Lord Hawbury had come to Rome for
the sole purpose of watching over his friend Scone
Dacres. But he had not found it so easy to do
so. His friend kept by himself more than he used
to, and for several days Hawbury had seen nothing
of him. Once while with the ladies he had met
him, and noticed the sadness and the gloom of his brow.
He saw by this that he was still a prey to those feelings
the exhibition of which had alarmed him at Naples,
and made him resolve to accompany him here.
A few days afterward, while Hawbury
was in his room, his friend entered. Hawbury
arose and greeted him with unfeigned joy.
“Well, old man,” he said,
“you’ve kept yourself close, too.
What have you been doing with yourself? I’ve
only had one glimpse of you for an age. Doing
Rome, hey? Antiquities, arts, churches, palaces,
and all that sort of thing, I suppose. Come now,
old boy, sit down and give an account of yourself.
Have a weed? Here’s Bass in prime order.
Light up, my dear fellow, and let me look at you as
you compose your manly form for a friendly smoke.
And don’t speak till you feel inclined.”
Dacres took his seat with a melancholy
smile, and selecting a cigar, lighted it, and smoked
in silence for some time.
“Who was that Zouave fellow?”
he asked at length: “the fellow that I
saw riding by the carriage the other day?”
“That oh, an old
friend of mine. He’s an American named Gunn.
He’s joined the Papal Zouaves from some
whim, and a deuced good thing it is for them to get
hold of such a man. I happened to call one day,
and found him with the ladies.”
“The ladies ah!”
and Dacres’s eyes lighted up with a bad, hard
light. “I suppose he’s another of
those precious cavaliers the scum of all
lands that dance attendance on my charming
wife.”
“Oh, see here now, my dear fellow,
really now,” said Hawbury, “none of that,
you know. This fellow is a friend of mine,
and one of the best fellows I ever saw. You’d
like him, old chap. He’d suit you.”
“Yes, and suit my wife better,” said Dacres,
bitterly.
“Oh, come now, really, my dear
boy, you’re completely out. He don’t
know your wife at all. It’s the other one,
you know. Don’t be jealous, now, if I tell
you.”
“Jealous!”
“Yes. I know your weakness,
you know; but this is an old affair. I don’t
want to violate confidence, but ”
Dacres looked hard at his friend and
breathed heavily. He was evidently much excited.
“But what?” he said, hoarsely.
“Well, you know, it’s
an old affair. It’s the young one, you
know Miss Fay. He rather affects her,
you know. That’s about it.”
“Miss Fay?”
“Yes; your child-angel, you
know. But it’s an older affair than yours;
it is, really; so don’t be giving way, man.
Besides, his claims on her are as great as yours;
yes, greater too. By Jove!”
“Miss Fay! Oh, is that
all?” said Dacres, who, with a sigh of infinite
relief, shook off all his late excitement, and became
cool once more.
Hawbury noted this very thoughtfully.
“You see,” said Dacres,
“that terrible wife of mine is so cursedly beautiful
and fascinating, and so infernally fond of admiration,
that she keeps no end of fellows tagging at her heels.
And so I didn’t know but that this was some
new admirer. Oh, she’s a deep one!
Her new style, which she has been cultivating for
ten years, has made her look like an angel of light.
Why, there’s the very light of heaven in her
eyes, and in her face there is nothing, I swear, but
gentleness and purity and peace. Oh, had she
but been what she now seems! Oh, if even now
I could but believe this, I would even now fling my
memories to the winds, and I’d lie down in the
dust and let her trample on me, if she would only
give me that tender and gentle love that now lurks
in her face. Good Heavens! can such a change
be possible? No; it’s impossible!
It can’t be! Don’t I know her?
Can’t I remember her? Is my memory all
a dream? No, it’s real; and it’s marked
deep by this scar that I wear. Never till that
scar is obliterated can that woman change.”
Dacres had been speaking, as he often
did now, half to himself; and as he ended he rubbed
his hand over the place where the scar lay, as though
to soothe the inflammation that arose from the rush
of angry blood to his head.
“Well, dear boy, I can only
say I wish from my heart that her nature was like
her face. She’s no favorite of mine, for
your story has made me look on her with your eyes,
and I never have spoken to her except in the most
distant way; but I must say I think her face has in
it a good deal of that gentleness which you mention.
Miss Fay treats her quite like an elder sister, and
is deuced fond of her, too. I can see that.
So she can’t be very fiendish to her. Like
loves like, you know, and the one that the child-angel
loves ought to be a little of an angel herself, oughtn’t
she?”
Dacres was silent for a long time.
“There’s that confounded
Italian,” said he, “dangling forever at
her heels the devil that saved her life.
He must be her accepted lover, you know. He goes
out riding beside the carriage.”
“Well, really, my dear fellow,
she doesn’t seem overjoyed by his attentions.”
“Oh, that’s her art.
She’s so infernally deep. Do you think she’d
let the world see her feelings? Never. Slimy,
Sir, and cold and subtle and venomous and treacherous a
beautiful serpent. Aha! isn’t that the way
to hit her off? Yes, a beautiful, malignant, venomous
serpent, with fascination in her eyes, and death and
anguish in her bite. But she shall find out yet
that others are not without power. Confound her!”
“Well, now, by Jove! old boy,
I think the very best thing you can do is to go away
somewhere, and get rid of these troubles.”
“Go away! Can I go away
from my own thoughts? Hawbury, the trouble is
in my own heart. I must keep near her. There’s
that Italian devil. He shall not have her.
I’ll watch them, as I have watched them, till
I find a chance for revenge.”
“You have watched them, then?”
asked Hawbury, in great surprise.
“Yes, both of them. I’ve
seen the Italian prowling about where she lives.
I’ve seen her on her balcony, evidently watching
for him.”
“But have you seen any thing
more? This is only your fancy.”
“Fancy! Didn’t I
see her herself standing on the balcony looking down.
I was concealed by the shadow of a fountain, and she
couldn’t see me. She turned her face, and
I saw it in that soft, sweet, gentle beauty which
she has cultivated so wonderfully. I swear it
seemed like the face of an angel, and I could have
worshiped it. If she could have seen my face
in that thick shadow she would have thought I was an
adorer of hers, like the Italian ha, ha! instead
of a pursuer, and an enemy.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged
if I can tell myself which you are, old boy; but,
at any rate, I’m glad to be able to state that
your trouble will soon be over.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s going away.”
“Going away!”
“Yes.”
“She! going away! where?”
“Back to England.”
“Back to England! why, she’s just come
here. What’s that for?”
“I don’t know. I
only know they’re all going home. Well,
you know, holy week’s over, and there is no
object for them to stay longer.”
“Going away! going away!” replied Dacres,
slowly. “Who told you?”
“Miss Fay.”
“Oh, I don’t believe it.”
“There’s no doubt about it, my dear boy.
Miss Fay told me explicitly.
She said they were going in a carriage by the way
of Civita
Castellana.”
“What are they going that way for? What
nonsense! I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, it’s a fact. Besides, they evidently
don’t want it to be known.”
“What’s that?” asked Dacres, eagerly.
“I say they don’t seem
to want it to be known. Miss Fay told me in her
childish way, and I saw that Mrs. Willoughby looked
vexed, and tried to stop her.”
“Tried to stop her! Ah! Who were there?
Were you calling?”
“Oh no it was yesterday
morning. I was riding, and, to my surprise, met
them. They were driving Mrs. Willoughby
and Miss Fay, you know so I chatted with
them a few moments, or rather with Miss Fay, and hoped
I would see them again soon, at some fête or
other, when she told me this.”
“And my wife tried to stop her?”
“Yes.”
“And looked vexed?”
“Yes.”
“Then it was some secret of
hers. She has some reason for keeping
dark. The other has none. Aha! don’t
I understand her? She wants to keep it from me.
She knows you’re my friend, and was vexed that
you should know. Aha! she dreads my presence.
She knows I’m on her track. She wants to
get away with her Italian away from my sight.
Aha! the tables are turned at last. Aha! my lady.
Now we’ll see. Now take your Italian and
fly, and see how far you can get away from me.
Take him, and see if you can hold him. Aha! my
angel face, my mild, soft eyes of love, but devil’s
heart can not I understand it all?
I see through it. I’ve watched, you.
Wait till you see Scone Dacres on your track!”
“What’s that? You don’t really
mean it?” cried Hawbury.
“Yes, I do.”
“Will you follow her?”
“Yes, I will.”
“What for? For a vague fancy of your jealous
mind?”
“It isn’t a fancy; it’s
a certainty. I’ve seen the Italian dogging
her, dodging about her house, and riding with her.
I’ve seen her looking very much as if she were
expecting him at her balcony. Is all that nothing?
She’s seen me, and feels conscience-stricken,
and longs to get away where she may be free from the
terror of my presence. But I’ll track her.
I’ll strike at her at her heart, too;
for I will strike through the Italian.”
“By Jove!”
“I will, I swear!” cried Dacres, gloomily.
“You’re mad, Dacres.
You imagine all this. You’re like a madman
in a dream.”
“It’s no dream. I’ll follow
her. I’ll track her.”
“Then, by Jove, you’ll
have to take me with you, old boy! I see you’re
not fit to take care of yourself. I’ll have
to go and keep you from harm.”
“You won’t keep me from
harm, old chap,” said Dacres, more gently; “but
I’d be glad if you would go. So come along.”
“I will, by Jove!”