'Farewell, Nikola'

Arguing in this way I walked on and on, turning to right or left, just as the fancy took me. Presently I found myself in a portion of the town into which I had never hitherto penetrated. At the moment of which I am about to write, I was standing in a narrow lane, paved with large stones, having high dismal houses on either hand. Suddenly an old man turned the corner and approached me. As he passed, I saw his face, and recognized an individual to whom Nikola had spoken in the little church on that memorable evening when he had taken us on a tour of inspection through the city. He was visibly agitated, and was moreover in hot haste. For some reason that I cannot explain, nor, I suppose, shall I ever be able to do so, an intense desire to follow him took possession of me. It must have been more than a desire, for I felt that I must go with him whether I wished to or not. I accordingly dived into the house after him, and followed him along the passage and up the rickety flight of stairs that ascended from it. Having attained one floor we continued our ascent; the sounds of voices reached us from the different rooms, but we saw no one. On the second landing the old man paused before a door, opened it very softly, and entered. I followed him, and looked about me. It was a pathetic scene that met my eyes. The room was a poor one, and scantily furnished. A rough table and a narrow bed were its only furniture. On the latter a young man was lying, and kneeling on the floor beside him, holding the thin hands in his own, was no less a person than Doctor Nikola himself. I saw that he was aware of my presence, but he took no more notice of me than if I had not existed.

"You called me too late, my poor Antonio," he said, addressing the old man I had followed. "Nothing can save him now. He was dying when I arrived."

On hearing this the old man fell on his knees beside the bed and burst into a flood of weeping. Nikola placed his hand with a kindly gesture upon the other's shoulder, and at the moment that he did so the man upon the bed expired.

"Do not grieve for him, my friend," said Nikola. "Believe me, it was hopeless from the first. He is better as it is."

Then, with all the gentleness of a woman, he proceeded to comfort the old man, whose only son lay dead upon the bed. I knew no more of the story than what I had seen, nor have I heard more of it since, but I had been permitted to see another side of his character, and one which, in the light of existing circumstances, was not to be denied. He had scarcely finished his kindly offices before there was a heavy step outside, and a black-browed priest entered the room. He looked from Nikola to myself, and then at the dead man upon the bed.

"Farewell, my good Antonio," said Nikola. "Have no fear. Remember that your future is my care."

Then, having said something in an undertone to the priest, he placed his hand upon my arm and led me from the room. When we had left them he murmured in a voice not unlike that in which he had addressed the old man, "Hatteras, this is another lesson. Is it so difficult to learn?"

I do not pretend that I made any answer. We passed down the stairs together, and, when we reached the street, stood for a moment at the house-door.

"You will not be able to understand me," he said; "nevertheless, I tell you that the end is brought nearer by that one scene. It will not be long before it comes now. All things considered, I do not know that I shall regret it."

Then, without another word, he strode away into the darkness, leaving me to place what construction I pleased upon his last speech. For some moments I stood where he had left me, pondering over his words, and then set off in the direction I had come. As may be imagined, I felt even less inclined than before for the happy, jovial party I knew I should find on board the steamer, but I had given my promise, and could not get out of it. When I reached the piazza of St. Mark once more I went to the steps and hailed a gondola, telling the man to take me to the P. and O. vessel then lying at anchor in the harbour. He did so, and I made my way up the accommodation-ladder to the deck above, to find that the passengers in the first saloon had just finished their dinner, and were making their appearance on the promenade deck. I inquired of the steward for Mr. Beckworth, and discovered him in the act of lighting a cigar at the smoking-room door.

He greeted me effusively, and begged me to remain where I was while he went in search of his wife. When she arrived, I found her to be a pretty little woman, with big brown eyes, and a sympathetic manner. She was good enough to say that she had heard such a lot concerning me from her husband, and had always looked forward to making my acquaintance. I accepted a cigar from Beckworth's case, and we then adjourned to the smoking-room for a long talk together. When we had comfortably installed ourselves, my friend's flow of conversation commenced, and I was made aware of all the principal events that had occurred in Queensland since my departure, was favoured with his opinion of England, which he had never before visited, and was furnished with the details as to how he had met his wife, and of the happy event with which their courtship had been concluded.

"Altogether," he said, "taking one thing with another, I don't know that you'd be able to find a much happier fellow in the world than I am at this moment."

I said I was glad to hear it, and as I did so contrasted his breezy, happy-go-lucky manner with those of certain other people I had been brought in contact with that day. My interview with him must have done me good, for I stayed on, and the hour was consequently late when I left the ship. Indeed, it wanted only a few minutes of eleven o'clock as I went down the accommodation-ladder to the gondola, which I had ordered to come for me at ten.

"Galaghetti's hotel," I said to the man, "and as quickly as you can."

When I had bade my friends "good-bye" and left the ship, I felt comparatively cheerful, but no sooner had the silence of Venice closed in upon me again than all my old despondency returned to me. A foreboding of coming misfortune settled upon me, and do what I would I could not shake it off.

When I reached the hotel I found that my party had retired to rest. My wife was sleeping quietly, and not feeling inclined for bed, and dreading lest if I did go I might be assailed by more dreams of a similar description to that I had had on the previous night, I resolved to go back to the drawing-room and read there for a time. This plan I carried into execution, and taking up a new book in which I was very much interested, seated myself in an easy-chair and determined to peruse it. I found some difficulty, however, in concentrating my attention upon it. My thoughts continually reverted to my interview that afternoon with Nikola, and also to the scene I had witnessed in the poorer quarter after dark. I suppose eventually I must have fallen asleep, for I remember nothing else until I awoke to find myself sitting up and listening to a light step in the corridor outside. I looked at my watch to discover that the time was exactly a quarter to one. In that case, as we monopolized the whole of the corridor, who could it be? In order to find out I went to the door, and softly opened it. A dim light was always left in the passage throughout the night, and by it I was able to see a tall and graceful figure, which I instantly recognized, making for the secondary stairs at the further end. Now these stairs, so I had been given to understand, led to another portion of the hotel into which I had never penetrated. Why, therefore, Miss Trevor was using them at such an hour, and, above all, dressed for going out, I could not for the life of me determine. I could see that, if I was anxious to find out, I must be quick; so, turning swiftly into the room again, I picked up my hat and set off in pursuit. As the sequel will prove, it was, perhaps, as well that I did so.

By the time I reached the top of the stairs she was at the bottom, and was speeding along another passage to the right. At the end of this was a door, the fastenings of which she undid, with an ease and assurance that bewildered me. So certain was she of her whereabouts, and so easily did she manipulate the heavy door, that I felt inclined to believe that she must have used that passage many times before. At last she opened it and passed out into the darkness, drawing it to after her. I had paused to watch her; now I hastened on even faster than before, fearing that, if I were not careful, I might lose her outside. Having passed the door I found myself in a narrow lane, bounded on either side by high walls, and some fifty or sixty yards in extent. The lane, in its turn, opened into a small square, out of which led two or three other narrow streets. She turned to the left and passed down one of these; I followed close upon her heels. Of all the strange experiences to which our stay in Venice had given rise, this was certainly one of the most remarkable. That Gertrude Trevor, the honest English girl, the daughter of a dignitary of the Church and a prospective bishop, should leave her hotel in the middle of the night in order to wander about streets with which she was most imperfectly acquainted, was a mystery I found difficult to solve. When she had crossed a bridge, which spanned a small canal, she once more turned to the left, passed along the footway before a dilapidated palace, and then entered a narrow passage on the right. The buildings hereabouts were all large, and, as a natural consequence, the streets were so dark that I had some difficulty in keeping her in sight. As a matter of fact she had stopped, and I was almost upon her before I became aware of it. Even then she did not seem to realize my presence. She was standing before a small door, which she was endeavouring to push open. At last she succeeded, and without hesitation began to descend some steps inside. Once more I took up the chase, though where we were, and what we were going to do there, I had not the least idea. The small yard in which we found ourselves was stone-paved, and for this reason I wondered that she did not hear my footsteps. It is certain, however, that she did not, for she made for a door I could just discern on the opposite side to that by which we had entered, without turning her head. It was at this point that I began to wish I had brought a revolver or some weapon with me. When she was about to open the door I have just mentioned, I called her softly by name, and implored her to wait for me, but still she took no notice. Could she be a somnambulist? I asked myself. But if this were so, why had she chosen this particular house? Having passed the door we stood in a second and larger courtyard, and it was then that the whole mystery became apparent to me. The house to which I had followed her was the Palace Revecce, and she was on her way to Nikola! But for what reason? Was this a trick of Nikola's, or had her terrible dreams taken such a hold upon her that she was not responsible for her actions? Either alternative was bad enough. Pausing for a moment in the courtyard beside the well, she turned quickly to her right hand and began to ascend the stairs towards that awful room, which, so far as I knew, she had never visited before. When she reached it I scarcely knew how to act. Should I enter behind her and accuse Nikola of having enticed her there, or should I wait outside and overhear what transpired between them? At last I made up my mind to adopt the latter course, and, when she had entered, I accordingly remained outside and waited for her. Through the half-open door I could see Nikola, stooping over what looked like a microscope at a side-table. He looked up as Miss Trevor entered, and uttered a cry of surprise. As I heard this a sigh of relief escaped me, for his action proved to me that her visit had not been anticipated.

"Miss Trevor!" he said, moving forward to greet her, "what does this mean? How did you get here?"

"I have come to you," she faltered, "because I could not remain away. I have come to you that I may beg of you that wretched man's life. Doctor Nikola, I implore you to spare him!"

"My dear young lady," said Nikola, with a softness in his voice that reminded me of that I had heard in the death-chamber a few hours before, "you cannot understand what you are doing. You must let me take you back to your friends. You should not be here at this hour of the night."

"But I was bound to come – don't I tell you I could not remain away? Spare him! Oh! for God's sake, spare him!"

"You do not know what you are asking. You are not yourself to-night."

"I only know that I am thinking of you," she answered. "You must not do it! You are so great, so powerful, that you can afford to forgive. Take my life rather than harm him. I will yield it gladly to save you from this sin."

"To – save – me," I heard him mutter to himself. "She would save me!"

"God would never forgive," she continued, still in the same dreamy voice.

He moved away from her, and from where I stood I could see how agitated he was. For some moments she knelt, looking up at him, with arms outstretched in supplication; then he said something to her in a low voice, which I could not catch. Her answer, however, was plain to me.

"Yes, I have known it always in my dreams," she said.

"And knowing that, you would still wish me to pardon him?"

"In the name of God I would urge you to do so," she answered. "The safety of your soul depends upon it."

Once more Nikola turned away and paced the room.

"Are you aware that Sir Richard Hatteras was here on the same errand this afternoon?" he asked.

"I know it," she replied, though how she could have done so I could not conceive, nor have I been able to do so since.

"And does he know that you have come to me now asking me to forgive?"

"He knows it," she answered, as before. "He followed me here."

As she had never looked behind her, how had she known this also?

Then Nikola approached the door and threw it open.

"Come in, Hatteras," he said. "Your presence is discovered."

"For heaven's sake, Nikola, tell me what this means," I cried, seeing that the girl did not turn towards me. "Is she asleep, or have you brought your diabolical influence upon her?"

"She is not asleep, and yet she is not conscious of her actions," he answered. "There is something in this that passes our philosophy. Had I any idea that she contemplated such a thing, I would have used every effort to prevent it. Miss Trevor, believe me, you must go home with Sir Richard," he continued, tenderly raising the girl to her feet as he spoke.

"I cannot go until you have sworn to forgive," was her reply.

"I must have time to think," he answered. "In the morning you will know everything. Trust me until then, and remember always that while Nikola lives he will be grateful."

Then he assisted me to conduct her down-stairs, and across the two courtyards, to the little postern door through which we had entered the palace.

"Have no fear for her," he said, addressing me. "She will go home as she came. And in the morning she will remember nothing of what has transpired."

Then taking her hand in his he raised it to his lips, and a moment later had bade me farewell, and had vanished into the palace once more.

As I tracked her from the hotel, so I followed her back to it again. I was none the less anxious, however. If only Nikola would abandon his purpose, and release his enemy, her action and my anxiety would not be in vain. But would he do so, and in the event of his doing this, would his prophecy that Miss Trevor would, in the morning, remember nothing of what had transpired, prove true?

Turning, twisting as before, we proceeded on our way. My chief fear was that the door through which we had made our exit would be found to be shut on our return. Happily, however, this did not prove to be the case. I saw Miss Trevor enter, and then swiftly followed her. She hastened down the passage, ascended the stairs, passed along the corridor, and made her way to her own room. As soon as I had made certain that she was safely there, I went on to my own dressing-room, and on entering my wife's apartment had the good fortune to find her still asleep. I was still more thankful in the morning when I discovered she had not missed me, and being satisfied on this point, I decided to say nothing whatsoever concerning our adventure.

Miss Trevor was the last to put in an appearance at breakfast, and, as you may suppose, I scanned her face with some anxiety. She looked pale and worn, but it was evident from her manner when she greeted me, that she had not the least idea what she had done during the night. Nikola's promise had proved to be true, and for that reason I was more determined than ever to keep my information to myself. Events could not have turned out more fortunately for all parties concerned.

Shortly after breakfast a letter was handed to me, and, glancing at the writing, I saw that it was from Nikola. I was alone at the time of receiving it, a fact for which I was grateful. I will leave you to imagine with what impatience I opened it. It was short, and merely contained a request that I would call at the Palace Revecce before noon that day, if I could spare the hour. I decided to do so, and I reached the palace twenty minutes or so before the appointed time. The old servitor, who by this time had become familiar with my face, opened the door and permitted me to enter. I inquired if Doctor Nikola were at home, and to my surprise was informed that he was not.

"Perhaps your Excellency would like to see the other Senor?" the old man asked, pointing up the stairs.

I was about to decline this invitation with all possible haste, when a voice I recognized as that of the Don greeted me from the gallery above.

"Won't you come up-stairs, Sir Richard?" it said. "I have a letter for you, from my friend, Doctor Nikola!"

I could scarcely believe the evidence of my eyes and ears, and when I reached the room of which I had such terrible recollections, my surprise was intensified rather than lessened. Martinos had undergone a complete metamorphosis. In outward appearance he was no longer the same person, who only the day before had filled me with such terrible repulsions. If such a thing could be believed, he was more like his old self – as I had first seen him.

"Where is Doctor Nikola?" I inquired, when I had looked round the room and noticed the absence of the chemical paraphernalia, the multitude of books, and the general change in it.

"He went away early this morning," the Don replied. "He left a letter for you, and requested me to give it you as soon as you should call. I have much pleasure in doing so now."

I took it and placed it almost mechanically in my pocket.

"Are you aware when he will return?" I asked.

"He will never do so," Martinos replied. "I heard the old man below wailing this morning, because he had lost the best master he had ever had."

"And you?"

"I am ruined, as you know," he said, without any reference to his illness, "but the good doctor has been good enough to place twenty thousand lira to my credit, and I shall go elsewhere and attempt to double it."

He must have been much better, for he smiled in the old deceitful way as he said this. Remembering what I knew of him, I turned from the man in disgust, and bidding him good-day, left the room which I hoped never to see again as long as I might live. In the courtyard I encountered the old caretaker once more.

"So the Senor Nikola has gone away never to return?" I said.

"That is so, Senor," said the old man with a heavy sigh. "He has left me a rich man, but I do not like to think that I shall never see him again."

Sitting down upon the edge of the well I took from my pocket the letter the Don had handed me.

"Farewell, friend Hatteras," it began. "By the time you receive this I shall have left Venice, never more to set foot in it. We shall not meet again. I go to the Fate which claims me, and of which I told you. Think of me sometimes, and, if it be possible, with kindness,

"Nikola."

I rose and moved towards the door, placing a gold piece in the old man's hand as I passed him. Then, with a last look at the courtyard, I went down the steps and took my place in the gondola, with a feeling of sadness in my heart for the sad Destiny of the most wonderful man I had ever known.

CHAPTER XIV

Next day, much to Galaghetti's sorrow, we suddenly brought our stay in Venice to a conclusion, and set off for Paris. The Queen of the Adriatic had lost her charm for us, and for once in our lives we were not sorry to say good-bye to her. The train left the station, crossed the bridge to the mainland, and was presently speeding on her way across Europe. Ever since the morning Miss Trevor's spirits had been steadily improving. She seemed to have become her old self in a few hours, and Glenbarth's delight was beautiful to witness. He had been through a good deal, poor fellow, and deserved some recompense for it. We had been upwards of an hour upon our way, when my wife made a curious remark.

"Good gracious!" she said, "in our hurry to get away we have quite forgotten to say good-bye to Doctor Nikola!"

I saw Miss Trevor give a little shudder.

"Do you know," she said, "I had such a curious dream about him last night. I dreamt that I saw him standing in the courtyard of a great building on a mountain-side. He was dressed in a strange sort of yellow gown, not unlike that worn by the Buddhist priests, and was worn almost to a shadow and looked very old. He approached me, and taking my hands, said something that, in the commonplace light of day, doesn't seem to have much sense in it. But I know it affected me very much at the time."

"What was it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"It was this," she answered – "'Remember that I have forgiven; it is for you to forget.' What could he have meant?"

"Since it is only a dream, it is impossible to say," observed my wife, and thus saved me the danger of attempting a solution.

To bring my long narrative to a conclusion I might say that the Duke and Miss Trevor were married last May. They spent their honeymoon yachting to the West Indies. Some one proposed that they should visit Venice; indeed, the Earl of Sellingbourne, who had lately purchased the Palace Revecce, and had furnished it, by the way, from the Tottenham Court Road, placed it at their disposal. From what I have been told I gather that he was somewhat ill-pleased because his offer was not accepted.

When the wind howls round the house at night and the world seems very lonely, I sometimes try to picture a monastery on a mountain-side, and then, in my fancy, I see a yellow-robed, mysterious figure, whose dark, searching eyes look into mine with a light that is no longer of this world. To him I cry —

"FAREWELL, NIKOLA!"THE END