain or trace left upon the stones ; bat she coaid not look on them without shuddering. If it had been his blood I If he had been found there in the mornimg, stark and white, with that knife-blade in his heart ! Or if, mortally wounded, he had been carried away, to die soon after in the nearest hospital 1 And if ’i onio Moretti’s hand had done the deed! . . . . The girl's heart was heavy with remorse when she remembered how quick she had been to assume the commission of a deadly crime, and to fix it upon an innocent man. She was, for the time, as sare of the fact as if she had seen the blow aimed, and her lover bleeding at her feet And. oh I the storms of rebellions despair, of passionate hatred, that shook her very soul that terrible morning, while she waited, waited, waited for her uncle Stefano’a return! With shame and sorrow she remembered those sinful moments. Not till she should have confessed all to Padre Anselmo ; not till she should have performed some just and fitting penance, could she feel innocent and happy again. Following the letter penned at sea, there next came one written in harbour at Trieste; written, too, in characters so curiously cramped that La Glnletta did not at first sight recognise her lover’s handwriting. The opening lines explained the cause of these crabbed hieroglyphs. Donato had hnrt his right hand, and oonld with difficulty hold a pen. Heedless of the inconvenience he had gone on nsing the band for some days; bnt it now had become so swollen and so stiff that ho feared bis writing would be scarcely legible. He did not tell her how he came by the injury, bnt he so wrote about it that she concluded it to be a sprain or a bruise, brought on by handling heavy goods while the vessel was loading at Venice. The next letter consisted oi only three lines. His hand had been dressed by a surgeon, and was now bound up, so that to writs was all bnt impossible. He was, in fact, forbidden to use it. Except as regarded this luckless band he was well, and, as usual, very busy. Then came two days of silence, followed by a pencilled word, evidently written with extreme difficulty, in which he told her that ho was just about to weigh anchor for Ancona. At first the girl had thought lightly enongh of Donato’s accident. A daughter of the people, she had not been so softly reared as that she should fret because her lover chanced to sprain a wrist or braise a Auger, She would have been ashamed to take alarm at so trifling a mischance. Bnt now, as day after day went by she began to feel vaguely uneasy. 4 1 cannot think why his hand does not get well, little nnole, ’ she said, going back to the subject for the third or fourth time since Stefano Beni had come home from work. The wheelwright, smoking his aftersupper pipe, shrugged his shoulders by way of answer. ‘ It has been going on for eight—nine—ten days ; and getting worse instead of better. ’ ‘ Ah ; but those things, yon know, are slow to cure.’ * Those things I’ she repeated, quickly. * What things P He has never thought to tell me how it happened, I should feel easier if I knew exactly what was the matter.’ * Nay, my little girl ; I think you are worrying yourself about nothing,’ said old Stefano, kindly. 4 Oar Signor Cspitano is not one to take notice of a trifle.’ 4 It may have been a trifle at the beginning; but is it a trifle now ? Remember Gaetano Albert 1’ (Gaetano Albert waa a young cooper’s apprentice, who had once upon a time lodged in the Osteria del Cappello.) 4 That is not a case in point, my little girl. The lad was a beginner, and did not know how to handle his tools. ’ ■ But it shows how a trifle may end. Everyone said it was nothing at all—a mere scratch 1 Bnt his arm swelled and turned black ; and his teeth became fixed ; and the poor boy died of starvation 1’ * That was from a wound, child! He oontrived to ent through some muscle in his hand ; and the place gangrened, and it brought on lockjaw. Who ever heard of lockjaw being caused by a sprain or a braise ?’ * We don’t know that it Is a sprain or s bruise. It may be a wound!' she sa:d c shudderingly. * Not likely 1 ’ •Not Hkely, do you say? Yon forget that Lina Pezzi never found the other half of that knife. 1 The wheelwright took his pipe from his mouth. He looked startled, 4 Per Baoco I ’ Till this moment, he had never serionely connected Cesare Donato with that midnight sen file under the archway. Ho had made certain that it was a mere votturinos’ quarrel, such as they had seen among the men in the courtyard, many a time already. But now to be sure, the thing looked doubtful. There was Tonio Moretti’s battered condition on the one hand ; there waa Cesare Donato’s accident on the other. As regarded time and place, the coincidence waa strange if fortuitous. The motive again would not ho far to seek. Jealousy, opportunity, vengeance—no dement of plot or passion was wanting ! Therefore Stefano Beni’s incredulity was at last Therefore he took his pipe from his lips, arj£ exclaimed—“ ter Baoco !’ Then, talking it over with his niece, i counselled La Glulietta to press her lofor the facts, and to tell him everyth By * everything.* ho meant all about r Moretti’s courtship and rejection ; aP that broken knife blade, and these b’.ood under the gateway. 4 If he cannot use his hand,’ wheelwright, *he will so ma, o’ for him. At all events the worst.’ {To he tonti^'