I rose from my seat beside her. I could not answer for my own composure while sitting so close to the actual murderess of MY friend and HER lover. Had she forgotten her own "familiar" treatment of the dead man--the thousand nameless wiles and witcheries and tricks of her trade, by which she had beguiled his soul and ruined his honor?

"I am glad you are satisfied with my action in that affair," I said, coldly and steadily. "I myself regret the death of the unfortunate young man, and shall continue to do so. My nature, unhappily, is an oversensitive one, and is apt to be affected by trifles. But now, mia bella, farewell until to-morrow--happy to-morrow!--when I shall call you mine indeed!"

A warm flush tinted her cheeks; she came to me where I stood, and leaned against me.

"Shall I not see you again till we meet in the church?" she inquired, with a becoming bashfulness.

"No. I will leave you this last day of your brief widowhood alone. It is not well that I should obtrude myself upon your thoughts or prayers.

Stay!" and I caught her hand which toyed with the flower in my b.u.t.tonhole. "I see you still wear your former wedding-ring. May I take it off?"

"Certainly." And she smiled while I deftly drew off the plain gold circlet I had placed there nearly four years since.

"Will you let me keep it?"

"If you like. _I_ would rather not see it again."

"You shall not," I answered, as I slipped it into my pocket. "It will be replaced by a new one to-morrow--one that I hope may be the symbol of more joy to you than this has been."

And as her eyes turned to my face in all their melting, perfidious languor, I conquered my hatred of her by a strong effort, and stooped and kissed her. Had I yielded to my real impulses, I would have crushed her cruelly in my arms, and bruised her delicate flesh with the brutal ferocity of caresses born of bitterest loathing, not love. But no sign of my aversion escaped me--all she saw was her elderly looking admirer, with his calmly courteous demeanor, chill smile, and almost parental tenderness; and she judged him merely as an influential gentleman of good position and unlimited income, who was about to make her one of the most envied women in all Italy.

The fugitive resemblance she traced in me to her "dead" husband was certainly attributed by her to a purely accidental likeness common to many persons in this world, where every man, they say, has his double, and for that matter every woman also. Who does not remember the touching surprise of Heinrich Heine when, on visiting the picture-gallery of the Palazzo Durazzo in Genoa, he was brought face to face with the portrait, as he thought, of a dead woman he had loved--"Maria la morte." It mattered not to him that the picture was very old, that it had been painted by Giorgio Barbarelli centuries before his "Maria" could have lived; he simply declares: "Il est vraiment d une ressemblance admirable, ressemblant jusqu'au silence de la mort!"

Such likenesses are common enough, and my wife, though my resemblance to myself (!) troubled her a little, was very far from imagining the real truth of the matter, as indeed how should she? What woman, believing and knowing, as far as anything can be known, her husband to be dead and fast buried, is likely to accept even the idea of his possible escape from the tomb! Not one!--else the disconsolate widows would indeed have reason to be more inconsolable than they appear!

When I left her that morning I found Andrea Luziani waiting for me at my hotel. He was seated in the outer entrance hall; I bade him follow me into my private salon. He did so. Abashed at the magnificence of the apartment, he paused at the doorway, and stood, red cap in hand, hesitating, though with an amiable smile on his sunburned merry countenance.

"Come in, amico," I said, with an inviting gesture, "and sit down. All this tawdry show of velvet and gilding must seem common to your eyes, that have rested so long on the sparkling pomp of the foaming waves, the glorious blue curtain of the sky, and the sheeny white of the sails of the 'Laura' gleaming in the gold of the sun. Would I could live such a life as yours, Andrea!--there is nothing better under the width of heaven."

The poetical temperament of the Sicilian was caught and fired by my words. He at once forgot the splendid appurtenances of wealth and the costly luxuries that surrounded him; he advanced without embarra.s.sment, and seated himself on a velvet and gold chair with as much ease as though it were a coil of rough rope on board the "Laura."

"You say truly, eccellenza," he said, with a gleam of his white teeth through his jet-black mustache, while his warm southern eyes flashed fire, "there is nothing sweeter than the life of the marinaro. And truly there are many who say to me, 'Ah, ah! Andrea! buon amico, the time comes when you will wed, and the home where the wife and children sit will seem a better thing to you than the caprice of the wind and waves.' But I--see you!--I know otherwise. The woman I wed must love the sea; she must have the fearless eyes that can look G.o.d's storms in the face--her tender words must ring out all the more clearly for the sound of the bubbling waves leaping against the 'Laura' when the wind is high! And as for our children," he paused and laughed, "per la Santissima Madonna! if the salt and iron of the ocean be not in their blood, they will be no children of mine!"

I smiled at his enthusiasm, and pouring out some choice Montepulciano, bade him taste it. He did so with a keen appreciation of its flavor, such as many a so-called connoisseur of wines does not possess.

"To your health, eccellenza!" he said, "and may you long enjoy your life!"

I thanked him; but in my heart I was far from echoing the kindly wish.

"And are you going to fulfill the prophecy of your friends, Andrea?" I asked. "Are you about to marry?"

He set down his gla.s.s only partly emptied, and smiled with an air of mystery.

"Ebbene! chi sa!" he replied, with a gay little shrug of his shoulders, yet with a sudden tenderness in his keen eyes that did not escape me.

"There is a maiden--my mother loves her well--she is little and fair as Carmelo Neri's Teresa--so high," and he laid his brown hand lightly on his breast, "her head touches just here," and he laughed. "She looks as frail as a lily, but she is hardy as a sea-gull, and no one loves the wild waves more than she. Perhaps, in the month of the Madonna, when the white lilies bloom--perhaps!--one can never tell--the old song may be sung for us--

"Chi sa fervente amar Solo e felice!"

And humming the tune of the well-known love-ditty under his breath, he raised his gla.s.s of wine to his lips and drained it off with a relish, while his honest face beamed with gayety and pleasure. Always the same story, I thought, moodily. Love, the tempter--Love, the destroyer--Love, the curse! Was there NO escape possible from this bewildering snare that thus caught and slew the souls of men?

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

He soon roused himself from his pleasant reverie, and drawing his chair closer to mine, a.s.sumed an air of mystery.

"And for your friend who is in trouble," he said, in a confidential tone, then paused and looked at me as though waiting permission to proceed.

I nodded.

"Go on, amico. What have you arranged?"

"Everything!" he announced, with an air of triumph. "All is smooth sailing. At six o'clock on Friday morning the 'Rondinella,' that is the brig I told you of, eccellenza, will weigh anchor for Civita Vecchia.

Her captain, old Antonio Bardi, will wait ten minutes or even a quarter of an hour if necessary for the--the--"

"Pa.s.senger," I supplemented. "Very amiable of him, but he will not need to delay his departure for a single instant beyond the appointed hour.

Is he satisfied with the pa.s.sage money?"

"Satisfied!" and Andrea swore a good-natured oath and laughed aloud.

"By San Pietro! if he were not, he would deserve to drown like a dog on the voyage! Though truly, it is always difficult to please him, he being old and cross and crusty. Yes; he is one of those men who have seen so much of life that they are tired of it. Believe it! even the stormiest sea is a tame fish-pond to old Bardi. But he is satisfied this time, eccellenza, and his tongue and eyes are so tied up that I should not wonder if your friend found him to be both dumb and blind when he steps on board."

"That is well," I said, smiling. "I owe you many thanks, Andrea. And yet there is one more favor I would ask of you."

He saluted me with a light yet graceful gesture.

"Eccellenza, anything I can do--command me."

"It is a mere trifle," I returned. "It is merely to take a small valise belonging to my friend, and to place it on board the 'Rondmella' under the care of the captain. Will you do this?"

"Most willingly. I will take it now if it so please you."

"That is what I desire. Wait here and I will bring it to you."

And leaving him for a minute or two, I went into my bedroom and took from a cupboard I always kept locked a common rough leather bag, which I had secretly packed myself, unknown to Vincenzo, with such things as I judged to be useful and necessary. Chief among them was a bulky roll of bank-notes. These amounted to nearly the whole of the remainder of the money I had placed in the bank at Palermo. I had withdrawn it by gradual degrees, leaving behind only a couple of thousand francs, for which I had no special need. I locked and strapped the valise; there was no name on it and it was scarcely any weight to carry. I took it to Andrea, who swung it easily in his right hand and said, smilingly:

"Your friend is not wealthy, eccellenza, if this is all his luggage!"

"You are right," I answered, with a slight sigh; "he is truly very poor--beggared of everything that should be his through the treachery of those whom he has benefited." I paused; Andrea was listening sympathetically. "That is why I have paid his pa.s.sage-money, and have done my best to aid him."

"Ah! you have the good heart, eccellenza," murmured the Sicilian, thoughtfully. "Would there were more like you! Often when fortune gives a kick to a man, nothing will suit but that all who see him must kick him also. And thus the povero diavolo dies of so many kicks, often!

This friend of yours is young, senza dubbio?"

"Yes, quite young, not yet thirty."

"It is as if you were a father to him!" exclaimed Andrea, enthusiastically. "I hope he may be truly grateful to you, eccellenza."

"I hope so too," I said, unable to resist a smile. "And now, amico, take this," and I pressed a small sealed packet into his hand. "It is for yourself. Do not open it till you are at home with the mother you love so well, and the little maiden you spoke of by your side. If its contents please you, as I believe they will, think that _I_ am also rendered happier by your happiness."