The Bramleighs of Bishop's Folly

“Well,” said he, aloud, as he looked at the small fragment of an almost finished cigar, “I suppose it is nigh over now! I shall have to go and seek my fortune in Queensland, or New Zealand, or some far-away country, and all I shall carry with me will be the memory of this dream – for it is a dream – of our life here. I wonder shall I ever, as I have seen other men, throw myself into my work, and efface the thought of myself, and of my own poor weak nature, in the higher interests that will press on me for action.”

What should he do if men came to him for guidance, or counsel, or consolation. Could he play the hypocrite, and pretend to give what he had not got? or tell them to trust to what he bitterly knew was not the sustaining principle of his own life? “This shall be so no longer,” cried he; “if I cannot go heart and soul into my work, I ‘ll turn farmer or fisherman. I ‘ll be what I can be without shame and self-reproach. One week more of this happiness – one week – and I vow to tear myself from it forever.”

As he thus muttered, he found himself in the narrow street that led into the centre of the little town, which, blocked up by fruit-stalls and fish-baskets, required all his address to navigate. The whole population, too, were screaming out their wares in the shrill cries of the South, and invitations to buy were blended with droll sarcasms on rival productions and jeering comments on the neighbors. Though full of deference for the unmistakable signs of gentleman in his appearance, they did not the less direct their appeals to him as he passed, and the flatteries on his handsome face and graceful figure mingled with the praises of whatever they had to sell.

Half amused, but not a little flurried by all the noise and tumult around him, L’Estrange made his way through the crowd till he reached the dingy entrance which led to the still dingier stair of the Podestà’s residence.

L’Estrange had scarcely prepared the speech in which he should announce himself as charged with consular functions, when he found himself in presence of a very dirty little man, with spectacles and a skull-cap, whose profuse civilities and ceremonious courtesies actually overwhelmed him. He assured L’Estrange that there were no words in Italian – nor even in German, for he spoke in both – which could express a fractional part of the affliction he experienced in enforcing measures that savored of severity on a subject of that great nation which had so long been the faithful friend and ally of the imperial house. On this happy political union it was clear he had prepared himself historically, for he gave a rapid sketch of the first empire, and briefly threw off a spirited description of the disastrous consequences of the connection with France, and the passing estrangement from Great Britain. By this time, what between the difficulties of a foreign tongue, and a period with which the poor parson was not, historically, over conversant, he was completely mystified and bewildered. At last the great functionary condescended to become practical. He proceeded to narrate that an English sailor, who had been landed at Ragusa by some Greek coasting-vessel, had come over on foot to Cat-taro to find his consul as a means of obtaining assistance to reach England. There were, however, suspicious circumstances about the man that warranted the police in arresting him and carrying him off to prison. First of all, he was very poor, almost in rags, and emaciated to a degree little short of starvation. These were signs that vouched little for a man’s character; indeed, the Podestà thought them damaging in the last degree; but there were others still worse. There were marks on his wrists and ankles which showed he had lately worn manacles and fetters – unmistakable marks: marks which the practised eye of gendarmes had declared must have been produced by the heavy chains worn by galley-slaves, so that the man was, without doubt, an escaped convict, and might be, in consequence, a very dangerous individual.

As the prisoner spoke neither Italian nor German, there was no means of interrogating him. They had therefore limited themselves to taking him into custody, and now held him at the disposal of the consular authority, to deal with him as it might please.

“May I see him?” asked L’Estrange.

“By all means; he is here. We have had him brought from the prison awaiting your Excellency’s arrival. Perhaps you would like to have him handcuffed before he is introduced. The brigadier recommends it.”

“No, no. If the poor creature be in the condition you tell me, he cannot be dangerous.” And the stalwart curate threw a downward look at his own brawny proportions with a satisfied smile that did not show much fear.

The brigadier whispered something in the Podestà’s ear in a low tone, and the great man then said aloud – “He tells me that he could slip the handcuffs on him now quite easily, for the prisoner is sound asleep, and so overcome by fatigue that he hears nothing.”

“No, no,” reiterated L’Estrange. “Let us have no hand-cuffs; and with your good permission, too, I would ask another favor: let the poor fellow take his sleep out. It will be quite time enough for me to see him when he awakes.”

The Podestà turned a look of mingled wonder and pity on the man who could show such palpable weakness in official life; but he evidently felt he could not risk his dignity by concurrence in such a line of conduct.

“If your Excellency,” said he, “tells me it is in this wise prisoners are treated in your country, I have no more to say.”

“Well, well; let him be brought up,” said L’Estrange, hastily, and more than ever anxious to get free of this Austrian Dogberry.

Nothing more was said on either side while the brigadier went down to bring up the prisoner. The half darkened room, the stillness, the mournful ticking of a clock that made the silence more significant, all impressed L’Estrange with a mingled feeling of weariness and depression; and that strange melancholy that steals over men at times, when all the events of human life seem sad-colored and dreary, now crept over him, when the shuffling sounds of feet, and the clanging of a heavy sabre, apprised him that the escort was approaching.

“We have no treaty with any of the Italian Governments,” said the Podestà, “for extradition; and if the man be a galley-slave, as we suspect, we throw all the responsibility of his case on you.” As he spoke, the door opened, and a young man with a blue flannel shirt and linen trousers entered, freeing himself from the hands of the gendarmes with a loose shake, as though to say, “In presence of my countrymen in authority, I owe no submission to these.” He leaned on the massive rail that formed a sort of barrier in the room, and with one hand pushed back the long hair that fell heavily over his face.

“What account do you give of yourself, my man?” said L’Estrange, in a tone half-commanding, half-encouraging.

“I have come here to ask my consul to send me on to England, or to some seaport where I may find a British vessel,” said the man, and his voice was husky and weak, like that of one just out of illness.

“How did you come to these parts?” asked L’Estrange.

“I was picked up at sea by a Greek trabaccolo, and landed at Antivari; the rest of the way I came on foot.”

“Were you cast away? or how came it that you were picked up?”

“I made my escape from the Bagni at Ischia. I had been a galley-slave there.” The bold effrontery of the declaration was made still more startling by a sort of low laugh which followed his words.

“You seem to think it a light matter to have been at the galleys, my friend,” said L’Estrange, half reprovingly. “How did it happen that an Englishman should be in such a discreditable position?”

“It’s a long story – too long for a hungry man to tell,” said the sailor; “perhaps too long for your own patience to listen to. At all events, it has no bearing on my present condition.”

“I’m not so sure of that, my good fellow. Men are seldom sentenced to the galleys for light offences; and I ‘d like to know something of the man I’m called on to befriend.”

“I make you the same answer I gave before – the story would take more time than I have well strength for. Do you know,” said he, earnestly, and in a voice of touching significance, “it is twenty-eight hours since I have tasted food?”

L’Estrange leaned forward in his chair, like one expecting to hear more, and eager to catch the words aright; and then rising, walked over to the rail where the prisoner stood. “You have not told me your name,” said he, in a voice of kindly meaning.

“I have been called Sam Rogers for some time back; and I mean to be Sam Rogers a little longer.”

“But it is not your real name?” asked L’Estrange, eagerly.

The other made no reply for some seconds; and then, moving his hand carelessly through his hair, said, in a half-reckless way, “I declare, sir, I can’t see what you have to do with my name, whether I be Sam Rogers, or – or – anything else I choose to call myself. To you – I believe, at least – to you I am simply a distressed British sailor.”

“And you are Jack Bramleigh?” said L’Estrange, in a low tone, scarcely above a whisper, while he grasped the sailor’s hands, and shook them warmly.

“And who are you?” said Jack, in a voice shaken and faltering.

“Don’t you know me, my poor dear fellow? Don’t you remember George L’Estrange?”

What between emotion and debility, this speech unmanned him so that he staggered back a couple of paces, and sank down heavily, not fainting, but too weak to stand, too much overcome to utter.

CHAPTER LVI. AT LADY AUGUSTA’S

“The Count Pracontal, my Lady,” said a very grave-looking groom of the chambers, as Lady Augusta sat watching a small golden squirrel swinging by his tail from the branch of a camellia tree.

“Say I am engaged, Hislop – particularly engaged. I do not receive – or, wait; tell him I am much occupied, but if he is quite sure his visit shall not exceed five minutes, he may come in.”

Count Pracontal seemed as though the permission had reached his own ears, for he entered almost immediately, and, bowing deeply and deferentially, appeared to wait leave to advance further into the room.

“Let me have my chocolate, Hislop;” and, as the man withdrew, she pointed to a chair, and said, “There. When did you come back?”

Pracontal, however, had dropped on his knee before her, and pressed her hand to his lips with a fervid devotion, saying, “How I have longed and waited for this moment!”

“I shall ring the bell, sir, if you do not be seated immediately. I asked when you returned?”

“An hour ago, my Lady – less than an hour ago. I did not dare to write; and then I wished to be myself the bearer of my own good news.”

“What good news are these?”

“That I have, if not won my suit, secured the victory. The registries have been discovered – found in the very spot indicated in the journal. The entries are complete; and nothing is wanting to establish the legality of the marriage. Oh, I entreat you, do not listen to me so coldly! You know well for what reason I prize this success. You know well what gives its brightest lustre in my eyes.”

“Pray be narrative now – the emotional can be kept for some other time. Who says that this means success?”

“My lawyer, Mr. Kelson. He calls the suit won. He proves his belief, for he has advanced me money to pay off my debt to Longworth, and to place me in a position of ease and comfort.”

“And what is Kelson; is he one of the judges?”

“Of course not. He is one of the leading solicitors of London; a very grave, thoughtful, cautious man. I have shown you many of his letters. You must remember him.”

“No; I never remember people; that is, if they have not personally interested me. I think you have grown thin. You look as if you had been ill.”

“I have fretted a good deal, – worried myself; and my anxiety about you has made me sleepless and feverish.”

“About me! Why, I was never better in my life.”

“Your looks say as much; but I meant my anxiety to lay my tidings at your feet, and with them myself and my whole future.”

“You may leave the chocolate there, Hislop,” as the man entered with the tray; “unless Count Pracontal would like some.”

“Thanks, my Lady,” said he, bowing his refusal.

“You are wrong, then,” said she, as the servant withdrew. “Hislop makes it with the slightest imaginable flavor of the cherry laurel; and it is most soothing. Is n’t he a love?”

“Hislop?”

“No, my darling squirrel yonder. The poor dear has been ill these two days. He bit Sir Marcus Guff, and that horrid creature seems to have disagreed with the darling, for he has pined ever since. Don’t caress him; he hates men, except Monsignore Alberti, whom, probably, he mistakes for an old lady. And what becomes of all the Bramleighs – are they left penniless?”

“By no means. I do not intend to press my claim farther than the right to the estates. I am not going to proceed for – I forget the legal word – the accumulated profits. Indeed, if Mr. Bramleigh be only animated by the spirit I have heard attributed to him, there is no concession that I am not disposed to make him.”

“What droll people Frenchmen are! They dash their morality, like their cookery, with something discrepant. They fancy it means ‘piquancy.’ What, in the name of all romance, have you to do with the Bramleighs? Why all this magnanimity for people who certainly have been keeping you out of what was your own, and treating your claim to it as a knavery?”

“You might please to remember that we are related.”

“Of course you are nothing of the kind. If you be the true prince, the others must be all illegitimate a couple of generations back. Perhaps I am imbittered against them by that cruel fraud practised on myself. I cannot bring myself to forgive it. Now, if you really were that fine generous creature you want me to believe, it is of me, of me, Lady Augusta Bramleigh, you would be thinking all this while: how to secure me that miserable pittance they called my settlement; how to recompense me for the fatal mistake I made in my marriage; how to distinguish between the persons who fraudulently took possession of your property, and the poor harmless victim of their false pretensions.”

“And is not this what I am here for? Is it not to lay my whole fortune at your feet?”

“A very pretty phrase, that does n’t mean anything like what it pretends; a phrase borrowed from a vaudeville, and that ought to be restored to where it came from.”

“Lord and Lady Culduff, my Lady, wish to pay their respects.”

“They are passing through,” said Lady Augusta, reading the words written in pencil on the card presented by the servant. “Of course I must see them. You need n’t go away, Count; but I shall not present you. Yes, Hislop, tell her Ladyship I am at home. I declare, you are always compromising me. Sit over yonder, and read your newspaper, or play with Felice.”

She had barely finished these instructions when the double door was flung wide, and Marion swept proudly in. Her air and toilet were both queenlike; and, indeed, her beauty was not less striking than either. Lord Culduff followed, a soft pleasant smile on his face. It might do service in many ways, for it was equally ready to mean sweetness or sarcasm, as occasion called for.

When the ladies had kissed twice, and his Lordship had saluted Lady Augusta with a profound respect, dashed with a sort of devotion, Marion’s eyes glanced at the stranger, who, though he arose, and only reseated himself as they sat down, neither lifted his glance nor seemed to notice them further.

“We are only going through; we start at two o’clock,” said she, hurriedly.

“At one-forty, my Lady,” said Lord Culduff, with a faint smile, as though shocked at being obliged to correct her.

“It was so kind of you to come,” said Lady Augusta; “and you only arrived this morning?”

“We only arrived half an hour ago.”

“I must order you some lunch. I’m sure you can eat something.”

“My Lady is hungry; she said so as we came along,” said Lord Culduff. “Allow me to ring for you. As for myself, I take Liebig’s lozenges and a spoonful of Curaçoa – nothing else – before dinner.”

“It’s so pleasant to live with people who are ‘dieted,’” said Marion, with a sneering emphasis on the word.

“So I hear from Bramleigh,” interposed Lord Culduff, “that this man – I forget his name – actually broke into the house at Casteilo, and carried away a quantity of papers.”

“My Lord, as your Lordship is so palpably referring to me, and as I am quite sure you are not aware of my identity, may I hasten to say I am Count Pracontal de Bramleigh?”

“Oh, dear! have I forgotten to present you?” said Lady Augusta, with a perfect simplicity of manner.

Marion acknowledged the introduction by the slightest imaginable bow, and a look of cold defiance; while Lord Culduff smiled blandly, and professed his regret if he had uttered a word that could occasion pain.

“Love and war are chartered libertines, and why not law?” said the Viscount. “I take it that all stratagems are available; the great thing is, they should be successful.”

“Count Pracontal declares that he can pledge himself to the result,” said Lady Augusta. “The case, in fact, as he represents it, is as good as determined.”

“Has a jury decided, then?” asked Culduff.

“No, my Lord; the trial comes on next term. I only repeat the assurance given me by my lawyer; and so far confirmed by him that he has made me large advances, which he well knows I could not repay if I should not gain my cause.”

“These are usually cautious people,” said the Viscount, gravely.

“It strikes me,” said Marion, rising, “that this sort of desultory conversation on a matter of such importance is, to say the least, inconvenient. Even the presence of this gentleman is not sufficient to make me forget that my family have always regarded his pretension as something not very far from a fraud.”

“I regret infinitely, madam,” said Pracontal, bowing low, “that it is not a man has uttered the words just spoken.”

“Lady Culduff’s words, sir, are all mine,” said Lord Culduff.

“I thank your Lordship from my heart for the relief you have afforded me.”

“There must be nothing of this kind,” said Lady Augusta, warmly. “If I have been remiss in not making Count Pracontal known to you before, let me repair my error by presenting him now as a gentleman who makes me the offer of his hand.”

“I wish you good-morning,” said Marion. “No, thank you; no luncheon. Your Ladyship has given me fully as much for digestion as I care for. Good-bye.”

“If my congratulations could only shadow forth a vision of all the happiness I wish your Ladyship,” began Lord Culduff.

“I think I know, my Lord, what you would say,” broke she in, laughingly. “You would like to have uttered something very neat on well-assorted unions. There could be no better authority on such a subject; but Count Pracontal is toleration itself: he lets me tell my friends that I am about to marry him for money, just as I married poor Colonel Bramleigh for love.”

“I am waiting for you, my Lord. We have already trespassed too far on her Ladyship’s time and occupations.” The sneering emphasis on the last word was most distinct. Lord Culduff kissed Lady Augusta’s hand with a most devoted show of respect, and slowly retired.

As the door closed after them, Pracontal fell at her feet, and covered her hand with kisses.

“There, there, Count, I have paid a high price for that piece of impertinence I have just uttered; but when I said it, I thought it would have given her an apoplexy.”

“But you are mine, – you are my own!”

“Noud en parlerons. The papers are full of breaches of promise; and if you want me to keep mine, you ‘ll not make it odious to me by tormenting me about it.”

“But, my Lady, I have a heart; a heart that would be broken by a betrayal.”

“What a strange heart for a Frenchman! About as suitable to the Boulevards Italiens as snow shoes to the tropics. Monsieur de Pracontal,” said she, in a much graver tone, “please to bear in mind that I am a very considerable item in such an arrangement as we spoke of. The whole question is not what would make you happy.”

Pracontal bowed low in silence; his gesture seemed to accept her words as a command to be obeyed, and he did not utter a syllable.

“Is n’t she handsome?” cried she, at length. “I declare, Count, if one of your countrywomen had a single one of the charms of that beautiful face she ‘d be turning half the heads in Europe; and Marion can do nothing with them all, except drive other women wild with envy.”

CHAPTER LVII. AT THE INN AT CATTARO

When L’Estrange had carried off Jack Bramleigh to the inn, and had seen him engaged with an excellent breakfast, he despatched a messenger to the villa to say that he was not to be expected home by dinner time, but would be back to tea “with a friend,” for whom he begged Gusty Bramleigh’s room might be prepared.

I shall not delay to chronicle all the doubt, the discussion, and the guessing that the note occasioned; the mere fact that George had ventured to issue an order of this kind without first consulting Julia investing the step with a degree of mysteriousness perfectly inscrutable. I turn, however, to Cattaro, where L’Estrange and Jack sat together, each so eager to hear the other’s tidings as to be almost too impatient to dwell upon himself.

To account for their presence in this remote spot, George, as briefly as he could, sketched the course of events at Castello, not failing to lay due stress on the noble and courageous spirit with which Augustus and Nelly had met misfortune. “All is not lost yet,” said L’Estrange; “far from it; but even if the worst should come, I do not know of two people in the world who will show a stouter front to adversity.”

“And your sister, where is she?” said Jack, in a voice scarce above a whisper.

“Here, – at the villa.”

“Not married?”

“No. I believe she has changed less than any of us. She is just what you remember her.”

It was not often that L’Estrange attempted anything like adroitness in expression; but he did so here, and saw, in the heightened color and sparkling eye of the other, how thoroughly his speech had succeeded.

“I wonder will she know me!” said Jack, after a pause. “You certainly did not at first.”

“Nor, for that matter, did you recognize me.”

“Ah, but I did, though,” said Jack, passing his hand over his brow; “but I had gone through so much, and my head was so knocked about, I could n’t trust that my senses were not deceiving me, and I thought if I make any egregious blunder now, these people will set me down for mad. That was the state I was in the whole time you were questioning me. I promise you it was no small suffering while it lasted.”

“My poor fellow, what trials you must have gone through to come to this! Tell me by what mischance you were at Ischia.”

With all a sailor’s frankness, and with a modesty in speaking of his own achievements just as sailor-like, Jack told the story of the storm at Naples.

“I had no thought of breaking the laws,” said he, bluntly. “I saw ships foundering, and small craft turning keel uppermost on every side of me; there was disaster and confusion everywhere. I had no time to inquire about the morals of the men I saw clinging to hencoops, or holding on by stretchers. I saved as many as I could, and sorry enough I was to have seen many go down before I could get near them; and I was fairly beat when it was all over, or, perhaps, they ‘d not have captured me so easily. At all events,” said he, after a minute’s silence, “they might have let me off with a lighter sentence, but my temper got the better of me in court, and when they asked me if it was not true that I had made greater efforts to save the galley-slaves than the soldiery, I told them it might have been so, for the prisoners, chained and handcuffed, as they were, went down like brave men, while the royal troops yelled and screamed like a set of arrant cowards; and that whenever I pulled one of the wretches out of the water I was half ashamed of my own humanity. That speech settled me; at least, the lawyer said so, and declared he was afraid to say a word more in defence of a man that insulted the tribunal and the nation together.”