The name of our village was Chadleigh. Lifted high above the pastureflats which stretched away at our feet like a measureless green lakeand melted into mist on the furthest horizon, it nestled, a tinystone-built hamlet, in a sheltered hollow about midway between theplain and the plateau. Above us, rising ridge beyond ridge, slopebeyond slope, spread the mountainous moor-country, bare and bleak forthe most part, with here and there a patch of cultivated field orhardy plantation, and crowned highest of all with masses of huge greycrag, abrupt, isolated, hoary, and older than the deluge. These werethe Tors--Druids' Tor, King's Tor, Castle Tor, and the like; sacredplaces, as I have heard, in the ancient time, where crownings,burnings, human sacrifices, and all kinds of bloody heathen rites wereperformed. Bones, too, had been found there, and arrow-heads, andornaments of gold and glass. I had a vague awe of the Tors in thoseboyish days, and would not have gone near them after dark for theheaviest bribe.
I have said that we were born in the same village. He was the son of asmall farmer, named William Price, and the eldest of a family ofseven; I was the only child of Ephraim Hardy, the Chadleighblacksmith--a well-known man in those parts, whose memory is notforgotten to this day. Just so far as a farmer is supposed to be abigger man than a blacksmith, Mat's father might be said to have abetter standing than mine; but William Price with his small holdingand his seven boys, was, in fact, as poor as many a day-labourer;whilst, the blacksmith, well-to-do, bustling, popular, and open-handed, was a person of some importance in the place. All this,however, had nothing to do with Mat and myself. It never occurred toeither of us that his jacket was out at elbows, or that our mutualfunds came altogether from my pocket. It was enough for us that we saton the same school-bench, conned our tasks from the same primer,fought each other's battles, screened each other's faults, fished,nutted, played truant, robbed orchards and birds' nests together, andspent every half-hour, authorised or stolen, in each other's society.It was a happy time; but it could not go on for ever. My father, beingprosperous, resolved to put me forward in the world. I must know more,and do better, than himself. The forge was not good enough, the littleworld of Chadleigh not wide enough, for me. Thus it happened that Iwas still swinging the satchel when Mat was whistling at the plough,and that at last, when my future course was shaped out, we wereseparated, as it then seemed to us, for life. For, blacksmith's son asI was, furnace and forge, in some form or other, pleased me best, andI chose to be a working engineer. So my father by-and-by apprenticedme to a Birmingham iron-master; and, having bidden farewell to Mat,and Chadleigh, and the grey old Tors in the shadow of which I hadspent all the days of my life, I turned my face northward, and wentover into "the Black Country."
I am not going to dwell on this part of my story. How I worked out theterm of my apprenticeship; how, when I had served my full time andbecome a skilled workman, I took Mat from the plough and brought himover to the Black Country, sharing with him lodging, wages,experience--all, in short, that I had to give; how he, naturally quickto learn and brimful of quiet energy, worked his way up a step at atime, and came by-and-by to be a "first hand" in his own department;how, during all these years of change, and trial, and effort, the oldboyish affection never wavered or weakened, but went on, growing withour growth and strengthening with our strength--are facts which I needdo no more than outline in this place.
About this time--it will be remembered that I speak of the days whenMat and I were on the bright side of thirty--it happened that our firmcontracted to supply six first-class locomotives to run on the newline, then in process of construction, between Turin and Genoa. It wasthe first Italian order we had taken. We had had dealings with France,Holland, Belgium, Germany; but never with Italy. The connection,therefore, was new and valuable--all the more valuable because ourTransalpine neighbours had but lately begun to lay down the ironroads, and would be safe to need more of our good English work as theywent on. So the Birmingham firm set themselves to the contract with awill, lengthened our working hours, increased our wages, took on freshhands, and determined, if energy and promptitude could do it, to placethemselves at the head of the Italian labour-market, and stay there.They deserved and achieved success. The six locomotives were not onlyturned out to time, but were shipped, despatched, and delivered with apromptitude that fairly amazed our Piedmontese consignee. I was not alittle proud, you may be sure, when I found myself appointed tosuperintend the transport of the engines. Being allowed a couple ofassistants, I contrived that Mat should be one of them; and thus weenjoyed together the first great holiday of our lives.
It was a wonderful change for two Birmingham operatives fresh from theBlack Country. The fairy city, with its crescent background of Alps;the port crowded with strange shipping; the marvellous blue sky andthe bluer sea; the painted houses on the quays; the quaint cathedral,faced with black and white marble; the street of jewellers, like anArabian Nights' bazaar; the street of palaces, with its Moorishcourtyards, its fountains and orange-trees; the women veiled likebrides; the galley-slaves chained two and two; the processions ofpriests and friars; the everlasting clangour of bells; the babble of astrange tongue; the singular lightness and brightness of the climate--made, altogether, such a combination of wonders that we wanderedabout, the first day, in a kind of bewildered dream, like children ata fair. Before that week was ended, being tempted by the beauty of theplace and the liberality of the pay, we had agreed to take servicewith the Turin and Genoa Railway Company, and to turn our backs uponBirmingham for ever.
Then began a new life--a life so active and healthy, so steeped infresh air and sunshine, that we sometimes marvelled how we could haveendured the gloom of the Black Country. We were constantly up and downthe line: now at Genoa, now at Turin, taking trial trips with thelocomotives, and placing our old experiences at the service of our newemployers.
In the meanwhile we made Genoa our headquarters, and hired a couple ofrooms over a small shop in a by-street sloping down to the quays. Sucha busy little street--so steep and winding that no vehicles could passthrough it, and so narrow that the sky looked like a mere strip ofdeep-blue ribbon overhead! Every house in it, however, was a shop,where the goods encroached on the footway, or were piled about thedoor, or hung like tapestry from the balconies; and all day long, fromdawn to dusk, an incessant stream of passers-by poured up and downbetween the port and the upper quarter of the city.
Our landlady was the widow of a silver-worker, and lived by the saleof filigree ornaments, cheap jewellery, combs, fans, and toys in ivoryand jet. She had an only daughter named Gianetta, who served in theshop, and was simply the most beautiful woman I ever beheld. Lookingback across this weary chasm of years, and bringing her image beforeme (as I can and do) with all the vividness of life, I am unable, evennow, to detect a flaw in her beauty. I do not attempt to describe her.I do not believe there is a poet living who could find the words to doit; but I once saw a picture that was somewhat like her (not half solovely, but still like her), and, for aught I know, that picture isstill hanging where I last looked at it--upon the walls of the Louvre.It represented a woman with brown eyes and golden hair, looking overher shoulder into a circular mirror held by a bearded man in thebackground. In this man, as I then understood, the artist had paintedhis own portrait; in her, the portrait of the woman he loved. Nopicture that I ever saw was half so beautiful, and yet it was notworthy to be named in the same breath with Gianetta Coneglia.
You may be certain the widow's shop did not want for customers. AllGenoa knew how fair a face was to be seen behind that dingy littlecounter; and Gianetta, flirt as she was, had more lovers than shecared to remember, even by name. Gentle and simple, rich and poor,from the red-capped sailor buying his ear-rings or his amulet, to thenobleman carelessly purchasing half the filigrees in the window, shetreated them all alike--encouraged them, laughed at them, led them onand turned them off at her pleasure. She had no more heart than amarble statue; as Mat and I discovered by-and-by, to our bitter cost.
I cannot tell to this day how it came about, or what first led me tosuspect how things were going with us both; but long before the waningof that autumn a coldness had sprung up between my friend and myself.It was nothing that could have been put into words. It was nothingthat either of us could have explained or justified, to save his life.We lodged together, ate together, worked together, exactly as before;we even took our long evening's walk together, when the day's labourwas ended; and except, perhaps, that we were more silent than of old,no mere looker-on could have detected a shadow of change. Yet there itwas, silent and subtle, widening the gulf between us every day.
It was not his fault. He was too true and gentle-hearted to havewillingly brought about such a state of things between us. Neither doI believe--fiery as my nature is--that it was mine. It was all hers--hers from first to last--the sin, and the shame, and the sorrow.
If she had shown a fair and open preference for either of us, no realharm could have come of it. I would have put any constraint uponmyself, and, Heaven knows! have borne any suffering, to see Mat reallyhappy. I know that he would have done the same, and more if he could,for me. But Gianetta cared not one sou for either. She never meant tochoose between us. It gratified her vanity to divide us; it amused herto play with us. It would pass my power to tell how, by a thousandimperceptible shades of coquetry--by the lingering of a glance, thesubstitution of a word, the flitting of a smile--she contrived to turnour heads, and torture our hearts, and lead us on to love her. Shedeceived us both. She buoyed us both up with hope; she maddened uswith jealousy; she crushed us with despair. For my part, when I seemedto wake to a sudden sense of the ruin that was about our path and Isaw how the truest friendship that ever bound two lives together wasdrifting on to wreck and ruin, I asked myself whether any woman in theworld was worth what Mat had been to me and I to him. But this was notoften. I was readier to shut my eyes upon the truth than to face it;and so lived on, wilfully, in a dream.
Thus the autumn passed away, and winter came--the strange, treacherousGenoese winter, green with olive and ilex, brilliant with sunshine,and bitter with storm. Still, rivals at heart and friends on thesurface, Mat and I lingered on in our lodging in the Vicolo Balba.Still Gianetta held us with her fatal wiles and her still more fatalbeauty. At length there came a day when I felt I could bear thehorrible misery and suspense of it no longer. The sun, I vowed, shouldnot go down before I knew my sentence. She must choose between us. Shemust either take me or let me go. I was reckless. I was desperate. Iwas determined to know the worst, or the best. If the worst, I wouldat once turn my back upon Genoa, upon her, upon all the pursuits andpurposes of my past life, and begin the world anew. This I told her,passionately and sternly, standing before her in the little parlour atthe back of the shop, one bleak December morning.
"If it's Mat whom you care for most," I said, "tell me so in one word,and I will never trouble you again. He is better worth your love. I amjealous and exacting; he is as trusting and unselfish as a woman.Speak, Gianetta; am I to bid you good-bye for ever and ever, or am Ito write home to my mother in England, bidding her pray to God tobless the woman who has promised to be my wife?"
"You plead your friend's cause well," she replied, haughtily. "Matteoought to be grateful. This is more than he ever did for you."
"Give me my answer, for pity's sake," I exclaimed, "and let me go!"
"You are free to go or stay, Signor Inglese," she replied. "I am notyour jailor."
"Do you bid me leave you?"
"Beata Madre! not I."
"Will you marry me, if I stay?"
She laughed aloud--such a merry, mocking, musical laugh, like a chimeof silver bells!
"You ask too much," she said.
"Only what you have led me to hope these five or six months past!"
"That is just what Matteo says. How tiresome you both are!"
"O, Gianetta," I said, passionately, "be serious for one moment! I ama rough fellow, it is true--not half good enough or clever enough foryou; but I love you with my whole heart, and an Emperor could do nomore."
"I am glad of it," she replied; "I do not want you to love me less."
"Then you cannot wish to make me wretched! Will you promise me?"
"I promise nothing," said she, with another burst of laughter; "exceptthat I will not marry Matteo!"
Except that she would not marry Matteo! Only that. Not a word of hopefor myself. Nothing but my friend's condemnation. I might get comfort,and selfish triumph, and some sort of base assurance out of that, if Icould. And so, to my shame, I did. I grasped at the vainencouragement, and, fool that I was! let her put me off againunanswered. From that day, I gave up all effort at self-control, andlet myself drift blindly on--to destruction.
At length things became so bad between Mat and myself that it seemedas if an open rupture must be at hand. We avoided each other, scarcelyexchanged a dozen sentences in a day, and fell away from all our oldfamiliar habits. At this time--I shudder to remember it!--there weremoments when I felt that I hated him.
Thus, with the trouble deepening and widening between us day by day,another month or five weeks went by; and February came; and, withFebruary, the Carnival. They said in Genoa that it was a particularlydull carnival; and so it must have been; for, save a flag or two hungout in some of the principal streets, and a sort of festa look aboutthe women, there were no special indications of the season. It was, Ithink, the second day when, having been on the line all the morning, Ireturned to Genoa at dusk, and, to my surprise, found Mat Price on theplatform. He came up to me, and laid his hand on my arm.
"You are in late," he said. "I have been waiting for you three-quarters of an hour. Shall we dine together to-day?"
Impulsive as I am, this evidence of returning goodwill at once calledup my better feelings.
"With all my heart, Mat," I replied; "shall we go to Gozzoli's?"
"No, no," he said, hurriedly. "Some quieter place--some place where wecan talk. I have something to say to you."
I noticed now that he looked pale and agitated, and an uneasy sense ofapprehension stole upon me. We decided on the "Pescatore," a littleout-of-the-way trattoria, down near the Molo Vecchio. There, in adingy salon, frequented chiefly by seamen, and redolent of tobacco, weordered our simple dinner. Mat scarcely swallowed a morsel; but,calling presently for a bottle of Sicilian wine, drank eagerly.
"Well, Mat," I said, as the last dish was placed on the table, "whatnews have you?"
"Bad."
"I guessed that from your face."
"Bad for you--bad for me. Gianetta."
"What of Gianetta?"
He passed his hand nervously across his lips.
"Gianetta is false--worse than false," he said, in a hoarse voice."She values an honest man's heart just as she values a flower for herhair--wears it for a day, then throws it aside for ever. She hascruelly wronged us both."
"In what way? Good Heavens, speak out!"
"In the worst way that a woman can wrong those who love her. She hassold herself to the Marchese Loredano."
The blood rushed to my head and face in a burning torrent. I couldscarcely see, and dared not trust myself to speak.
"I saw her going towards the cathedral," he went on, hurriedly. "Itwas about three hours ago. I thought she might be going to confession,so I hung back and followed her at a distance. When she got inside,however, she went straight to the back of the pulpit, where this manwas waiting for her. You remember him--an old man who used to hauntthe shop a month or two back. Well, seeing how deep in conversationthey were, and how they stood close under the pulpit with their backstowards the church, I fell into a passion of anger and went straightup the aisle, intending to say or do something: I scarcely knew what;but, at all events, to draw her arm through mine, and take her home.When I came within a few feet, however, and found only a big pillarbetween myself and them, I paused. They could not see me, nor I them;but I could hear their voices distinctly, and--and I listened."
"Well, and you heard--"
"The terms of a shameful bargain--beauty on the one side, gold on theother; so many thousand francs a year; a villa near Naples----Pah! itmakes me sick to repeat it."
And, with a shudder, he poured out another glass of wine and drank itat a draught.
"After that," he said, presently, "I made no effort to bring her away.The whole thing was so cold-blooded, so deliberate, so shameful, thatI felt I had only to wipe her out of my memory, and leave her to herfate. I stole out of the cathedral, and walked about here by the seafor ever so long, trying to get my thoughts straight. Then Iremembered you, Ben; and the recollection of how this wanton had comebetween us and broken up our lives drove me wild. So I went up to thestation and waited for you. I felt you ought to know it all; and--andI thought, perhaps, that we might go back to England together."
"The Marchese Loredano!"
It was all that I could say; all that I could think. As Mat had justsaid of himself, I felt "like one stunned."
"There is one other thing I may as well tell you," he added,reluctantly, "if only to show you how false a woman can be. We--wewere to have been married next month."
"We? Who? What do you mean?"
"I mean that we were to have been married--Gianetta and I."
A sudden storm of rage, of scorn, of incredulity, swept over me atthis, and seemed to carry my senses away.
"You!" I cried. "Gianetta marry you! I don't believe it."
"I wish I had not believed it," he replied, looking up as if puzzledby my vehemence. "But she promised me; and I thought, when shepromised it, she meant it."
"She told me, weeks ago, that she would never be your wife!"
His colour rose, his brow darkened; but when his answer came, it wasas calm as the last.
"Indeed!" he said. "Then it is only one baseness more. She told methat she had refused you; and that was why we kept our engagementsecret."
"Tell the truth, Mat Price," I said, well-nigh beside myself withsuspicion. "Confess that every word of this is false! Confess thatGianetta will not listen to you, and that you are afraid I may succeedwhere you have failed. As perhaps I shall--as perhaps I shall, afterall!"
"Are you mad?" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?"
"That I believe it's just a trick to get me away to England--that Idon't credit a syllable of your story. You're a liar, and I hate you!"
He rose, and, laying one hand on the back of his chair, looked mesternly in the face.
"If you were not Benjamin Hardy," he said, deliberately, "I wouldthrash you within an inch of your life."
The words had no sooner passed his lips than I sprang at him. I havenever been able distinctly to remember what followed. A curse--ablow--a struggle--a moment of blind fury--a cry--a confusion oftongues--a circle of strange faces. Then I see Mat lying back in thearms of a bystander; myself trembling and bewildered--the knifedropping from my grasp; blood upon the floor; blood upon my hands;blood upon his shirt. And then I hear those dreadful words:
"O, Ben, you have murdered me!"
He did not die--at least, not there and then. He was carried to thenearest hospital, and lay for some weeks between life and death. Hiscase, they said, was difficult and dangerous. The knife had gone injust below the collar-bone, and pierced down into the lungs. He wasnot allowed to speak or turn--scarcely to breathe with freedom. Hemight not even lift his head to drink. I sat by him day and night allthrough that sorrowful time. I gave up my situation on the railway; Iquitted my lodging in the Vicolo Balba; I tried to forget that such awoman as Gianetta Coneglia had ever drawn breath. I lived only forMat; and he tried to live more, I believe, for my sake than his own.Thus, in the bitter silent hours of pain and penitence, when no handbut mine approached his lips or smoothed his pillow, the oldfriendship came back with even more than its old trust andfaithfulness. He forgave me, fully and freely; and I would thankfullyhave given my life for him.
At length there came one bright spring morning, when, dismissed asconvalescent, he tottered out through the hospital gates, leaning onmy arm, and feeble as an infant. He was not cured; neither, as I thenlearned to my horror and anguish, was it possible that he ever couldbe cured. He might live, with care, for some years; but the lungs wereinjured beyond hope of remedy, and a strong or healthy man he couldnever be again. These, spoken aside to me, were the parting words ofthe chief physician, who advised me to take him further south withoutdelay.
I took him to a little coast-town called Rocca, some thirty milesbeyond Genoa--a sheltered lonely place along the Riviera, where thesea was even bluer than the sky, and the cliffs were green withstrange tropical plants, cacti, and aloes, and Egyptian palms. Here welodged in the house of a small tradesman; and Mat, to use his ownwords, "set to work at getting well in good earnest." But, alas! itwas a work which no earnestness could forward. Day after day he wentdown to the beach, and sat for hours drinking the sea air and watchingthe sails that came and went in the offing. By-and-by he could go nofurther than the garden of the house in which we lived. A littlelater, and he spent his days on a couch beside the open window,waiting patiently for the end. Ay, for the end! It had come to that.He was fading fast, waning with the waning summer, and conscious thatthe Reaper was at hand. His whole aim now was to soften the agony ofmy remorse, and prepare me for what must shortly come.
"I would not live longer, if I could," he said, lying on his couch onesummer evening, and looking up to the stars. "If I had my choice atthis moment, I would ask to go. I should like Gianetta to know that Iforgave her."
"She shall know it," I said, trembling suddenly from head to foot.
He pressed my hand.
"And you'll write to father?"
"I will."
I had drawn a little back, that he might not see the tears rainingdown my cheeks; but he raised himself on his elbow, and looked round.
"Don't fret, Ben," he whispered; laid his head back wearily upon thepillow--and so died.
And this was the end of it. This was the end of all that made lifelife to me. I buried him there, in hearing of the wash of a strangesea on a strange shore. I stayed by the grave till the priest and thebystanders were gone. I saw the earth filled in to the last sod, andthe gravedigger stamped it down with his feet. Then, and not tillthen, I felt that I had lost him for ever--the friend I had loved, andhated, and slain. Then, and not till then, I knew that all rest, andjoy, and hope were over for me. From that moment my heart hardenedwithin me, and my life was filled with loathing. Day and night, landand sea, labour and rest, food and sleep, were alike hateful to me. Itwas the curse of Cain, and that my brother had pardoned me made it lienone the lighter. Peace on earth was for me no more, and goodwilltowards men was dead in my heart for ever. Remorse softens somenatures; but it poisoned mine. I hated all mankind; but above allmankind I hated the woman who had come between us two, and ruined bothour lives.
He had bidden me seek her out, and be the messenger of hisforgiveness. I had sooner have gone down to the port of Genoa andtaken upon me the serge cap and shotted chain of any galley-slave athis toil in the public works; but for all that I did my best to obeyhim. I went back, alone and on foot. I went back, intending to say toher, "Gianetta Coneglia, he forgave you; but God never will." But shewas gone. The little shop was let to a fresh occupant; and theneighbours only knew that mother and daughter had left the place quitesuddenly, and that Gianetta was supposed to be under the "protection"of the Marchese Loredano. How I made inquiries here and there--how Iheard that they had gone to Naples--and how, being restless andreckless of my time, I worked my passage in a French steamer, andfollowed her--how, having found the sumptuous villa that was now hers,I learned that she had left there some ten days and gone to Paris,where the Marchese was ambassador for the Two Sicilies--how, workingmy passage back again to Marseilles, and thence, in part by the riverand in part by the rail, I made my way to Paris--how, day after day, Ipaced the streets and the parks, watched at the ambassador's gates,followed his carriage, and at last, after weeks of waiting, discoveredher address--how, having written to request an interview, her servantsspurned me from her door and flung my letter in my face--how, lookingup at her windows, I then, instead of forgiving, solemnly cursed herwith the bitterest curses my tongue could devise--and how, this done,I shook the dust of Paris from my feet, and became a wanderer upon theface of the earth, are facts which I have now no space to tell.
The next six or eight years of my life were shifting and unsettledenough. A morose and restless man, I took employment here and there,as opportunity offered, turning my hand to many things, and caringlittle what I earned, so long as the work was hard and the changeincessant. First of all I engaged myself as chief engineer in one ofthe French steamers plying between Marseilles and Constantinople. AtConstantinople I changed to one of the Austrian Lloyd's boats, andworked for some time to and from Alexandria, Jaffa, and those partsAfter that, I fell in with a party of Mr. Layard's men at Cairo, andso went up the Nile and took a turn at the excavations of the mound ofNimroud. Then I became a working engineer on the new desert linebetween Alexandria and Suez; and by-and-by I worked my passage out toBombay, and took service as an engine fitter on one of the greatIndian railways. I stayed a long time in India; that is to say, Istayed nearly two years, which was a long time for me; and I might noteven have left so soon, but for the war that was declared just thenwith Russia. That tempted me. For I loved danger and hardship as othermen love safety and ease; and as for my life, I had sooner have partedfrom it than kept it, any day. So I came straight back to England;betook myself to Portsmouth, where my testimonials at once procured methe sort of berth I wanted. I went out to the Crimea in the engine-room of one of her Majesty's war steamers.
I served with the fleet, of course, while the war lasted; and when itwas over, went wandering off again, rejoicing in my liberty. This timeI went to Canada, and after working on a railway then in progress nearthe American frontier. I presently passed over into the States;journeyed from north to south; crossed the Rocky Mountains; tried amonth or two of life in the gold country; and then, being seized witha sudden, aching, unaccountable longing to revisit that solitary graveso far away on the Italian coast, I turned my face once more towardsEurope.
Poor little grave! I found it rank with weeds, the cross halfshattered, the inscription half effaced. It was as if no one had lovedhim, or remembered him. I went back to the house in which we hadlodged together. The same people were still living there, and made mekindly welcome. I stayed with them for some weeks. I weeded, andplanted, and trimmed the grave with my own hands, and set up a freshcross in pure white marble. It was the first season of rest that I hadknown since I laid him there; and when at last I shouldered myknapsack and set forth again to battle with the world, I promisedmyself that, God willing, I would creep back to Rocca, when my daysdrew near to ending, and be buried by his side.
From hence, being, perhaps, a little less inclined than formerly forvery distant parts, and willing to keep within reach of that grave, Iwent no further than Mantua, where I engaged myself as an engine-driver on the line, then not long completed, between that city andVenice. Somehow, although I had been trained to the workingengineering, I preferred in these days to earn my bread by driving. Iliked the excitement of it, the sense of power, the rush of the air,the roar of the fire, the flitting of the landscape. Above all, Ienjoyed to drive a night express. The worse the weather, the better itsuited with my sullen temper. For I was as hard, and harder than ever.The years had done nothing to soften me. They had only confirmed allthat was blackest and bitterest in my heart.
I continued pretty faithful to the Mantua line, and had been workingon it steadily for more than seven months when that which I am nowabout to relate took place.
It was in the month of March. The weather had been unsettled for somedays past, and the nights stormy; and at one point along the line,near Ponte di Brenta, the waters had risen and swept away some seventyyards of embankment. Since this accident, the trains had all beenobliged to stop at a certain spot between Padua and Ponte di Brenta,and the passengers, with their luggage, had thence to be transportedin all kinds of vehicles, by a circuitous country road, to the neareststation on the other side of the gap, where another train and engineawaited them. This, of course, caused great confusion and annoyance,put all our time-tables wrong, and subjected the public to a largeamount of inconvenience. In the mean while an army of navvies wasdrafted to the spot, and worked day and night to repair the damage. Atthis time I was driving two through trains each day; namely, one fromMantua to Venice in the early morning, and a return train from Veniceto Mantua in the afternoon--a tolerably full days' work, coveringabout one hundred and ninety miles of ground, and occupying betweenten and eleven hours. I was therefore not best pleased when, on thethird or fourth day after the accident, I was informed that, inaddition to my regular allowance of work, I should that evening berequired to drive a special train to Venice. This special train,consisting of an engine, a single carriage, and a break-van, was toleave the Mantua platform at eleven; at Padua the passengers were toalight and find post-chaises waiting to convey them to Ponte diBrenta; at Ponte di Brenta another engine, carriage, and break-vanwere to be in readiness, I was charged to accompany them throughout.
"Corpo di Bacco," said the clerk who gave me my orders, "you need notlook so black, man. You are certain of a handsome gratuity. Do youknow who goes with you?"
"Not I."
"Not you, indeed! Why, it's the Duca Loredano, the Neapolitanambassador."
"Loredano!" I stammered. "What Loredano? There was a Marchese--"
"Certo. He was the Marchese Loredano some years ago; but he has comeinto his dukedom since then."
"He must be a very old man by this time."
"Yes, he is old; but what of that? He is as hale, and bright, andstately as ever. You have seen him before?"
"Yes," I said, turning away; "I have seen him--years ago."
"You have heard of his marriage?"
I shook my head.
The clerk chuckled, rubbed his hands, and shrugged his shoulders.
"An extraordinary affair," he said. "Made a tremendous esclandre atthe time. He married his mistress--quite a common, vulgar girl--aGenoese--very handsome; but not received, of course. Nobody visitsher."
"Married her!" I exclaimed. "Impossible."
"True, I assure you."
I put my hand to my head. I felt as if I had had a fall or a blow.
"Does she--does she go to-night?" I faltered.
"O dear, yes--goes everywhere with him--never lets him out of hersight. You'll see her--la bella Duchessa!"
With this my informant laughed, and rubbed his hands again, and wentback to his office.
The day went by, I scarcely know how, except that my whole soul was ina tumult of rage and bitterness. I returned from my afternoon's workabout 7.25, and at 10.30 I was once again at the station. I hadexamined the engine; given instructions to the Fochista, or stoker,about the fire; seen to the supply of oil; and got all in readiness,when, just as I was about to compare my watch with the clock in theticket-office, a hand was laid upon my arm, and a voice in my earsaid:
"Are you the engine-driver who is going on with this special train?"
I had never seen the speaker before. He was a small, dark man, muffledup about the throat, with blue glasses, a large black beard, and hishat drawn low upon his eyes.
"You are a poor man, I suppose," he said, in a quick, eager whisper,"and, like other poor men, would not object to be better off. Wouldyou like to earn a couple of thousand florins?"
"In what way?"
"Hush! You are to stop at Padua, are you not, and to go on again atPonte di Brenta?"
I nodded.
"Suppose you did nothing of the kind. Suppose, instead of turning offthe steam, you jump off the engine, and let the train run on?"
"Impossible. There are seventy yards of embankment gone, and--"
"Basta! I know that. Save yourself, and let the train run on. It wouldbe nothing but an accident."
I turned hot and cold; I trembled; my heart beat fast, and my breathfailed.
"Why do you tempt me?" I faltered.
"For Italy's sake," he whispered; "for liberty's sake. I know you areno Italian; but, for all that, you may be a friend. This Loredano isone of his country's bitterest enemies. Stay, here are the twothousand florins."
I thrust his hand back fiercely.
"No--no," I said. "No blood-money. If I do it, I do it neither forItaly nor for money; but for vengeance."
"For vengeance!" he repeated.
At this moment the signal was given for backing up to the platform. Isprang to my place upon the engine without another word. When I againlooked towards the spot where he had been standing, the stranger wasgone.
I saw them take their places--Duke and Duchess, secretary and priest,valet and maid. I saw the station-master bow them into the carriage,and stand, bareheaded, beside the door. I could not distinguish theirfaces; the platform was too dusk, and the glare from the engine firetoo strong; but I recognised her stately figure, and the poise of herhead. Had I not been told who she was, I should have known her bythose traits alone. Then the guard's whistle shrilled out, and thestation-master made his last bow; I turned the steam on; and westarted.
My blood was on fire. I no longer trembled or hesitated. I felt as ifevery nerve was iron, and every pulse instinct with deadly purpose.She was in my power, and I would be avenged. She should die--she, forwhom I had stained my soul with my friend's blood! She should die, inthe plenitude of her wealth and her beauty, and no power upon earthshould save her!
The stations flew past. I put on more steam; I bade the fireman heapin the coke, and stir the blazing mass. I would have outstripped thewind, had it been possible. Faster and faster--hedges and trees,bridges, and stations, flashing past--villages no sooner seen thangone--telegraph wires twisting, and dipping, and twining themselves inone, with the awful swiftness of our pace! Faster and faster, till thefireman at my side looks white and scared, and refuses to add morefuel to the furnace. Faster and faster, till the wind rushes in ourfaces and drives the breath back upon our lips.
I would have scorned to save myself. I meant to die with the rest. Madas I was--and I believe from my very soul that I was utterly mad forthe time--I felt a passing pang of pity for the old man and his suite.I would have spared the poor fellow at my side, too, if I could; butthe pace at which we were going made escape impossible.
Vicenza was passed--a mere confused vision of lights. Pojana flew by.At Padua, but nine miles distant, our passengers were to alight. I sawthe fireman's face turned upon me in remonstrance; I saw his lipsmove, though I could not hear a word; I saw his expression changesuddenly from remonstrance to a deadly terror, and then--mercifulHeaven! then, for the first time, I saw that he and I were no longeralone upon the engine.
There was a third man--a third man standing on my right hand, as thefireman was standing on my left--a tall, stalwart man, with shortcurling hair, and a flat Scotch cap upon his head. As I fell back inthe first shock of surprise, he stepped nearer; took my place at theengine, and turned the steam off. I opened my lips to speak to him; heturned his head slowly, and looked me in the face.
Matthew Price!
I uttered one long wild cry, flung my arms wildly up above my head,and fell as if I had been smitten with an axe.
I am prepared for the objections that may be made to my story. Iexpect, as a matter of course, to be told that this was an opticalillusion, or that I was suffering from pressure on the brain, or eventhat I laboured under an attack of temporary insanity. I have heardall these arguments before, and, if I may be forgiven for saying so, Ihave no desire to hear them again. My own mind has been made up uponthis subject for many a year. All that I can say--all that I know is--that Matthew Price came back from the dead, to save my soul and thelives of those whom I, in my guilty rage, would have hurried todestruction. I believe this as I believe in the mercy of Heaven andthe forgiveness of repentant sinners.
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