by G.P.R. James, Esq.
Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.8 #44 (Jan 1854).
On the twenty-fourth of April, 1820, I received a visit in my chambers from my cousin William, whom I had not seen or heard of for eight years. He wished me to arrange his affairs for him, and I went to spend a few days for that purpose at his house in --shire, where the necessity of some explanations induced him to relate his own history.
To make my tale clear, I may as well say, that this family consisted of a younger brother of Lord Conway, as I shall call him (though that was not his real name), his wife, and two or three young children. The whole of the Conway family had made themselves somewhat notorious for looseness of morals; but I never heard this gentleman particularly ill spoken of, and his wife, though apparently caring very little about her husband's conduct, was without reproach in regard to her own. He was a man of thirty-three or thirty-four at this time, tolerably well looking, though not remarkably so, but with a sleepy blue eye, and quiet, insinuating manner, which I have often remarked in men more successful than scrupulous in the pursuit of pleasure. I had met him once or twice in London, and always looked upon him as the best of his family.
But let me return to my tale. On mounting the stairs from the great entrance, under what they would call the porte cochère in France, I found a pair of enormous doors, with a bell-handle hanging from a long thick wire, and, on my ringing, one valve of these doors was opened by a black-looking Italian servant, who admitted me into a great hall, round the top of which ran a gallery, ornamented with twelve very well executed marble statues, and serving as a communication from one side of the house to the other, without passing the entrance stairease, which might be considered as almost a part of the street. In this large hall, almost big enough to contain a modern house, I was left by the servant, while he went past to ask if his master would receive me; and the blinds being all shut, with but a faint light without, there was something ghastly and sinister in the aspect of the place, with the white statues gleaming like ghosts above, that marked my first steps into the Palazzo Spezzia with a feeling akin to awe. I stood still, with my arms folded on my breast, gazing round me; but I had hardly been there a minute, when I heard steps apparently approaching, and I fancied it was the servant returning, but no door opened.
Soon a sound of murmuring voices succeeded—voices apparently in low and earnest conversation—and the eye, guided by the ear, turned toward the gallery, where, in the spectre-like gloom, I saw two figures slowly pass along from the one side of the house to the other. They were those of a man and a woman; but no feature could I distinguish, and even the outline of the form of each was faint and indistinct. They were in very lover-like proximity, however, and I could see that the lady, whoever she was, must be tall and commanding in person, while the man, who seemed to have his arm around her waist, was hardly, if at all, above the middle height. The murmured words only reached my ear as vague and indefinite sounds; but still, the two speakers did not apparently know that any one was there below; for they paused for a few moments in the middle of the gallery, and were only scared away, I believe, by the sudden appearance of a light.
This time it was the servant who appeared; but he came lighting in the marquis himself, who welcomed me with great hospitality, and a warmth of manner not usual in the Italian nobility. He had been under great obligations, he said, to the friend who introduced me, and he was delighted to have an opportunity, if not to return his kindness, to show his sense of it in some degree. He led me into his own little library, or study, where I found he had surrounded himself with objects of vertù—which are equal to Paradise in the eyes of an Italian—and after sitting and chatting for some time over old scenes and remembrances, he begged the pleasure of introducing me to his daughters. In the saloon to which he led me, we found but one young lady present, a dark-eyed, beautiful girl, of perhaps nineteen, very delicately formed, and small in all her proportions. The marquis asked where her sister was, and she replied, somewhat languidly, she did not know; but being introduced, and seated by her on the sofa, I soon contrived to rouse her from her sort of apathetic mood. She spoke English almost as her native language, and my Italian being villainously bad, the conversation was speedily carried on in no other tongue than my own. I never met with any other Italian but herself who had a real heartfelt fondness for England. Its often weeping skies themselves she loved, and described how delighted she would be sometimes to drive out in a spring shower, when the drops were mingled with sunshine, and the whole earth put on a joyful freshness of aspect, which it rarely, if ever, knows in Italy. She had, in short, become completely imbued with the spirit of English rural life, which requires early initiation and long habit, I believe, for its full appreciation. Sympathies were speedily awakened, and, while I did full justice to her own beautiful country, I was very much charmed with the rarity of finding a foreigner do justice to mine.
Her father mingled in the conversation, but, I thought, with some constraint. Something seemed to embarrass and preoccupy him; but at length the door opened, and a tall, marvelously handsome girl entered, perhaps two or three years older than the other. Her whole countenance was queenlike and majestic, notwithstanding a somewhat flushed and agitated look, and her figure was remarkably fine. But I could not help thinking that there was a remarkable resemblance between that figure and one of the two phantoms which had passed along the gallery of the hall.
This was the eldest daughter of the marquis, and she received me with a distant stateliness which soon made me fall back upon the conversation of her sister. The elder did not seem to be at all displeased at being left to her own thoughts, and I remained more than an hour in very agreeable conversation with Seignora Beatrice and her father, while the other labored through a small portion of some lady's ornamental work, seeming to exert herself very diligently, and yet make small progress. I then took my leave; but the marquis came to call upon me on the following day, bearing with him an invitation to dinner, and did all he could to show kind and hospitable attention to a stranger. In short, I almost became domesticated in the family. Every day some expedition was proposed, something to be done, something to be seen, and the time glided away very pleasantly and very swiftly. My new friend had an excellent knowledge and appreciation of art, and took care that I should see all the marvels of the pencil or the chisel which the city of Florence contains, nor were any objects of interest in the neighborhood omitted, nor any historical monuments. But as I am not writing a guide-book, I must omit all details, dwelling merely upon that which affected me as a man, rather than as a man of taste. Often, when we went forth for a stroll through the city, or passed the morning at the Petti, or in the great gallery, we were accompanied by Beatrice, though her stately sister generally thought fit to remain at home on these occasions. When we made any more distant expeditions, however, sometimes spending one or two more days out of Florence, Seignora Narcissa always accompanied us, evidently greatly against her will, and she was not a personage at all to conceal her distaste for any thing that did not please her. She contrived to diminish our enjoyment very greatly; sometimes by petulant sallies, which I wondered that her father bore with patience; sometimes by a cold, sauntering sort of indifference, still more provoking.
I had hardly been in Florence a fortnight, however, before I began to gain some insight into the cause of her conduct. At first, it came as a mere suspicion, very painful; but not definite. Mr. Conway was frequently of our parties: Mistress Conway rarely; and I remarked two things which soon led me right to distressing conclusions. Our English acquaintance never in the presence of her father paid any very marked attention to the beautiful Narcissa; but when the Marquis himself was absent, even for a moment, he was sure to be at her side, with his soft, and somewhat sleepy manner and low-toned musical voice. At other times an occasional low-spoken word, a glance of quick intelligence, or a look of tender meaning were the only signs of concealed intimacy between them. This was what first roused doubts in my mind. The second thing, was, that whenever Conway was of the party, the young lady was perfectly gay and cheerful. Combining these facts with the glimpse I had obtained of them in the gallery on my first visit, I could not help believing that there was a better understanding between them than was consistent with her safety, and his position. I was still, as it were, a stranger, although intimacy had rapidly grown up between myself and the Marquis of Spezzia. It was the friendship of feeling, but not of years; and such affections of the mind are like things formed in clay, or cast in iron, and they require time to cool and harden them. I liked him much. Thin, and pale, and anxious looking as he was, there was something exceedingly prepossessing in his countenance. His conduct through life had been irreproachable, and he had too many enthusiasms to be a very accomplished hypocrite. Sentiments spoken, or written, often deceive us; for where there is deliberation there is art; but where sentiments are accidentally discovered, or instincts suddenly betrayed, there is less chance of a keen observer being deceived. Still, the date of our friendship was very late, and I did not feel myself justified in calling the father's notice to the danger of his daughter, feeling the difficulty increased perhaps by a belief that he might have averted the peril. The standard of morality is not very high in Italy, it is true, and we find few in that land who can even conceive its being placed so high as in England; but yet, many a chance word, and casual observation showed that my Italian friend deeply regretted the very general depravity of morals which prevailed in his own country. Still, I hesitated—still, I thought I might be mistaken—still, I considered delicacy and prudence, perhaps more than justice and right. Let me confess the whole truth, however, while I am telling this dark tale. The beauty and the grace, the gentleness and the frankness of Beatrice di Spezzia had produced upon me an impression not easily to be shaken off; and, not knowing what might be the result if I ventured to call her father's attention to her sister's conduet toward Mr. Conway, my hesitation was increased by consideration for her. I must not say that I was actually in love with her. She was a great deal younger than I was—some ten or twelve years at least—and I was still in that stage of passion wherein the dreams of Plato become tangible realities, and we fancy that something deeper, though colder than love, can exist between two persons of different sexes, even in the early spring of life.
A little incident may have had some share in determining my conduct. The Marquis had a villa on the slope of the Apennines, a little below the small hotel of Three Masks, and not very far distant from the village of Gherini. The summer was coming on. The family were soon about to remove thither from Florence, and we all went out for a few days in the fine spring tine, to see arrangements made, and order some repairs, The house was not in the best order; but the weather was summer-like and serene, and the greater part of our time was passed out of doors. Our party consisted of the Marquis, his two daughters and myself, and Mr. Conway and his wife had not been invited. Monsieur di Spezzia had a notion of laying out a garden near the villa in the English style; buteasily showed a man of his real taste that, when done, it would not harmonize at all with the character of the building and the scene, and he applied himself to finish and restore a handsome but formal Italian garden, laid out by some former proprietor. He was thus occupied a great part of each day. Narcissa was in one of her dull, and solitary moods, and remained all the morning in her own chamber. Beatrice went out with me—not to any distance from the house, but to a little spot just below the plain of the garden, where we were within some eighty or a hundred yards of the spot where her father sat, superintending the labors of his workmen. I had taken a book of English poems, to beguile any dull moments pleasantly, and it was very pleasant and sweet to hear that beautiful girl syllable the lines of English verse, with a strong Italian accent, but a full appreciation of the words. It was a very difficult thing in such a scene, and such a moment to avoid what is called falling in love, and, indeed, I did not try it very much; for I was my own master, and there was no law against my picking up a gem wherever I might find one. I had done reading a passage, and dropped the book upon my knee, to dwell upon the thoughts which the poet suggested. Beatrice was sitting a little farther down, with her head leaning back against the bank, and her beautiful small feet crossed over each other, when, suddenly, I saw something move slowly through the low myrtles which carpeted that part of the ground, and a moment after, a snake of that species called the black viper—the most venomous in Italy—raised its head, close by her feet, as if surprised and irritated by the obstacle in its way, and about to bite her. I rose instantly, took one step forward, and at the second, set the heel of my boot upon the reptile's head.
"What is the matter?" she cried, seeing me press my foot hard into the sand.
"Only a viper," I answered; and then, without meaning any particular allusion I added, "I really know not whether it was most rash or reasonable to try to kill him thus at your very feet, where, if I had missed my tread, he might have stung you."
"Oh, right, right," she exclaimed, eagerly; but then she rose, and clasped her hands together, saying, after a pause, "It is always right to set your foot upon a serpent's head—doubtless, you have saved my life."
She spoke very slowly, and earnestly; but the next moment, she resumed an easier, if not a lighter tone, explained to me that the creature she saw lying there was exceedingly poisonous, and that she had often known domestic animals, and even young children die from the bite; but all her commonplaces could not obliterate from my mind the earnestness with which she had said "It is always right to set your foot upon a serpent's head." I fancied I could hardly doubt that those words had some latent meaning, and the suddenness with which she changed her tone, only served to confirm the impression.
I resolved to watch more closely than ever, and I thought to have an opportunity that very day; for Mr. Conway rode out, just to see how his friend the marquis was going on, he said. But a great change had suddenly taken place. To my surprise, and not greatly to my satisfaction, his attentions were now turned toward Beatrice. There were the same quiet low-toned words, the same languid, sleepy sort of smile, the same seeking for an opportunity to say something to her in an under tone. All that was wanting of the conduct I remarked toward her sister, was a certain glance of intelligence and meaning, which he did not assume on the present occasion. Two persons present were greatly annoyed; myself, and Narcissa. Her eyes flashed, her lip curled and quivered, and fiery, Italian wrath seemed ready to burst forth at every moment. I concealed my feelings better; but nevertheless, I watched with painful eagerness, determined to call him to a serious account if he gave me any occasion, I had nothing to complain of in the conduct of Beatrice. I could see her shrink from him, and sometimes, a quick, and fiery flush passed over her cheek, sometimes a look of sickening loathing came into her face, which told plainly that he had no hold upon her regard.
When I retired to my room that right, I tried to examine, calmly and deliberately, my own feelings; but calmness and deliberation were not to be had. Beatrice had wound herself into my heart too deeply to be cast out, whatever reason might say. There were objections certainly. She was much younger than myself, an Italian, a Roman Catholic. But she was so beautiful, so graceful; there was such a tenderness, mingled with a sort of sparkling vivacity in her conversation, so many nameless graces, that not the lover seemed impossible. Her education had been English, too. She had none of the thoughts, none of the feelings, I felt sure, to which we so strongly object in many Italian women, and the only conclusion I could come to, was, to discover, as soon as possible, what progress I had made in her regard. The opportunity presented itself the very next morning. From my window, as I was dressing, I saw her go and seat herself beneath one of the fountains in the farther part of the garden, and I hurried down to obtain a few minutes conversation with her before the rest of the family had risen. She looked up and smiled as I approached, and I seated myself by her side. The beautiful myrtle covered Apennines were sweeping down below us, toward Florence, and rising up toward the sky above, shrouding themselves higher up in their thick chestnut trees. The sky was bright and clear; but the heat of the day had not yet made itself felt, and there was a cool, refreshing morning breeze which took away the languor of an Italian spring day. Her eyes looked brighter than I had ever seen them, and there was a faint, rosy color in her cheek, which added greatly to her beauty. Our conversation was very strange, at least the first part of it. On her part, it consisted altogether of one monosyllable, two or three times repeated. "This is exceedingly beautiful," I said, gazing from her to the landscape. "Could you ever make up your mind to quit these lovely scenes, and dwell in a colder, and less genial land?"
"Yes," she answered.
"And could you there be content and happy, among a people less warm in character, less imbued with taste?"
"Yes," she said, with a sigh, and the color fading away in her cheek.
"And could you go thither with me?" I asked, "and make the whole happiness of one heart that loves you, and brighten one home, where you would reign like one adored?"
"Yes," she answered again; and bent her head till her forehead almost touched her knees. Then suddenly she started, and, looking up in my face, she added. "But you think not what you do, and I must not let you speak such words, and go on in the same course till you consider well, and determine reasonably." I answered as might be expected, that I had considered, that I had thought what I was doing, and that my happiness depended upon her.
"Then," she answered, "I will never make you unhappy, if it be in woman's power to make you otherwise. But there are many things to be thought of, even before you speak to my father on this subject, and let us think of them, and speak of them calmly. Give me but a moment or two to collect my ideas." She bent down her head upon her hands as she spoke, and there ensued between us a conversation which lasted more than half an hour, which was very grave, and in some degree sad upon her part. Nothing was very clear, nothing was very distinct in it. Twice she mentioned her sister's name, and more than twice we came near the subject which I know was in both our thoughts. But there were feelings of delicacy on both sides which, young as our love was, prevented our speaking our suspicions at that time. That day, however, Mr. Conway rode out again, and as the marquis himself had walked down to a neighboring villa, he lingered about in the gardens with Narcissa by his side. He seemed to have made his peace with her, and Beatrice kept close to me during the whole time of his stay. They gave us plenty of opportunity to converse at our ease, and then it was that I ventured to make some direct remark to my fair companion, in regard to his strange attentions toward her sister. Beatrice looked timidly round, and then clasping her hands together, she murmured, "He is a villain!" Her face was very pale as she spoke; but the subject being once broached, I went on, saying, "Dear Beatrice; if you know him to be such, why not at once call your father's attention to his conduct?" She remained silent for a moment or two; and then looking sadly up in my face, she answered, "I fear my father owes him money. It is right that you should know it; for although I do not believe that you seek wealth with me, yet perhaps you do not know that I shall have nothing. I am not well informed as to the facts; but of that fact, at least, I am sure. These estates pass away at my father's death to a male relation, and I have heard Mr. Conway speak to him of a bond, and of interest due, and I am sure that instead of having any thing to give or to leave, he is in debt to that odious man."
This intelligence did not take me by surprise; for I had heard from my banker that the Marquis di Spezzia was in any thing but easy circumstances. I was therefore prepared to say, at once, that I never expected any thing with Beatrice but her heart, and that if she could give me that I was satisfied. The thoughts of both, however, reverted speedily to the subject of her sister's conduct, and I asked what she thought was to be done, endeavoring to point out, as delicately as I could, the dangerous position in which she was placed.
"If your father is precluded from interfering," I asked, "what can be done?" Suddenly she raised her head, with her eye bright, and her color heightened, and answered in a firm, resolute tone, "I will interfere. I wish to yield to my sister in every thing. I have never contested any thing with her; but if I see that she is likely to fall down the precipice on the brink of which she stands, I repeat, I will interfere; and I believe there is a power in the honesty of my purpose that will support me, notwithstanding her pride and fiery temper."
Our conversation proceeded for nearly an hour longer without interruption, and it is hardly possible to tell how greatly Beatrice rose in my esteem during that short time. I had loved her with the fondness of a man for a child; but when reverence mingled with fondness, I felt that it was love indeed. About the end of that time, I chanced to look round, and saw Conway and Narcissa standing under the portico of the villa. Her eyes were bent upon the ground; but his were fixed upon myself and Beatrice, with a look not easily forgotten. However, the marquis returned, and seemed evidently annoyed to find Mr. Conway there; and yet he was exceedingly courteous to him.
On the following day we were to return to Florence, and I resolved to take the first opportunity, after our arrival in the city, to inform him of my love for Beatrice, and to ask her hand; but several days elapsed before that opportunity presented itself, and then, to my great surprise and grief, he decidedly rejected my suit. He was highly honored, he said, and so was his daughter; but it could not be. He had the highest esteem and respect for me, but a multitude of considerations prevented his accepting my proposal. I was mortified, and somewhat angry, but still for Beatrice's sake I was about to press for explanations, and endeavor to obviate difficulties, when suddenly, Mr. Conway broke in upon us, with a gay, laughing, jovial air, which he seldom assumed, and which I could evidently see was affected. I could not bear it, and I quitted the house at once, resolving to write what I had to say. I changed my mind, however, before the next morning. Turning all that had occurred in my brain, a suspicion suggested itself that Conway might have something to do with the conduct of the Marquis di Spezzia. I hardly paused to consider his object; to ask myself what could be his designs; but a strong impression took possession of me that he had exercised his power over Beatrice's father, to make him reject one who had remarked his criminal passion for Narcissa, and whom he consequently feared. Love generally becomes more pertinacious from opposition, at least, such was the case with myself, and I determined to make any effort or sacrifice to free Beatrice from the painful situation in which she was placed, and to make her mine. I determined therefore to see the marquis on the following morning, boldly to tell him all I had perceived, and all I suspected, and to offer him any pecuniary assistance which might free him from the trammels into which he had fallen. I went at an hour when I believed I should find him alone; but to my great surprise, I was informed, at the house, that he had gone suddenly with the family to his villa in the country, and I returned mortified and disappointed to the Lung-Arno, I can not describe the state of my mind during that day. My whole thoughts were confused, my purposes varying, and indefinite. That Beatrice should be mine, that I would frustrate the designs of the man I considered my enemy, that I would overcome every difficulty, and tread obstacles under foot, I determined; but how all this was to be accomplished I could not divine. I laid out a hundred plans, many of which were very wild, and perhaps the wildest of them was, to insult Conway, and to force him either to fight me or to drive him from Florence. I suspected, I know not why, that he was a coward, and I thought that if so, I should speedily succeed in one part of my object, at least, Strange, wrong, and imprudent as this course was, I took some steps in its pursuit. I went back to the Via Ghibbelina about three o'clock, and asked for Mr. Conway; but here again I was met by the same reply. He and his family had gone out of town that morning, to the villa on the Apennines. My resolution was immediately taken. I would go thither on the following morning myself, I thought, and force an explanation.
"A letter, sir, in great haste," said my servant, when I reached my hotel. "The messenger would not wait, but he seemed in great anxiety."
I tore the letter open hastily, and found a few words, signed Beatrice di Spezzia. "Come to us immediately," she said; "if you would save us all. I have spoken boldly to my father, and he has confided in me. He is in the power of a villain, as I thought, and is nearly frantic with the agony of his situation. I have spoken for you, my friend, and have told him there is one who will counsel us well, even if he can not assist us. He talks of going to you, but it would be better that you should come without a moment's delay. Oh, come, if you love me, as I believe you do."
I ordered horses to the carriage directly, and set out. It was a glorious evening, with the sun setting in purple majesty in the west, and the moon rising over San Miniato in the east, and mingling their light above; but twilight soon succeeded, and darkness came over the earth as I wound up the long hill on the Bolognese road. I had put my pistols into the carriage, and took my servant on the box, thinking that perhaps before I had done, I might need the assistance of both; but alas! neither pistol nor servant could be of any avail.
It was a little before nine o'clock, when at a spot about half a mile below the Tre Maschere, the carriage turned off down the by-road which led to the villa. The distance was not a quarter of a mile; but about three hundred yards from the entrance to that road, my coachman drew a little to the side, and a carriage with post horses passed us at full speed. At the first indication, I put my head to the window, but the travelers went so rapidly that I could not see who they were. It seemed to be an English carriage, however, and I thought, with some satisfaction, that probably the villain had been already driven from the house. I told the man to drive on quick, and in two or three minutes I was at the back entrance of the villa. It was a villa in Palladian style, graceful, and highly decorated without, but rambling, and somewhat inconvenient within. I found no servants in the hall, though there was a light burning, and I went in to the inner vestibule, whence rose a flight of stairs, leading to the chambers above. I heard voices speaking on the first floor, as I passed the foot of the stairs, and the tones, I know not why, excited some feeling of anxiety. But I went on into the great saloon, and found no one there. There was no one in the little saloon, nor in the dining-room, Turning on my steps, I went back to the stairs, and met an Italian woman servant coming down whom I knew. Her face was covered with tears, and the moment she saw me, she clasped her hands together, with a mute gesture of profound grief, and rushed past me, as if to weep in private. I hesitated no longer, but ran up the stairs, and directed by several voices, entered a room which I believed to be that of Beatrice. There were two or three people in the room—servants, and a man who seemed to be il medico—gathered together round a spot on the floor, and I darted forward and pushed them aside. There she lay, beautiful, lovely, even in the deep stillness that had fallen over her. Her face was as pale as ashes, her eyes closed, and all her garments dabbled with blood.
For a moment or two I gazed in horror and despair, and then grasping the arm of the physician, exclaimed, "I charge you, in the presence of all these witnesses, not to let any one quit this house, 'till I bring competent persons to examine into this dreadful transaction."
The man murmured something as to his want of authority; but I shook my finger at him, saying, "Remember, I charge you;" and running back to the carriage, I ordered the coach-man to drive to Florence with all speed. How shall I describe my sensations during the journey back? I am afraid almost all my first feelings were those of rage—grief undoubtedly mingling with them; but still with rage predominant. Gradually, however, anger subsided, and gave way to sorrow—deep, profound, intense. So young, so beautiful, so good, so graceful, to be lost at the very moment she was mine! Oh, it was too terrible, and I wept like a very child, For more than one long hour I gave way to feelings very near akin to despair. I felt then how deeply, how truly I had loved her. I felt that I could willingly have sacrificed my life for hers. But grief was vain. Anger only could be satisfied. Vengeance, I thought I would have vengeance, on whomsoever head it might fall. The desire was so strong, the thirst so intense, that it seemed as if my head were turning with it. During the whole of that day, and the one that preceded it, I had been agitated by violent emotions, and now the climax seemed to have come, and my mind was unable to support the weight. As we drove along, all sorts of strange images presented themselves to my eyes: some dark and terrible, some light and ludicrous; all accompanied with a consciousness that they were not real, that the sight which saw them was not sane. This continued all the way down the lower part of the hill, through the gates, to the police-office. But there I could get no one to attend to me. Though I told the inferior officials all that had occurred—though I urged them to immediate action—they still referred me to to-morrow, and I was obliged to return to my hotel, telling me that their chief would call upon me early.
I passed the night in walking up and down my room. Sleep was of course impossible, with a thousand busy fiends tearing my heart, and setting my brain on fire; but about seven o'clock on the following day, the chief of police made his appearance, and my tale was soon told. I am afraid it was somewhat incoherent; and seeing that he thought me mad, I said, "You think my brain troubled, signor, and so perhaps it is; for the scene I witnessed last night, the anguish of my mind, and the utter want of sleep and rest during two days, have made me ill; but I am nevertheless quite well enough to accompany you to the villa Spezzia, and there you will find that all I have said is true."
He told me firmly and decidedly, however, that I should not be permitted to accompany him; that he would go immediately, but go alone, and that in the mean time he insisted I should see a physician. Doctor P— was sent for, even without my consent, and it was evident that he thought me very ill, for he not only wrote a prescription, but waited with me till the draught had been brought from the apothecary's, and saw me take it. It must have contained some strong narcotic, for in a few minutes I fell into a profound sleep, from which I did not wake till evening. I was refreshed and calmed, and though my grief was as deep as ever, I could let my mind rest upon it tranquilly, though painfully. About an hour after I awoke the chief of police returned, and told me the result of his investigations. He told me he had examined all the servants, and every body in the villa, and that there could be no earthly doubt of the young lady having deliberately destroyed herself. At first I replied furiously that it was false; but remembering the impression my incoherence had produced in the morning, and fearing personal restraint, I soon contrived to conceal my feelings, begged his pardon, and saw him depart with pleasure. It was too late to go out to the villa that night, but with cold, bitter determination I resolved to see the marquis and his eldest daughter on the following day, and to tell them they had murdered the child and the sister. That she had died by her own hand I would not believe, and I knew well how often the crimes in noble Italian families are vailed by the cautious reports of the police. There was another, too, on whom I resolved to have vengeance: the man who I felt sure had been the cause of all the evil. I would haunt him like an avenging spirit, I thought. I would either bring him to the field, and have life for life, or I would follow him throughout the world, and drive him from society wherever he set his foot. But my first business was with the marquis and his daughter; and I hardened my heart to devise words that might be daggers. My feelings were very strange—such as I had never felt in England. It seemed as if the fierce, unrelenting spirit of old Italy had entered into me, and changed my whole nature.
Sleep I had none that night; and by daylight on the following morning I was ready to depart; but just as I was about to set out, the physician appeared—a mild, tranquil old man, with a good deal of sympathy in his tone—whether the natural breathing of a kindly spirit, or mere professional affectation, I do not know. He would have persuaded me to remain at home, but finding that I was resolved to go, he told me that he had heard the story of the Spezzia family from the chief of police; that he was much interested in it, and that if I could give him a place in my carriage, he would accompany me. I was glad of a companion and a witness, and I let him go. He tried to talk with me by the way. I could see that his object was to soothe and calm me; but I was in no mood for conversation, and I remained silent.
The morning was still cool and fresh when we turned off to the right from the Bologna road, with the summit of that fatal villa rising over the olive and fig trees before us. There was a little village church, with its beautiful campanile, some forty yards to the left of the road, about half way down, and I saw some young peasant girls standing round the open porch, and looking in. It instantly struck me that the body lay there, and I resolved to alight, and look upon her beautiful face once more. How the ban of the Roman Catholic church against suicide had been got over I know not, and stop not to inquire, In that land money and intrigue do every thing, and therefore there was no marvel. I made the coachman stop, and got out, while the old physician followed me uninvited. We walked up the path; the young girls gathered round the door, screening the interior from our sight till we had mounted the steps. Then the sound of our footfalls made them move away to the right and left, and what was it I beheld? Two hand-biers, covered with mortuary cloths, lay just in the entrance from the great door, with the bodies of the dead upon them, and flowers strewed upon the corpses. Gracious Heaven! I shall never forget it! I darted forward. I stood by the side of the biers, and gazed down; but not on the countenance of Beatrice. There were the fine features, the tall, fair brow, the raven locks of her sister Narcissa. There was the thin, worn, anxious countenance of the Marquis di Spezzia. But no Beatrice was there.
"Good God; what is all this?" I exclaimed, looking at the priest who stood by Narcissa. He shook his head sadly, and answered not. But the old physician laid his hand upon my arm, saying, "Come away, come away," and returned to the carriage, and drove straight to the villa, resolved to wring some information from the servants. I thought I saw it all. I fancied that they had given the honors of the church to the cruel, the hard-hearted, and the vicious, and refused them to the innocent. The door of the villa stood open, as usual, and there were two servants in the hall, but both ran away at once the moment they saw me. I entered, however, and could hear voices speaking; and the next instant there was a step in the vestibule, coming round the foot of the stairs. I thought I knew the sound of the foot-fall, but for an instant I could not see; and I wonder I did not fall down dead with the beating of my heart. The next moment Beatrice herself ran forward, with her hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes stained with weeping, but with her arms stretched out toward me. I caught her in my embrace: I pressed her warmly to my bosom: I murmured my surprise and joy, while she sobbed forth, "Thank God! Thank God! I thought even you had deserted me."
Holding her still in my arms, I carried her toward the saloon, where I had seen her lying two days before; but she whispered, "Not there! not there!" and I bore her into the lesser room. But it was long, very long, before I could obtain from her any distinct account of what had happened.
It was all in detached fragments, even when I did hear it; but I found, at length, that the same sight which had deceived me, had, probably, deceived others. It would seem that Narcissa had discovered the fact of Beatrice having sent a messenger to me, and either guessed, or found out the contents of her note. She sought her out in the saloon, and assailed her with fierce and angry language. From her sister's answers she learned that her own criminal intercourse with Conway was discovered, and her father coming in at the moment, a scene ensued which must have been terrible, but the particulars of which I never learned. She boldly avowed her guilt, however, and the frightful position in which she had placed herself.
Excited almost to phrensy, the marquis sought out Conway, and drove him from the house, daring him to do his worst, and receiving back bitter taunts and threats in return. He did not return to the saloon, and for some quarter of an hour, her sister having left her also, Beatrice remained alone, exhausted and almost overpowered by the scene that had just passed. At length, however, her sister came back, with a knife in her hand, and the poor girl knew not whether her purpose was murder or suicide. Few words passed; for Beatrice sprang up, shrieking for help, and attempted to wrest the knife from her sister's grasp. Her efforts were in vain, however. Narcissa was taller, stronger, endued with the strength of phrensy, and holding her sister back with her left hand, she plunged the knife into her own bosom, exclaiming bitterly, "There! see what you have done! now you are satisfied!" The struggle, the horror, and the anguish were more than the delicate frame of Beatrice could bear, and she fell upon the floor in a death-like fainting-fit, after which she remembered nothing for nearly an hour. Perhaps some remains of sisterly affection—perhaps mere habitual impulse—induced Narcissa to try to catch her sister as she fell, or to raise her when she had fallen; but, certain it is, that she was found by the servants lying across the inanimate form of poor Beatrice, with the fatal knife still in her hand. She was yet living when they discovered her, and bore her to her chamber; but she only survived a few minutes.
When or how the marquis had died no one knew. He was found in his own chamber, seated in his arm-chair, and quite dead. There was no wound or mark of violence upon his body. An empty vial was found in the room, but without any proof that it had ever contained poison, though I had very little doubt that such had been the case. Such was the dark and terrible tragedy at the Villa Spezzia, of which you nay hear the neighboring peasantry tell the tale, terribly magnified and distorted. There were many painful things to be done, and various difficulties to be overcome; but the good old medico who had accompanied me from Florence was of infinite service both to me and Beatrice. He soothed and calmed her even better than I could do; for he had more experience of the heart of man and woman, and he brought his medical skill, too, to bear, drawing forth a large pocket-case full of vials, and administering what he knew would tranquillize the dear, unhappy girl. He went, too, to the chief magistrate of the place, to make many arrangements that were necessary, and when he returned, he offered kindly to take the poor girl to his own house, and place her under the care of his wife. No better plan could be devised, and, in the evening, we quitted that dark and melancholy place, and made our way back to Florence. Early on the following day I flew to Beatrice again; but the fatal experience of the last few days had shaken her confidence in all mankind, and she seemed to doubt even my intentions toward her. Those doubts were soon removed, however; for my very first task was to represent to her that, left alone in the world, as she now was, she must endeavor to overcome her grief so far as to become my wife immediately. Her only answer was, as she clung round my neck, "Oh, take me away from this dreadful land as soon as may be."
For a few days, several distant relations visited her frequently, and seemed inclined to interfere; but when they found that all the property left by the marquis, except that which went to a male relation, would not suffice to pay his debts, their visits fell away, and Beatrice was left entirely to her own discretion. At that time great difficulties existed in Italy in regard to the marriage of a Roman Catholic to a Protestant, and the only means of solving them rapidly was to induce the old physician and his wife to cross the Alps with me into France, bringing Beatrice along with them. This was easily accomplished by means that are generally all-powerful with Italians, and, two months after her father's and her sister's death, Beatrice became mine. She remained with me for three happy years, and left me the dear boy you have seen. But her health had received a shock at the Villa Spezzia from which it never recovered, and she died calmly in the end of last May. Her fate was a sad one; but she showed no immoderate grief at the approach of an early death, no eager clinging to life, no anxious terror at the view of the world to come. Instead of perishing by a sister's hand, as I once thought, or by her own, as Narcissa had perished, she died with her babe by her side, with her husband's arms around her, and with the full faith and hope of a Protestant Christian.