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Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
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Chapter 47. At Portici |
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_ CHAPTER XLVII. AT PORTICI Natalie slept far from soundly the first night after her arrival in Naples; she was glad when the slow, anxious hours, with all their bewildering uncertainties and forebodings, were over. She rose early, and dressed quickly; she threw open the tall French windows to let in the soft silken air from the sea; then she stepped out on the balcony to marvel once more--she who knew Naples well enough--at the shining beauty around her. It was a morning to give courage to any one; the air was fresh and sweet; she drank deep of the abundant gladness and brightness of the world. The great plain of waters before her shimmered and sparkled in millions of diamonds; with here and there long splashes of sunny green, and here and there long splashes of purple where the sea-weed showed through. The waves sprung white on the projecting walls of the Castello dell' Ovo, and washed in on the shore with a soft continuous murmur; the brown-sailed fishing-boats went by, showing black or red as they happened to be in sunshine or shadow. Then far away beyond the shining sea the island of Capri lay like a blue cloud on the horizon; and far away beyond the now awakening city near her rose Vesuvius, the twin peaks dark under some swathes of cloud, the sunlight touching the lower slopes into a yellowish green, and shining on the pink fringe of villas along the shore. On so fair and bright a morning hope came as natural to her as singing to a bird. The fears of the night were over; she could not be afraid of what such a day should bring forth. And yet--and yet--from time to time--and just for a second or so--her heart seemed to stand still. And she was so silent and preoccupied at breakfast, that her mother remarked it; and Natalie had to excuse herself by saying that she was a little tired with the travelling. After breakfast she led her mother into the reading-room, and said, in rather an excited way, "Now, mother, here is a treat for you; you will get all the English papers here, and all the news." "You forget, Natalie," said her mother, smiling, "that English papers are not of much use to me." "Ah, well, the foreign papers," she said, quickly. "You see, mother, I want to go along to a chemist's to get some white rose." "You should not throw it about the railway carriages so much, Natalushka," the unsuspecting mother said, reprovingly. "You are extravagant." She did not heed. "Perhaps they will have it in Naples. Wait until I come back, mother; I shall not be long." But it was not white-rose scent that was in her mind as she went rapidly away and got ready to go out; and it was not in search of any chemist's shop that she made her way to the Via Roma. Why, she had asked herself that morning, as she stood on the balcony, and drank in the sunlight and the sweet air, should she take the poor tired mother with her on this adventure? If there was danger, she would brave it by herself. She walked quickly--perhaps anxious to make the first plunge. She had no difficulty in finding the Vico Carlo, though it was one of the narrowest and steepest of the small, narrow, and steep lanes leading off the main thoroughfare into the masses of tall and closely-built houses on the side of the hill. But when she looked up and recognized the little plate bearing the name at the corner, she turned a little pale; something, she knew not what, was now so near. And as she turned into this narrow and squalid little alley, it seemed as if her eyes, through some excitement or other, observed the objects around her with a strange intensity. She could remember each and every one of them afterward--the fruit-sellers bawling, and the sellers of acidulated drinks out-roaring them; the shoemakers already at work at their open stalls; mules laden with vegetables; a negro monk, with his black woolly head above the brown hood; a venerable letter-writer at a small table, spectacles on nose and pen in hand, with two women whispering to him what he was to write for them. She made her way up the steep lane, through the busy, motley, malodorous crowd, until she reached the corner pointed out to her by Calabressa. But he had not told her which way to turn, and for a second or two she stood in the middle of the crossing, uncertain and bewildered. A brawny-looking fellow, apparently a butcher, addressed her; she murmured some thanks, and hastily turned away, taking to the right. She had not gone but a few yards when she saw the entrance to a court which, at least, was certainly as dark as that described by Calabressa. She was half afraid that the man who had spoken to her was following her; and so, without further hesitation, she plunged into this gloomy court-yard, which was apparently quite deserted. She was alone, and she looked around. A second convinced her that she had hit upon the place, as it were by accident. Over her head swung an oil-lamp, that threw but the scantiest orange light into the vague shadows of the place; and in front of her were the open windows of what was apparently a wine-shop. She did not stay to reflect. Perhaps with some little tightening of the mouth--unknown to herself--she walked forward and entered the vaults. Here, again, no one was visible; there were rows of tuns, certainly, and a musty odor in the place, but no sign of any trade or business being carried on. Suddenly out of the darkness appeared a figure--so suddenly indeed as to startle her. Had this man been seen in ordinary daylight, he would no doubt have looked nothing worse than a familiar type of the fat black-a-vised Italian--not a very comely person, it is true, but not in any way horrible--but now these dusky shadows lent something ghoulish-looking to his bushy head and greasy face and sparkling black eyes. "What is the pleasure of the young lady?" he said, curtly. Natalie had been startled. "I wished to inquire--I wished to mention," she stammered, "one Bartolotti." But at the same time she was conscious of a strange sinking of the heart. Was this the sort of creature who was expected to save the life of her lover?--this the sort of man to pit against Ferdinand Lind? Poor old Calabressa--she thought he meant well, but he boasted, he was foolish. This heavy-faced and heavy-bodied man in the dusk did not reply at once. He turned aside, saying, "Excuse me, signorina, it is dark here; they have neglected to light the lamps as yet." Then, with much composure, he got a lamp, struck a match, and lit it. The light was not great, but he placed it deliberately so that it shone on Natalie, and then he calmly investigated her appearance. "Yes, signorina, you mentioned one Bartolotti," he remarked, in a more respectful tone. Natalie hesitated. According to Calabressa's account, the mere mention of the name was to act as a talisman which would work wonders for her. This obese person merely stood there, awaiting what she should say. "Perhaps," she said, in great embarrassment, "you know one Calabressa?" "Ah, Calabressa!" he said, and the dull face lighted up with a little more intelligence. "Yes, of course, one knows Calabressa." "He is a friend of mine," she said. "Perhaps, if I could see him, he would explain to you--" "But Calabressa is not here; he is not even in this country, perhaps." Then silence. A sort of terror seized her. Was this the end of all her hopes? Was she to go away thus? Then came a sudden cry, wrung from her despair. "Oh, sir, you must tell me if there is no one who can help me! I have come to save one who is in trouble, in danger. Calabressa said to me, 'Go to Naples; go to such and such a place; the mere word Bartolotti will give you powerful friends; count on them; they will not fail one who belongs to the Berezolyis.' And now--" "Your pardon, signorina: have the complaisance to repeat the name." "Berezolyi," she answered, quickly; "he said it would be known." "I for my part do not know it; but that is of no consequence," said the man. "I begin to perceive what it is that you demand. It is serious. I hope my friend Calabressa is justified. I have but to do my duty." Then he glanced at the young lady--or, rather, at her costume. "The assistance you demand for some one, signorina: is it a sum of money--is it a reasonable, ordinary sum of money that would be in the question, perhaps?" "Oh no, signore; not at all!" "Very well. Then have the kindness to write your name and your address for me: I will convey your appeal." He brought her writing materials; after a moment's consideration she wrote--"_Natalie Lind, the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi. Hotel ----._" She handed him the paper. "A thousand thanks, signorina. To-day, perhaps to-morrow, you will hear from the friends of Calabressa. You will be ready to go where they ask you to go?" "Oh yes, yes, sir!" she exclaimed. "How can I thank you?" "It is unnecessary," he said, taking the lamp to show her the way more clearly. "I have the honor to wish you good-morning, signorina." And again he bowed respectfully. "Your most humble servant, signorina." She returned to the hotel, and found that her mother had gone up-stairs to her own room. "Natalushka, you have been away trying to find some one?" "Yes, mother," the girl said, rather sadly. "Why did you go alone?" "I thought I would not tire you, dear mother." Then she described all the circumstances of her morning's visit. "But why should you be so sad, Natalushka?" the mother said, taking her daughter's hand; "don't you know that fine palaces may have rusty keys? Oh, I can reassure you on that point. You will not have to deal with persons like your friend the wine-merchant--not at all. I know at least as much as that, child. But you see, they have to guard themselves." Natalie would not leave the hotel for a moment. She pretended to read; but every person who came into the reading-room caused her to look up with a start of apprehensive inquiry. At last there came a note for her. She broke open the envelope hurriedly, and found a plain white card, with these words written on it: "_Be at the Villa Odelschalchi, Portici, at four this afternoon._" Joy leaped to her face again. "Mother, look!" she cried, eagerly. "After all, we may hope." "This time you shall not go alone, Natalushka." "Why not, mother? I am not afraid." "I may be of use to you, child. There may be friends of mine there--who knows? I am going with you." In course of time they hired a carriage, and drove away through the crowded and gayly-colored city in the glow of the afternoon. But they had sufficient prudence, before reaching Portici, to descend from the carriage and proceed on foot. They walked quietly along, apparently not much interested in what was around them. Presently Natalie pressed her mother's arm, they were opposite the Villa Odelschalchi--there was the name on the flat pillars by the gate. This great plain building, which might have been called a palazzo rather than a villa, seemed, on the side fronting the street, to be entirely closed--all the casements of the windows being shut. But when they crossed to the gate, and pulled the big iron handle that set a bell ringing, a porter appeared--a big, indolent-looking man, who regarded them calmly, to see which would speak first. Natalie simply produced the card that had been sent to her. "This is the Villa Odelschalchi, I perceive," she said. "Oh, it is you, then, signorina?" the porter said, with great respect. "Yes, there was one lady to come here at four o'clock--" "But the signora is my mother," said Natalie, perhaps with a trifle of impatience. The man hesitated for a moment, but by this time Natalie, accompanied by her mother, had passed through the cool gray archway into the spacious tessellated court, from which rose on each hand a wide marble staircase. "Will the signorina and the signora her mother condescend to follow me?" the porter said, leading the way up one of the staircases, the big iron keys still in his hand. They were shown into an antechamber, but scantily furnished, and the porter disappeared. In a minute or two there came into the room a small, sallow-complexioned man, who was no other than the Secretary Granaglia. He bowed, and, as he did so, glanced from the one to the other of the visitors with scrutiny. "It is no doubt correct, signorina," said he, addressing himself to Natalie, "that you have brought the signora your mother with you. We had thought you were alone, from the message we received. No matter; only"--and here he turned to Natalie's mother--"only, signora, you will renew your acquaintance with one who wishes to be known by the name of Von Zoesch. I have no doubt the signora understands." "Oh, perfectly, perfectly!" said the elder woman: she had been familiar with these prudent changes of name all her life. The Secretary Granaglia bowed and retired. "It is some one who knows you, mother?" Natalie said, breathlessly. "Oh, I hope so!" the other answered. She was a little pale, and her fingers were tightly clasped. Then a heavier step was heard in the empty corridors outside. The door was opened; there appeared a tall and soldierly-looking man, about six feet three in height and perfectly erect, with closely-cropped white hair, a long white mustache, a reddish face, and clear, piercing, light-blue eyes. The moment the elder woman saw him she uttered a slight cry--of joy, it seemed, and surprise--and sprung to her feet. "Stefan!" "Natalie!" he exclaimed, in turn with an almost boyish laugh of pleasure, and he came forward to her with both hands outstretched, and took hers. "Why, what good wind has brought you to this country? But I beg a thousand pardons--" He turned and glanced at Natalie. "My child," she said, "let me present you to my old friend, General--" "Von Zoesch," he interrupted, and he took Natalie's hand at the same time. "What, you are the young lady, then, who bearded the lion in his den this morning?--and you were not afraid? No, I can see you are a Berezolyi; if you were a man you would be forever getting yourself and your friends into scrapes, and risking your neck to get them out again. A Berezolyi, truly! 'The more beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother!' But the little scamp knew his insulting iambics were only fit to be thrown into the fire when he made that unjust comparison. Ah, you young people have fresh complexions and bright eyes on your side, but we old people prefer our old friends." "I hope so, sir," said Natalie, with her eyes bent down. "And had your father no other messenger that he must employ you?" said this erect, white-haired giant, who regarded her in a kindly way; "or is it that feather-brained fellow Calabressa who has got you to intercede for him? Rest assured. Calabressa will soon be in imminent peril of being laid by the heels, and he is therefore supremely happy." Before the girl could speak he had turned to the mother. "Come, my old friend, shall we go out into the garden? I am sorry the reception-rooms in the villa are all dismantled; in truth, we are only temporary lodgers. And I have a great many questions to ask you about old friends, particularly your father." "Stefan, can you not understand why I have permitted myself to leave Hungary?" He glanced at her deep mourning. "Ah, is that so? Well, no one ever lived a braver life. And how he kept up the old Hungarian traditions!--the house a hotel from month's end to month's end: no questions asked but 'Are you a stranger? then my house is yours.'" He led the way down the stairs, chatting to this old friend of his; and though Natalie was burning with impatience, she forced herself to be silent. Was it not all in her favor that this member of the mysterious Council should recur to these former days, and remind himself of his intimacy with her family? She followed them in silence: he seemed to have forgotten her existence. They passed through the court-yard, and down some broad steps. The true front of the building was on this seaward side--a huge mass of pink, with green casements. From the broad stone steps a series of terraces, prettily laid out, descended to a lawn; but, instead of passing down that way, the tall, soldierly-looking man led his companion by a side-flight of steps, which enabled them to enter an _allee_ cut through a mass of olives and orange and lemon trees. There were fig-trees along the wall by the side of this path; a fountain plashed coolly out there on the lawn, and beyond the opening showed the deep blue of the sea, with the clear waves breaking whitely on the shores. They sat down on a garden-seat; and Natalie, sitting next her mother, waited patiently and breathlessly, scarcely hearing all this talk about old companions and friends. At last the general said, "Now about the business that brought you here: is it serious?" "Oh yes, very," the mother said, with some color of excitement appearing in her worn face; "it is a friend of ours in England: he has been charged by the Society with some duty that will cost him his life; we have come to intercede for him--to ask you to save him. For the sake of old times, Stefan--" "Wait a moment," said the other, looking grave. "Do you mean the Englishman?" "Yes, yes; the same." "And who has told you what it is purposed to have done?" he asked, with quite a change in his manner. "No one," she answered, eagerly; "we guess that it is something of great danger." "And if that is so, are you unfamiliar with persons having to incur danger? Why not an Englishman as well as another? This is an extraordinary freak of yours, Natalie; I cannot understand it. And to have come so far when any one in England--any one of us, I mean--could have told you it was useless." "But why useless, if you are inclined to interfere?" she said, boldly, "and I think my father's family have some title to consideration." "My old friend," said he, in a kindly way, "what is there in the world I would not do for you if it were within my power? But this is not. What you ask is, to put the matter shortly, impossible--impossible!" In the brief silence that followed the mother heard a slight sigh: she turned instantly, and saw her daughter, as white as death, about to fall. She caught her in her arms with a slight cry of alarm. "Here, Stefan, take my handkerchief--dip it in the water--quick!" The huge, bullet-headed man strode across the lawn to the fountain. As he returned, and saw before him the white-lipped, unconscious girl, who was supported in her mother's arms, he said to himself, "Now I understand." _ |
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