'Farewell, Nikola'

"He is no fellow-creature of yours or mine," Nikola retorted sternly, as if he were rebuking a childish mistake. "Would you call the man who shot down those innocent young men of Equinata, before their mothers' eyes, a fellow-creature? Is it possible that the son of the man who so cruelly wronged and betrayed the trusting woman he first saw in this room, who led her across the seas to desert her, and to send her to her grave, could be called a man? I will give you one more instance of his barbarity."

So saying, he threw off the black velvet coat he was wearing, and drawing up his right shirt-sleeve, bade me examine his arm. I saw that from the shoulder to the elbow it was covered with the scars of old wounds, strange white marks, in pairs, and each about half-an-inch long.

"Those scars," he went on, "were made by his orders, and with hot pincers, when I was a boy. And as his negro servants made them he laughed and taunted me with my mother's shame. No! No! This is no man – rather a dangerous animal, that were best out of the way. It has been told me that you and I shall only meet twice more. Let those meetings lead you to think better of me. The time is not far distant when I must leave the world! When that hour arrives there is a lonely monastery in a range of eastern mountains, upon which no Englishman has ever set his foot. Of that monastery I shall become an inmate. No one outside its walls will ever look upon my face again. There I shall work out my Destiny, and, if I have sinned, be sure I shall receive my punishment at those hands that alone can bestow it. Now leave me!"

God help me for the coward I am, but the fact remains that I left him without another word.

CHAPTER XIII

If I were offered my heart's desire in return for so doing, I could not tell you how I got home after my interview with Nikola at the Palace Revecce. I was unconscious of everything save that I had gone to Nikola's house in the hope of being able to save the life of a man, whom I had the best of reasons for hating, and that at the last moment I had turned coward and fled the field. No humiliation could have been more complete. Nikola had won a victory, and I knew it, and despaired of retrieving it. On reaching the hotel I was about to disembark from my gondola, when a voice hailed me from another craft, proceeding in the direction I had come.

"Dick Hatteras, as I'm a sinner!" it cried. "Don't you know me, Dick?"

I turned to see a face I well remembered smiling at me from the gondola. I immediately bade my own man put me out into the stream, which he did, and presently the two gondolas lay side by side. The man who had hailed me was none other than George Beckworth, a Queensland sugar-planter, with whom I had been on terms of the most intimate friendship in bygone days. And as there was a lady seated beside him, I derived the impression that he had married since I had last seen him.

"This is indeed a surprise," he said, as we shook hands. "By the way, let me introduce you to my wife, Dick." He said this with all the pride of a newly-married man. "My dear, this is my old friend, Dick Hatteras, of whom I have so often spoken to you. What are you doing in Venice, Dick?"

"I have my wife and some friends travelling with me," I answered. "We are staying at Galaghetti's hotel yonder. Cannot you and your wife dine with us to-night?"

"Impossible, I am afraid," he answered. "We sail to-night in the P. and O. boat. Won't you come and dine with us?"

"That is equally impossible," I replied. "We have friends with us. But I should like to see something more of you before you go, and if you will allow me I'll run down after dinner for a chat about old times."

"I shall be delighted," he answered. "Be sure that you do not forget it."

Having assured him that I would not permit it to escape my memory, I bade him "good-bye," and then returned to my hotel. A more fortunate meeting could scarcely have occurred, for now I was furnished with an excellent excuse for leaving my party, and for being alone for a time. Once more I felt that I was a coward for not daring to face my fellow-men. Under the circumstances, however, I knew that it was impossible. I could no more have spent the evening listening to Glenbarth's happy laughter than I could have jumped the Grand Canal. For the time being the society of my fellow-creatures was absolutely distasteful to me. On ascending to my rooms I discovered my wife and the Duke in the drawing-room, and was informed by the latter that Miss Trevor had again been compelled to retire to her room with a severe headache.

"In that case I am afraid you will only be a small party for dinner," I said. "I am going to ask you to excuse me. You have often heard me speak, my dear, of George Beckworth, the Queensland sugar-planter, with whom I used to be on such friendly terms in the old days?"

My wife admitted that she remembered hearing me speak of the gentleman in question.

"Well, he is in Venice," I replied, "and he sails to-night by the P. and O. boat for Colombo. As it is the last time I shall be likely to see him for many years, I feel sure you will not mind my accepting his invitation?"

"Of course not, if the Duke will excuse you," she said, and, when the question was put to him, Glenbarth willingly consented to do so.

I accordingly went to my room to make my toilet. Then, having bade my wife "good-bye," I chartered a gondola and ordered the man to row me to the piazza of Saint Mark. Thence I set off for a walk through the city, caring little in which way I went. It was growing dark by this time, and I knew there was little chance of my being recognized, or of my recognizing any one else. All the time, however, my memory was haunted by the recollection of that room at the Palace Revecce, and of what was in all probability going on in it. My gorge rose at the idea – all my manhood revolted from it. A loathing of Nikola, such as I had never known before, was succeeded by a deathly chill, as I realized how impotent I was to avert the catastrophe. What could I do? To have attempted to stay him in his course would have been worse than useless, while to have appealed to the Authorities would only have had the effect of putting myself in direct opposition to him, and who knew what would happen then? I looked at it from another point of view. Why should I be so anxious to interfere on the wretched Spaniard's behalf? I had seen his murderous intention on the morning of the frustrated duel; I had heard from Nikola of the assassination of those unfortunate lads in Equinata; moreover, I was well aware that he was a thief, and also a traitor to his country. Why should he not be punished as he deserved, and why should not Nikola be his executioner? I endeavoured to convince myself that this was only fit and proper retribution, but this argument was no more successful than the last had been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once more Nikola turned away and paced the room.

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