Chapter XXV: Not the Last Word (3)

During the early part of the season they had prospected up along the river, finding gold all the way, but not in quantities sufficiently large to warrant working. At the place, however, which they subsequently named Chihuahua (pronounced in the vernacular Chee-waw-waw) the perspicacious Jones had given it as his opinion, formed after mature deliberation and a sapient examination of some two or three shovelsful of dirt, that there was a satisfactory "color in that ar bank." Some hard work of about a week demonstrated that there were excellent diggings there, and then work was commenced upon it in good earnest. The cabin was built, Gentleman Dick's choice of location being unanimously approved; two or three trips were made across the "Range" to the nearest settlement for materials and provisions; and then the real labor began. As they cut through the heavy bank of mould and gravel, gradually eating a long trench to the bed-rock, prospects grew better and better. At last, one day a narrow ledge of brittle, shaly rock came in view, covered with a coating of thick, heavy yellow mud, of which Old Platte gathered a panful and betook himself down to the river-side. A war-whoop from the direction in which he had disappeared came ringing through the gooseberry bushes to their ears, and with a responsive yell and a simultaneous dropping of shovels and picks they all dashed off to his side. He was discovered in a condition of great excitement, dancing wildly round the pan, in the bottom of which about half a teaspoonful of coarse yellow nuggets were shining among the black sand. It was a grand prospect, and with the exception of Gentleman Dick, whose exultation was of a very mild and reserved order, the proprietors of the Chihuahua Claim behaved in a very undignified and unseemly way; Thompson and Jones organizing an impromptu sparring-match, and Old Platte standing indecorously on his head in a neighboring clump of bushes. Sundry war-whoops and divers indications of activity showed that work of a very lively and energetic character was being prosecuted that afternoon on the bar; and when the sun sunk to rest behind the purple mountains, and the blue mists of evening rose in the valley, they had their sluice-boxes and "riffles" in order, and were ready to commence washing at sunrise.

It did not take very long to clean the ledge, and early in the afternoon the water was shut off. When it was found that the "riffles" yielded thirteen ounces of gold that would coin eighteen dollars and a half to the ounce, a firm conviction seemed to settle upon the camp that this was an occasion which it would be improper to pass over without a thorough and practical acknowledgment of its importance in the shape of a regular celebration. The gold was weighed and divided, all sitting in a circle in the middle of the cabin floor, while Old Platte officiated at the scales with all the gravity and dignity which the responsible position called for.

Mr. McNab's grocery and post-office at Blue Bar was the scene of much excitement and noisy revelry that evening and all the next day while the gold lasted. Miners who had heard of the Chihuahua "streak" flocked up to Blue Bar to get the particulars, and naturally joined in the general feeling of exultation and hilarity that seemed to pervade that community. Old Platte got terribly drunk, and Thompson and Jones developed the strangest eccentricities of gait, manner and speech, and finally subsided into a deep slumber in the dust and sand of the main thoroughfare of the Bar. Gentleman Dick's absence from the festivities was not noticed that evening, but the next day Thompson, who seemed to feel aggrieved on the subject, announced his intention of going up to Chihuahua to fetch him down. He left Mr. McNab's on his charitable mission armed with a bottle of rum, and proceeded up the creek in a condition of moderate intoxication. That he was somewhat sobered on his arrival at the cabin was perhaps due to the fact that the cork was fixed very firmly in the neck of his bottle: at any rate, he did not ask his friend to drink when he found him.

Gentleman Dick had just directed and sealed a letter, and was about to start for the settlement of Gold Dirt, when Thompson loomed up unsteadily in the doorway, surveyed him inquiringly for a moment and asked undecidedly and apologetically, "Wass' up? W'ere you goin'?"

Gentleman Dick, apparently overlooking his somewhat dubious condition, told him he had been writing a letter to some one who lived in the States: he was going to Gold Dirt to mail it, and a ring of Blue Creek gold was to accompany it to its destination. Thompson said no more, but stood there in the doorway with McNab's rum under his arm. He did not stir, nor did he seem to notice the "good-bye" that came down the winding trail through the pines, but remained there stolid and immovable, gazing vacantly at the writing-paper on the rough table. Suddenly he straightened himself up to his full height, and taking the bottle from under his arm, held it out at arm's length and apostrophized it in terms which Mr. McNab would have regarded as a personal insult, and which the community on the Blue might possibly have resented with a challenge to mortal combat. His next step, had they witnessed it, would certainly have led to the conclusion that he was a dangerous lunatic, and one, at that, whose peculiar madness was of a kind specially objectionable to the residents of Blue Bar. He placed the object toward which his feelings had undergone so sudden a revulsion carefully on the ground, and seizing in his hands a huge boulder, he proceeded to let it drop accurately upon it. He oscillated critically over the fragments, as if to assure himself that the result had been satisfactorily attained, and then strode rapidly and unsteadily into the forest. How such unsound principles of economy came to be adopted by him never very clearly appeared; and the problem of his absence from camp for two whole days, and his subsequent reform upon the subject of whisky, were matters very freely discussed at McNab's hut, without any definite or reliable result being arrived at.

* * * * *

Summer had melted imperceptibly into autumn; and the bright tints that glittered on the mountain-slopes and through the sturdy undergrowth of the forest told that it in its turn was soon to give way to winter. Chihuahua Bar was piled with great heaps of boulders and gravel, furrowed here and there with deep ditches and trenches, and otherwise gave ample evidence of the hard work that had been done. But, as Old Platte, remarked, "The luck was down on them," and the partners had very little to show for their long months of toil. Gentleman Dick had worked as hard and earnestly as the others, and had never been known to utter a word of complaint through the many hardships and mishaps they endured. But a great change had come over him. No one who saw him when he joined the party in Denver would have ventured to call him strong or robust, but, delicate as he was then, he was now a mere shadow by comparison. The change had been more marked and rapid during the last few weeks. He had seemed to fade gradually away, growing daily weaker and weaker, until at last a knowledge of his increasing debility forced itself upon the not very observant faculties of his companions--coming rather as a sense of indefinable uneasiness on his behalf than any actual apprehension of his real condition. His great expressive eyes shone out with an unnatural brilliancy from his pale, sunken cheeks, and a deeper shade of melancholy seemed settling on his naturally thoughtful face. Thompson probably noticed it more than anybody else, but said nothing, while Old Platte and Jones exchanged ideas on the subject with a sort of puzzled anxiety, mingled, it might be, with some genuine alarm. They noticed that the work began to fatigue him more and more, and that he often had to pause in the middle of it weary and exhausted.

At last, one day, about the first of November, he remained in his bunk in the cabin, unable to come down to the claim. In their rough, uncouth way they pitied him, and would have given anything they could command to be able to relieve him. But they seemed instinctively to feel that his case was something out of their reach, and with the exception of a weak suggestion from Jones, that he should try some of "them ar antibilious pills as he had in his box," no course of medical treatment was contemplated. Besides, was he not himself a doctor? and if he could do nothing, what should they be able to effect? The argument was sufficiently conclusive; at least, Jones accepted it as such, and retired in some confusion, comforting himself by the perusal of the label on his box of pills, which really seemed to justify the suggestion he had made. Twice after this, on days when the warm sunshine tempted him out of doors, he came down to the claim and sat by the wheel and watched them working; but he never did any more work. He did not tell them he could not do it, or complain that he was too weak: it was tacitly understood that his share of the season's labor was over.

About the middle of November the winter stepped in in its sudden way and commenced to take possession of the valley of the Blue, and by the first of December the ice was so thick that the partners reluctantly stopped work. "Jones of Chihuahua" had expressed his determination of going south to Santa Fé, to stay until spring among the "Greasers," but Old Platte and Thompson would stay on the Blue for the winter, and to that end had laid in such provisions as were deemed necessary. The settlement below on the Bar had been abandoned early in November; and it was doubtful if a white man besides themselves could be found by its waters any nearer than the end of the Great Cañon of the Rio Colorado. But they cared very little for that, and looked forward to their voluntary hibernation without any feeling of apprehension on the score of loneliness. Both were hardy mountaineers. Thompson had been the first man that ever performed the feat of crossing the range at Grey's Peak in the middle of winter, with the aid of a pair of snow-shoes; and he and Old Platte knew that if their provisions gave out they could readily reach some of the Clear Creek diggings in the same way. So Jones strapped his belt of gold-dust around his waist and prepared to depart. He shook hands with the partners, and when Gentleman Dick, with a forced cheeriness of manner and with wishes for a pleasant winter in New Mexico, remarked, "Next spring the boys will give you a third of my share, Jones," he stoutly and earnestly repudiated the implied idea, but with a confusion and uncertainty of manner that indicated a serious doubt in the soundness of his own assertions.

Gentleman Dick released the big hand as he lay in his blankets, and said for the last time, "Good-bye, Jones."

"Good-bye, old man."

Jones strode away abruptly on his journey, and if the moisture about his eyes was in excess of what was required in their normal condition, it was probably due to the bracing and biting frostiness of the morning air.

And so they resigned themselves to their winter's prison on the Blue--Old Platte stolidly and contentedly, Thompson uneasily and restlessly, and Gentleman Dick peacefully and calmly, knowing full well that spring would never bloom again for him. Thus the December days flew by, growing colder and colder, and the snow-line crept gradually down the slopes of the range until it reached the edge of the timber, where it seemed to pause for a few days in its advance. It had already snowed several times in the valley, and the afternoon sun had always melted it away; but they knew by experience that it would soon come down in good earnest and cover everything up for the winter in a mantle of snow some six or seven feet deep. And as the days sped on Gentleman Dick grew paler and paler, and his bright eyes shone with a brighter lustre, while he seemed to be gradually slipping away, losing little by little his hold upon life. He was a mystery to his companions, for he had no disease that could be detected, and why he should sink thus without any apparent cause was more than they could understand.

* * * * *

The wind came roaring down the cañon in wild, fierce gusts; the dead, frost-hardened, brittle branches of the sturdy old pines rattled and cracked and broke as it swept by laden with glittering crystals, stolen from the range above, where it circled madly around the snowy peaks, and whirled away great winding-sheets of snow--fine, sleety snow, that filled the atmosphere with sharp prickly needles, that made their way inside Old Platte's rough woolen shirt as he chopped away at the woodpile, and made him shiver as they melted down his back. Everything was frozen hard and fast; the Blue was silent in its bed; stones and sticks adhered to the ground as if part and parcel of it, and each piece of wood in the pile that Old Platte was working at stood stiffly and firmly in its place. The wind, just before a snow-storm, always comes down the cañons in fierce premonitory gusts, and as it was desirable to get in a good stock of wood before the snow-drifts gathered around the cabin, Old Platte had been hacking manfully for some hours. The sun sunk low in the hollow of the hills to the westward while he was still working, and lit up with a cold yellow glare the snowy wastes and icy peaks of the mighty mountains that stood guard over the Blue. The whistling of the wind among the pines died gradually away, and the silence that seemed to fall with the deepening shadows was only broken by the ringing strokes of the axe and the crack of the splitting wood. When he ceased the valley had faded into darkness, and the range with its sharp outlines was only faintly discernible against the sombre gray pall that had overspread the sky.

He made a broad stack of logs by the fireplace and a larger one outside the door, and then stood by the threshold to take a look at the weather. A great soft feather of snow came sailing slowly down and nestled in his shaggy beard, and another fluttered on to the back of his hand. He looked up through the darkness and saw that it was already beginning to fall thickly, and then, with a self-satisfied glance of approval at his provident woodpile, went into the cabin and fastened the door.

Thompson had shot a fine argal or Rocky Mountain sheep that morning, and the broiled steaks were giving forth a most acceptable odor. He had tried to get Gentleman Dick to taste of a choice piece, but he shook his head wearily, as he had every time for some two weeks or more when proffered food. He could eat nothing, and lay there propped up on rough pillows, seeming scarcely conscious of their presence; his dreamy eyes, with lids half drooping, looking fixedly into the blazing fire. Even the coffee, civilized as it was by the addition of some patent condensed milk, and upon the manufacture of which Thompson had prided himself not a little, stood untouched by his bedside. Old Platte lit his pipe and dragged his three-legged stool into a corner of the wide chimney, and Thompson, after moving the things away to a corner, sat down opposite, mending his snow-shoes with a bundle of buckskin thongs. They did not talk much in that family of evenings: men of this class are not conversational in their habits, and a stranger who should look in would be apt to think them an unsocial set. Old Platte puffed steadily at his pipe, blinking and winking at the fire, which he poked occasionally with a stick or fed with a log of wood from the pile by his side. Thompson worked quietly with knife and awl at his dilapidated shoes, and the pale, patient face beyond still gazed dreamily into the fire. There were old scenes, doubtless, in among those burning logs--old familiar faces, dear memories of the past and weird fantastic visions pictured in the glowing coals. At last the eyes left the fire for a moment, resting on the two that sat by it, and he said, "Boys, it's Christmas Eve."

Thompson started, for he had not heard him speak with so much energy for weeks.

"Christmas Eve!" he repeated absently. "Christmas Eve, and to-morrow will be Christmas Day. Last Christmas was not like this: all was bright and fair, and she--"

The rest of the sentence was lost as he muttered it uneasily to himself and resumed his watching of the fire. Christmas Eve! So it was, but they had not thought of it. Christmas Eve! The name seemed out of place among those rocky fastnesses. What could the pines and the solitude, the snow and the ice, have in common with Christmas? Christmas Eve down in that desolate valley, in the quiet depths of the forest, away, miles away, from human habitation of any kind? Christmas Eve! It seemed absurd, but Christmas Eve it was nevertheless, there as everywhere else.

Old Platte took his blackened old pipe from between his lips and mechanically repeated the words. "Christmas Eve!" he half growled, as if some perplexing ideas had been called into existence by the suggestion, and his pipe went out as he listlessly shoved some stray coals back into the fire with his foot. But his meditations, to judge from his countenance, were neither interesting nor profitable. Probably his Christmases had never been passed in a way that was calculated to make them pleasingly conspicuous in the background of his life. Most of his early recollections were associated with a villainous roadside groggery in Pike county, Missouri, of which his father was the proprietor. Any questions relating to this parent and home he had been known to invariably evade, and whenever conversation tended in that direction he strenuously discouraged it. Why he did so never very clearly appeared. Some people who pretended to know used to say that the old gentleman had been doing a lively trade in horseflesh without going through the customary formalities of finance, and that some people with whom his dealings had been unsatisfactory, in consequence of this unbusinesslike habit of his, had called at his house one evening and invited him to walk out with them. The invitation was one he would have liked to decline, but extra inducements in the shape of the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed against his forehead and a low but determined "Dry up and come along!" caused him to put on his hat and step out. He was found next morning hanging from a branch of a neighboring tree with a brief but expressive obituary written in pencil on a scrap of paper and pinned on his coat: "Horse-thief! Jerry Moon and Scotty, take notice." Inasmuch as one of the latter individuals was the chief authority for the story, and had expedited his departure from Pike county in consequence of the intimation contained in the lines on the same bit of paper, it may be safely inferred that there was some foundation for the numerous stories of a similar nature that were in circulation. So Christmas spent as his had been had no particular interest for Old Platte, and was pretty much the same as any other kind of day upon which there would be an equally good excuse for stopping work and getting venomously drunk. At any rate, the memories that clung around that Pike county whisky-shop were none of the pleasantest or most gratifying; and with a grunt of general dissatisfaction he rekindled his pipe, put a couple of sticks on the fire and allowed his mind to slide off into a more congenial train of reflection.

To Thompson, Gentleman Dick's words had come as a sort of revelation. He knew well enough that Christmas came in December, and also upon what day of that month it fell, but of late the days had gone by so monotonously, and had so little to distinguish them one from another, that he had kept no account of them, and had no idea that it was so near. Some indefinable influence that he could not account for had of late sent his mind groping into old and better channels, and consequently when he was reminded of the presence of Christmas he felt disposed to accord it a measure of consideration rather different from that with which several of its predecessors had met. Like Old Platte, he had regarded it as a good day to go on a "bust" and initiate a "drunk" of more or less duration, but just now he seemed as if inclined to take a different view of it. His eyes could take a clearer and healthier view of the past than he had for a long time had, and its old memories and scenes flocked up before him now, bright through the dim mist that time had cast over them, and fresher and sweeter than ever by contrast with the gloomy present. The snow-shoes slid from his lap and one by one the thongs of buckskins dropped upon the floor, as he leaned back in the corner of the broad chimney, his face resting upon his sinewy hand and his eyes looking through the fire into the world of the past.

Old Platte lay curled up in his bearskins and blankets fast asleep, but the other still sat by the fire in the same position--still dreamily thinking. How long he had sat there he did not know. The fire had sunk into a glowing heap of coals, fast changing into soft white ashes, on which now and then a melting snow-flake that had stolen down through the chimney would fall and disappear with a short angry sizz, and the shadows in the cabin were deep and dark. Suddenly it seemed to him in his dreaming that a voice called him by name, and he awoke from his reverie with a chill and a shudder and a sense of indefinable dread creeping over him--a dread of what, he could not tell. A handful of chips blazed up brightly and lit up the cabin with their flickering light as he turned nervously toward the patient, quiet face behind him. The eyes, shaded by the long black eyelashes, were still on the fire, and while he was confident that he had not been called, he was dimly conscious of a great change that had taken place. As he still looked anxiously at the faded features, the eyes left their long watching of the embers and were raised to meet his. He felt he was wanted, and was by his side in a moment: "How d'yer feel, old man?"

Gentleman Dick smiled as he laid his wasted fingers across the sturdy brown hand that leaned on the edge of his bunk, and turning with difficulty on his pillow, he said in a voice scarce above a whisper, "Thompson, old fellow, you and Platte have been kind, very kind, to me. I won't trouble you much more now. I'm going to say--good-bye to you; and--Thompson--I want you to do one little thing for me--when spring comes." He reached into a chink among the logs by his side and drew forth an envelope containing a few letters, a photograph of a woman's face, fair and tender, and a gold ring.

Thompson took it with a hand that shook as his rarely did.

"Send it soon--it's addressed and all--send it to her. Maybe she will be glad to know I am--gone--at last--out of her path--out of the way--and the world. She sent it back to me--would not have it--or me. Now--" Then his mind seemed to wander, and he rambled incoherently, repeating over and over again a name that sounded like that on the envelope. "You will do it, won't you, Thompson?" said he, rallying suddenly.

Thompson's voice was husky and thick as he answered impressively, "Damn me ef I don't!" adding mentally, as he glanced at the package, "Damn her skin, whoever she is! She's at the bottom of all this here business, you bet."

Gentleman Dick's lips moved as if he were speaking, and as Thompson leaned over him he could hear, in a broken whisper, "Gold--in old boot--under bed--Old Platte half."

He heard no more. The pressure of the wasted fingers relaxed, the weary head sunk slowly back on the pillow, and the tired eyelids drooped over the glazing eyes.

"Dick!" said Thompson--"Dick, old man!"

Too late. Away through the softly-falling snow, from the Blue with its stillness and solitude, from its heartaches and sorrows and troubles, the weary spirit had fled, and Gentleman Dick was at rest.

* * * * *

Spring had come again; the snow had melted from the valleys; the grass and the ferns and the green grass and bright lichens once more peeped out among the gray boulders and about the feet of the stately pines; and the Blue, freed from its wintry prison, sang merrily over the gravelly reaches. And as the miners flocked down that spring from over the range, they saw near by the Chihuahua Claim and the deserted cabin, in a square formed by four gigantic pines, a neatly-built cairn of boulders. One big gray boulder rested securely on top of all, and on it was hacked, in rough and simple letters, GENTLEMAN DICK.

W. MACKAY LAFFAN.

A SINGULAR FAMILY.

Almost as far back as I can remember three brothers, Italians named Noele, were intimates and occasionally inmates of our home. The youngest brother, Eugenio, had been imprisoned during the political disturbances of his country, but had escaped and made his way to England. Here, at a lecture given by Mazzini in London under the auspices of the liberal Italians and those who espoused their cause, Eugenio, who to handsome features and aristocratic appearance added a modulated voice and persuasive manner, rose during the course of the evening, and in words that held the audience spellbound narrated his own sufferings and those of some of his friends under the yoke of Austria. As he concluded with the utterance of the sentiment, "Libertà! Equalità! Fraternità!" a storm of applause burst from the assembly, and many were the high personages who at the close of the meeting requested an introduction to the fascinating young orator. My father was present on this occasion, and here his acquaintance with Eugenio Noele commenced. The young man having discovered to him that his pecuniary resources were at the lowest ebb, my father took him home with him, and my mother afterward united with him in requesting Eugenio to consider their house as his own. My father also introduced him to his mercantile connections and initiated him into mercantile affairs, when by his astuteness and perseverance he was enabled to lay the foundations of an excellent position. Indeed, but few years had elapsed (during which time he had frequently resided with us) ere he had acquired considerable wealth and we a clearer insight into his true disposition.

His principles were such as the promptings of self-love, a violent temper, pride and ambition could without difficulty overcome. As he rose higher in the social scale the reflection that he had owed the impetus to others was a constant source of annoyance to him. Our house was now but rarely visited by him, unless when some legal difficulties had arisen on which he wished to consult my father or some important papers required translating. Then the air of pride would yield to one of deferential affection, and in silvery tones he would discourse on such topics as he imagined were the most pleasing to us. My father would be termed "Signor Padre" and my mother "Signora Madre."

At about this time he sent to Italy for his brother Rugiero to assist him in his affairs. Rugiero became as intimate at our house as Eugenio had been. There were singularly contradictory elements in this brother's character. At one time the history of a destitute family would move him to tears, and his purse would be freely emptied for their benefit: at another time he would spend half an hour in searching for a lost farthing, and if not successful his countenance would betray lines of anxiety for hours afterward. If he made me the gift of a paper horn or box of sweets, his heart for the rest of the day would seem to be expanded with the most joyous emotions, and for weeks after I was liable to be asked whether I remembered the day when I was so pleased with his little gift; and then he would request permission to examine the pictures painted thereon, and call my attention to their merits. He was ordinarily slow to understand the point of a witticism, but when he had by deep pondering discovered it, nothing could exceed his enjoyment: bending his head and clasping the bridge of his handsomely shaped nose, he would laugh till the tears were ready to start. On the other hand, he was extremely sensitive, jealous and suspicious. No one knew how soon the pleasant smile and kindly word would give place to angry passions as ungovernable as they were disagreeable to witness. A smile passing from one person to another without his being acquainted with the cause, was sufficient provocation for him to rise, make his respects in a frigidly polite tone and take his leave, to return a few moments after with heightened complexion and excited voice, and declare that he could not suffer an affront with equanimity--that he would rid those present of his "abhorred" society, and would never enter those doors again whilst he drew the breath of life. We paid little attention to these egregious eccentricities, merely remarking with a smile of amusement, "Poor Rugiero! how ridiculous! He must be out of his senses;" and about a fortnight later he would make his appearance, penitent, apologetic and studious to remove the ill impression that his strange conduct must have caused.

A third brother, Giuseppe, was added to the group, of whom vacillation was the distinguishing characteristic. Giuseppe, in the innumerable discussions that arose between Rugiero and Eugenio, would acquiesce with first one and then the other in whatever exaggerated sentiments their enraged frame of mind might prompt them to utter, with the view of keeping on good terms with both; but the only result was that when the flag of truce had been raised, grievances passed over and differences adjusted, he would have the mortification of finding the whole of the blame laid on his shoulders, and himself stigmatized as "a feather-head," "a meddler" and "a spy."

As the years rolled on I grew into womanhood, and became the unwitting source of constant ill-feeling between the brothers. Eugenio was handsome, but I distrusted him; Rugiero was nearly as handsome, but I regarded him as I would have regarded an uncle; Giuseppe was also handsome, but unstable and entirely wanting in force. Time passed, and the brothers had separated. Eugenio had married a woman in every way his inferior. Rugiero had been drawn into a like union that surprised all those who knew his refined tastes and sensitiveness to the social amenities. Though a man of honor, his circumstances had become embarrassed. In his emergencies he had recourse to his old friends, whose aid was not withheld, but, a crisis arriving, he was declared bankrupt. Eugenio, instead of assisting his brother, upbraided with being a disgrace to his own respectability, publicly disowned him, and, with the view of forcing him to abandon the country, spread injurious reports concerning him amongst many of the merchants who would otherwise have been willing to extend a helping hand.

Soon after this Eugenio made a journey to Italy on business. Here he visited his native place with an equipage designed to astonish the simple peasants and suggest to them the immensity of his wealth. Never had the village on the outskirts of which dwelt his widowed sister seen such magnificence or experienced such munificence. His name was on all tongues; ovations were made to him; he was almost a king in their eyes. His sister, Lucretia Mortera, had borne to her husband a large family, of whom but three survived--a youth named after his uncle Eugenio, and then being educated for the priesthood; Celestino, a boy of eleven years; and Virginia, a girl of eight. The little home in which they resided in quiet retirement had been given to the widow for as long as she chose to occupy it by a friend of her late husband, as a token of respect to his memory. Eugenio Noele, ashamed to see a sister of his living in a way so unsuited to her birth and former expectations, requested her to dispose of whatever property she might be possessed of, and prepare to accompany him with her family to London, where he would provide for them, and his nephew Eugenio, leaving his studies, could take a place in his counting-house. This request--or rather command--was embraced with gratitude, though it cost a pang to think of leaving the home that had sheltered them under many vicissitudes. Besides which, it was a matter of doubt to Signora Mortera and her eldest son whether any worldly promotion could justify his deserting the priestly vocation to which he had felt himself called.

One evening my mother and I were surprised by a call from Rugiero. His face was pale and his eyes were wild. He sank into an easy-chair, and after a long silence broke into the most terrible invectives against his brother Eugenio, who had dragged the widow and orphans from a peaceful home to cast them adrift.

"What widow? what orphans?"

"Simply, Madama Melville, my poor sister Lucretia, whom he induced to accompany him to London, with her family, on the pretence of providing for them all, is now with those children at my house, without means, without even a change of clothing. Yes, my sister Lucretia, who was a mother to him when his own mother died; and yet he prospers!"

"But, Rugiero, what was the cause of his treating them thus?"

"When they had arrived at my brother's house the wife, who had not expected them, took an aversion to them, and no sooner did she learn that they were strict Roman Catholics than she believed them to be capable of every crime. Celestino, who is in a decline, was treated with the greatest neglect. Every occasion of showing disrespect toward her sister-in-law before her children or the servants was eagerly sought by my brother's wife, whilst in the presence of her husband she was all amiability. The sickness of one of her own children was made the occasion of accusing Lucretia of an attempt to poison it, and the wily woman so worked on my brother's parental feelings that he had not returned home an hour ere he commanded his 'infamous sister'--'quel assassinatrice!'--to leave his house with her children on the instant! The door was closed upon them, and the outer apparel that had served them for their journey was thrown to them from the window by the servants. Amazed and full of grief, they directed their steps toward the house of the good priest whose chapel they had once or twice attended. Here they procured my address, and soon after came to my house, where they now are in the extremest affliction. You, madama, may well imagine that I can scarcely maintain my own family at this juncture, and that I am therefore unable to do for my sister and her children what my heart dictates. After a sleepless night I came to the conclusion that you, Madama Melville, whose goodness of heart has so often been put sorely to the test, would be able to suggest some plan by which to mitigate the sufferings of my unfortunate sister or bring Eugenio to reason."

"My dear Rugiero, I feel certain that my husband would think as I do--that for the present they had better stay here with us. We can turn one floor into sleeping apartments for them, and have one sitting-room in which your sister can receive callers or remain when she wishes to be alone. You know that I have so often heard you speak of your sister Lucretia that I can take the privilege of giving her an invitation to come and make us a long visit; and so you must tell her."

"God bless you, dear madama, as you deserve to be blessed! This is indeed a weight off my heart and mind."

The result of this conversation was that on the next morning Rugiero returned, bringing with him his sister and her children. Signora Lucretia responded to the welcome of my parents with expressions of fervent gratitude, calling them the saviors of her family. She was a short, slender woman, in whose dark eyes, long, finely-cut features, and pale, thin face one could discern the spirit of asceticism and the traces of past afflictions. Of the children she had buried, all had reached their tenth year in apparent health and remarkable for their physical and moral beauty, but from that age they had rapidly trodden the pathway to the tomb. None of her children had resembled their father but Eugenio, who was a well-made youth of wiry constitution, and gave every promise of attaining the ordinary age allotted to man. Celestino was destined soon to rejoin the children gone before. How can I describe the thrill I felt when I saw that child's face as he entered the room? Never had I seen in picture or in dream a countenance so lovely. But what can I say of those soul-speaking eyes, the large, dark-brown iris surrounded by the brilliant azure-white and shaded by long dark lashes? Finely chiseled features were added to a rounded face of a clear pale olive, except where a flush like the pink lining of a shell played upon it. Virginia greatly resembled her brother Celestino, but was in full health, and in spirits that would have been lively but for the constant and harassing admonitions of her mother, who in every free and graceful movement saw a tendency to levity that must be repressed. The poor child was doomed to a perpetual entanglement of the lower limbs, owing to her garments being made as long as those of a grown person. If, forgetting decorum, she chanced to skip or jump, Signora Lucretia would exclaim, "Va scompostaccia! sta più composta" ("Go to, most discomposed one! be more composed"), and seating her by her side would supply her with needlework or knitting until my mother would intercede, assuring Signora Lucretia that the child could never attain healthy womanhood unless allowed the full play of her muscles and the expansion of her lungs by singing and laughter.

"Ah, madama, you know not how I fear lest the natural gayety of her disposition should cause the loss of her soul."

"Oh, my dear lady, such ideas are born of the troubles through which you have passed, and not of your native good sense. God has implanted this gayety in your child's heart to enable her to enter with zest into those amusements so necessary to her development."

One day my mother (by permission) had a tuck taken up in Virginia's dress, and, directing me to take her for a walk, she privately commissioned me to purchase for her such attire as was suitable to a child of her years. I began with her head, and secured the jauntiest little hat with feathers that I could find, not without a misgiving that it would ultimately be consigned to the flames. Amongst other articles that I procured was a wax doll, at the sight of which Virginia screamed with delight. It was her first doll. Even Signora Lucretia's face was lit by a smile of undisguised admiration at the improvement in the child's toilette, but it soon gave place to a sigh at her own "vanity of spirit," and she held the little hat as Eve might have held the apple offered to her by the serpent.

Signora Lucretia and her children spent some hours every morning before breakfast in reciting litanies and other prayers, and on retiring to rest the same forms were repeated. During the day, whenever the clock struck the hour, the whole family, leaving whatever might be the occupation of the moment, knelt on their chairs and made a short prayer or meditation on the flight of time.

At the time of their arrival my cousin Oswald was staying with us, and on the first evening he retired early to give them an opportunity of conversing more freely on the melancholy topics that filled their minds. After bidding good-night to my mother and kissing her, he paid me the same tokens of regard. This incident had not escaped the notice of the young Eugenio, for when directed by his mother to retire to rest also, he advanced toward me, shook hands, and (although, seeing his intention, I drew back) succeeded in imprinting a kiss on my cheek. Signora Lucretia turned as pale as death. My mother, to avoid a scene, turned with a playful laugh to Eugenio, who by this time was scarlet with shame, and said, "My dear boy, in this country such salutations are only permitted from near relations or very intimate friends, but I am not surprised that Mr. Oswald's thoughtlessness before you should have misled you into doing the same. So I am sure that your good mother will not be displeased with you."

"Oh, madama," exclaimed Signora Lucretia, bursting into tears as soon as the door had closed upon him, "to think that my son should have been tempted by the Evil One so far as to forget what is due to the holy vocation for which he is to fit himself! In Italy never had he even been in the same room with any woman but myself and the priest's old housekeeper. This is the first time that his lips have been so desecrated." (Here my mother and I interchanged smiles.) "Unhappy mother that I am! by what sufferings can I atone for his sin? What shall I impose upon him to mortify the spirit that has arisen within him?"

The next morning Eugenio came down looking pale and sad, and I felt sure that he had been reprimanded in no measured terms. I gave him a pitying glance, which fell like dew on the thirsting earth.

At every breakfast the children were taught to say good-morning to each person separately. The elder son would commence, "Good-morning and good appetite, Mr. Melville! good-morning and good appetite, Madama Melville! good-morning and good appetite, Signora Felicia!" and so on. Then Celestino would go through the same ceremony, and finally Virginia, and a grace was uttered, during which the breakfast was liable to become cool, and Rugiero's temper (if he were present) not so. "Andiamo! I am sure that Signor Melville and madama do not insist upon so many compliments; and you, Eugenio, should have more gallantry than to keep the Signora Felicia waiting whilst her toast becomes cold." That he should connect the word _gallantry_ with Eugenio was an imprudence, to say the least. But the offence was more serious when once at dinner he favored us with some reminiscences of his own gallantries: "I remember that when I was in the army the wife of our colonel had a sister, a splendid-looking creature, with eyes like stars, who (to tell the truth) was head over ears in--But my sister Lucretia, who is frowning at me, is right. One would say that she must have had an enlarged experience in such matters, seeing how sensitive she is to the danger of discussing them." (Here Signora Lucretia, with blushing cheeks, glanced from Rugiero to her son, who with downcast eyes appeared to be absorbed with the roast chicken on his plate.) "Without entering into details that would appear ill-timed to my dear sister" (here his eyes twinkled with roguishness and his lips parted in laughter), "suffice it merely to say that I acted as any other man under the circumstances would have acted, and kissed her not once or twice, but--"

"Go to thy room, Eugenio, most audacious!" panted Signora Lucretia, for he had raised his head, and, meeting his uncle's laughing gaze, had faintly smiled--"Go to thy room" (and here she struck him on the face), "and recite the Litany of the Blessed Virgin three times, and pray for thy uncle, that he may be converted."

Eugenio with flaming cheeks and ears rose submissively from the table, and without a word or look ascended to his room to do her bidding.

"What!" exclaimed Rugiero, rising from his seat, "would you dare to insult me by desiring my own nephew to pray for me? It seems to me that I dream! Per Bacco!"

Here my father observed that he must own he saw nothing very outrageous in what Rugiero had narrated, yet, as Signora Mortera had her own peculiar views on the matter, he considered that her brother was bound to respect them. Rugiero then admitted that he had been too hasty, and a reconciliation was effected, but he never met his nephew's eye thereafter without the same roguish smile, at which the poor youth would blush painfully and lower his gaze.

During this scene at the dinner-table Celestino breathed quickly, but never moved his eyes from the table-cloth, while Virginia looked at each one of the speakers in open-mouthed astonishment and curiosity.

One day I accompanied Signora Lucretia and her children to a Roman Catholic chapel in the neighborhood. I could not be unconscious of the odd and incongruous appearance of the two sons--Eugenio in a suit like that of a stage grandfather, snuff-colored, and with collar that raised the lobes of his ears; and dear little Celestino with a similarly cut coat in bottle green, with large gilt buttons, making him look like a man in miniature. Such had been the style pronounced by the village tailor to be in the height of Parisian fashion, but being a novelty to the London "gamins," it attracted more notice from them than we could have wished. After Signora Mortera and her children had attended the confessional she seemed to be much easier in her mind, and was so amiable as to tell my mother on our return home that it was edifying to behold the signorina walking like a Roman matron, in contrast to those who were giggling and turning their heads first one way and then the other, like so many pulcinelle. Notwithstanding this compliment, however, I perceived that she was uneasy concerning Eugenio and myself. It was evidently a satisfaction to her that I should load Celestino with caresses and endearing epithets, but that Eugenio should sit near me, speak to me, or even be in the same room with me (whether alone or in company), was the signal for demonstrations of the extremest vigilance. On one evening my cousin had brought home some gifts, consisting of a silver pencil-case with gold pen for Eugenio, a traveling writing-case with his name on it for Celestino, and a small traveling work-bag similarly marked for Virginia. These were highly appreciated. Celestino seemed unwilling to have his desk out of his sight for a single moment, and when his bed-time came wanted to take it up with him. His mother, unwilling to leave Eugenio in my society without her watchful presence, directed him to carry his brother up.

"Signora madre," said Celestino, "I am not tired to-night."

"Well, then, Eugenio can carry up thy writing-case for thee."

"Signora madre, it is not heavy, and I would like to carry it myself."

So Signora Lucretia went up with him herself, and, leaving my mother to entertain Eugenio, I went immediately into another room. I felt too deeply for the misfortunes of the unsophisticated Eugenio ever to have willingly trifled with the nascent susceptibilities of his heart.

One little incident, however, occurred to interrupt the orthodox reserve of our demeanor. An old friend of ours, Captain Stuart, had sent Virginia a bank-note with which to procure some keepsake. One evening the old gentleman called, and was shown into the drawing-room, where my mother received him. The rest of us were in the dining-room below. On my mentioning Captain Stuart's name to Signora Lucretia, she exclaimed, "Let us go, my children, and thank this good man for his kind present to our Virginia."

It was dark, but the hall-lamp had not been lit, so I took a wax taper from the writing-table and, lighting it, proceeded to escort them up the staircase. Some spirit of mischief prompted me by a sudden movement to let the light be blown out. In an instant the hand of Eugenio met mine, and thus hand in hand, swinging to and fro, we came to the drawing-room door, and a flood of light bursting upon us discovered to Signora Lucretia my face flushed with suppressed laughter, and Eugenio's eyes no longer timid, but sparkling with joy. From this time he would spend whole nights in writing verses, which he would show to his mother. She, noting the classical allusions, and having a great respect for literary talents, did not repress his efforts, but on the contrary appeared desirous that he should show his verses to my mother and to me. Mingled with expressions of grief and despair at the inconstancy of fortune and the decrees of fate were allegorical fancies in which I could perceive that I held a place, but I never allowed him to think that I noticed this; and indeed after the escapade of the staircase I became more distant than before.

However, one day when Celestino was feeling more weak and tired than usual, and I was propping him up on the sofa, I observed with some trepidation that Eugenio, who had been reading at the window, changed his seat to one near the head of the sofa. His mother and mine were busy sewing at a window in the next room, from whence they could see us through the folding doors. His eyes were full of tears, and, suddenly bending over his brother and rearranging a cushion, he seized my hand and covered it with silent kisses. In a moment I had disengaged my hand, full of fear for the result to Eugenio should Signora Lucretia's attention be directed toward us. The same evening, on returning from a visit, I learned that my mother and Signora Mortera had gone out under the escort of Oswald to attend vespers at a church some distance off. We young people passed the evening alone together. The crimson curtains were closely drawn, and the cosy room was lighted by a blazing fire. Reclining in an easy-chair, I held Celestino's fragile form in my arms, the wonderful eyes gazing into mine as I watched with emotions too deep for words their ever-varying expression. Eugenio sat on an ottoman at my feet, alternately reading aloud from Dante and pausing to observe me, while Virginia was on the hearth-rug, happy in adorning her doll with pieces of silk, beads and flowers.

Suddenly Eugenio said, "Does the signora remember in the narrative of Dives and Lazarus how Lazarus was thankful for the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table?"

I understood him, and hiding my face in Celestino's tendril-like curls, I replied, "Yes, but I wonder whether he would have been hungry enough to eat crumbs that he knew to be poisoned?"

He made no reply.

"Eugenio," I continued, "what are your plans for the future? Is it your own desire to become a priest?"

This last word made him tremble. "I _once_ desired it," he answered, "thinking it the most honorable position to which I could aspire, and also my natural vocation. But now--God knows whether it be a sin or not--I would pass through any affliction He might send rather than become one. But my mother's heart is fixed upon it more than ever, and soon my family will be wholly dependent upon me. Ah! young as I am, I have suffered and still suffer. Far happier is that child in your arms, dying slowly though it may be, than the unfortunate Eugenio."

"Have a care," I said, "lest, entering the state of priesthood, you bear with you a heart fixed on the things of this world. Do not yield to the impulses of a strong imagination, but endeavor to forget whatever might prove a hindrance to you hereafter."

"Ah, Felicia, my heart is too full ever to forget. Celestino, my brother, _thou_ art indeed happy. Dost thou know it?"

"Yes, Eugenio, I feel even too happy."