University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

Turning from the countess, again baffled by
her perfect composure and distant civility, Norman
pushed his horse towards the gate that led to Bellesguardo.

“The painter shall unfold this mystery,” he
thought, as he hastened along the streets. “He
must know something of the child whose face he
has transcribed. From him I may gain a clew to
lead me out of the maze in which I am so singularly
bewildered. Fool that I was! I should before
have fathomed the depth of his knowledge on this
subject. I will deal cunningly with him. I will
steal the secret from his unwary lips—for secret
there is. If this woman be the mother, the painter
must know it. I will have the heart out of him,
ere I be again thrown back into doubt.”

He reached the door. It led into a wretched
hovel. The common streets were not more filthy
than the rough steps that conducted to his neglected
apartment. He pulled the little dirty cord at
the opening gate which communicated with the
“piano,” where dwelt the object of his search. It
was some time before the gate opened, apparently
of itself. A pretty cameriera leaned down from the
third story, and, in a soft voice, asked who desired
entrance.

On inquiring for Signore Ducci, he was informed
that he was dangerously ill, and not expected to
survive till morning.

“Can I see him?”

“Scarcely, signore.

“It is a matter upon which my life may depend,”
rejoined Norman.

“Then walk in, signore. But stay, the holy man
is there now,” added the dark-eyed and modest
young girl; “come with me into the adjoining room.
It is the next to the poor Signore Ducci, and when
he is alone I will call you.”

She bent her head gracefully as she left him in
the scantily furnished painting-room of the dying
artist. He cast his eyes around. It bore evident
marks of penury. About even an inferior painter
there rests a halo, however feeble, of genius and
ambition. His mind, even if it have not reached
them, has nevertheless grasped at the more radiant
shapes of nature. His life has been one of floating
dreams and brilliant shadows, a continual pursuit
after the striking and the beautiful. He inhabits a
region half ideal, teeming with lovely groups, and
steeped in gay and tender colouring. When he
withdraws his eyes from his own imaginations—
imaginations not only more gorgeous than reality,
but even beyond his power to pour upon the visible
canvass—how much he must behold to blot
out from the picture of common life! how much
he must feel to palsy his arm, and chill his hope,
and teach him to fear that he struggles in vain!

“Poor fellow!” said Norman, as he gazed around
upon the half-sketched fragments—a Venus dripping
from the flood, a helmed head, a startled steed,
the edge of a princely palace—“poor fellow!
Shadows indeed! What other men possess in substantial
forms, he owns only in pictorial resemblances;

and now—his pencil idle, his palette broken,
his fervid hues mouldering in the dust—from
the bright world of glowing light, he goes down to
the shroud, the coffin, and the worm. Rest, chilled
and tired heart! rest from your labours. Peace at
last will still its throbs. I rejoice,” he continued,
as he descried in the room several objects provided
by his own benevolent care—“I rejoice that, ere it
close in darkness and death, my hand has shed on
its gloom and sorrow even one little beam of pleasure.”

A groan interrupted his reflections. It came
from the chamber of death. In reply, another voice
met his ear. It startled him with its familiar sound.
The room which he then occupied was darkened.
Before the door hung a heavy green curtain. He
approached. Again he heard the voice—cool, wily,
and hypocritical. The temptation was irresistible.
He cautiously set the door ajar, and glided between
the aperture and the curtain; a station whence,
himself unseen, he could view the room in which
the patient lay. There were in it three persons.
The first, the wretched sufferer himself, apparently
in the last stage of malady. A light from the west,
which the sun had left an immense wall of emerald
and gold, fell upon his pale dying face. The second
was the girl who had admitted him. In the third,
seated by the bed, in his sable gown, with the
glossy black hair parted over his quiet, artful features,
and a subdued look of holiness, he recognised
the priest.

The painter, with an expression of long suffering
and exhaustion, was just replying to a question,
with half-spent breath.

“No,” he said, “never a word on that subject.”

“But he seemed rich?”

“Ay, and kind as a brother.”

“Tall?”

“Yes, and noble; the bearing of a prince.”

“How often has he been here since?”

“Once, according to his promise.”

“And he gave you money without an equivalent?”

“Yes.”

“And you know not his name?”

“No.”

“You swear, as a dying man, you have never
breathed a word?”

“I swear.”

“And that you never will?”

“I swear.”

The priest rose to go, promising to return in the
morning. As he withdrew, the young and evidently
sinless girl followed him to the door, took his
hand, knelt, and kissed it.

“Your blessing, my father,” she said, devoutly.

“Bless you! bless you, my child.”

Again the fair enthusiast kissed, ere she surrendered,
the white and pious hand.

When Father Ambrose had withdrawn, Norman
entered at the call of the girl.

The painter, exhausted with the previous colloquy,
had sunk back into a doze. Norman gazed
on his broad white forehead. There, perhaps, slept
his secret, at least the faint clew that might lead to
it. Those lips, so cold, so still, could, peradventure,
with a breath, direct him to the path. Hours
he lingered, resolving, when the object of his solicitude
should awake, to attempt the discovery, which,
however remote, he could not help vaguely supposing
in some way or other linked with his own
mysterious fate.

Late in the night, the pale invalid opened his
eyes wildly, and stretched forth his hands.

“My mother—my mother!” he said, “my gone

years—my distant home among the hills—tell her
—I died—with her name—on my lips—tell her—
tell her—”

Vain—vain. To that green home no more his
foot shall stray. That voice the mother never
again shall hear. Already the spirit, free from its
load of anguish, was deep amid the secrets of
another world.