Read Ebook: Half Brothers by Stretton Hesba

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Ebook has 1640 lines and 121808 words, and 33 pages

ey was not there to help me. When I reached the inn I looked into the room where we had our meals; but he was not there. And he was nowhere in our great barn of a bedroom. His portmanteau was there, and all his things, so I knew he could not stay long away. I made signs to Chiara, the maid, for I cannot speak Italian or German; but she did not understand me. So I went to bed and cried myself to sleep.

Now I have told exactly how it happened. It is nearly three weeks ago; and every hour I have expected to see Sidney come back. He has left most of his money behind in my care; there are nearly eighty pounds in foreign money that I do not understand. Quite plenty; I'm not vexed about that. But I want him to be here taking care of me. What am I to do if he is not here in time? Chiara is kind enough; only we cannot understand one another, and what will become of me? Oh! if Aunt Rachel could only be here!

It is a very rough place, this inn. My bedroom is paved with red tiles like our kitchen at home; and there is no fire-place, only an immense white stove in one corner, which looks like a ghost at night, when there is any moonlight. There is a big deal table, and a kind of sofa, as large as a bed, placed on one side of it. The bed itself is so high I have to climb into it by a chair. There are four windows; and when I look out at them there is little else to be seen but the great high, awful rocks, shutting out the sky from my sight; they frighten me. Downstairs, the room below mine is the kitchen. It is like a barn, too; paved with rough slabs of stone. There is an enormous table, with benches on each side. At one end of the kitchen is a sort of little room, with six sides, almost round; and in the middle of it is a kind of platform, built of brick, about two feet high; and this is their fire-place, where all the cooking is done. There is always a huge fire of logs burning, and there are tall chairs standing round it, tall enough for people to put their feet on the high hearth. I've sat there myself, with my cold feet on the hot bricks, and very comfortable it is on a frosty night. And above it hangs an enormous, enormous extinguisher, which serves as a chimney, but which can be lowered by chains. At nights all the rough men in the village come and sit round this queer fire-place; and oh! the noises there are make me shiver with terror.

Chiara is very careful of me; too careful. She makes me go out a little every day, when I would rather stay in, and watch for Sidney. I always go as far as the old crucifix, for it seems to comfort me. I always say to it, "Oh, he must come back to-day, I can't bear it any longer. And oh! I'll never, never vex him any more." And the sad face seems to understand, and the head bows down lower as if to listen to me. It seems to heed me, and to be very sorry for me. I wonder if it can be wicked to feel in this way. But in England I should not want any crucifix, I should have Aunt Rachel.

I am afraid Sidney forgot that I should want him near me. Suppose he does not come back till I am well and strong again, and can put my baby into his arms myself. There is a pretty shrine on the other road to the village, not the road where he left me, and in it is Mary with a sweet little child lying across her knees asleep. Suppose he should come and find us like that, and I could not wake the baby, and he knelt down before us, and put his arms round us both. Oh, I should never be in a passion again.

I have not written all this at once. Oh, no! Chiara takes the pen and ink away, and shakes her funny old head at me. She makes me laugh sometimes, even now. Whenever I hear the tramp, tramp of her wooden shoes, I fancy she is coming to say Sidney is here, and afraid to startle me; but it would not startle me, for I expect him all the time.

Some day he will drive me in a carriage and pair, along the streets at home, and all the neighbors will see, and say, "Why, there's Sophy Goldsmith come back, riding in her own carriage!" And I shall take my baby, and show him to my aunts and father, and ask them if it was not worth while to be sorry and anxious for a time to have an ending like this.

This moment I have made up my mind that they shall not be sorry nor anxious any longer. I will send this long story I have written to Aunt Rachel; and I will send our portraits which Sidney had taken in Florence. Oh, how handsome he is! And I, don't you think I am very pretty? I did not know I looked like that. Good-by, Sidney and myself. I must make Chiara buy me ever so many postage stamps to-morrow morning.

Dearest father and Aunt Rachel, come and take care of me and my little baby. Forgive me, forgive me, for being a grief to you!

SOPHY.

AT INNSBRUCK.

When Sidney Martin turned away from his petulant young wife, and strode with long hasty strides up the mountain track which lay nearest to him, he did so simply from the impulse of passion. He was little more than a boy himself; just as she was little more than a wayward girl. It was scarcely a year since he left Oxford; and he was now spending a few months in traveling abroad as a holiday, before settling down to the serious business of life. His uncle was the head of the great firm of Martin, Swansea & Co., shipping agents, whose business lay like a vast net over the whole commercial world, bringing in golden gains from the farthest and least known of foreign markets. Sir John Martin, for he had already been knighted, and looked forward to a baronetcy, was a born Londoner, at home only in the streets of London, and unable to find pleasure or recreation elsewhere. But he was desirous that his nephew and heir should be a man of the world, finding himself unembarrassed and at home in any sphere of society; especially those above the original position of his family. To this end he had sent Sidney to Eton and Oxford; and had now given him a year's holiday to see those foreign sights presumed to be necessary to the full completion of his education.

The misfortune was, as Sidney had long since owned to himself, that he had not been content to take this holiday alone. He was in love, with a boy's passion, with Sophy Goldsmith; and he knew his uncle would rather follow him to the grave than see him married to a girl so far beneath him in position. It was impossible to leave Sophy behind; he had no difficulty in persuading her to consent to a secret marriage. She was a girl of the same age as himself, whose sole literary education had consisted in the reading of third-rate novels, where none of the heroines would have hesitated for a moment from stealing away, as she did, from her very commonplace home; to which she expected some day to return in great state and glory.

But the stolen happiness had been very brief. Sidney, boy as he was, found out too soon how ignorant and empty-headed his pretty, uneducated wife was. She was in no sense a companion for him. Traveling about from place to place, with all the somewhat pedantic book-learning of his university career fresh upon him, and with enthusiastic associations for many of the spots they visited, especially in Italy and Greece, he was appalled to find that what interested him beyond words was inexpressibly wearisome to her. What was the Palace of the Caesars to one who knew only as much of Roman history as she had learned in Mangnall's Questions at the poor day-school she had gone to? Or Horace's farm; who was Horace? Or Pliny's villa; she knew nothing of Pliny. Why did he want to go to Tusculum? And why did he care about the Etruscan tombs? She did not want to learn. She had not married to go to school again, she declared one day, with a burst of tears; and if he had not loved her as she was he ought to have left her. There were those who would have loved her if she had not known a great A from a chest of drawers. She would not bother herself with any such things.

Sidney discovered, too, that she cared equally little for painting or music. A brass band playing dance-music in the streets and a strongly tinted oleograph was as far as her native taste in music and art would carry her; and she resented the most delicately hinted instruction on these points also. The wild and magnificent scenery which delighted him immeasurably, was dreary and unintelligible to her. She loved streets and shops, and driving amid throngs of other carriages, and going to theaters, though even there she yawned and moped because she could not understand a word the actors spoke. It was in vain he urged her to try and acquire a knowledge of the language. She was going to live in England, she argued; and it was not worth while to spend her time in learning Italian or French.

Before six months had passed, the inward conviction had eaten into Sidney's mind that his marriage was a fatal mistake. He brooded silently over this thought until it affected strongly his temper, kind and sanguine when untried, but now falling into a somber despair. He had been guilty of a folly which his uncle would never overlook. If Sophy had been as intellectual as she was beautiful, he could have educated her, and so made a companion of her; and possibly his uncle might in time be won over to forgiveness. A brilliant, beautiful woman, able to hold her own in society, one of whom Sir John could be proud, might have conquered him; but never an ignorant, empty-headed, low-born dunce, like Sophy. A dunce and a fool, the young husband called her in the bitter intolerance of youth; for youth demands perfection in every person save self.

This inward disgust and weariness of his silly little wife had been smouldering and increasing for months. Once before he had given way to it so far as to leave her for a few days, and to wander about in what seemed a blissful and restful solitude. But he had written to her, and kept her informed of his movements, and had returned after a short absence. Now he felt he could not take up the heavy burden again; not voluntarily.

He made his way through the darkening shadows of great pine forests and narrow valleys, to Toblach, a village about twenty miles distant, at the entrance of the Ampezzo valley, through which Sophy must pass, if she continued her journey without retracing alone the route by which they had come. And there he remained for three or four days, expecting to see her arrival hour after hour. Then he grew nettled. She was waiting for him to go back penitent, like the prodigal son. Not he! She was quite able to manage a journey alone; and he had left her plenty of money--indeed, nearly all he possessed. It was not as if she was some high-born young lady, who had never ventured out of doors unattended. Sophy had the hardy independence of a girl who had earned her own living, and had expected to manage for herself all her life. This had become one of her offenses in his eyes. She was as sharp as a needle in avoiding imposition, and taking care of money; and her generalship at the many hotels they had stayed in had at first amused, and then enraged him. She could take very good care of herself.

Still, when he went on his way, he left word with the landlord of the hotel that he was gone to the Kaiserkrone at Botzen; and at Botzen he stayed another three days, and left the same instructions as to her following him to the Goldne Sonne, at Innsbruck. Each journey made the distance between them greater, and gave to him a feeling of stronger relief at being free from her presence. There was no return of his boyish passion for her; not a spark revived in the ashes of the old flame.

He was sauntering through the Hofkirche at Innsbruck, gazing somewhat wearily at the grotesque bronze figures surrounding the tomb of Maximilian, and thinking how Sophy would have screamed with laughter, and talked in the shrill key that had so often made him look round ashamed, in other famous churches; for he was at an age when shame is an overpowering vexation.

"Thank Heaven, she is not here," he said half aloud, when suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice exclaimed:

"What, Sidney! you are here--and alone!"

"Alone!" he repeated; "who did you expect to find with me, George?" he asked irritably.

It was the last word that struck him, and over-balanced the astonishment he felt at hearing his cousin's voice. George Martin shrugged his shoulders.

"Come out of this church," he said, in a voice toned down to quietness, "and I'll tell you straight. I never could manage anything, you know; there's no diplomacy in me, and so I told Uncle John. Come; I can't talk about it here."

They went out into the open air, and strolled down to the river in silence. George Martin was in no hurry to tell his message, and Sidney shrank from receiving it. He had often dreaded that some rumor might reach his uncle; for Sophy had not been prudent enough in effacing herself on their travels. So the two young men stood on the bridge, gazing down at the rapid rushing of the waters below them, and for some time neither of them spoke a word.

"Old fellow," said George at last, laying his hand affectionately on Sidney's shoulder, "I'm so glad to see you alone. There isn't anybody at the hotel, is there?"

"What do you mean?" asked Sidney with a parched throat.

"Anyone you would be ashamed of, you know," he continued. "Uncle John heard somehow there was a girl traveling about with you--I don't like to say it, Sid--and he sent me off at a moment's notice after you. There, now the murder's out! Uncle John said, 'Don't be bluff and outspoken; but find out quietly.' But I never could be diplomatic. You are alone, Sidney, aren't you?"

"Quite alone," answered Sidney, looking frankly and steadily into his cousin's face. There was always a winning straightforwardness and clearness in his gray eyes, as if the soul of honor dwelt behind them, which went right to the hearts of those who met their gaze; and George Martin's clouded face brightened at once.

"I'm so glad, so thankful, old fellow!" he exclaimed. "I don't mind now telling you, uncle was in an awful rage, swore he would disinherit you, and cut you off without even a shilling, you know; and sent me to find you out, because I was to be the heir in your place, if it was true. Perhaps he thought that would make me keen to find it true. But oh, how thankful I am to find it false? We are more like brothers than cousins, Sidney; and I'd rather lose a dozen fortunes that lose you."

Sidney grasped his hand with a firm, strong clasp, but said nothing. For the moment he was dumb; his pulses beat too strongly for him to speak in a natural tone. Disinherited! He who had not a penny of his own. George Martin attributed his silence and agitation to the indignation he must be feeling.

"Come home at once with me," he said, "and make it all right with Uncle John. It was a vile scandal, and just the thing to exasperate him. It's only giving up a few weeks of your holiday; and it's worth while, I tell you, Sid. He said he had it on good authority; but if you go back with me, he'll be satisfied."

"I don't know," answered Sidney, with some hesitation; "it's like owning I am afraid of being disinherited. Leave me to think it over; it is not a thing to be decided in a moment."

Yet he knew at the bottom of his heart that he had already decided. It seemed to him as if he had been saved from a fatal exposure by the drift of circumstances. But for Sophy's violent temper she would either have been with him when his cousin met him at Innsbruck, or George would have pursued his journey to the Ampezzo valley, and found them there. Then it would have been impossible to conceal the truth--the hateful truth--any longer. That would have been utter ruin for them both. He could do nothing to maintain a wife or, indeed, himself, if his uncle disinherited him. So far he had never earned a six-pence in his life. If he acknowledged Sophy just now, it would only be to bring her to destitution; or to make himself dependent upon her exertions.

He went back to his hotel, and wrote a long letter to his young wife, carefully worded, lest it should fall into wrong hands. He told her to make her way as directly as possible to England to her father's house; and to let him know immediately of her return there. She could reach it by tolerably easy railway journeys in about a week; and he carefully traced out her route, entering the moment of departure for each train she must take, and telling her at what hotels she must stay. It was now a week since he had left her, and he had no doubt she was on her way after him. It seemed to him as though he was taking an almost tender care for her safety and comfort, more than she deserved; and thought she ought to be very grateful to him for it. He urged the utmost prudence upon her in regard to their secret.

He left this letter with the landlord of the Goldne Sonne, doing so with considerable caution, very well concealed. It was addressed to S. Martin only, and might have been either for a man or a woman. If no person claimed it, it was to be forwarded to him intact at the end of three months, when he would send a handsome acknowledgment for it. But it would probably be asked for in the course of a few days; for Sidney reminded himself, with self-gratulation, that at both of the hotels he had quitted lately he had left instructions for Sophy; with a careful description of her appearance, that no wrong person should receive them.

These steps set his conscience at rest; and he returned to England with no heavier burden on his spirits than the dread of discovery, which must be borne as long as he was absolutely dependent upon his uncle's favor.

A FORSAKEN CHILD.

Sophy finished her letter, the letter which was to be posted the next day. But before the morning came her child was born, and the young mother lay speechless and motionless, unconsciously floating down the silent sea of death. There was no one with her but Chiara, the working housekeeper of the inn; but there was no sign that the girl felt troubled or lonely. Chiara laid the baby across her chilling, heaving breast, and for a moment there flickered a smile about her pale lips, as she made a feeble effort to clasp her new-born babe in her arms. But these signs of life were gone in a moment like the passing of a fitful breeze; and her rough nurse, stooping down to look more closely at her white face, saw that the young foreigner was dead.

For some minutes Chiara stood gazing at the dead girl, and the living child on her bosom, without moving. She had dispatched a boy to fetch the nearest doctor, but he was gone to a patient some miles away, and it would be two or three hours before he could reach the inn. All the house and all the village were asleep, except the watchman in the bell-tower, who struck the deep-toned bell every quarter. It had not occurred to her to summon any helper; she had known what was coming, and had made all necessary preparations. But she had not counted on any risk to the life of the young mother; and this made all the difference in the world.

Chiara believed she perfectly understood the position of affairs. The young Englishman who had disappeared three weeks ago had grown weary of his whim, pretty as the girl was; and would not care if he never heard of her again. That was as plain as the day.

She left the baby lying across its dead mother, and stole away softly to her own garret to hide her treasure securely. The dawn was breaking in a soft twilight which would strengthen into the full day long before the sun could climb the high barrier of the rocks. Very soon the cocks began to crow, and the few birds under the eaves to twitter. The doctor was not yet come when Chiara thundered at her master's door, and called out in a loud voice:

"Signore, a boy is born, and the little signora is dead."

The landlord was a man who cared for nothing if his dinner was to his liking and his wines good. Chiara had managed all domestic affairs so well for so many years that he was willing she should manage this little difficulty. The trusty woman produced enough money to defray all the expenses incurred by the English people, who had honored his hotel with their custom. No one questioned the claim of Chiara to the clothes and the few jewels left by the English lady, especially as she took upon herself the entire charge of the child. The dead mother was buried without rite or ceremony in a solitary corner of the village cemetery, for everybody knew she was not entitled to a Christian burial, being an accursed heretic; but the child was baptized into the Catholic Church.

It was not possible for Chiara to keep the baby herself in the bustling life of the village inn; and she had no wish to do so. She had a sister, with children of her own, living up on the mountains, in a small group of huts where a few shepherds and goatherds lived near one another for safety and companionship during the bitter winter months, when the wolves prowled around the hovels, under whose roofs the goats and sheep were folded, as well as the men, women, and children. The children received almost less care and attention than the sheep and goats, which were worth money. The whole community led a savage and uncivilized life. Behind their little hamlet rose the huge escarpment of gray rocks, which hid the sun from them until it was high in the heavens, and in whose clefts the snow and ice lay unmelted ten months in the year. Far below them was the valley, with its church and clock-tower, from which the chiming of bells came up to their ears plainly enough; but the distance was too great for any but the strongest among them to go down, unless it was a great festival of the church, when their eternal salvation depended upon assisting at it. Now and then a priest made his way up to this far-off corner of his parish, but it was only when one of its few inhabitants was dying. No one had the courage to undertake the task of civilizing this little plot of almost savage barbarism.

The name of the young Englishman, the father of the little waif thrust back in this manner to a state of original savagery, had been entered in the register of the village inn as S. Martin. The child was christened Martino. Chiara agreed to pay 150 kreutzers a month for his maintenance, an enormous sum it seemed, but her sister knew how to drive a good bargain, and had a shrewd suspicion that Chiara could very well afford to pay more.

A REPRIEVE.

Three months passed by, and found Sidney Martin fairly at work in his uncle's office. It had been a busy and exciting time with him, and he had had little leisure to brood over his private difficulties. It was impossible that he could forget Sophy, but he felt more willing to forget her than to rack his brains over the silence and mystery that surrounded her absence. Inherited instinct awoke within him a love of finance and commerce. The world-wide business carried on in the busy offices of his uncle's shipping agency firm in the City of London had taken possession of his mind, appealing curiously enough to his imagination, and he was throwing himself into its affairs with an ardor very satisfactory to Sir John Martin.

There was something fascinating to Sidney in the piles of letters coming in day after day bearing the postmarks of every country under the sun, and the foreign letters were generally allotted to him. But one morning, as they passed through his hands, a letter bearing the name of the Groldne Sonne, Innsbruck, lay among them, bringing his heart to his mouth as his eye fell upon it. He glanced around at his uncle, as if he could not fail to observe it and suspect him of some secret, but Sir John was absorbed with his own share of the correspondence. The Innsbruck letter was slipped away into Sidney's pocket, and he went on opening the rest; but his brain was in a whirl, and refused to take in the import of any of them. "I've a miserable headache to-day," he said at last, with a half groan; "I cannot make anything out of these."

"Go home, my boy," answered his uncle, "and take a holiday. We can do very well without you."

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