Novelist. Through Deep Waters.

Waikato Times, Volume XXX, Issue 2489, 23 June 1888, Page 1 (Supplement)

Novelist. Through Deep Waters.

By INA LKON CASSILIS, Author of " lima Raphael, Actress," " The Young Widower," "M. CadeHe'j Carpet .Hag," &c„ &c. CHAPTER Xl.—Continued. Thehe was one moment of awful silence ; to Agnes a bleak ; in that moment reason itself was suspended, the very functions of life seemed to stand still— " There were no stars, no earth, no time. But silence and a stirless breath, Which neither was of life nor death. Then Agnes spoke again though the words fell from her as if no will of her own had formed them—but a power within her, which she could Upt but obey.

" Is there—mother—is it blood ?" The mother's trembling hands covered her haggard face, shutting out of sight the stricken form at her feet; the answer came slow and tremulous. " In an hour of terrible grief and passion, these hands give up a life !to death; but they shed no blood. Do not ask whose life, not a child's—" " And he Grant-Faulkner can prove it ?" " Aye ! he has guarded tvell every proof." Again silence; Agnes' breath came in laboured gasps, but she still knelt motionless, her face bowed down, her long hair sweeping the floor. Still thought was powerless, still a scathing fire seemed in her heart and soul ; and as the horror of that terrible life's secret wrapped

her closer and closer in her en:

brace, the horror of tho one act that could avert a future she dared not look to, grew with it. He was her " accomplice ;" his hands were red with blood, as were hers with

intention, if not in vengeance she.

I must cut off her heart from peace and her soul from Heaven. No, no, it could not be, she could not do it. The suspense was horrible to Florence ; she rose, walked across the floor, turned back, and stood looking down on her child. "It is my punishment," she said, bitterly, " I have brought, on my own head the agony of this moment. Nay, I will not touch you, Agnes, you are pure; you may well shrink from my touch ; I do not reproach you." Then Agnes sprang to her feet, only to kneel once more, clasping in her own the hand that had caressed her childhood.

" Mother, mother !" she cried passionately, almost wildly, "I do not recoil from you. "Oh ! God forbid it! you are my mother still; ask my life; I will give it; you shake your head—that will not avail; then I will go to Sir Sehvyn, I will kneel to him as I kneel to you ; he must hear me, he must grant my prayer."

•'Never, Agues, never! He has no mercy."

Too truly Agnes' own heart echoed those words. She rose up wringing her hands above her head with the wild action of utter hopeless misery.

" Mother of Sorrows, help me ! help me ! I cannot, oh ! I cannot do this thing."

Would she yield at last 1 Though she trembled before that bitter agony, yet a faint ray of hope shot through the guilty woman's breast.

" Then must your mother," she said in a low quiet voice, " be a byeword, despised, a criminal, then must you yourself be a stranger to the world in which a mother's name may not be breathed."

Agnes clasped her mother's hand once more.

" No, no, why not fly from here, leave London, I will go with you, let the world say what it will, better far than—"

' Madness, folly," said Florence de Clifford, unclasping the slender fingers that clung to hers : "cannot revenge follow ! can Florence Hyde risk being dragged back like a common felon 1 is not Grant-Faulk-ner here almost daily 1 How escape his vigilance 1 No, this is indeed impossible. I ask of you a possibility."

"You ask more than that of me, you ask my soul," said the girl," and I cannot give it; you ask me to become the wife of a man whose hands are red with blood; you ask ma to vow love, where I hate to ; vow honour, where I scorn ; to link my life with sin and crime. How can Ido this and sin against God?"

" Heaven take vengeance for a sacrifice of self?" said Florence, " will it not forgive the offence, if offence there be, which might well be counted virtue."

" Heathen virtue," said Agnes, more calmly than she had yet spoken," not Christian virtue. If in ignorance, in despair, in the willingness to sacrifice self, in the wild longing to save my mother's name, I put God's laws aside, He might forgive the sin ; but sin it would be —virtue. I have not that excuse. I see right clearly, it shines like a star before ine. I dare not take the wrong, there could be 110 pardon, no mercy, no hope. I cannot tempt God to His face, and then dare to pray to Him to forgive me."

"Jt is easy," said Florence, sternly, "to plead the laws of heaven as standing between us and a future from which our hearts, not* our souls, draw back ; has religion taught you to make its folds a sbeiter from the trials that may threaten your own affection in exacting from you a stern duty 1"

" Our hearts—our affections," repeated the girl, slowly ; "is it a sin to belie them 1"

" A sin ?" said Florence, shuddering strongly, " how many give the heart where they give the hand? how many to save from death or from want, those they love, have not given themselves to a loveless marriage, and has the end been misery V

" Has it not ?" said Agnes, pressiiig her hand tightly to her forehead, as such a future started vip before her like a grim Nemesis, " unless they are beings without passions, and willing for a false view of duty, to barter their souls. From such miserable sophistry, from such deadly sin, from such temptation, God and his Saints keep me now and ever!"

" Agnes, Agnes ! have I then appealed in vain to you 1 will you not

even grant time, will you not even seem, at least, to hold out hope V' " Act a lie, live a lie," said the unfortunate girl, " and the end must be the same. Mother let me go to him. Ido not shrink from suffering, only from sin." To Florence, standing on the brink of a precipice, even delay was hope. It might be that, left alone, her

clear mind regaining its balance, Agues would come at last to yield, or Grant-Faulkner would forbear, and then—beyond that she tried not to think ; nay, in the present chaos of her mind, she could not think distinctly, and she saw that it was worse than useless to try Agnes further, the white lips, the glittering eye, more than all, that desperate look, which we see in the stag brought to bay, as he glares round the ring of his pursuers, dreading the death which he yet faces nobly, now that it is inevitable, warned Florence that another step might snap the single thread of hope to which she clung with the unreasoning tenacity of despair. " Has it come to this 1" she said, I hoarsely, " must I stand by while you endure the bitter humiliation of begging mercy for your mother from the man who only shared her crime that he might hold her fate in the hollow of his hand. Agnes, can you so humble yourself to Grant-Faulk-ner ?"' " God helping me," said Agnes steadily, " I can do anything that is not sin to save you." Florence sank down in a chair, covering her face, and for one moment her child stood looking 011 her grieving, with inexpressible sorrow,

over the soul without repentance.

that plunging yet deeper into sin would drag another soul down into the abyss with it, recoiling before the years of time in a terror that shut out all thought of the years of eternity. But Agnes could not speak, she could not even trust herself to touch once more the hands

that had once that day shaken off hor clasp; she went slowly out of the room without looking back, and the broad summer sunlight streamed full on her from an opposite window. She shrank away from it, as if she were guilty, and stole up to her own room, longing with a wild yearning for solitude, for time to think, to pray, to still the tempest within her, and restore to the paralysed brain its power of action. But if reason is the harmony of the soul; love is its melody, and when the strings were touched once more, they gave forth a melody, new and strange to the ears that heard it—a melody— " So mighty, so pure, so clear, That her very sorrow was silent, And her heart stood still to hear." Aye though it should break that heart to listen, it could not but heed the song that no composer of earth could write or transcribe, the song that should never sink into silence, but only gain new beauty from its Composer's master touch as time faded into eternity, and all that was mortal should pass away like a shadow in the brightness of immortality.

CHAPTER XII. The first train from Dover to London was standing in tho Dover station " blowing oft'" with a pro-

digious amount of noise, and passengers, French, English, and from almost every nation under the sun, were hastening to take their places, while porters rushed about with baggage, and guards did their best to assist those who asked them questions, often conveyed through

the medium of a language wholly unintelligible to the worthy officials.

Threading his way with no small skill among the confused mass of humanity on the platform, a man, whose fair skin, clear blue eyes and fine earnest countenance are not unknown to us, passed straight to a second-class carriage, jumped in, and immediately pulled out a number of the Allgemeine Zeitung, glancing first at all his travelling companions, who were but three in number, and consisted of a fat old Frenchwoman, and an English materfamilias belonging to that class among whom

thick grey shawls and poke bonnets hold their own " through every change of changefu time."

There was nothing to interest an artist's eye, and Albretch Yon Elsinger gave his attention to his newspaper till the carriage door was opened, and two persons, a man and a woman, the former of whom was talking very rapidly in Romagnole Italian, got in and took their places opposite the painter.

The blue eyes were instantly lifted and scanned the new comers covertly.

The man was unmistakably a Roman Catholic priest, and an Italian. He seemed about sixty years of age, and possessed a remarkably intelligent and kindly countenance, and his expressive black eyes looked through a pair of somewhat old-fashioned spectacles. His air, voice, and language proclaimed him a gentleman 3 but his companion was neither of his class or his nation. She was a woman of middle age, a handsome quadroon, with a grave melancholy expression which did not quit her features even while she listened to the animated converse of her companion, She was evidently but just arrived from the West Indies, or from the continent, and was attired in a gown of gay coloured cotton with a muslin veil over her head, forming at once a veil and mantle, as it fell below her knees; the jet cross worn on her

breast proclaimed her a Christian, and the gold ring on her finger showed her either wife or widow. Elsinger, who both understood and spoke Italian, listened, while seeming to read, to the voluble priest, and soon made out that he had never been to England before and could not speak English The woman said little, but her Italian

was that of a person who had manifestly acquired it by a residence of at least some years in the country. In five minutes more the train started, and the Italian priest subsided for a time, at any rate, into silence. He seemed, however, under the impression that every station "was London, and at the first station at which the train stopped he looked forth nervously, and then remarked to the quadroon woman I that Londou must be much bigger; but he would call to tho guard if he thought he could make himself understand. " Nous ne sommes pas encore a Londres" said tho fat Frenchman, catching the word " Londra," or guessing from the Italian's manner tho cause of his anxiety. The priest turned to tho spoaker with a bow and a puzzled expression— " Londra, Signor ? Perdonna— non ccipisco." " I will tell you when we roach London," said Elsinger, in Italian ; " I am going there myself." How tho Italian's swarthy face lighted up as he heard the familiar sound of his native tongue ! The Signor was too good; ho was infinitely obliged to him; he had been in despair, for lie could not

even speak French, and he could

make no one understand him. Still he did not want to trespass on the Signor's kindness. Could the Signor, who was evidently Tedesco, speak English ? " Oh! yes," said Elsinger, smiling, " and pray do not talk of trespassing on my kindness; I shall be

most hapjiy to do anything: in my power for you. I know what it is to come to London as a total stranger knowing nothing of the language." "Ah ! Signor, it is indeed dreadful," said the Italiau, lifting his hands, " and you see I am not even used to cities; I come from the country—from a village in the Romagna, and tlie bustle of all the busy cities we passed through quite confused me. My companion has lived in Rome aucl Naples, but then she cannot speak French or English, and so," he added, laughing, " we flounder about together." "Well, if you will trust me," said the German, " I will assist you ; I am in no great hurry, and have my time at ray own disposal. I can tell you of a good hotol if you require one—an hotel where Italian is spoken." " Signor, you are most kiud. I foel ashamed to tax your generosity so much. Ido not requiro to go to an hotel. I want to find a priest belonging to the Church of—see,"

added lie, pulling out his pocketbook, and taking therefrom a slip of paper, which he handed to the German, " can you tell me where to find that place and person, Signor? I will not trouble you beyond that." Elsinger smiled involuntarily as ho read on the paper: " Padre Michele O'lloulahan; Berkeley Square, Londra." " I ought to know liis name well, Signor Padre," he said, "he is the friend and confessor of my own dearest friend." " Pvrcho ! " said the West Indian woman, who had not hitherto spoken, but only honoured Elsinger from time to time with very keen glances from her grave black eyes, "we are indeed fortunate. The Signor can then tell us exactly where to go, for we are quite helpless in this great Londra.''' " I were no cavalier not to help a woman who needs help, and no good Catholic to abandon a padre," said the German, "moreover, you go, Signor, to one whom I deeply revere, and whom I value, not, only for myself, but his friendship for on* whom I honour above all men." " The Signor is happy in having one true friend," said the Italian, " yon know our proverb ? " " Aye, without agreeing with it. A good friend is a host in himself." "So is a good enemy, Signor," said the priest. Elsinger laughed. " I don't know that I have ever had one of the latter; I know that I have one of the former," he said, " many men cannot say so much." " Ah! indeed," returned the padre, " for many whom we call friends fail us when the hour of test comes. We know what the wise man said." " True, but I would not believe that of Cola-Maria," said the German. " Cola-Maria!" repeated the priest, " have you the honour, Signor, to call him friend? Ah! indeed, from all I have heard of him, even in my remote village, I should suppose him a friend that one might trust."

This naturally gave to the conversation an artistic turn, and the Italian priest hastened in delight to all that Elsinger told him about the great painter and his works.

"He lias," he said, after describing the " Raising of Lazarus " to his deeply interested listener, whose eulogiums upon the Spanish artist as a delineator of scripture subjects were profuse, " nearly finished a portrait of the most beautiful girl I ever saw—the belle of London society — a Miss do Clifford."

"De Clifford !" exclaimed the Italian, for a second time repeats Elsinger's words. " Agnes Margherita ?" " The same. What, do you know her ?" "Ah! very little. I have seen her but twice, but you are right, Signor, her beauty is wonderful, and she is so good—-so earnest—l hope this great city has not changed her ; do you too know her ?" " I have that honour, that pleasure also, I may say," replied Elsinger. " Changed 1 No, I think it would be impossible to change her; she cannot be spoilt." "It delights me to hear you say so, if I did not believe her to be so good and so kind I would not venture what I will venture, not for my own sake." " A nything that she can do for anyone she will always do," said said Elsinger, warmly.

" But I have no claim on her, Signor, no claim whatever. Still, T do not ask very much of her. My companion here came over to Italy from the West Indies with a lady, two years or more ago. She had been in the lady's service for years, and was like a friend to her. I knew her in Italy—knew her well —and I can pledge my own knowledge of her that she is all I state her to he. A month ago the lady died. Merced (that is my friend's name) could not obtain employment ; I was just coming to London. I told her that I thought I could help her to get service there, as I heard the Signorina Margherita was in London, and she must know many high families. Merced is a most excellent nurse; but you see she cannot speak English. Do you think the Signorina Margherita could help her?"

" I have little doubt that she could," said Elsinger, "and as little doubt that she will do her utmost at any rate. One thing only I should advise you; unless immediate employment is necessary to your friend, it would be better to wait for a few days, for Miss.de Clifford is not at present, I believe, in good health."

" I would not trouble her for the world," said Merced, "I can well wait; I hope the Signorina is not ill r

"Oh ! no. I speak more from my own conclusion than from any positive knowledge. Padre Michele will, doubtless, know more."

"Signor, you are too kind," said the priest, gratefully.

"No thanks, Signor padre; we do not seem to be strangers now. See, we are approaching to London.

The two foreigners looked out with wondering interest upon the wilderness of roofs which bounded their gaze. It was manifest that neither of them had seen anything like tho view presented to them before, and the priest gave continual utterance to expression of astonishment mingled with condemnation of the climate and the smoke, while Merced, more quiet, but no less impressod by what she saw, looked first from one window and then from the other as if she thought the houses must surely come to an end.

It was well when they reached London Bridge that the two strangers were accompauied by an experienced and English - speaking traveller. Their fate would otherwise have been difficult to foretell. But Elsinger took all trouble upon his own shoulders. He piloted his companions into the waiting-room and went to look after their baggage, which he had conveyed to a cab, and then went and fetched the priest and the West Indian nurse, informing them that everything was ready, and that he would be happy to escort them to their destination. Merced would of course go to Padre Michele's house, and the latter would certainly bo able to recommend her a lodging. Elsinger would not hear of anything short of conducting his convoy in safety to the end of their journey, and German like, he cut short the profuse thanks of the Italian, and led them both to the cab.

Something over lialf-an-hour's rattle brought them to Padre Michele's door, and during that period the Italian priest's head was out of the window, and his tongue was even more glib than when the train was rolling into London. His final comment was, however, that "Londra" was an ugly and dingy, though vast and wonderful city, an opinion in which Elsinger heartily concurred.

He would not enter the house with them, but only waited to ascertain that Pather Michele was within, and then departed, escaping rather hurriedly from the hearty gratitude which the Italian priest expressed with all the flowery eloquence of his nation, and to which Merced, with Spanish gravity, added only a few simple but earnest words of thanks. Elsinger smiled as lie turned away, and turning, met Grant-Faulkner face to face.

It was impossible to avoid the baronet, though Albrecht had no very friendly feelings towards him ; so he submitted gracefully to an ordeal which, as it necessitated a certain a riount of hypocrisy, was a penance to the German.

" Have you come from the Land's End or from the moon V' said Sir Sehvyn, " your carpet bag and your grim appearance evidences a railway journey."

"I have come from Paris," returned the painter, " called there by business which did not occupy me long, so I got there yesterday

morning and left the same afternoon. I have just been playing preiuv-clicvalicr to a foreign priest who has come over to Pere Micht le, on some business connected, I suppose, with the Order—the Gesu ; he could not speak either French or English."

" You are too much of a Quixote. Elsinger; well, good-bye, I must be off."

He went on, and Elsinger stood for a moment, and looked after him, with an expression in eye and lip that made his muttered "accursed villain !" a superfluity. Then he too went on, called a cab, and was driven off—not to his own house, but to Cola-Maria's house in Great Queen-sfcreet. How little thought Grant-Faulkner as he walked westwards to Upper Grosvenor-street, how little thought Cambaceres as he listened to Elsinger's account with his meeting with the Italian priest and the West Indian nurse, how strong an influence these two strangers, the one from the far off Spanish Main, the other from an obscure village in the Italian Romanga, were to exercise over the lives of both men.

(To he Continued.)