She gave him her white-gloved hand, half hidden by the lace and sable trimmings of the dress, with a firm, trustful confidence, to which her eyes, her face, and every curve of her fine figure seemed, as it were, to bear approving testimony. "It was to be!" At any rate, it seemed to him that she was anxious to show a greater confidence than she actually felt, and this impression was confirmed when, immediately afterwards, she suggested gently that, perhaps, after all, the drive had better be postponed; the horses might still be nervous and fidgety from their railway journey.

Mansana, however, calmly put aside her fears with a frigid pleasantry. She scrutinised his face, always singularly hard to read, but beyond the expression of strained suffering which it bore, it revealed nothing; his manner was respectful, but more peremptory than it had been of late. The companion made her appearance just at the moment that the carriage and horses were announced. He offered the princess his arm; she accepted it, and as they went down the stairs, looked up in his face again, and fancied that she saw a gleam of triumph in his eyes. A little nervously she seized a moment when the restive horses were being quieted, before they stepped into the carriage, and said again:

"It is certainly too soon after their journey to be driving them. Would it not be better to postpone the expedition?"

Her voice implored him, and, with her hand laid beseechingly on his arm, she looked trustfully into his eyes. Under her glance his face changed ominously, and a dark look came into his eyes.

"I might have expected that you would be afraid to drive with me a second time!"

She felt the taunt. With cheeks burning crimson, she sprang into the carriage; the companion followed her, pale as death, but stiff and unbending as a bar of iron, whilst Mansana, with one bound, leapt to the box-seat. There was no place for a groom, the carriage being only a light curricle.

From the moment the horses received the signal to start, the danger of the enterprise was apparent. Both animals immediately reared, straining in opposite directions at the reins, and it was certainly more than a minute before Mansana could steer them through the gateway.

"God's will be done!" muttered the companion, in deadly fear, her eyes fixed on the two horses, as they reared, backed, reared again, then, receiving a cut from the whip, kicked out, swerved violently from one side to the other, received another cut from Mansana, jibbed, and then finally, after one more sharp sting from the lash, started forward. The rough handling of the whip certainly did not seem to answer in this case.

As they emerged into the public street, the horses, to whom everything about them had a strange and foreign look, trembled and stamped uneasily; the novelty of their surroundings, the many and various sounds, all new to them; the different colourings of costumes, and, above all, the strong southern light, which gave to everything an unaccustomed glare—all these combined to terrify the poor animals. Mansana's skill and strength, however, kept them well in hand up to the time when they passed the Cavour monument; but from that moment, little by little his hold on them relaxed.

He turned round to see the expression on the princess' face. Now it was his turn to rejoice, and hers to suffer.

What could have inspired her with the unlucky idea of arranging this drive? She had regretted it almost as soon as she had proposed it, and ever since that moment, the day before, when she had caught the flash of triumph in his eyes, she had felt certain that he meant to use the expedition as an opportunity for punishing her; and she felt, too, that he was not likely to deal more mercifully with her than he had done before. Why, then, was she sitting there at all? As she watched his every movement and each action of the horses, she asked herself this question over and over again; not that she expected to find an answer, but because her thoughts insisted on revolving mechanically round this idea.

Still at a sort of springing trot—the most rapid trot possible—on they went; the pace was not permitted to slacken. Presently Mansana looked round again. His eyes gleamed with exultation. It was a mere preliminary to what was now to follow. Swinging the whip high above his head, with deliberate and well-judged aim, he suddenly brought it, whizzing down upon the backs of the two horses, who no sooner heard the whistling in the air above them, than instinctively they gave a great plunge forward, and broke into a gallop. Not a sound was heard from the two who sat behind. Mansana repeated the performance, and this time with maddening effect upon the horses. The road at this point began to slope down towards a stiff, steep hill; and precisely at this very point, Mansana, for the third time, raised the whip, swung it in lasso fashion round his head, and brought it down upon the backs of the animals. Such an act, at such a moment, showed Theresa, as by a flash of instinct, that Mansana's object was—not punishment of her, but death with her!

If there is a faculty within us capable of bearing witness to the divine origin of our souls, it is the power our minds possess of embracing, in the fraction of a second, great spaces of time and series of events. In the short interval between the bending of the whip above her and its descent upon the horses' backs, she had not only made her great discovery, but by the strange new light this shed on past events, had lived over again the whole course of their acquaintanceship. In the revelation of the moment she understood the nature of this man's proud and reticent love—a love which could welcome death with joy, provided it was shared with the woman he adored! She had, moreover, within this same brief second of time, framed a resolution and also put it into immediate action, for, as Mansana's whip descended, a voice behind him called, "Mansana!" Not in a tone of fear or anger, but, as it were, with a wild cry of joy. He looked back. She was standing up, heedless of the hurricane pace at which they sped, with beaming face and outstretched arms. Quicker than words can tell, he once more faced the horses, flung away the whip, and wound the reins thrice about his arms, and, making full use of all his strength, pressed his feet firmly against the footboard. He wished now to live—not die—with her!

Then came a tug of war, for Mansana had determined that this bridal march of Death should be transformed to one of joyous Life.

On they rushed, through blinding clouds of dust—on—towards the brow of the steep hill. Mansana could just manage to hold up the foaming horses' heads, so that their long manes fluttered like black wings behind them, but that was all. He clutched the right rein fiercely with both hands, in an effort to direct their headlong course towards the middle of the road, preferring to take this course even at the risk of a collision; which, however, would inevitably have given a dramatic termination to the lives of the whole party. In this effort he was successful, but still he could do nothing to check the furious pace. He looked up, and in the far distance fancied that he saw moving objects—more and still more—drawing nearer and still nearer towards them. On they came—the whole road seemed blocked with them. The distance between them lessened rapidly, and Mansana realised that what they were approaching was one of those interminable droves of cattle, making their way, as usual in the autumn, towards the sea. He jumped up from his seat and threw the reins in front of him. A sharp cry from behind rang through the air, followed by a still more piercing shriek as Mansana took a mighty leap, alighting on the back of the off horse, while he firmly grasped the bridle of the other. The horse he rode gave a wild leap into the air, and the other, thus violently thrown off his balance fell, was then dragged along for a space upon the outer shaft, till this snapped under the heavy strain, when finally the yoke strap which joined the two together also broke. Mansana's grasp of the bridle of the other horse helped him to save himself, and helped also, together with the dead weight of the fallen animal, to bring the whole cortege to a standstill. But the prostrate brute, feeling the carriage close upon him, struggled to free himself; his companion reared, the near shaft broke, a splinter pierced Mansana in the side; but thrusting himself in front of, or rather underneath the rearing animal, Mansana gripped him fiercely by the quivering nostrils, and in a moment reduced him to a state of lamblike and trembling submission. The struggle was over, and he was now able to go to the assistance of the other helpless creature, which had meanwhile been making frantic and dangerous efforts to get free.

And now—smothered with dust, bleeding from his wound, his clothes all torn, his head uncovered—Mansana at last could venture to look round. He saw Theresa standing in the carriage, beside the open door. Possibly she may have intended to throw herself out, and have fallen backwards in the violent jolting of the carriage, and then subsequently have recovered her balance; something of the sort may have happened to her, she herself knew not what. But one thing she did quickly realise; she saw that he was standing near her safe and sound, with both trembling horses meekly submitting to his firm hold. She sprang from the carriage towards him; he opened his arms and folded her to his breast. Locked close together, in one long embrace, were the two tall figures of the lovers—heart to heart, lip upon lip. As he clasped her to him, their very eyes and lips, as well as their arms, seemed riveted. Her eyes drooped at last beneath his gaze. A whispered "Theresa" was the first spoken word to part their lips for a moment.

Never did woman with greater joy accept the position of a worshipped sovereign than did Theresa that of adoring subject, when Mansana at last released her; never did fugitive seek pardon for having struggled for freedom with eyes so radiant with happiness. And surely never before did princess set herself with such eager, tender zeal to the office of handmaiden, as did Theresa when she discovered Mansana's wound, and perceived his dust-covered and lacerated condition. With her own delicate white hands, and her fine lace handkerchief, and the pins she wore, she set to work to mend and dress and bandage, and with her eyes she healed and cured the wounds of which her presence rendered him unconscious. The intervals between her little services were filled as lovers well know how, and with a joy alternately silent and voluble. In the end they so entirely forgot the existence of carriage, horses, and companion, that they set off walking as though there were nothing left in the world but that they should forthwith disappear together in glad possession of their new-found happiness. From this dream they were awakened by a cry of alarm from the companion, and by the near approach of the slow-moving herds of cattle.



CHAPTER IX

All that day, and for days to come, the lovers lived under the glamour of their intoxicating dream of joy. It swept the fashionable world of Ancona into its current; for the engagement had to be celebrated by a series of entertainments and country excursions. There was a fascinating element of strangeness and romance in the whole episode. On the one side there was Mansana's reputation, on the other, Theresa's wealth, rank, and personal attractions. That this invincible beauty should be plighted to the victorious young soldier, and that under circumstances which popular rumour exaggerated to an incredible extent, seemed to add a fresh interest to the princess in her newborn happiness, and to cast round her a magical charm.

Seen together, the lovers offered a piquant contrast. Both were tall, both walked well, and carried themselves with ease and dignity; but her face was a long oval, his short; her eyes were large and lustrous, his small and deep-set. In Theresa's face, the fine, straight nose, the voluptuous mouth, the nobly modelled chin, the cheeks that curved so exquisitely, framed in their border of night-black hair, compelled universal admiration; but Mansana, with his low brows, his thin, tight-locked lips, obstinate square jaw, and close-cropped wiry hair, was hardly accepted as a handsome man. Striking, too, was the contrast between her undisguised happiness and brilliant gaiety, and his laconic reserve. Yet neither she nor his friends would have wished him different, even in those days; for this reserve was characteristic of him. Matters on which he would have staked his life were turned by him into mere every-day commonplaces, when he permitted himself to talk of them.

But as a rule, he hardly talked at all; and so neither Theresa nor their fashionable acquaintances observed that at this time—in the very crisis of his happiness—a great change was coming over him.

There is a kind of boundless submission, a jealous desire to serve and minister to a lover, which may convert its object into a slave or a sort of powerless chattel, since it leaves him without a moment's freedom or a fragment of independence. He has but to express a casual wish, and instantly a dozen new plans are broached to secure what he is supposed to desire, and he is overwhelmed by a perfect storm of affectionate discussion. Then, too, there is that species of confidential intimacy, which works its way into the very guarded and secret chambers of the soul, which divines hidden motives and brings into the light the most cherished private thoughts; and this is apt to be embarrassing enough to a man accustomed to live his own life locked in his own ideas.

Such was now the case with Mansana. In the course of a few days he began to be affected by a sense of satiety; an intense exhaustion fell upon him, in the reaction from the alternate transports of despair and happiness through which he had lately passed, and added to his nervous irritability. There were moments when he shrank, not only from general society but from Theresa herself. He suffered the keenest self-reproach for what seemed to him black ingratitude, and with his customary frankness he finally confessed the whole truth to the princess. He gave her to understand what he had endured before their engagement, and how nearly he had succumbed to his mental anguish, and he pointed out that this surfeit of social gaiety and amusement was the exact opposite of that which he needed. His endurance was strained to its limits; he could bear no more.

Theresa was touched to the quick by his words. In a whirl of self-accusation she proposed the remedy: Rest for him, travel for herself. She would take a trip to Rome and to Hungary to make her arrangements for the wedding, whilst he might go to a small mountain fortress in the South, where he could exchange for a couple of months with an officer who would be glad of the chance of staying at Ancona. With her usual impetuous energy she managed to get all the preparations completed in hot haste, and in two days both of them had left the city. They parted with an emotion which on her side was affecting, and on his, too, was genuinely sincere, for her passionate devotion touched his feelings deeply.

And yet no sooner was he left to himself, first on the journey and then in his new garrison, than he relapsed into a state of apathy. Almost the sole impression of Theresa that remained on his brain was one of tumultuous agitation. He could not even muster courage to open the letters which came from her; the thought of their possible vehemence shook his nerves. Once a day she telegraphed or wrote to him, and the task of replying to all these missives weighed so heavily on his spirits that it drove him from his quarters, where so many unfulfilled obligations lay in wait for him. As soon as he was released from his military duties, he would hurry out into the woods and hills that overhung the little town, which was situated amidst scenery exceptionally wild and beautiful.

Pondering over his engagement in these country rambles, it began to look illusory and disappointing. True, his promised bride could call herself Princess, but in Italy that lofty title has not quite the charm that attaches to it in other countries. Princes and princesses are too common, and the position of a good many of them is a little doubtful. Nor was he greatly attracted by the wealth Theresa had inherited from her father, since her mother had gained her share in it by deserting the national cause during the period of Italy's abasement. No doubt there was Theresa's undoubted beauty; but that was evanescent, and the lady already showed signs of a too rapidly ripening maturity. Their romantic engagement could not blot out of his mind the memory of the long humiliation she had compelled him to endure, or the subsequent display of overstrained excitement in her which had provoked him to a revulsion of feeling. In calmer moments a pleasanter picture rose before his mind; but then again his pride would take alarm and whisper that in this unequal union he must always be the subordinate partner, or perhaps that he would again become the sport of her caprices, as he had been before.

After his long morning rambles among the hills he usually sat down to rest on a bench placed under an old olive-tree, a short distance above the town, and afterwards walked back to breakfast. One morning two persons—an elderly gentleman and a young lady—took their places on the bench as he rose to go. The same thing happened the next morning at the same time. On the following day he lingered, not unwillingly, a little longer—long enough to observe what the lady was like and to exchange a word or two with her companion. Italians glide easily into conversation and acquaintance, and Mansana ascertained without difficulty that the old gentleman was a pensioned official of the preceding regime, and that the young lady was his daughter—a girl of about fifteen, fresh from a convent school. She sat close by her father's side, and spoke scarcely more than a few words—just enough to reveal the exquisite sweetness of her voice.

Afterwards Mansana met the pair daily, and the meetings were no longer accidental; he waited on the hill-side till he saw them ascending from the town, and then made his way to the bench. He enjoyed the quiet friendliness of their manner. The old gentleman talked willingly enough, though with a certain caution, about politics. When Mansana had listened to his remarks, he would say a few words to the daughter. The girl's growing likeness to her father was easy to trace. There was a sort of wrinkled fulness in the old face, which showed that its owner had once been a man of the sleek, rotund type. The daughter's small, plump figure promised to develop in that direction; but at present it had only a soft and budding roundness of contour, that looked charming in the simple morning-dress, in which alone Mansana had seen her. The father's eyes had lost their colour and fire; the daughter's were half-hidden by down-drooping eyelids, and a slight bend of the head. The little maiden's face and her whole personality had a curious attraction for him in their tranquil meetings. Her hair was arranged with scrupulous exactitude each day, in the very latest fashionable style—a token of the convent-bred child's artless delight at being allowed to share in the vanities of this carnal world. The little dimpled hands, that sat so daintily on the trim wrists, were always busy with some fancy work, which the bent head and the downcast eyes followed intently. The eyes looked up when Mansana spoke to her, but usually with a sidelong glance that yet did not quite avoid meeting his; and through them peeped timidly the undeveloped childish soul, half shy, half glad, but wholly curious to look upon this strange new world and its strange creature, man. The more one tries to peer into such veiled, down-drooping eyes, the more do they fascinate, since they still withhold a part of their mystery. What her eyes held—and there was often a roguish gleam in the corners—and in particular what thoughts of himself they hid, Mansana would have given much to know. And it was with the express purpose of breaking through her reserve that he spoke of himself with more freedom than was at all customary with him. It delighted him to see her cheeks dimpling as he talked, and the pretty quiver, that never quite left the tiny mouth, red and sweet as an unplucked berry. It pleased him still more when she began to talk to him, in a voice whose fresh, unsullied ring stirred his senses like the trill of birds on a glowing summer morning. Then she took to questioning him, with bashful inquisitiveness, upon the details of his approaching marriage. Her thoughts about engagements and honeymooning, not openly expressed, but evident enough from the tenor of her eager inquiries, seemed to him so charming that the engagement began to regain its old attraction in his eyes. Thanks to her, some ten or twelve days after Mansana's departure, Theresa actually received a letter from him, which was followed by others. He was no master of the pen, and his letters were as laconic as his talk; but he wrote affectionately, and that again was due to his new friend. If he now sat down regularly after breakfast to write to Theresa it was because earlier in the morning he had enjoyed one of those frank conversations with the girl; and with the fresh grace of the young figure, the busy little hands intent on their work, and the sympathetic play of lips, eyes, and dimples, in his thoughts, and the tones of the exquisite voice still ringing in his ears, he began once more to taste the joy of life and to feel the old yearning stir in him again.

Striking indeed was the contrast between this little friend and his superb Theresa, with all her beauty and accomplishments, and he felt it when he sat down at his writing-table to converse with his fiancee. He could no longer smile at her impetuosity; and yet how generously she made excuses for his silence. "No, I have not taken it amiss," she wrote. "Naturally you found it hard to write. You wanted rest—rest even from me. You ought not to have been made to feel that my letters were a burden to you from their vehemence. Forgive me. In this alone you are to blame, as I alone am to blame for the sufferings you have endured. I shall never forgive myself, but strive, all my life, to make amends to you for them."

Not one woman in a thousand would have had such ideas, or have written so generously. He was forced to admit that; and yet there came upon him again that constant sense of overstrain. To bring back the impression of tranquillity and composure, he wrote to her of Amanda Brandini, as his new friend was named. He repeated some remarks the girl had made about betrothal and marriage. As he wrote them down he felt their charm, and felt too that he had transcribed them rather skilfully, so that he read over his letter to himself with a certain degree of satisfaction.

Those bright morning meetings, which lightened the whole day for Mansana, were never followed by an invitation to call upon his friends at their own house. He respected them for this dignified reserve; but the meetings themselves fanned the flame of his longing to see Theresa again, and so one day, to her intense astonishment, the princess received a telegram, announcing that he was growing weary of his exile from her presence, and that he would be with her in Ancona in three days' time.

On the day he sent this telegram he happened to be strolling through a small plaza, where there was a cafe. He entered and called for something to quench his thirst. The place was new to him; and as he sat waiting to be served, he let his eyes wander round the little square, till they lighted on the form of Amanda Brandini upon the verandah of a house immediately opposite. This, then, was where she lived.

But she was not alone. Leaning against the balustrade by her side, and so close to her that he could almost have touched her lips with his, stood a smart young lieutenant. Earlier in the day he had been presented to Mansana, who had been informed that he was quartered at a neighbouring garrison, and that he was generally known by the sobriquet of "Amorino." And now this young Amorin's eyes were fastened on hers; their smiling lips moved, but what they said could not be heard, and it seemed to Mansana as if they were whispering confidentially: a whispered talk that ran on unceasingly. Mansana felt the blood stand still at his heart as a sharp pang pricked through him. He rose and left the cafe and then returned, remembering that he had not paid for his untasted draught. When he looked up again to the balcony he was astonished to see that the pair there were engaged in a kind of struggle. The "Amorino" was evidently and rudely urging his advances upon the girl, and she kept him back, crimsoned with blushes. Her figure quivered with the agitation of the contest, her face glowed with excitement. The young officer's insolent advances were evidently provoking a tumult of resistance. Who had permitted this marauder to enter the fold? Where was Amanda's father?



CHAPTER X

The next morning Mansana took care to be earlier than usual at the trysting-place; but his two friends had also arrived before their accustomed time, as though they, as well as he, found pleasure in these meetings, and were anxious to make the most of them, especially now when only two more such opportunities were possible.

Mansana forced himself to go through the inevitable political preliminaries with the old man; then turning suddenly to Amanda, changed the conversation by asking brusquely, "With whom were you disputing on the balcony last evening?"

By way of answer her cheeks flushed with a bright, charming colour, as, in a manner peculiar to herself, she stole a sidelong glance into Mansana's face from underneath her lowered lids. Seeing her blushes, and little knowing how easily and quickly a young girl's colour comes and goes, Mansana's own cheeks grew pale. This frightened her; and as he saw this, he once again misinterpreted the meaning of her fear.

The girl's father, who had in the meanwhile been looking on in open-mouthed surprise, broke the silence by exclaiming, "Ah! of course! now I understand it! It was Luigi, my nephew, Luigi Borghi! He is staying in the town for a couple of days, in order to be present at the city festival. Ha, ha! he's a gay youth, is Luigi!"

Mansana waited with impatience till he was alone again, then started hurriedly in quest of Major Sardi, the friend for whose companionship he had specially selected this garrison. He would discover from him details of Luigi's past career. These were not favourable. Mansana thereupon, without hesitation, made straight for the hotel where the young man was lodging.

Luigi had just risen; he greeted Mansana with the deference due to a superior officer, and after both were seated, Mansana began abruptly: "I am leaving this town to-morrow to make ready for my marriage, which is shortly to take place. I mention this that you may not misunderstand my motive in speaking to you as I am about to do. I have, during my short sojourn in this town, conceived a strong friendship for a certain young and guileless girl, by name Amanda Brandini."

"Amanda! Yes!"

"Amanda is your cousin?"

"She is."

"I wish to know, is this the only relationship in which you stand to her? In other words, tell me plainly, is it your intention to marry her?"

"Well, no! but——"

"I ask you this question as one gentleman of another; you are at liberty to withhold your answer at your discretion."

"I perfectly understand; but I have no hesitation in repeating that it is not my intention to make Amanda my wife. She—well—she is not rich enough for me."

"Very good! Why then, may I ask, do you visit so frequently at her house? And why do you deliberately deceive her as to your intentions and fill her mind with ideas and sentiments which are meaningless, to say the least of it, to you?"

"Am I to understand your last remark as a deliberate accusation?"

"Undoubtedly; it is a matter of public knowledge that you are a reckless libertine!"

"Signor!" exclaimed Luigi, as he rose indignantly.

The tall captain also rose to his feet.

"It is I," said the latter calmly, "I, Giuseppe Mansana, who make this assertion. I am at your service."

But the youthful Luigi Borghi was at an age when the love of life is strong, and he had no fancy for being run through the body by one of the most formidable duellists in the army; so he kept his eyes fixed upon the ground in silence.

"Either you must pledge me your word never to enter her house again, nor make any attempt to see her, or you must take the consequences. I intend that this matter shall be settled before I leave. Why do you hesitate?"

"Because, as an officer, I object to being compelled to——"

"To make a virtuous resolution? You may think yourself fortunate that I make this possible for you." Mansana paused, then added: "But perhaps I have been hasty. I ought first to have given you the chance of complying with my request, and have assured you that in that case you might henceforth regard me as a true and loyal friend."

"I deem it an honour to count such a distinguished officer among my friends, and shall in future reckon with pride on the comradeship of Captain Mansana."

"Very good! you pledge me your word?"

"Yes, I promise this."

"I am grateful; your hand upon it."

"With all my heart."

"Farewell!"

"Farewell!"

Two hours later Mansana was making his way down to the boulevard of the little town. Standing outside one of the shop windows, engaged in what Mansana judged, from the laughter which he could hear, to be a highly amusing conversation, were Luigi and Amanda. The father was inside the shop, evidently settling the account. Neither of them noticed Mansana till he was close upon them, when the sudden sight of his white, livid face so scared Amanda that she instantly sought refuge with her father. The lieutenant, however, more horrified than she was at the unexpected apparition, stood, as it were, for an instant paralysed, then, moving involuntarily a step beyond Mansana's reach, found courage to stammer out: "Signor, I assure you I spoke to her at her own invitation only, and we—indeed, it was not at you we were laughing!"

The sound of a sharp scream followed at that moment as Amanda, from her position of safety, suddenly saw Mansana, without a sound or even a warning movement, make a sort of spring towards the slight figure of her cousin.

It seemed to her like the leap of a leopard on its prey. Another instant and Luigi might be a dead man.

But the attention of the passers-by and of those within the shop had been arrested by Amanda's cry, and was now riveted upon herself, as she stood holding tightly by her father's arm. They gazed from her to her companions in the vain hope of discovering the cause of her alarm, but beyond the fact that two officers were standing quietly talking together outside, nothing remarkable was to be seen.

What was the excitement about? Curiosity soon collected a little crowd of idlers, who came clustering round Amanda, plying her with questions as to the meaning of it all.

Never in her life before had she been the object of so many inquisitive looks and eager questionings, and she was thoroughly frightened, whilst her father, himself speechless from bewilderment, was powerless to answer for her. At that moment Mansana came up, and making his way through the bystanders, with an air of quiet authority, offered her his arm. Thankfully she allowed him to lead her away from the gaping crowd, and her father gladly followed them. Mansana waited till they were out of earshot, then, turning to his companions, remarked: "I feel it my duty to inform you that your kinsman, Lieutenant Borghi, is a profligate, and I intend to see that he receives the chastisement he merits."

It was startling to Amanda to be told not only that Luigi was a profligate—though her notions as to the meaning of the term were somewhat vague—but also that he was to receive castigation for some offence of which she was ignorant.

For once she allowed her eyes to open to their full extent, as, with a vain hope of gathering information, she kept them firmly fixed upon Mansana's.

Her lips were parted as in surprise; an uncontrollable curiosity had broken through her fears. He saw this clearly, and, angry as he had lately been, he could not resist a smile at her simple innocence and at the curious charm and beauty of her expression. And so, restored suddenly to good humour, Mansana gave way to a feeling of amusement at the old man, who stood looking for all the world like a half-frightened schoolboy listening to ghost stories in the dusk.

Anxious to show that he was thoroughly alive to the realities of the situation, he expressed a gratitude which culminated in an invitation to Mansana to accompany them home; and this Mansana accepted. Amanda—still half afraid lest something dreadful was about to happen—tried to disarm him by the smiling confidence with which she clung to him.

He began to have a suspicion of her motive, and was amused, but this feeling wore away as he listened to the rippling melody of her laughing voice, as he looked at the sweet, rosy, dimpled mouth, and the clear, mystic, playful eyes peeping from their half-closed lids. He gave himself up to the charm of her whole personality, and to the joy of feeling that this innocent, fresh creature was living, breathing close to him, and in that one moment he felt as though she were dedicated to him as his own.

Their last meeting was to take place on the following morning, but as he was not leaving till the evening of that day he suggested that very probably he might contrive to meet her once more in the afternoon. And then he left her as one bewitched. Under the tranquillising influence which her presence brought, he went that very afternoon to seek Luigi, found him in his apartments, and apologised. He acknowledged that it was not Luigi's fault that he should by chance have met his cousin in the street, nor that she should have spoken to him; and as regarded his having laughed——

"But we were not laughing at you," declared the terrified Amorin.

"And even if you were, you would have been almost justified. I can see now how ludicrous I made myself in my excitement."

He held out his hand to Luigi, who grasped it eagerly, and, after a few incoherent words, Mansana took his leave in the same spirit of confident self-satisfaction in which he had come. The little lieutenant, who throughout this interview had felt as though he were in the presence of his executioner, was now seized with a bewildering sense of joy at his departure. He jumped about the room, and broke into a loud peal of laughter. Mansana, who was still upon the staircase, heard the laughter, and stopped to listen. Luigi shuddered at the thought of his own carelessness, and the next moment heard some one knocking at the door. He was too much alarmed to say "Come in," but Mansana walked in without waiting for this.

"Was it you I heard laughing?" he asked.

"Upon my honour, no," answered Amorin, with a gesture of denial.

Mansana glanced briefly round the room and departed.

But no sooner was he gone than Luigi's sense of elation and relief once more returned. He could not control it, and as he did not dare to shout or jump, and felt he must share his joy with somebody, he went off to the military cafe, where his little story created a welcome diversion amongst his brother officers. To the accompaniment of their wine, they rained their witticisms over the unfortunate captain, who on the eve of his marriage with a princess could create a scandal by falling in love with the daughter of a little pensioner. Of all this Major Sardi, Mansana's friend, was a witness.

Mansana's last meeting on the hill took place next morning. It began long before the usual time, and only ended when they reached Amanda's door. According to his promise, he came again in the afternoon to bid farewell.

Amanda talked with him of his approaching wedding in a tone which was half playful and half sentimental, precisely as her feelings prompted her; for to a well-brought-up Italian girl, marriage is the herald of all earthly bliss, the entrance to that happy state in which uncertainty, restraint, and trouble cease, and unchecked freedom, new dresses, drives, and evenings at the opera, begin. And so her pretty chatter in some way re-awakened his old feeling of yearning for Theresa; her charm and personal attraction helped him still further to a realisation of his own approaching happiness, and he found himself confessing to her how much she herself had done towards this. A young girl's tears flow readily at words of praise, and our little maiden wept as she listened to Mansana's flattering talk. She thought it necessary in return, to tell him what confidence she too had felt in him; and though in her own heart she knew she had always, in his presence, been conscious of a slight sense of fear, she would not mention this. Then, as though in confirmation of her words, which were not so truthful as she would have wished, she gave him one of her smiling glances. The sunshine of her smile caught the glistening tear-drops on her cheeks, and framed a rainbow of indescribable beauty in Mansana's mind. He took her little round hand within both his as his farewell. A blush rose to her cheeks as he murmured something—he did not himself know what—and then he left her. He saw her pretty figure, arms, and head, just above him on the stairs, and a minute later on the balcony, as he looked up. He heard from the other side of the square, a melodious "farewell," listened for it once again, then turned away down the side street. So absorbed was he, that he had not noticed the approach of Sardi, who was making straight towards him; indeed, he was only awakened to the fact by a lusty slap upon the shoulder.

"Is it really true," asked Sardi, with a laugh, "that you are in love with the little girl up yonder? Upon my word, it would almost seem so!"

Mansana's face grew copper red, his eyes flashed, his breath came quickly as he answered:

"What are you talking about? What have you been told—that——?" He stopped wondering what he could be about to hear; surely no one could have—Luigi could never have—— "What did you say?" he repeated.

"Upon my soul, you seem bewitched!"

"What did you say?" repeated Mansana, with deepened colour, his brows knit, and one hand laid, not too gently, upon the major's shoulder.

It was now Sardi's turn to be offended. Mansana's vehemence had so taken him by surprise, he had no time to consider what he should say, but in his own defence, and with a desire of still further irritating the unjustly aroused temper of his friend, he told him what people were already saying about him, and how the officers at the cafe were amusing themselves at his expense.

Mansana's anger knew no bounds. He swore that if Sardi would not at once reveal who had first started these reports, he must himself be answerable, and for a moment it seemed as though a challenge would be inevitable between the two friends. But Sardi, almost immediately recovering his composure, represented to Mansana what an ugly sensation it would create, were he to fight a duel with him, or with any one else, over such a subject as his relationship with Amanda Brandini, the very day before leaving to celebrate his wedding with the Princess Leaney.

Surely the best answer he could give to such a calumny would be to start at once, and make the princess his bride without delay. Thereupon followed a fresh ebullition from Mansana. He would look after his own affairs, and protect his own reputation; Sardi must give the names of his detractors! The major saw no reason for concealment, and gave the names, one by one, merely adding quietly, that if Mansana felt an inclination to kill off all this small fry, he was quite welcome to the task!

Mansana was eager to make straight for the cafe, where all these officers would now be assembled. Sardi, however, convinced him of the folly of such a course.

Then, Mansana declared, he would at any rate seek Luigi. But Sardi undertook himself to carry the challenge to the lieutenant. "Though, after all," he added, "what is he to be challenged for?"

"For what he has said of me," shouted Mansana.

"But what has he said of you? That you are in love with Amanda Brandini? Is this not true?"

Now, had Mansana started on his journey without meeting Major Sardi, it is tolerably certain that he would, in two or three days' time, have been married to the Princess Leaney; whereas the following conversation now took place.

"Have you the boldness to assert that I love Amanda?"

"I refuse to answer that; but if you do not love her, what the devil does it concern you if the young whelp says so, or whether he cares for her himself; or even whether he attempts to seduce her?"

"You are a boor and a scoundrel to use such language!"

"And what are you, pray, who can openly abuse a young man for the crime of talking and jesting with his cousin?"

"Jesting with her!" repeated Mansana scornfully, with clenched fists and knitted brows; whilst Sardi interjected:

"Who is to look after her when you are gone?"

"I shall not go!" shouted Mansana.

"You will not go? Have you lost your senses?"

"I shall not go," repeated Mansana, his hands and arms raised above his head as if in confirmation of an oath.

Sardi was taken aback.

"Then you really do love her?" he whispered.

Mansana recoiled. A groan, as from the strength of his whole frame, alarmed Sardi, who feared an attack of apoplexy, but after a brief struggle with himself, Mansana's countenance cleared, and slowly, as though unconsciously and to himself, he murmured:

"Yes, I love her!" Then, turning to Sardi, he added: "And I shall not go away!"

And from that moment he was like a driven hurricane of wind.

He turned and hurried away, in a storm of passion.

"Where are you making for?" asked Sardi, as he hastened after him.

"I am going to Borghi."

"But we had agreed that I was to see him."

"Very well, then, go!"

"But where are you going?"

"To find Borghi!" Then he added passionately, "I love her, and whoever tries to take her from me shall die!" And again he turned to go.

"But does she love you?" shouted Sardi, quite forgetting that they were in the public street.

And once more raising his strong, sinewy hands above his head, Mansana answered, in a hollow voice:

"She shall love me!"

Sardi grew alarmed.

"Giuseppe, you are mad! You have been over excited, and it is only this unnatural condition of your mind which causes you to feel and speak like this. You are not yourself, Giuseppe! Do not run away from me! Don't you see that you are attracting the attention of the people in the street?"

At that Mansana stopped.

"Do you know what it is that makes me furious, Cornelius? It is the thought that I ever paid attention to those people in the street! I must needs hold my tongue, suffer, and be trampled on! This is what makes me furious."

He drew a step nearer Sardi.

"And now," he said, "I mean to proclaim it aloud to all the world; I love her!"

He actually shouted the words as he walked on with proud step. Sardi followed, and, taking him by the arm, guided him quietly into a less frequented street. But Mansana paid no heed, and with loud voice and vigorous gesticulations, gave his secretly wounded egotism vent.

"After all, what should I gain," he cried, "by becoming the husband of the Princess Leaney, the steward of her ladyship's estates, the slave of her ladyship's caprices? Now, for the first time, I can acknowledge to myself the truth; such a life would have been unworthy of Giuseppe Mansana."

Sardi came to the conclusion that if Mansana could so belie the usual taciturnity and reserve of his nature as to bawl and shout in this outrageous manner, almost any mad feat might be possible; so, with an ingenuity and perseverance that did him credit, he sought to induce him to take a little journey, just to give time for the confused condition of his mind and his affairs to settle themselves. But he might as well have expected a hurricane to heed his words.



CHAPTER XI

That same evening, Amanda's curiosity was stirred by receiving a letter conveyed to her with every appearance of precaution. She struck a light, and found that it came from Luigi—the first he had ever sent to her—and thus it ran:

"MY AMANDA,—There is a madman in pursuit of me, and he threatens my life. An hour ago he got me to swear solemnly, and to put my hand to the oath, that I would renounce all pretensions to you, and never even speak to you again. I was a poltroon to submit to it. I know that well enough, and you cannot despise me more than I despise myself. But there is this to be said: until I consented to that declaration I never knew that I loved you. Perhaps, indeed, I had not done so. At any rate, now I know that I do love you—love you beyond measure, beyond bounds; and in all the wide world there is no wretch more miserable than I am at this moment. But I cannot bring myself to believe that all is over between us, or that this monstrous agreement can be binding.

"All rests with you, Amanda, if you do not despise me too deeply. If you love me, then the madman can do nothing to you, and some day matters will happily mend for us. At present I am like one in a prison cell. I cannot move to release myself. But this I know: if you will not help me to escape from the toils I shall die. Amanda, give me a word, a sign. It is too perilous to write; indeed, I know not how I shall convey these lines to your hands. At any rate, do not you attempt to send a letter to me. He might be on our traces even now.

"But to-morrow is the day of the fete. Be there in the neighbourhood of the band, and stay till I find you. Then, no words, but speak to me only with your eyes. If they are friendly I shall know enough. Ah, Amanda, all will come right if you are mine. My own, my Amanda.

"Till death,

"Your unhappy cousin,

"LUIGI."

No sooner had Amanda read this letter than she felt that she loved Luigi. Never before had she so much as hinted to herself a thought of this, but now she loved him with all her soul. She had no doubt on that point.

As to what Mansana had said about him, that might be based on a misunderstanding; and as to the promise Luigi had given, that, she thought, was obviously a matter of no importance. Young girls do not take a pledge of this kind au pied de la lettre, when it seems to them unreasonable. Besides, Mansana had left the place.

So the next day came—the day of the fete. It was a fine warm autumn morning, and Amanda was up and ready betimes. The bands of music had marched through the streets at sunrise, and the cannon had thundered a salute. The churches, decorated outside as well as within, were crowded for the early service, and our little Amanda was there by her father's side, tricked out in her best holiday finery. She offered up a prayer for Luigi, and as she rose from her knees she practised her lips in a smile, the friendly smile and deeply confiding glance that should bring hope and comfort to her distressed adorer. After the procession and the mid-day meal, she hastened to take up her position at the appointed place. The band had already begun to play in the market square, but Amanda hurried her father's customarily sedate pace so much that they were enabled to find room among the very first arrivals, though with the natural result that after they had been standing there an hour they found themselves wedged in the thickest of the throng. She looked at her father's perspiring face, and thought mournfully how unattractive her own would look in Luigi's eyes. They must make their way out, cost what it might; that is, provided it did not cost a flower, or a knot of ribbon, or even a vigorous effort, which last would only have added to the embarrassing redness of her burning cheeks. So she made but little progress, and still grew hotter and hotter. She heard the roll of the big drums and the boom of the trombones through the roar of voices and laughter all round her. She saw the campanile of the town hall and the clapper that hung below the great bell, and these last objects were all she could discern above the billows of living humanity that surged about and over her. Her father's suffering visage warned her how flurried and unpresentable she must be growing, and the poor little thing began to cry.

But Luigi had also been one of the first to find his way to the neighbourhood of the bandstand, and as the square in front of the guildhall of the little town was by no means extensive, it came about in due course that these two, who were seeking one another through the eddying mass of spectators, at last stood face to face. He glanced at her, and saw the deep blush and smile that shone through her tears. The blush he took for one of joy, the tears he thought were those of sympathy with his trouble, and the smile he welcomed as an earnest of what was to come. To her father in his distress and anxiety Luigi seemed like a guardian angel, and he called to him hastily, "Help us to get out of this, Luigi;" and Luigi applied himself to the task with vigour. It was a matter of some difficulty, and once or twice both Amanda and her father were in actual danger, so that the young man felt that he was acting quite an heroic part. With arms and shoulders at work he protected them, and with his eyes fixed on Amanda's he hung on her long, timid gaze. But he spoke no word, so he had not violated his promise. The consciousness of all this gave him a proud satisfaction. His bearing might well be noble, and he knew from the approving reflection in Amanda's eyes that in fact it did seem so to her.

But happiness in this world is doomed to be transient. A quarter of an hour previously Giuseppe Mansana had marked Luigi in the crowd, and with the instinct of jealousy he had been watching him from a distance—an easy enough matter for one of his height. The other, in his restless search, had constantly pressed forward, and thus had no suspicion of the danger that threatened him from behind; and now he was so deeply absorbed in his work of rescue—or rather in seeing his own gallant image flashed back from Amanda's eyes—that he did not notice Mansana till the captain's vulturine visage was scowling close beside his own, and he could feel his hot breath on his cheek.

Amanda uttered one of her little screams, her father was struck dumb with a sudden alarm, and Luigi contrived to disappear into the crowd.

The next moment Amanda had laid her arm through Mansana's, and he felt a warm little gloved hand on his, and saw two delicious, half-closed eyes, full of witchery, apprehension, and appeal, looking up into his face. They had just made their way out of the thickest of the throng so that conversation was possible, and he heard a voice, fit to call the angels into heaven, say: "Papa and I were in great danger. It was fortunate we had some one to help us," and he felt the gentle pressure of her hand.

Mansana had seen those same eyes dwelling on Luigi's, and there pulsed through his brain a thought destined to come back to him often enough afterwards, though for the moment it passed away as soon as it was formed. "What a silly, senseless business," he thought, "is all this in which I am entangled."

But the little prattler at his side ran on: "Poor Luigi found us in the crowd. Papa asked him to help us, and he did it without a word. Why, we have never even thanked him." Then directly after: "It is charming that you have not gone yet. You must come home with us, so that we can have a comfortable chat. We had such a pleasant one the last time."

Her round, young bosom fluttered under its silken prison, a glimpse of her dainty wrist showed white above her glove, the points of her tiny feet stole out provokingly beneath her petticoat, the rosy little mouth quivered with its burden of prattle and smiles, and the two half shaded eyes met his with shy confidence. Mansana walked home with them.

He did not mention Luigi's name, though it was fixed like the barb of an arrow in his heart, and fastened the closer the more exquisite she seemed. The strife between love and anguish robbed him of speech. But Amanda's sweet lips only moved the faster, while she made him sit down and brought out fruit, which she peeled herself and offered to him. She seemed so glad that their morning meetings need not yet come to an end; she even suggested an excursion a little farther up the mountains on which they might adventure the next day, when she would bring breakfast with her. But still he could only utter a few monosyllables. He could not cloud this innocent idyll with the shadow of his suffering; and yet he was so torn by the struggle within him that he felt he could bear it no longer, and hastily took his departure.

Scarcely had the echo of his footsteps on the staircase died away, scarcely had the last greeting been waved to him from the balcony, than his smiling, invincible little charmer hastily shut the verandah windows and threw herself, sobbing, on her father's knees. The old man was not in the least surprised. His mind ran on the same thought as hers. Mansana's parting glance, and indeed his whole bearing and manner, had filled the room with such an electric atmosphere of storm that he would hardly have been astonished if an actual explosion had occurred in the overcharged air. And when the girl whispered through her tears, "Father, we must get away," he could only reply, "Yes, yes, my child, indeed we must."

Their departure must be secret, and therefore it was necessary that it should take place that very night.



CHAPTER XII

Giuseppe Mansana had gone to Borghi's quarters without finding him, and had searched for him in vain at the cafe frequented by the officers of the garrison, and later in the day, among the crowds of holiday-makers. During these wanderings he encountered many officers of his acquaintance, some of them accompanied by civilian friends, and it struck him that they relapsed into silence when they saw him, and spoke to one another in whispers as he passed them. Yet he felt that, whatever might be thought of the enterprise on which he was now embarked, he was in honour bound to carry it through successfully.

Late in the evening, worn out in mind and body, but alert and watchful, he sat down in front of the cafe which faced the Brandinis' apartments. There was a light in Amanda's window. She was putting together the few necessaries she proposed to take with her, for, in order to give their journey the appearance of a short, casual trip, she had decided to leave their weightier luggage to be sent after them. But to Mansana it appeared more than likely that this lighted casement was intended to be a signal to some one. And presently it seemed as if his suspicions were correct. Wearied with the strain and fatigue of the day, Amanda stepped out upon the verandah, for a breath of fresh air. Her movements were very perceptible as she stood with her figure thrown into relief against the light within, and Mansana could see that she bent down to peer into the darkened square below her. Was she then expecting somebody who would come into the square from the side street? It seemed so, and presently steps were heard approaching from that direction. The newcomer was a man who kept close under the shadow of the houses, as he made his way to the foot of Amanda's balcony. As he passed under a street lamp, the light just enabled Mansana to catch a hurried glimpse of an officer's kepi, and a young, clean-shaven face, and he also noticed that Amanda bent still lower over the trellis of the verandah. A young girl in love—especially when her love is clouded by danger—is apt to imagine that she sees her lover's figure everywhere. The officer slackened his pace as his eyes fell upon her, and under the balcony itself he halted and looked up. Amanda retired hastily from the verandah, closing the windows behind her as she entered the room, and the officer passed on. Was this their mode of arranging a rendezvous? With rapid strides Mansana crossed the square, but the stranger had already reached the street that led out of it, and when Mansana turned the corner in pursuit, he was no longer in sight. In which house had he taken refuge? Mansana could hardly knock up the whole street to inquire, and was perforce obliged to abandon the pursuit.

It was, in fact, a mere accident. A young officer who happened to be lodging in the neighbouring street, paused for a moment under a balcony, on which he saw a young lady standing alone. Yet it was this trivial accident which virtually determined Mansana's destiny.

He went to bed, not to sleep, but to pass the night tossing restlessly in wakeful anguish, and registering an oath, again and again, that before the next day had passed she should be his or he would cease to live. But the next morning she did not appear at the trysting-place on the hillside. An hour he waited, but there was no sign of his friends, and he made his way to the house in which they lived. Before the door of their apartment he found an old woman carrying a tray with their breakfast, and to the door itself was fixed a sheet of paper. As Mansana lifted the knocker, the old woman said to him, "There seems to be no one within. Will you read the paper which hangs there?" Mansana did so:

"Gone away; will write. B."

That was all. Heedless of the old woman, who called after him to ask what the paper said, he flung it from him and strode hastily away.

* * *

When the Princess Leaney arrived at Ancona on the following day, and found no Mansana there to greet her at the railway station, she was seized by a sudden indefinable apprehension. Hurrying to the telegraph-office she sent him an anxiously worded despatch, which testified to her alarm. She went home, and waited for the answer, her fears gaining ground as the minutes went by. At length a messenger arrived with the money that had been paid for the reply to the telegram, and the information that the message could not be delivered, as Captain Mansana had quitted the town.

At this her fears completely overwhelmed her. The self-reproach, under which she had lived for days, assumed mountainous proportions, and its shadow seemed to blot out all other thoughts. She must find him wherever he was, talk to him, care for him, yes, and nurse him, if, as she gravely feared, there was need for that. The same evening, with one servant only in attendance, she was on the platform of the railway station.

At dawn of the next day she was pacing backwards and forwards at the junction where the train from the West was to be met. She paid no attention to her few fellow-travellers, in whom, however, her self-absorption added to the interest and curiosity she aroused as she swept by them in her restless walk to and fro, with her long white fur cloak thrown back over her shoulders, and her loose hair and floating veil tangled together below her fur cap. In her large, wide-opened eyes, and in the whole face, there was the tense expression of overwrought emotion and exhaustion. In her walk she several times passed a tall lady, very simply dressed, who was looking intently into the luggage van, round which a busy little group had collected. Once, just as Theresa passed the group, an officer came up and spoke a few words to the lady, and in answer to a question addressed to him by one of the railway officials, replied with the word "Mansana."

The princess started.

"Mansana?" she cried. "What——"

"Princess Leaney?" exclaimed the officer, in accents of astonishment, as he saluted her.

"Is it you, Major Sardi?" she answered, and added hastily: "But Mansana? What of him? You mentioned his name."

"Yes. This is his mother."

The Major presented the younger lady to the elder. As the mother drew her veil aside, the calm, noble face that was revealed filled Theresa with an instant sense of confidence and strength. She threw herself into the lady's arms as if she had found there a haven of refuge from all her storms of anxiety and distress, and burst into a convulsive fit of weeping.

The Signora Mansana said nothing, but she soothed the agitated girl with a few gentle and caressing touches of her hand, and stood waiting quietly till her passion had spent itself and she had regained her self-possession. Presently Theresa was sufficiently composed to ask where Mansana was.

"That," answered the elder lady calmly, "we none of us know."

"But we hope to find out before long," added the Major.

White as a sheet, Theresa sprang up, and looked from one to another.

"Tell me," she cried; "what is it that has happened?"

Thoughtful and composed, the older woman, who had been through so much of storm and stress, said quietly:

"We have the same journey before us, I imagine. Let us get a carriage to ourselves, and then we can talk matters over, and consider what is best to be done."

The suggestion was gratefully accepted and acted upon.



CHAPTER XIII

The Brandinis had sought refuge in the house of Nina Borghi, the old man's sister, and the mother of Luigi, and it so happened that the train by which they fled was the same in which the hero Luigi also took his flight. It was, however, only early the next morning, at a station, just as Luigi was leaving the train, that they discovered each other. The unexpected sight of them so put Luigi off his balance, he would have passed them without speaking, but that the old man seized him by the arm and obliged him to listen to his tale of perplexity.

In reply, Luigi merely answered shortly, "Go to my mother," and hurried away. The first thing he did, however, on arriving at his own garrison, was to go straight to the telegraph-office, and, in a message teeming with excitement, forewarn his mother of the arrival of her brother. So alarming was the tone of the telegram, that on receiving it the poor lady, who lived by herself outside Castellamere, near Naples, was seriously concerned, and her anxiety was not lessened by hearing from her brother and his daughter of the danger that was threatening them as well as her own son.

Captain Mansana had surmised that the Brandini family must have journeyed southwards, as there were night trains only on the southern lines. He therefore followed on their track, but, after two days spent in a vain attempt at finding a starting-point for further investigations, he turned back and made for the town where Luigi Borghi was stationed. He would probably know where the two were in hiding, and he should be made to give the information, or take the consequences.

As Mansana himself was well known, he set to work with great circumspection, in order that he might take Luigi unawares. He had already spent two days in the town before he came across the young officer in a street, where he had been watching for him, in one of the quiet little cafes frequented by the townsfolk.

To Mansana's surprise, Luigi was not so much alarmed on seeing him as might have been expected, and he further added to Mansana's astonishment by telling him without reserve where the Brandini family was then staying. This candour aroused Mansana's suspicions, and he pointed out to Luigi the possible consequences of deception; but the little lieutenant swore with unmoved countenance that he was speaking truth, and Mansana, therefore, preferring to leave any further reckoning with Luigi for the future, started by rail that same day for the south.

What was his purpose? It was still unshaken. Amanda was to be his! For this reason only had he spared Luigi. Since Amanda's flight, so artfully carried out, his mind had chafed under the determination that such an act should not be allowed to go unpunished. He did not love her, he said to himself. He hated her, and for this very reason he would have possession of her—or else——!

With these thoughts, from which he could not free himself, were mingled visions of his fellow officers laughing and scoffing at him. He had been led by the nose and worsted by a little maiden fresh from a convent, and a little lieutenant who had only just left school! But he could not himself understand how it had come about that this contest with two insignificant children was the termination of his proud career. The image of the Princess, which lately, during his estrangement from her, had but seldom come into his mind, and then only to be angrily repulsed, seemed now, as the sense of his weakness and humiliation grew, to take stronger hold of him. She was the goal, the destiny of his life! Such was the height to which she was now raised in his estimation. And in these high thoughts of her he was influenced, not by her rank, but by the glow and brilliancy of her ideas, and, as it were, the glamour that surrounded her whole being, exalted as she was by the universal admiration that was tendered her. But, as the charms of the Princess took firmer hold upon his mind, those of Amanda waned; he did not even feel quite certain that she was not a little round-shouldered; at any rate, he was able calmly to speculate upon the point. Those who have contrived to make us ridiculous in our own and other people's eyes are not always gainers by their efforts. So it happened that Mansana, having come to the conclusion that Amanda's figure was clumsy, her face and conversation insignificant, her voice monotonous, her hair extravagantly dressed, and her wheedling manner foolish and silly, began to ask himself if, after all, he would not be making himself still more ludicrous by trying to force such a person to become the Signora Mansana. Even more ridiculous did it seem that he should be willing to sacrifice himself on her account. What, then, was he to do? Return to the Princess? The road to her lay blocked—blocked a hundred thousand times, by his own pride! Break with Amanda and speed further afield, perhaps to the Spanish civil war? This would be the life of an adventurer, mere folly; he might almost as well commit suicide quietly at home. Should he retrace his steps and let things be as they were before? The Princess lost to him, the envy and admiration of his comrades foregone, his confidence in himself destroyed? There was no means of retreat open to him, except and only through the much despised Amanda, the cause of all his trouble. As her patron and protector, he might at least pose as a victorious hero, and even though the price that he must pay for such a position were a life of unhappiness—well, if it must be so, it must! His honour would at any rate be saved, and no one would ever be able to penetrate the true secret of his heart. It would surely redound to his credit that he had rejected a rich princess for the daughter of an impoverished pensioner—that he had won her in open combat, in combat even against her own desire. But he had no sooner come to this conclusion than his mind grew disturbed at the thought of all the falsehoods which must be involved in the preservation of this show of honour to the world. He jumped up from his seat in the coupe, but there were others in the carriage with him, and he seated himself again. The train was carrying him nearer and nearer to his goal; and what a goal! The certain ruin of his whole life, as a mere sacrifice to honour, although, even at the best, it was extremely doubtful whether the object of the sacrifice would be attained. The merciful power of sleep intervened amid these gloomy thoughts; he slept and dreamed of his mother, who, with her true and loving eyes, seemed to watch over him like an angel. His tears fell fast till, at the moment when the train drew up, just outside Naples, he was awakened by an old man in the coupe, who could not bear to hear his sobs. Mansana sprang out of the carriage. It was a glorious morning, and the relentless clearness of the sky, bounded by the faintly defined outlines of the mountain chains, seemed to Mansana ruthlessly to expose his misery; he shivered in the chilly morning air, and returned to the atmosphere of the smoky engine, just then preparing to steam out again, to the rattling and racket of the noisy train, and to his own stifling thoughts.

A few minutes later, and they were coasting close beside the sea; what would he not have given for the train to have slipped from its rails and glided quietly, gently, out into the depths of the blue water. What peace! What blessed release in such a death!

As the train stopped on reaching Naples, he hid himself in the corner of his carriage, lest in the crowd of loiterers there might be some one who knew and might recognise him. The day seemed to grow more and more beautiful as they threaded their way through the little sea-coast towns. The sun shone as warmly as on a summer's morning, and the bright rays refracted through the soft sea mist tinged with exquisite colour the mountains, sea and landscape. He left the train and drove towards his destination; then, dismissing the carriage, began to climb the steep rock-hewn steps leading to the place which was to be his journey's end. In those moments—with the waters of the Bay beneath him, and beyond the beautiful view of the distant islands like shapeless sea monsters guarding the approach, with the mountains capped by Vesuvius, and the towns gleaming white under the shimmer of the lazy smoke wreaths—he felt the reality of life. But it was not his own life spent in a vain chase after glory, a struggle for something he could not have defined, now that he knew it was to end in nothing; no, it was the power of a life such as was designed for him by the God of the vaulted heaven above, with the brightness of His glory that transfigures and irradiates everything, even to the end and limit ordained for mortality.

He made his way up towards the highest point, and before long saw the house, surrounded by a high spiked railing, standing just beyond the brow of the hill. His heart beat fast; he knew there could be no mistake, as the road and the house answered exactly to the description just given him by his driver. No, there he was, for good or evil. And, before he had clearly realised what his actual feelings were, he caught sight of her—Amanda—dressed in her light morning gown, with a smile upon her lips, at something she had apparently heard or said, as she stepped out on to the balcony. But almost immediately, she saw him, and, giving one of her familiar little screams, ran inside the house again.

Just as an exhausted sportsman, brought unexpectedly in view of his long-hunted quarry, feels his lost buoyancy and energy return, so now Mansana felt suddenly within him an uncontrollable strength, an indomitable purpose, and, before he really knew what he was doing, he had reached the iron gate within the railing and, without stopping to ring and ask admission, had clambered over to the other side. His pent-up feelings relieved by this exertion, all his old military instincts revived, he looked round, saw the key attached to the inside fastening, and promptly took it into his own possession. She was now a prisoner in his hands. The door of the house was only half closed; he opened it, and saw before him a large, bright, corridor, with inlaid mosaic stone floor, stained-glass windows which reflected curious lights and shadows on the statuettes, and on the vases, which were filled with flowers, palms and a variety of waving plants. His eye caught sight of a couple of quaint, old-fashioned settees, and on one of these he noticed a straw hat with blue ribbons—did it belong to her?—and on the other, he saw a parasol of a certain peculiar watered silk, with carved, costly handle, set with a large blue stone. Where had he seen this parasol before? A painful presentiment seized him, and, without giving himself time to clear his recollection, he hastily rang the bell. What he would do, he must do quickly. But no one came in answer, and there he stood, waiting, trembling, unable to control himself. He grew desperate, he felt inaction no longer endurable, he must do something or give himself up for lost; he rang the bell again, and even this slight effort seemed to put fresh vigour into his will; come what might, he would now lose or win, there should be no middle course. And at that moment a door opened, and from the room behind, the light streamed into the inner entrance hall—and showed him some one moving towards him. He could only distinguish, through the coloured glass, that she was tall and dressed in blue; he heard her shut the door behind her, and then everything in the corridor grew clouded and confused. Who was this? A genuine fear came over him at a sudden alarming thought; was the house full of people, and was he, perhaps, the victim of some plot? Who could tell in what confusion of perplexing circumstances he might find himself involved, what importunate individuals he might come across here? These thoughts stirred a strong spirit of indignation and resistance. Was it a fool's journey he had undertaken? Not this time! He summoned all his powers of will and determination, and was in the act of feeling in his pocket to make sure of a weapon, when the large door opened and through the doorway he saw—yes, without a doubt it was—Theresa Leaney, who, in a blue dress and with pale face, now drew nearer to him.

He stood motionless, agitated and dismayed.

The door between them stood wide open, and for an instant they remained one on either side of the threshold. Outside as well as within the house, all was as silent as themselves: and in this silence she held her right hand towards him. A sudden thrill shook him. He stretched out his arms, and, with a wailing, plaintive sound, as of a stringed instrument struck unawares, rushed into her wide-open arms. Then, taking her by both hands, he led her to the sofa, took her on his knee, buried his face in her bosom, and, pressing her tightly to him, lifted her in his strong arms, and finally, placing her beside him once again, with his head upon her breast, let his tears flow unrestrained. Still without a word of explanation, he threw himself upon his knees before her and gazed up into the face, that now smiled down on him in wondering admiration. Then, indeed—and the experience was all essential to his future happiness—did Giuseppe Mansana feel himself humiliated, vanquished! Purified and humbled, his eyes filled with gratitude, he looked up once more and was greeted silently, not by Theresa, but by his own mother, who stood behind her!

He and Theresa rose and turned towards her, and involuntarily he took her hands between his own, kissed them, and, sinking upon his knees, pressed them to his forehead. How much had he not lived through since that day when he had cast that look of proud defiance across his father's grave!

* * *

Mansana never got beyond the corridor of that house. When his mother and Theresa left him, to take farewell of their hostess, he hurried out before them, secretly anxious to replace a certain key within a gate, unseen; anxious also to fling from him, to the bottom of the sea, a revolver, the very thought of which now filled him with shame and remorse. This act accomplished, he sank down by the roadside, overwhelmed by emotions in which fear, joy, thankfulness and self-distrust were all inextricably mingled; and in this position, with his face buried in his hands, he was discovered by the other two, who, followed by the servant with the luggage, soon overtook him, on their way to the railway station. They travelled together, and in a few words Mansana heard how this meeting had come about. After information which Sardi had given them, they had sought Luigi, in the belief that he would know what had become of the Brandinis, and that, sooner or later, Mansana would be certain to make his way to them. Luigi's valiant candour had, no doubt, been due to his knowledge that Mansana's mother and Theresa had already discovered the Brandinis, and were even then with them.

Mansana listened to all this, but remained speechless still. His mother, watching him, grew anxious, and pleading her own fatigue as an excuse, insisted on resting awhile in Naples. She selected for this purpose an hotel that was in a quiet and secluded part of the town, and there at last, after much resistance, she succeeded in inducing Mansana to go to bed. Once asleep it seemed as though he would never wake, and it was not until late the following day that he at last opened his eyes. He found himself alone and felt confused and nervous, but a few small things about the room soon brought Theresa and his mother to his recollection, and with his thoughts on them, he lay back quietly and slept like a contented child. This time, however, it was not long before he was awakened by a feeling of hunger, and this satisfied, he slept again, almost unintermittently, for several days and nights. When at last he awoke he was quite calm, but oppressed by a gloomy reserve and desire to shrink more and more within himself. This was exactly what his mother had expected.



CHAPTER XIV

The sequel shall be told in a letter written by Theresa Leaney to Mansana's mother, and sent from the princess's Hungarian estate not long after the events set forth in the last chapter:

"DEAREST MOTHER,

"At last you shall have a connected account of all that has happened since we parted at Naples. Excuse me if at times I repeat what I have told you already.

"Well, then, you must know that after our wedding Giuseppe's gloomy reserve was replaced by a devoted and humble zeal to do me service which made me anxious; it seemed so strange in him. His old confidence and self-reliance did not return till after our visit to the town in which he had last been quartered. He quite understood why you wanted us to go there first of all; and how worthy of our love he showed himself! Among his comrades he had, as it were, to run the gauntlet; he faced the trial at once, and with a courage which I think may well be called heroic. And I should also like to tell you a little about a certain young bride who helped him then. You must understand that never in her life had she seemed more brilliant, more joyous, than at this time, when it was a question of supporting this noble lover through his days of humiliation. Her gestures, her words, her whole bearing seemed to challenge the question: 'Who dare say anything against him when I say nothing?'

"I have, I am afraid, still so much coquetry left as to be half inclined to give you particulars of my costumes on each of these three days. (I had got my maid to come to me from Ancona with some dresses.) But I will have the modesty to forbear.

"And so it came about that, after those three days of struggle in the mountain town, this same young bride found herself loved as not many women have ever been loved before; for there is power in that deep temperament, which you, dear friend, have given him out of your own perfect soul. But I must not forget to praise the man Sardi; for a man he is indeed! He had done a most excellent service in giving it to be understood that Mansana had been ill—as, in fact, he was—and that you and I had nursed him back to health. It was fortunate that Mansana, who had already gained fame among his comrades, had now laid up a store of affection in their hearts on which he could make many demands before it is exhausted. They were determined to think well of Giuseppe Mansana. My dear husband felt that himself, and it made him very humble, for he was oppressed by the thought that he had not deserved all this affection.

"In Ancona all went easily enough. The main obstacles had been overcome. And now—now at last—he is all mine, and I have for my own the noblest character in the world, cleansed and purified, the most considerate husband, the most devoted companion, the manliest lover that any Italian girl ever won. Pardon the vehemence of my expressions. I know you do not like them, but they will out.

"In Bologna—you see I hasten on—as we were walking about, we happened to pass the town hall. There two marble tablets hang, inscribed with the names of those who fell in the fight for the liberation of the city. I felt a thrill pass through Giuseppe's arm; and to this circumstance I owe a conversation which laid, deeper than ever, the foundations of our union.

"You know, dearest mother, how my eyes were opened to the wrong I did Giuseppe by my odious, egotistical caprices; they almost cost him his life and both of us our happiness. You know how my soul is constantly vexed by that state of public feeling which breeds in us resentment, hatred, unreasonable fanaticism, and a disgraceful intolerance. An unnatural, unhealthy state of opinion like this does more harm to society than the most disastrous war, for it is impossible to estimate how much it destroys of spiritual power and efficiency, how many hearts it leaves empty, how many families it lays waste. Believe me, mother, that any nation which has achieved an unrighteous conquest, and annexed what belongs to others, makes all its citizens participators in its wrong-doing. Not only does it relax the moral fibre of every individual and add to the mischiefs done by private chicanery, violence, and robbery, and the harsh tyranny of officialism, but it robs the heart of its due rights in the family and society.

"Some silly verses were once written about me by an enamoured fool; not a word of truth was there in them. But now, my beloved mother, I feel that, if I had never met Giuseppe, what was said in those verses would have come to be true enough some time, for heartless and vain as I then was, heartless and vain I should have remained to the end! And why? Because the unhappy condition of public affairs had sown poison in my whole nature.

"And my confessions were met by Giuseppe's. His defiant, egotistical will had so mastered him that the most casual interference with his desires might have cost him his life, the merest accident have changed its whole course. But that same defiant will—in what atmosphere had it been fostered?

"We gave one another the fullest confidence that evening in Bologna, and then for the first time all doubts vanished and the future seemed absolutely secure.

"Here, on this estate of mine that I love, he has set to work. Here all was chaos, so that he has something on which his energies can be brought to bear. He intends to resign his commission—he does not care any longer to play the soldier in peace time. He needs to be busy on definite objects, that lie near at hand, and if I divine rightly, the objects dearest to him are those most carefully hidden from the world. So, at any rate, it stands for the present; what events may develop I know not. But this I do know: let Italy be in danger, and he will place himself in the front rank, whatever the circumstances may be.

"God's blessing on you! Come here soon; you must see him in this active life of his, you must see him with me. Has any woman ever had so devoted a husband, so gallant a lover? Ah, I know you do not give me leave to talk in this extravagant vein. But I cannot help it, and I must tell you again that these are the words I feel I must use.

"I love you, and again and again I long to embrace you, to kiss you, you dear mother, to whom I owe my happiness.

"Dearest, so hardly tried and proven, from whose eyes there streams a hymn of praise, from whose lips the words of help and comfort pour their waters of refreshment, we want you to bow your grey head over our happiness, that it may be blessed. Yes, you must let us learn from you, so that the evil days do not come too soon upon us.

"Your son's wife, your own, your loving

"THERESA."



MOTHER'S HANDS



PART I

A stirring clang of swords, echoing from the glass roof of the station; the ring of steel sounding through the hissing of steam, noise of laughter and talk, mingled with the dense dull sound of truck wheels, of footsteps, of luggage loading.

Every time a fresh succession of officers thronged the glass doors, the clang of swords rang sharply; many artillery officers pressed through, and some infantry among them. All were making for the door of the same railway carriage, where a tall lady in black, with large, half-melancholy, half-imperious eyes, was standing and bowing. She bent her head slowly, a measured inclination, never more. The officers evidently came from manoeuvres or parade. The King was in the town, as was indicated by the presence of some of his harbingers, that is to say Swedish uniforms. Was he here in person? Was he expected? No, for in that case there would have been others present besides the officers. But was that lady who stood at the carriage-door the person to whom they had come to bid farewell? Was she the wife of a cavalry officer then? No, that lady could scarcely have become what she was in the midst of a small military circle with horsey surroundings. Besides, there was only respect in the greeting paid to her. The crowd was round some one who was standing on the platform and who could with difficulty be seen. At that moment a white veil was waved aloft by a lady's gloved hand. Was all this parade in honour of a lady after all?

The long prognosticated war with Russia has not yet broken out. There is probably time enough for that. Many of these officers wear decorations in advance. The colonel's manly breast bears at least eight of them. He has much to make up. Some of them—for instance, the two stately Swedes with their bland courtier eyes—are looking rather pale; perhaps they have been wounded as well as decorated in advance?

The throng presses close round the carriage-door. So it is really a lady who is the object of all this bloodless fray, this pushing and pressing, this restless motion to and fro, the endlessly shifting phantasmagoria of necks and epaulettes, of features and bearded faces, this unanimous laughter to order?

Perhaps it is a princess? Good heavens, no! In that case they would have kept at a respectful distance; but here they are pressing closer and closer, until the entrance doors of the station are again crowded with uniforms and clanging swords, this time exclusively of cavalry, and a little man, very old, beaming with friendliness, sheer friendliness, nothing but friendliness, appears followed by a staff of old and young officers. Discipline and Court obsequiousness (in a small army in time of peace courtiers alone are advanced to the higher grades) have made the expression of his countenance as irreproachably correct as that of an old dial-plate. Only there are moustaches on the dials which two concealed strings at the back seem to jerk now into a smile, now back to gravity again.

Some one called out, "Make room for the general," and in an instant a wide opening was made between two saluting semicircles, suddenly parted from each other.

Then it became possible to see the centre, which was formed of a group of ladies, foremost amongst them a tall girl in a light travelling costume and a white straw hat with a long white veil floating loosely over it. Her hands were full of flowers; she kept receiving more and more, which she handed through the crowd of ladies to her mother at the carriage-door, who laid them aside. Now it could be seen by every one that the two were mother and daughter. They were about the same height, the daughter, if anything, taller than her mother; they had the same large grey eyes, but with very different expression, although both proclaimed the wide range of their inward dominion. The mother's told of a deep comprehension of the contradictions and sufferings of life, the daughter's of an ardent nature, of restless aspiration, of warring forces which as yet had not found expression; they sparkled with triumph, through which there gleamed now and then a lightning flash of impatience. She was tall, slender, supple; her movements seemed to reflect the radiance from her eyes. It was not with their own eyes that others saw her, but through the light of her own. The look of energy in her face was a powerful auxiliary in the spell her eyes exercised over mankind. The mother's face was oval—of pure outline and broad design; the daughter's was longer, sharper, the forehead higher and framed by abundant light brown hair. Her eyebrows were straight, her nose was aquiline, her chin decided, her lips firmly cut. The beauty of a Valkyrie, but not so defiant. Her magnetic attraction came from enthusiasm, from impulsiveness; the flame in her eyes was light, not heat. On the whole, the impression she made was that she was borne up by invisible forces; all who came under the spell of that impression seemed to be lifted up as well. She talked to those on each side of her and in front of her, she exchanged greetings, she accepted flowers, and laughed; those who followed all these movements and changes felt dazzled and bewildered as though they had been watching waves in the sunshine.

Here was coquetry, perhaps, but with scarcely a particle of the quality which singles out first one and then another. Not the faintest hint of allurement in the voice. There was no sort of enervating tenderness in that uninterrupted outpouring of health, capacity and joyousness.

This was the reason of her success—be it said to the credit of those who surrounded her. No one came first, no one was especially distinguished. They all received their meed, each after his kind.

This unanimous admiration and homage had sprung into existence the previous autumn, when the cavalry colonel, who had married her mother's sister, brought her back from Paris. This persistent candidate for the favour of men and women, who neglected no one except his own wife, had since the previous autumn had no more pressing or more important duty than to introduce his beautiful niece into society. He performed this office on horseback at her side, at balls at her side, at theatres and concerts at her side; he allowed no one else to take his place. He gave riding-parties in her honour, and the whole body of cavalry succumbed; he gave a ball in her honour at which half the assembly fell victims; he took her to the officers' great banquet, and all the guests were smitten. As an old courtier he knew every move of the game; she never appeared under unfavourable circumstances or to no purpose—on this occasion, every person present had been specially invited.

As to that, they all responded as willingly as possible; but otherwise they would simply not have known of it, or the duty of the service might not have allowed them to come, or many of them would have considered it obtrusive. Now they were there by order; to an officer the feeling that he is obeying an order adds sensibly to his enjoyment. Just look at the little general's back, as he kisses her hand, brings her greetings from his Majesty and gives her the bouquet which he himself has gathered for her in the morning! Look at his back, I say; it seems made to be patted and currycombed like a horse's. As he straightens himself again, he looks as happy in the beams from her eyes as a stiff-legged dog who sniffs meat under a napkin.

I have said that those present had the feeling, and to an officer it is an agreeable one, of paying homage to order. That his Majesty himself had approved of her was a higher consecration yet. In the winter, out on the ice, he had deigned to fasten on her skates. It is true that she was not alone in this great distinction, or in becoming a member of the Royal Skating Club. The same honour was accorded to a great number of young girls besides. But every cavalry and artillery officer present—and there were many of them standing by when he knelt to fasten on her skates—considered it a special distinction offered to their lady.

Supported by the infantry, they sped after her over the glittering ice, without pause or stop—the Swedes as well. It needed but little stretch of fancy to picture her leading a sortie, to see in imagination horses, artillery, powder waggons, gliding over the mirror-like surface to the sound of horns, tramping of hoofs, and neighing of horses.