GRIEF AT GEROME’S ABSENCE-TURCHI’S HYPOCRISY.

Mary Van De Werve was in her own apartment, kneeling before a silver crucifix; she seemed bowed down by a weight of woe.  Her head rested upon her clasped hands.  She had been weeping bitterly; for there were traces of tears upon the prie-Dieu.

Had a stranger surprised the young girl in this attitude, he might have thought that sleep had overpowered her during prayer; but the gasping breath and heaving chest sufficiently attested that she had not sunk in sleep, but that she was plunged in an expressible sorrow.

Behind her was seated an old woman, her duenna, with a rosary in her hand.  She gazed upon the young girl with deep compassion; from time to time she shook her head, and wiped away the tears which dimmed her eyes whenever Mary’s sighs became heavier.

For some time the silence was unbroken; Mary even appeared somewhat calmer, when suddenly, influenced by some peculiarly painful thought, she extended her arms to heaven and cried out;

“My God and my Saviour! through thy precious blood spare his life!  Have mercy on him! reject not the prayer of my broken heart!”

Again her head fell on her hands, as if this burning petition had exhausted her strength.  The duenna approached her, took her arm, endeavored to lift her, and said, authoritatively: 

“My lady, you must rise and cease your prayer.  God may be displeased with you for thus deliberately endangering your health.  Come, obey me.”

Mary arose without reply, and took the seat offered her by the duenna.  She was very pale, and her eyes were swollen from weeping.

The duenna looked upon her with an eye of pity; she took her hand, and said, gently: 

“Mary, my child, you cannot continue this; such an excess of sorrow would shorten your days.  And what pain to the poor Geronimo on his return, to find you condemned to a short and suffering life!  Through love for him, I beg you to control yourself.”

“On his return?” repeated Mary, raising her tearful eyes to heaven.

“Why not?” replied the duenna.  “Why despair before being certain of the evil you dread?  More extraordinary things have happened.”

“Already five days-five centuries of suspense and fear!  Ah!  Petronilla, what a frightful night I passed!  I saw Geronimo extended on the ground, the pallor of death on his face, a large wound was in his breast, and his lifeless eyes were fixed on me as if with his last breath he had bade me adieu.”

“These are illusions caused by grief, Mary.”

“More than twenty times I saw him thus; in vain I strove to shut out the horrible vision; day alone brought me relief.”

The duenna took her hand, and said, tenderly: 

“You are wrong, Mary, to cherish your grief in this manner.  Your dreams at night were but the reflection of your thoughts by day.  I, too, saw Geronimo in sleep more than once.”

“You, too, Petronilla, you saw Geronimo?” exclaimed the young girl, with emotion, as though she feared the confirmation of her own terrific dream.

“Why not, Mary; do I think of him less than you?”

“You saw him dying, did you not?”

“On the contrary, I saw him return joyfully and cast himself into the arms of his uncle and embrace your father.  And you, my child, I saw you kneeling on this same prie-Dieu, thanking God that your dreams were false and deceiving.”

Mary smiled as she listened to the duenna’s consoling words, but scarcely had Petronilla ceased speaking than she suspected the artifice.

“You deceive me through friendship and compassion,” she said, sadly.  “I am grateful to you, my good Petronilla; but tell me to what cause you can attribute Geronimo’s absence.  Come, call upon your imagination; find a possible, probable explanation.”

Disconcerted by this direct interrogation, the duenna shook her head.

“There is no plausible reason,” said Mary.

The old Petronilla, in the greatest embarrassment, stammered out a few words as to an unexpected journey, secrets he might be unable to divulge; she even suggested that his friends might have prevailed upon him to join in a party of pleasure; but all these were such vague suppositions that Mary plainly saw in them an acknowledgment that she could find no reasonable explanation of Geronimo’s absence.

Mary’s tears flowed faster.

“Oh, Petronilla!” she exclaimed, in heart-rending tones; “the light of my life is forever extinguished.  Geronimo, so young, so good, so noble, so gifted, the unfortunate victim of a mysterious murderer!  Frightful thought! and no room for hope!  Mercy, my God, mercy!  My heart is breaking; never more will I see him in this world.”

And uttering a cry of anguish, she covered her face with her hands.

“I acknowledge, Mary,” said the duenna, dejectedly, “that Geronimo’s absence is inexplicable; but why look on the worst side and accept it as truth?  You know that during the last four days every possible effort has been made to discover Geronimo.  Mr. Van Schoonhoven, the bailiff, has pledged his honor to find him dead, or alive.”

Mary wept in silence, and heeded not the words of the duenna.

“Perhaps, my child,” the old woman resumed, “this very day the doubt which has caused you so much suffering for five days may be cleared up.  Do not close your heart against all hope.  I remember that once an individual was sought for weeks, and found alive when there seemed almost a certainty of his death.  The bailiff was speaking of it this morning to your father, and I recollect having heard my parents relate it.  It happened to a banker, Liefmans, who was considered very wealthy.”

The young girl regarded the duenna with an air of doubt.

“They found him after several weeks of absence?  Had he gone on a journey without giving notice to any one?”

“No; he was discovered in the cellar of a house in the little by-street of Sureau.  Robbers had laid in wait for him in the darkness of night, and cast him bound into a subterranean cave, in order to obtain a heavy ransom.  The agents of the bailiff discovered him and liberated him unharmed.  If God has so decreed, why may not the same have happened to the Signor Geronimo?  You are silent, Mary.  You cannot deny that a similar train of circumstances may have been the cause of his disappearance.  Is it not so? but you yield to despair, and even in the act of begging consolation from Almighty God, you reject obstinately every motive of consolation.”

“Pity me, dear Petronilla,” answered the young girl; “your kind words are a solace to me, but I dare not open my heart to the whisperings of hope.  If I accepted your explanations, and afterwards heard of Geronimo’s death, it would be double suffering to me.  No, no, rather let me encourage the feeling that there is no room for hope.”

“It is impossible to make any impression upon her,” said the duenna, in a disappointed manner, and as if she were resolved to cease her efforts and to abandon the young girl to her grief.

The silence was broken by the sound of voices in the hall.

“I hear the voice of the Signor Deodati,” said the duenna; “perhaps he brings tidings.”

Mary rose quickly to descend; but Petronilla wished to detain her, saying: 

“My child, in pity to a sorrowing old man, restrain your grief.  Control yourself, Mary, for yesterday each word you uttered pierced the heart of the poor Deodati like a dagger.  It would be cruel and guilty in you to cause his tears to flow anew; at his age such affliction wears down the strength and shortens life.”

“No, Petronilla, I will hide my feelings, and I will appear hopeful.  I saw that the old man was overpowered by anxiety and trouble.  Trust me, Petronilla, and let me go; I must know from the Signor Deodati if he has received any information.”

The duenna accompanied the young girl to the door of the room where Mr. Van de Werve and Signor Deodati were conversing together, but she let her enter alone.

As soon as Mary’s eye fell on the old man, and she read in his face the sorrow of his soul, she uttered a stifled cry of anguish.  She cast her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder.

The Signor Deodati, deeply moved, seated her by his side, and said, with tender compassion: 

“My poor Mary, we have no tidings yet of our Geronimo.  Are we not unhappy?  Why did not God recall me to himself ere this?  Did I leave Italy and come hither to drink the bitter dregs in my chalice of life?  Could I weep like you, Mary, I might find some relief, but old age has dried up my tears.  Alas! alas! where is my poor Geronimo, the child whom God gave me, to close my eyes on the bed of death?  I would give my fortune to save him, and the little that remains to me of life to know that he still lives.”

Tears filled Mr. Van de Werve’s eyes as he contemplated his daughter and the desolate old man; but he controlled his emotion, and said: 

“Mary, I requested you to stay in your own apartment, because you cannot moderate the expression of your sorrow.  You have disregarded my desire.  I willingly pardon you, my child; but if you wish to remain longer with Signor Deodati, you must exercise some self-control; otherwise I shall send for your duenna to take you away.”

He then added, in a more gentle manner: 

“Now, Mary, I beg, I supplicate you, comprehend the duty devolving upon you.  Be courageous, and do your best to console our unhappy friend.”

With a heroic effort Mary raised her head, and although still weeping, said: 

“You are right, father.  We grieve as though there were no room for hope; but-but-”

So great was the violence she was doing herself that she could scarcely draw her breath; but conquering this emotion, she resumed: 

“Ah! signor, we cannot know.  God is so good, and Geronimo has so pure a heart!”

“God is indeed good, my child; but his designs are impenetrable.  If I could only imagine some probable cause to explain my nephew’s absence.  But nothing-nothing!”

“The bailiff gave us, this morning, a reason for supposing that Geronimo may yet return to us unharmed.”

“You speak of the banker Liefmans, do you not, father?”

“Yes, my child.  He disappeared suddenly.  A fortnight had passed in useless inquiry; his parents had the service for the dead offered for him, and he was found alive and well in a cellar, where some robbers had imprisoned him, in order by it to obtain a large sum of money.”

“And the same may happen, to Geronimo!” said Mary, with a confidence she did not feel, in order to aid her father in his kind intentions.

Signor Deodati shook his head incredulously.

Mary took his hand tenderly, and said, cheerfully: 

“We must hope, signor.  Perhaps the Lord in his mercy will grant that our fears may not be realized.  Would we not for the remainder of our lives offer our grateful prayers to heaven?”

“Yes, yes; during our whole lives.  And I would go in my old age to Our Lady of Loretto to express my boundless gratitude to the Madonna.  But suppose he has fallen under the assassin’s sword?”

Mary shuddered at the thought, but she interrupted the old man.

“Signor, Geronimo possessed an amulet which had rested on the tomb of our Lord.  He was convinced that it would preserve him from a violent death, and he always wore it around his neck.”

“I know the circumstances under which the amulet was given him,” replied Deodati.  “I myself had some faith in this talisman, because it was the recompense of a good action; but we have no proof that the woman who gave it to Geronimo had any certain knowledge of its efficacy.  However, Mary, we will still hope.  Your sweet voice has mitigated my sorrow.  May my poor nephew be restored to me.  The happiness I expected in my old age may yet be a reality.  You, Mary,-pure image of piety, goodness, and love,-you will be my child!  And when old Deodati will be called to leave this world, he will see you and Geronimo by his dying bed, like two angels, pointing out to his expiring goal the path to heaven.  Oh! no, no; this would be too much happiness.  My mind wanders.  And yet, Mary, let us hope!”

The young girl was deeply moved by the picture of that happiness which she had thought was lost to her forever.  Her eyes were suffused with tears; her limbs trembled, and had not a stern look from her father reminded her of her duty, her oppressed heart would have found relief in sobs.

Mr. Van de Werve thought it better to change the conversation, and said to Deodati: 

“Let us not forget, signor, that we are men, and that it becomes us to bear up courageously under a painful suspense, and in a manner to which a young girl might be unequal.  Have you heard nothing since the morning?  Have you not seen Signor Turchi?”

“I spoke to Signor Turchi about an hour before ’Change,” said the old gentleman, more calmly.  “The good Turchi! he seemed even more dejected than we.  Within the last five days, he has lost so much flesh that one would scarcely recognize him.  He does not give himself a moment’s repose.  From morning until night he is running about from place to place, seeking Geronimo as though he were a beloved brother.”

“Truly,” said Mary, “his is a generous heart.  Poor Simon!  I have sometimes been unjust to him; but it is in affliction that we learn who are our true friends.  For the rest of my life I will respect and esteem him.”

“He will meet me here, presently,” replied Deodati.  “He may have some particular communication to make to me, for he seemed to desire a private conversation.  The arrival of some merchants of his acquaintance prevented him from speaking to me.  I almost quarrelled with Signor Turchi.”

“Quarrelled!” said Mr. Van de Werve, in astonishment.

“Yes; but it was to his praise, at least.  He told me that it was his intention to offer a large reward to the first person who would bring certain tidings of Geronimo.”

“How grateful I am for his generous friendship!” said Mary.

“Of course,” continued the old man, “I would not permit it.  Whilst thanking him for his kindness, I told him that I would offer the reward myself.  I left Signor Turchi in company with the merchants, and went to the town-hall for the purpose; but when I arrived there, I found a decree of the burgomaster already issued, promising three hundred florins for any information of Geronimo. I spoke with the bailiff at noon.  He told me that, notwithstanding the most active search, no trace had yet been discovered of Bufferio’s wife, nor of his companions.  All of them must have left the country immediately after the ruffian’s death.  But this afternoon the bailiff expects to hear the result of several important researches ordered by him this morning.  If he receives any communication of consequence he will come himself to impart it to us.  I hear the clock strike five.  Signor Turchi will soon be here.”

During this explanation Mary remained immovable-her eyes cast down.  She had probably heard only confusedly what had just been said, for her thoughts were evidently far away.

It was only when the servant threw open the door and announced Signor Turchi that the young girl, aroused from her reverie, rose hastily and went eagerly to meet him, as though she expected him to be the bearer of important news.

Mr. Van de Werve and Deodati also met him at the door; Mary involuntarily took both his hands in hers, and all three regarded him inquiringly.

“Alas! my friends, I know nothing,” said Turchi, in a voice which seemed but the echo of a bruised and broken heart.  “All my efforts have proved unsuccessful.  I have vowed before God to spare no expense or trouble in order to discover what has become of my unfortunate friend; but so far impenetrable darkness covers the terrible secret.  What shall we do?  Let us hope that the bailiff and his officers may be more fortunate than myself, who have only my anxiety and affection to guide me.”

The words of Simon Turchi effaced the last lingering hope from Mary’s heart, and she seated herself, exhausted from previous emotion.

Turchi drew a chair beside her, regarded her with an expression of profound compassion, and said: 

“My poor Mary, your affliction is intense!  I know by my own sorrow how your loving heart is suffering from this terrible suspense!”

The young girl lifted her eyes to his face, and she saw the tears running down his cheeks.  Then she began to weep bitterly, and sobbing, she said: 

“Thanks, thanks, Simon!  I will beg Almighty God to recompense your affection and generosity.”

Simon’s countenance at this moment presented a singular appearance, from the remarkable contrast between the pallor of his cheeks and the deep scarlet which marked the margin of the scar on his face.  The hypocrite could shed tears at pleasure and assume an expression of extreme sorrow, but the scar was not submissive to his will, and in spite of him its deepening red betrayed the wicked joy of his heart at the gentle and affectionate words of the young girl.

These words encouraged him to hope that he might fully attain the prize for which he strove.  He had, it is true, taken from his murdered friend the proof of the debt of ten thousand crowns; true he had, as he supposed, buried all evidence of his crime in the subterranean vault; but this did not satisfy him.  In order to feel that he had received the price of the frightful assassination, in order to remain rich, powerful, and honored, he required the hand of the beautiful Mary Van de Werve.  He well knew that a long time must elapse before the consummation of his hopes; still, from the very day that he had committed the murder, he commenced to lay his schemes, weigh his words, and so direct his plans that sooner or later he would certainly take Geronimo’s place in Mary’s heart.  He felt secure of the consent of the young girl’s father.  It was on this account that he feigned excessive sorrow, and gazed upon Mary with tearful eyes, as though the sight of her grief pierced him to the heart.

He took Mary’s hands in his, and said: 

“Do not yield, to despair, Mary; all hope is not lost.  Last night a thought-a strange thought-occurred to my mind.  And if I be correct, there are still well-founded reasons for expecting Geronimo’s return.”

“Speak, Simon,” said Mary, anxiously.  “Tell us this thought.”

Signor Turchi cast down his eyes in feigned embarrassment.

“Impossible, Mary; it is a secret which I have no right to divulge.”

“Alas! is even this consolation refused me?” she exclaimed, despairingly.

“This is unkind, Simon,” said Mr. Van de Werve.  “Why do you cheer us up and awaken our curiosity only to cast us down by your silence?  Give no names; but at least give us some idea of the reasons we have for hope.”

Simon Turchi shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, signor,” said Deodati, reproachfully, “you are ungenerous.  This morning before ’Change you were about to confide the secret to me, when you were interrupted by the approach of friends.  Tell it to me now.”

Simon glanced expressively at Mary, as if to convey the idea that her presence prevented him from complying with the old man’s request.

“Mary,” said Mr. Van de Werve, “I beg you to go to your room.  These varying emotions are more than you can bear; if I learn anything of interest, I will, my child, communicate it to you at once.”

The young girl rose without reply, but she glanced reproachfully at Simon Turchi.

“Do not blame me, Mary,” he said; “I am deeply grieved to cause you pain; only rest assured that what I do is caused by affection for Geronimo and yourself.”

Without noticing this excuse the young girl obeyed her father, and slowly left the room.

“Now,” said Mr. Van de Werve, “what is the secret you wish to impart to us?”

“I am greatly embarrassed,” replied Simon Turchi, shaking his head doubtfully; “my intention was to speak only to Signor Deodati of the affair; perhaps it would be indiscreet in me to reveal to you also, Mr. Van de Werve, a secret which, under different circumstances-”

“For the love of God, abandon these useless evasions!” said Signor Deodati, roused to a high pitch of excitement by his impatience.  “Why should not Mr. Van de Werve know that which, in your opinion, would give us a clue to my nephew?”

“Since I am forced to speak,” said Turchi, with a sigh, “approach and listen.”

As soon as Deodati and Mr. Van de Werve had drawn their chairs nearer to him, Simon said in an undertone, as if he feared his words might be overheard: 

“Have you not remarked, Mr. Van de Werve, that for some time past Geronimo has been disturbed and anxious; that even in the midst of cheerful conversation he appeared absent-minded; in a word, that some great trouble seemed weighing upon him?”

“I have noticed it,” said Mr. Van de Werve.

“And you, Signor Deodati?”

“I have also remarked it.  But what do you infer from this?”

“About a month ago I interrogated Geronimo as to the cause of his melancholy, and he informed me in confused, vague terms, that he had lost a considerable sum at play_.”

“At play!” exclaimed Mr. Van de Werve, overpowered by astonishment.

“Was Geronimo a gambler?” exclaimed Deodati, with ill-suppressed indignation.

“It is the custom at Antwerp to play for money, and often for considerable sums of money,” continued Simon Turchi.  “I never remarked that my friend Geronimo had a passion for play.  However that may be, I could never discover to whom he had lost the amount, nor would he tell me how much it was.  His melancholy and agitation were caused by the circumstance I have just mentioned.  He was tortured by the certainty that his uncle would discover, upon examination, the loss of a large amount, which was not accounted for on the books.  I proposed to advance him the deficit, but he absolutely refused, because he preferred to meet his uncle’s just anger rather than deceive him.”

This revelation was stunning to the old Deodati.  Nothing could have more keenly wounded the honorable, high-toned nobleman than the thought that Geronimo had been so dishonest and ungrateful as to use the funds of the establishment in gambling.

Trembling with emotion, he asked: 

“You say the sum is considerable.  What is the amount?”

“I have no idea, signor.  Perhaps you might discover it by an examination of the books.”

There was a short silence.  Mr. Van de Werve’s eyes were fixed upon the ground.  Signor Deodati passed his hand across his brow, and was absorbed in painful thoughts.

Simon watched for a few moments, with an inquisitive eye, the effect of this revelation upon his two companions, trying to penetrate their very souls.  Then he said to Deodati: 

“You look on the bad side of the affair, signor.  If there were not a brighter, reverse side, I would have considered the confidence of my friend sacred, and guarded his secret until death.  Up to this time we all feared, nay, considered it certain, that Geronimo had fallen under the assassin’s steel.  Now I begin to think that, in order to escape his uncle’s anger, he has left the city and country.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Mr. Van de Werve.

“Impossible?” repeated Turchi, “he would have gone ere this, had I not persuaded him that he would obtain his uncle’s pardon.  Even on the day of your arrival, Signor Deodati, when Geronimo met me in the dock-yard on the bank of the Scheldt, he begged me to inquire for an English vessel which would leave on that or the next day, and secretly to engage his passage on board.  You may well know that I combated this foolish project, and I left him only when he promised me to abandon the idea.”

“Could he so lightly sacrifice my daughter’s love?” said Mr. Van de Werve.  “Were his expressions of affection for her only hypocrisy?  No, no; nothing can induce me to believe that.”

“His love was real,” replied Turchi, “and its very depth, perhaps, blinded his judgment.  He thought that the discovery of his losses at the gaming-table would inevitably deprive him of all hope of Mary’s hand.  My poor friend! he wished to fly from the fate which threatened him, that he might not witness the affliction of his beloved uncle.”

No one replied to Simon’s remarks, and he said, with hypocritical surprise: 

“How sad you both are!  You should rather rejoice at my revelation.  Is it not a happiness to think that Geronimo, although guilty of a fault, is still alive, and not to be forced to believe that he is forever lost to our affection by a frightful death?”

Old Deodati arose and said: 

“My friends, I must leave you; my mind is troubled; I am ill.  Besides, I wish to discover by the books the truth or falsity of Signor Turchi’s statement.  Do not attempt to detain me, I beg you.  Adieu!  May God guard you!”

Simon Turchi prepared to accompany the old man; but whilst they were speaking together the bailiff, Messire John Van Schoonhoven, suddenly entered, and without the formality of a salutation, he exclaimed: 

“Gentlemen, I have news!”

Turchi trembled and turned pale; but as the unexpected announcement of the bailiff had startled the others, his emotion was not attributed to terror.

“For the love of God be calm, gentlemen, and do not anticipate too much.  I do not know what has become of the unfortunate Geronimo, but I have just cause to hope that we will soon find him-at least we have a clue.’  I have learned, beyond doubt, that on the day of his disappearance, about five o’clock in the evening, he was seen beyond the Square of Meir.  A monk from the Dominican Convent, who knows him well, saluted him and noticed the direction he went.  Acting upon this information, one of my most intelligent subordinates has been tracing him.  A banker saw him pass through the quarter of the Jews.  This is all I know at present, but these facts are sufficient to determine the direction of our researches, and may perhaps lead to a fortunate issue.  By early dawn to-morrow I will collect all the agents at my disposal; I will divide them into small bands, and I will order them to search every house, cellar, and garden in a certain part of the city, and that in the most thorough manner, without leaving a spot unexamined. I myself will superintend the work, and will visit in person each hand of workmen to see that my commands are properly executed.”

Simon Turchi had covered his face with his hands, in order to conceal his terror.

Surprised by his emotion, the bailiff said: 

“What have I said, Signor Turchi, to excite so much feeling?”

“Ah, you know not how much suffering you cause me,” replied Simon.  “I thought I was about to learn from your lips that my friend was safe, and what do you promise me if your search proves successful?  Only his dead body!”

“It is true,” said the bailiff.  “It is no use to deceive you.  My opinion is that he has been assassinated in some by-street near the hospital grounds, or in one of the dark alleys between the parishes of Saint George and Saint Andrew.  But I am determined to discover the truth.  Dead or alive, I will find him, even if it be necessary to tear up the pavements of all the cellars, and dig up all the gardens to the depth of ten feet.  The whole city is in a state of excitement; the people complain of the authorities of Antwerp as though we were accomplices in the crime.  This affair shall be brought to light, I pledge my honor and my name.”

“I thank you for your zeal and solicitude,” stammered Turchi.  “May God direct your steps!  How we will all bless you, if you restore Geronimo alive to us."

“I have little hope, little hope, signor; but all things are possible,” said the bailiff, shaking his head.

Deodati took his hand, and said: 

“Messire Van Schoonhoven, I am most grateful to you.  Excuse me for the remaining longer in your honorable company; but I am indisposed, and I must return home.  May God protect you, signor.”

“And are you going also, Signor Turchi?” asked the bailiff.

When Simon gave him to understand, by a glance of the eye, that he could not let the old man go alone, he took his hand affectionately, and said: 

“I understand, signor; you are right.  Adieu, until to-morrow.”

Turchi offered his arm to Deodati, and supported his tottering steps.  They took leave of Mr. Van de Werve, who accompanied them to the door, and admiring Simon Turchi’s kindness, he followed them with his eyes as long as they were in sight.