Movelist Through Deep Waters

Waikato Times, Volume XXXI, Issue 2504, 28 July 1888, Page 5 (Supplement)

Movelist Through Deep Waters

By INA LKON CASSILTS, Author of "lima Raphael, Actress," "Tin: Youni- Widower," " il. Cndellc's Carpet 13,-ig," &c, &c. CHAPTER XIX. A small lamp burned in tlio studio of the Spanish pointer, and its rays lighting but a small radius round the pedestal on which it stood, throw into deep gloom the further portions of the wide room, and gave a ghost-like appearance to the white statues which seemed from thuir several stations to lw quietly watching the master of all this art and beauty, who sat as motionless as they, with his head bowed down on his folded arms, crushed by a grief which could not endure the touch and voice of friendship. " Go wliero the hunter's hand has wrung JTrom forest cave her shrieking young, And calm the lonely lioness But soothe not, mock not, my distress." And close by, complete in the perfection of art and nature, stood on its easel the picture that was never to quit the studio of its gifted painter. Was the glorious beauty of those features a mockery of the beauty that might now wear the hues of death 1 Here, living, breathing, glowing with the warm of the Southern life; there, still and breathless, a faultless statue with hands folded on the breast, and closed lips that would never smile again, and falling hair that other hands than his had touched tenderly for the last time. No hope ; that ■was the message he had heard that day; and she had not asked for him; she had seemed to look for him, and had spoken of someone who could only be him ; but she had uttered no name, and lie could not for her name's sake, demand to see her, unless her own wish broke down that barrier which even in the hour of death the world would still maintain between soul and soul. So he must watch and wait, and be content to learn from others how his bride's footsteps were passing dowards to the dark valley. "Solemnly, mournfully," reverberating through the summer night Celine the deep voice of the great bell at Westminister; it seemed like a passing bell; but it was not for that he started, and sprang to his feet, but for the swift roll of wheels mingled with sonorous accents of the bell; an ordinary sound surely in a London street, and yet the blood rushed to his heart as if some message had come to him suddenly from the grave, and he stood listening. There was a moment's silence—the slam to of a heavy door, mingled voices and steps on the stairs, in the «allery, the studio door was opened abruptly, without ceremony, and for ihe first time during his eight years' service Anselmo entered the. presence of his master without a preliminary knock at the door,

" Siguori, a servant has come from Lady de Clifford's house for you ; there is not a moment to lose, he says." The last words were certainly needless; before a moment had passed the Spanish painter was in the hall below, where Lady de Clifford's footman waited, and before the hand of the clock at Westminster pointed to the minute after ten, a cab was lessening the distance between Great Queen-street and Upper Grosvenor-streefc at a pace to which the driver was spurred by the promise of a sovereign as his guerdon. Cambaceres spoke but a few words to his' companion. One question only he asked him. How was Miss de Clifford when he left the house? No better, i\w man answered, half choaking; Lisetta, the maid, had said that she might not live through the night. The physicians and the priest were not with her; they were expected about eleven. Over the thick laid straw the swift wheels rolled with a muffled sound, and stopped, and once more that day the sullen "thud "of the swarthed knocker brought hurried footsteps to the door. .A cross the lighted hall Lisetta came running, and in the back ground two or three of the servants gazed wanderingly on the tall and well-known form of the Spanish painter. "• This way, Signor," said the Italian. "Thank God you have come. You will save the signorina." In silence, with a step as noiseless as the light step which contducted him, the West Indian followed his guide up the wide stairs along the corridor where Florence had paced so restlessly to and fro only that day, and Lisetta opened the ante-room. As she did so a white veiled figure stepped hastily over the threshold, almost brushing against the painter, as she gave him one hasty glance, seeing, in the gloom in which he then was, nothing but a dark resolute face, and went rapidly along the corridor. Florence de Clifford dropped the hands that hid her haggard features, and gazed on the beautiful countenance that was not turned to her; unconsciously or wilfully he ignored her presence, but she did not attempt by word or look to arrest his steps now ; it was too late. She had only to wait— wait till the Nemesis that had followed her like a sleuth-hound for more than twenty years should lay its resistless grasp upon her. Lisetta laid her hand on the handle of the inuer door. "This is the room," she said under her breath ; " she is alone." Alone he was to cross that threshold, sacred as the shrine of a saint, that threshold on which, even in such a moment as this, he had almost paused. The door had opened and closed, and he stood within the climlylighted chamber ; lie saw the slight form with its crimson drapery and falling hair with its hands outstretched to him, and the dark eyes, wildly bright, speaking far more even of the yearning heart than the half-stifled passionate cry— " Cola ! Cola I" . I tie was by her side, he was clasping her once more to his breast; once more past and future were blended, and lost in one present of unspeakable joy or unspeakable woe. There was no thought, no feeling, no knowledge, but that one overwhelming knowledge to which no name can be given in any language of earth. His life ! even that word, with its sublime depth of meaning, would have seemed to him—could he have spoken then, too tame; yet this she was indeed, for there were not two lives, but one, one life which not even the hand of Death should have power to wrench asunder, for Love, strong as Death, should win back from the very gates of the grave —love that while outwardly it clasped an earthly object lived in the immortality which gave it its strength, must surely have power, by the very might of its presence, to gain once more the conquest over death, claiming, if but as a humble follower, some share in that consecration which crowned it eighteen hundred years ago with the unfading laurels of an eternal victory.

Over the wandering; reason at least that power had passed, for the trembling whisper that first broke the silence, showed that the mind had awakened from its terrible dream, and wus restored again to the beauty of harmony. " Cola, I could not die without seeing you, for your sake more than for mine. Ah ! how much you must have suffered." How much ! yet his first definite thought was of: her only, and his first words were of hope and comfort. " Hush ! Agnes," lie said in a low quivering voice, " you cannot talk o£ death now. God will have mercy. He has had mercy in this moment. He will not forgot so many prayers." Agnes lifted her face, and looked for more than a minute with a clear, steadfast gaze into the painter's eyes; then her own eyes dropped, aud she said slowly— " His will be done. It has been a long, dark night, and oh ! Cola, it is not passed yet; it never can pass utterly away." " Would to God," said the Spaniard, passionately, " there were iu truth a Lethe from which you might gain if but a few hours' oblivion."

She did not answer him immediately, but nestled closer within his sheltering arms, Hko a weary child, and presently said softly— " Perhaps God may give mo my life, Cola ; I cannot be wrong to pvay for it. Havel been long ill'! Let me rest a little, and try to remember." How anxiously ho watched the beautiful face, calm now, almost peaceful, that rested on his breast, how earnestly he tried by the tender touch that smoothed away the silky hair from her forehead, to banish the heavy clouds that seemed gathering with the effort of the restored reason, not only to recall the pnst but to pierce the future; and the magic influence which clings to the touch we love did not fail; the look of intense pain that had come over her features passed slowly away, and left the face so very still and quiet that the Spanish painter grew fearful for her, the more as her breathing, which had risen and fallen in "quick, heavy throbs, grew gradually lighter, till it seemed as if she hardly breathed at all, and unable louger to endure suspense he spoke her name. The large hazel eyes opened and looked up wistfully into his face. " I am not dying," she said, softly, " not yet—but my thoughts suem to go again—it is all vague and dreamy, except you." He knew that great physical prostration must follow on all she had gone through, and laying her gently back on the pillow he poured out a little wine and gave it her to drink. She smiled a little then, for the tirst time for many days, and stretched out a detaining hand as he was turning to the door. " You need not go," she said, " he is coining ; I hear him." A step without, and whispered at the half-opened door, and a tall figure came in. It was the physician. He had evidently been informed of the painter's presence, for he manifested no surprise, but passed round to his patient. She looked at him a little wonderingly, as the physician and Cainbacercs both saw, and when the former asked her how she was she did not appear to understand him at once, but seemed puzzled and perplexed, and at length answered slowly—"I don't know, is Father Michael here?' " Yes, I think so—" " Yes, my child ; do you want to see him ?" She shut her eyes wearily, and sighed heavily. Dr. Delwyn drew the West Indian aside. " M. de Cambaceres," he said, " I do not like to speak hopefully as yet. I cannot siy that there is any change for the belter in my patient, but I cannot help placing some reliance in two things ; your presence here (pardon mo), and a statement made to me just now by the priest, Father .Michael, that he had something to communicate to yon, which he said would, he believed, go far to remove the mental pressure which brought on this fever. She seemed quiet now, and I hope she will sleep soon. I will go for the priest, and remain in the ante-room for a while." He went to the door, and Cambaceres sat down by the bedside. Agnes instantly stretched out her hand to him and said restlessly— "You are not going away Cola. You will stay here , ?" He clasped that hand closely in his own and answered simply— " Bβ at rest, anima mia. I will not leave you." She was perfectly satisfied, and closed her eyes once more, murmuring softly to herself; and when, after a few moments, Father Michael came in she did not seem aware of his presence, but was evidently sinking gradually into a deep slumber. The priest stood motionless in the gloom cast by the shaded lamps, till watching the face of the sufferer, Cambaceres saw that she slept, and then he beckoned the priest to his side, for her clasp never once relaxed but tightened if he so much as moved. Father- Michael came noiselessly and sat clown by the painter, his smile, and loving grasp of the hand saying what his lips were afraid to utter lest he should wake the sleeper. But the painter said in that low measured tone which vibrates on the air far less than a whisper. "She will not wake easily now, father. Her sleep is deep and tranquil ; listen to her breathing. What is this that you have to tell me V Father Michael looked at the sleeper before he answered; but there was no change. She lay perfectly still in her. sorrowful beauty —a picture to haunt the memory forever. " That face," the priest then said, " attests in itself the truth of the strange statement I hoard to-day from Padre Leonardo, the Italian priest who came over with the child's nurse, Merced." " I remember your, speaking of tyem, father. " And I told you," said Father Michael, "that Padre Leonardo knew Agnes slightly in Italy; but more than this he knew her mother before her; he attended her in her last illness." " Her last illness," repeated the painter, " you speak as if she were dead." "And I speak advisedly. She is dead. Florence de Clifford is not that child's mother." Startling as that statement, made so deliberately, was, it did not betray the Spaniard into an exclama-

tion, or even a start, though the blood rushed to his face, and surged back to his heart, leaving even his lips white and trembling. " 1 blase God," said the priest, solemnly, " that it is so ; it is better for you, my son, far, far better for her. This tale may seem wild, but it is true, and though Leonardo is above suspicion, and totally free from any motive for deception, it does not rest on his evidence alone Margherita Maremma was the daughter of an artist, a gentleman, but unsuccessful and poor. She was a beauty; her picture hangs over the altar of a village church in Italy, under the form of the Blessed Virgin, in a picture of the Annunciation, painted by her father, for which she sate. Leonardo tells me that Agnes is so like her mother that when he saw her last year in the Romagna he could almost have believecUie saw Margherita Maremma a"ain. A young Venetian, the son of a noble house, Battisas di Stradolla, met Margherita. It was an old story, Cola. His parents would not. hear of marriage with an artist's daughter, but such women as Marherita Maremma and this child, her daughter, make men dare all for them. Stradella and Margherita were married by Padre Leonardo himself." He paused, as the painter drew a long deep breath. He knew well what thought was in the Creole's heart, and his own lip quivered as he went on— " Battista's family disowned him, and trouble soon came. Maremma died; and Stradella and his wife were in deep poverty when Agnes was born. They were then in Rome ; Padre Leonardo visited Margherita at the time and held this child in his arms when she was but a few clays old. Six months after that Stradella was struck by the plague then raging in Rome, and died. Margherita was friendless, with a child to support. It was at this time that Lady de Clifford saw Agnes, and at once offered to adopt her. Her motives it is needless now to conjecture. Margherita was then dying, and gladly saved her child from the fate that had overtaken herself. It is enough to repeat that, apart from any other evidence, Agnes herself proves her birth. Such beauty as hers can hardly have many counterparts, and the mystery which puzzled aIT who knew her is explained. How one in whose veins there was apparently little or no Italian blood could be so thoroughly Italian in appearance and in temperament. Hush! is she waking 1" No ; she only stirred a little, and then with a half sigh, fell into deep sleep again. Cambaceres shaded his eyes with his hand, and sat for some moments perfectly silent, and Father Michael waited patiently till the painter should speak- He knew what unutterable emotions must be struggling in that strong noble soul, he biew how the heart, wrung with bitter agony, sick with hope deferred and that uncertainty to which even despair is a mercy, almost staggered under the broad light of hope flashed suddenly before it; and he could not by word or touch break into that sanctuary which silence veiled from him.

" Father," said the West Indian, at length, but witnout moving, "it will save her." ' It is," said the priest, "a strange answer to our prayers. Cola/no lips but your's should tell her this. I will go and speak to the physician." And he rose up and went out, leaving the quiet sleeper and the patient watcher in the wide shaded chamber, into which a presence, invisible it might bo to the bodily eye. but giving to the anxious heart a new life, had entered, never more to quit it till its mission was accomplished. CHAPTER XX. Where all this time was Florence de Clifford 1 Alone in her own apartment, with a white set face, with trembling hands, and many a pause to listen, gathering together from drawer, cabinet, and case, jewels and money, and placing all in a large carpet bag. Then she put on the darkest and most quiet attire she could select from her costly wardrobe, wrapped a long veil round her bonnet and face, threw round her a long sombre mantle, and stood with bated breath and straining ear. A clock down-stairs stuck three, then the light twinkle ormolu clock on the mantlepiece followed, and then a church clock. It sounded to her like a death knell. Had it come to this 1 Was she flying like a guilty thing from under her own roof, in the early hour of the morning, reckless of her own name, which, ere the sun had reached its zenith, would be on every tongue, careless of the beautiful child whom she left hovering between life and death, governed by oue overwhelming passion, the terror of. the fate which as it drew nearer she felt she could not face 1 Yes, she must fly. The threshold was passed, she stood on the landing, still looking and listening—once the belle of society—now a creeping disguised fugitive, fleeing from her husband's house. Had not GrantFaulkner his revenge now 1 She passed swiftly along the landing—once past the door of Agnes's apartments and she was safe. She had all but reached the door— another step and she would have passed it; it opened, closed, and the wretched woman halted, paralysed ; the Spanish painter stood before her—

" Florence de Clifford ! Hush ! come this way." He ha 3 comprehended all at once, and when he laid his hands onherand drew her into a room near, she submitted without word or gesture or remonstrance. Tho guilty conscience lost all power of resistance, and weak as was the will of a little child before the commanding nature that had not sinned, " Lady de Clifford, have you considered how much you are risking in seeking to fly from your house, alone and disguised like this 1 It cannot be kept secret, and it will render it an impossibility to retrieve tho name which the world will blacken in its own fashion." " Let tho world do its worst," she cried ou , ; desperately, " is not my name blackened already 1 Knowing what you know, Cola de Cambaceres, can you bid me fear slander when the truth will be enough to check even the breath of scandal 1 What have I to fear now, have I not lost all ? Let me pass— let me go and hide, Agnes does not need me ; let me be mistress here for one moment more at least." " Nay ; hear me, hear me, for God's sake !" said the painter so earnestly that she paused once more. " Come what may, Agnes will never reproach you for the wrong you have done her. She will ever remember that you have been at least, in her belief, for sixteen years her mother. Yes, I know this also, I know that the child of Margherita Maremma and Battista di Stradella has been passed before the world as your own child, and she, too, knows it—she learnt it from my lips. I will not ask you why you so wronged her and your husband's kin. I will not reproach you because your hand has laid her on that bed of sickness which (though I dare to hope she may rise once more from it), she may yet leave only for the grave. I implore you for her sake—-I know I am but speaking her wish—l implore you for her sake to draw back before it is too late." " Too late," she repeated in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair ; " is it not too late now 1 Would you have me to remain here to be dragged forward as a common felon? Do you know," she added, springing to her feet and laying a convulsive grasp on his wrist, " what it is that Grant-Faulkner has against me? shall I tell you-—all the world will tell you soon. I will anticipate him at least, and then let me turn my back on this accursed house. Would that I had never entered it! Can you spare me a few minutes?" " Many minutes, if you will, Lady d<. , Clifford," said the chivalrous Spaniard gently. So haggard and worn she looked ; I she might have been another woman than the woman he had met for the first time in the brilliant saloons of the ambassador only a few months before. " Years ago," she said, " I do not care to waste words—l lived with my father in Florence, and at an assembly one night I met GrantFaulkner. My father invited him afterwards; we met again and again. We loved and plighted our troth. Grant-Faulkner went to England, and while he was absent Sir Herbert de Clifford came to Florence. He was a widower with oue child, a boy then less than two years old. His wife had been a Spanish lady of noble birth— Beatriz de Calvadoes. Sir Herbert had just come from Santa Lucia, where lie had met his -wife, where some months before she died. I met Sir Herbert in society, a cold man he was, but wealthy, and before many months were passed he showed a preference for me. I was dazzled, flattered ; my father, then in ill-health, was willing that I should encourage Sir Herbert. I obeyed him, and we became engaged. I found out on the eve of my marriage that my father owed debts to Sir Herbert —sums which ho lost at play—and I was to be taken in liquidation of these debts ; despise me i£ youwill; I can bear your contempt. I would not draw back then, but I vowed vengeance, and I took it; you divine how. That child, Eafael, was Sir Herbert's idol; lie was proud of him as the heir to his ancient name and noble estates, proud of his beauty, for he had rare beauty, pleased at his likeness to his dead mother, for he had loved her ; he never loved me. Grant-Faulkner came back to Italy ; he masked his rage ; lie reproached mo but little, he reproached Sir Herbert bitterly. The tools were ready to my hand. I took that child and gave it to him— Grant-Faulkner. I cared not at the time whefckor tie destroyed it or not. My servant, Ursula Lambourne, assisted mo. I found out later that Grant-Faulkner bribed her to steal the copy of Sir Herbert's marriage certificate and give it to him, togother with other proofs of tho identity of tlio child. He told me afterwards that the child had died of sickness ; ho had not intended to kill it, but living or dead it would still be a means of working out his own revenge ou me, or bending me to his will whenever that might serve his ends. I then learned that while seemingly only to sympathise with me he had cherish eel revonge agains me, and has he not recked it on me already?" She paused a moment, almost gasping, and anxious as he was to hear the termination of this strange history, the painter said gently — " Ladyde Clifford, I need hoar no more; spare yourself this suffering at least." " No," she said," you are more generous to me than I will be to

myself. Thero is but little more. Sir Herbert never knew—never guessed the fate which had befallen his son. The tale I told him deceived him; but the loss of that child broke his heart, as I had meant it should. lie lived 3'ears afterwards; I had a daughter born and she died in hor infancy, followed to the grave in less than a mouth by her father. We were then living at Romagna, in a, quiet place, for Sir Herbert shunnod society. GrantFaulkner camo to tho place shortly before my husband died, and he kuew that my child had died also. It was a month after this that I met Marghorita di Stradolla, and was attracted by the wonderful beauty of her infant child. Believe me, Don Cola, when I tell you that my motives atthis time were not all evil. It is true that I wished to deprive Sir Herbert's kin of tho property that would fall to them if I had no. child; but I longed to fill the aching void that my own infant's death had left. I took that child of Margherita's —she gave it to me gladly; she had known my name, and she dreaded starvation or worse for an infant less friendless. The rest you know ; but from whom did you learn the truth of Agnes's parentage ?" " From Father Michael, and ho learned it from Padre Leonardo, an Italian priest, whose name you must surely know." "I do not know it. Agnes went to him once or twice." She rose to lier feet once more. " So," she said bitterly, tho net is round my feet. I cannot wish you evil, Cola de Cambaceres. Of Agnes I will not speak. She might liave saved me—" She paused, as a stern shade passed over tho painter's brow ; but in a moment his eyes softened, and lie said sorrowfully— "Florence de Clifford I have not reproached you for the evil you have wrought, for God knows your own conscience should stab you more deeply than could any words of mine. I have not reproached you, though you would havo denied to mo the right to look my last on that child's face. You recoil —but why ? Ycu do not anger me—you grieve and wound me ; is there nothing in your heart but remorse ? is there no repentance—no sorrow ?" Touched, involuntarily touched as she was, as she could not but bo, by the noble generosity of tho West Indian whoso birth she had despised, she yet struggled against tho better feeling that for one moment was aroused, and she struggled, alas! successfully. [To be Continued.)