Chapter XXII: A Ray of Moonlight on the Bay of Gaeta

There is more truth in De la Rochefoucauld’s maxim than we are often willing to allow--“Dans l’adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous déplaît pas.” I mean that a source of consolation may be legitimately derived from witnessing their errors.

Nothing could be stronger than Norah’s feeling of compassion for the suffering Duke, yet when she compared his fate and the effect disappointment had had in subjecting him to the deteriorating influence of the worst portions of mankind, she felt obliged to make more excuses for the errors of Sir Alfred Rivers.

It was true he had met with no such misfortunes as those which had befallen the Duke, yet Sir Alfred had plunged into dissipation, and had been induced to act quite contrary to the high standard which she knew he once hoped to attain. Certainly she had refused to become positively engaged to him, but that ought not to have made him plunge so recklessly into the world of fashion.

Yet he too was most fascinating in his way, and quite as handsome as the Duke, and she saw that they had both fallen victims to the effect their own great charms exercised on others. In London and Paris, Vienna and Rome, the Duke had been the fêted idol of society. This she had heard, and from the effect such kind of idolatry had had on Sir Alfred, she well knew its baneful temptations.

Hence the extreme kindness of her manner during the interview which led to his consenting to see Father Anselmo, and hence also a softened kind of feeling towards Sir Alfred.

As she stood at her window that night, and looked on the moonlit sea, her prayers for Sir Alfred, perhaps even her love and her longing to see him once more, were stronger than ever. While these thoughts and prayers occupied her mind, her eye rested on the silvery moonbeams as they gleamed from the shore of the garden below to the distant promontory of Mola di Gaeta; and as she looked, a little boat, with the broad lateen sails, crossed the line of light and approached the shore.

“Oh! if he were in that boat,” she thought, with a vivid kind of longing and strange presentiment that it might be possible. And she watched for some time, for there was but little wind, and its progress was slow.

At last it touched the shore about the middle of the bay, and she thought that she could distinguish some figures landing. She ran for an opera-glass which they used for looking at distant scenery, and then she distinctly saw four men near the boat. One was much taller than the others, and there was something in this one’s walk which resembled his. Oh! could it be? The next minute they all disappeared behind the trees on the shore. She watched for some time, in hopes they might emerge from the wood. They did not appear again; but as they had turned in the direction of the road to the hotel, she hoped they might possibly be coming into the town.

She went to bed, but found it impossible to sleep, and about an hour afterwards she heard some bell ring, and fancied it might be an arrival. Again all was silent, and she remembered that Valentino said that every room was full, and that several families had been obliged to put up at the other hotel, or pursue their journey to the next town. But it might have been Sir Alfred, who may have inquired for rooms, and he might possibly hear that she was there; and then? She would not trust herself to ask any more questions, but resolved to be strong-minded and go to sleep, otherwise she would be unable to help her father, or be of any use to the suffering Duke de Luna.

But, however strong the mind, it was not easily lulled to sleep after a day of such extraordinary excitement; and then her dreams were full of vivid realities, in which hope predominated, and she awoke with a feeling of vague happiness and wonder at what produced it.

“He must have come,” she thought, as she remembered the tall figure on the distant moonlit road; and then a pang of self-reproach at the elation of her spirits reminded her of the suffering Duke in the room underneath.

She began to dress quickly, that she might go and inquire about him; but before she had finished Cattarina came into her room, and told her that the Duke was in great danger--that the doctor and the priest had never left him all night, and they were afraid he would die before the arrival of Valentino with the English doctor.

“I know he would like to see the Signorina,” she added, with an odd kind of expression in her large eyes, which Norah did not like, for she had often observed it when the girl was saying what was not true. Yet in this case it seemed natural--that perhaps the poor sufferer might like to see any one who could speak of hope, and sympathise with his misery.

So she went to her father’s room, and found that he was already dressed, and was intending to go and inquire whether he could be of use. So they both went downstairs, and Doctor Mangello met them at the door, and begged they would come into his patient’s room.

“His mind is much more tranquil,” he whispered, “and he wishes to thank the Signorina for her kindness, and for having persuaded him to see Father Anselmo. But,” he added, in a still lower tone, “I fear there is but little chance of his recovery.”

As they were about to enter the room, a light carriage dashed up to the hotel door, and out jumped Valentino, followed by a grave but pleasant-looking old man, Doctor Nelson. He was at once taken into the sick-room, and the father and daughter remained outside, anxiously awaiting the report he could give of the sufferer.

The place where they stood was one of those large ante-rooms, or inner halls, peculiar to Italian houses, which seem to open in all directions. Some of the windows opened on the garden, and the doors on passages which ran through the house, and led to the street entrance. Norah saw that Cattarina came in for a moment at one of the distant doors, as if she were looking for some one, and then disappeared along the passages to the principal entrance.

Again Norah saw that odd expression on her face; she fancied that the wily creature was intent on some mischief. After waiting for some minutes near the door, Norah fancied that her father would be tired, and persuaded him to sit down on a bench which was near the window that looked on the road.

Soon afterwards a travelling-carriage drove up, and they saw that it contained the Spendfasts, and Lady Selina Bugginfield. They saw the master of the hotel go out, and also Valentino; and he probably explained that there was no room, for they did not get out of the carriage, although a long talk ensued, and Mr. Chandos observed that the courier was probably relating their adventures with the banditti, and describing the poor Duke’s dangerous state, for they were full of gesticulation expressive of horror and dismay.

At last the carriage drove off in the direction of another hotel to which the master had pointed.

“Could that have been Sir Alfred last night; and was he possibly at that very hotel to which Lady Selina, his evil genius, was going?” thought Norah, with sudden dismay. Cattarina was gone out in that direction--she might have gone to see some friend at the other hotel, for she always seemed to know everybody, and the hotel people always appeared delighted to see her; and Lady Selina, too, had been a great friend of her late mistress, the Countess Rossi.