University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Before the information of Morton, which so singularly
coincided with his own suspicions, Norman
had planned a journey to Pisa with him, and had
formally taken leave of Antonia and the priest. It
had been his intention to depart in the afternoon,
and to spend the evening and night at the villa of a
friend a few miles from town. Now, however, he
changed his mind. He excused himself to Morton;
and after visiting, as we have related, the
poor painter Ducci, went alone, and full of portentous
presentiments, to his apartments. In order
to exempt himself from interruption, he had not
informed any one of the change of his intentions; and
now, at twelve, sat alone in his room, with a rush
of thoughts, new and strange, rolling through his
mind.

He had overtaken the Countess D—. Her
face turned upon him—the very eyes of his painting—the
very countenance: no mother ever more
resembled her child. His address, however, was
received with the same utter coolness and self-possession,
rendering nearer approach impossible.

Did she know him? Was she resolved to continue
in her mystery? Was there any relation between
her and Clairmont? Even if there were—
what then? Did that prove any thing? Suppose he
could trace and demonstrate all that he suspected—
that she was indeed the mother of the child—that
some secret relationship subsisted between her and
Clairmont—that she had been in America: should
she even acknowledge all this, would it realize
those dim and irrepressible forebodings which had
been for some time floating in his mind, respecting
the discovery of his own deep secret; and which
were gradually increased and deepened by several
trifles, individually almost too insignificant to notice,
yet, in the aggregate, striking and inexplicable?

The priest, with his sly smile—his silver words
—his mysterious and silent air—his evident desire
on many occasions to avoid him—his appearance
in the Duomo with that gaunt stranger, when his
own name had been mentioned—the secret intruder
into his room, having evidently perused his
note-book: this woman—this Countess D—; her
resemblance to her whose life he had saved in
New-York; the child's picture, with the very scar;
and now, when he had almost abandoned the idea
that these were more than mere coincidences, here
comes Morton, who exclaims at once that this very
Countess D— has been in New-York, holding
dark and mysterious communion with Clairmont.
“What! is the black veil to be lifted? Are these
extraordinary shadows, that have so weighed upon

me of late, are they really the commencement of
the great work? Is the mighty and accursed enchantment
which has locked me in odium and in
despair, is it fading away? Do the links begin to
fall from my limbs, and the scales from my eyes?
And this very Morton—he who has so oddly plunged
me in this dilemma—is he, silly fool as he is, to be
the instrument? Shall I walk again among men
with the halo of innocence beaming around my
brow—beaming to every eye, to every heart?
Flora unmarried, and the friend of Julia! What
delicious hopes! What—”

He was interrupted by a slight noise. It seemed
close to the wall, behind a heavy curtain. His
heart leaped to his throat. He was already excited
to a most nervous agitation. The heavy toll of the
Duomo was just sounding two. All was silent.
He leaned his ear. Again he heard a rustle; and,
hastily extinguishing the lamp, he silently withdrew
within a deep embrasure in the window, and
enveloping himself in the folds of a large curtain,
waited in unbreathing silence. A light appeared.
The drapery on the opposite side of the room,
which he remembered had shaken before when he
suspected a similar intrusion, once more moved.
Gently, stealthily, as a cat crouches to watch its
prey, a form emerged from the wall, with a shaded
lantern, bending and listening; prying, step by
step, and on tiptoe. The intruder reached the
table, held the light to the adjoining room, as if to
ascertain whether any one, by chance, was there;
then, apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, and
assuming an easier and bolder air, uncovered his
face, and sat down upon the large chair by the
table. A look sufficed for recognition. It was the
priest.

“So ho!” he said, “to Pisa he has gone! Well,

let him. If he would but stay—if the old tower
would but fall and crush him, we should have easy
work of it. Only he prevents her—only he; and
yet the green fool never dreams it. Ha! ha!
Well, let us see; she shall yet be ours.”

The worthy man proceeded to examine, very
strictly, all the furniture in the room in any way
appertaining to Leslie. He turned over the papers—glanced
among the books—looked carefully
through one or two letters, left by chance on the
table—and opened, with false keys, the trunks.
Norman had sufficient presence of mind to restrain
his impulse to step forth and lay a hand upon his
shoulder, and kept perfectly silent. The priest,
after looking carelessly through such papers as he
found, laid his hand on the packet brought by Morton,
and reading the superscription, exclaimed,—

“No! yes! Holy Virgin! Norman Leslie!”

After arranging every thing as it had been before,
he glided out of the apartment.

“So, then,” thought Norman, as he stepped from
his hiding-place, “the infernal rascal is a spy; nay,
something more than a spy. What meant the ill-omened
raven by the exclamation at my name, and
his courteous wish of the leaning tower? Does he
know me? He spoke too of her. Who is she?
Antonia—the beautiful, the innocent, the light-hearted
Antonia. I must save that gentle being
from the wiles of this old fox; and since I know
the secret door, I will endeavour to profit by it.
Every day, my reverend brother here goes, at
eleven, for an hour, to the cathedral. I will take a
look into his regions.”

The morning came. Norman met the priest at
eleven in an antechamber.

“What!” said Father Ambrose, in his smoothcst
tone, “Signore Montfort!”

“Ay, holy father, by the merest chance. I returned
at daybreak.”

“I rejoice to see you look so well,” rejoined the
priest, with a smile.

When he was gone, Norman ascended into his
apartment; and, after much scrutiny, discovered a
small and well-concealed sliding panel. He opened
it without ceremony. It led into a corridor, and
thence into another suite of rooms less elegantly
furnished. In a small room, with the light from a
high window shed strongly down upon his face,
sat a young boy. He was attentively poring over
a book. The face could not be mistaken; it was
the same sweet countenance which smiled in the
picture, and the scar was distinctly visible over the
eyebrow. The eyes were presently raised and
lowered again. Those same large, black, lustrous
orbs. At that instant a step was heard. Norman
withdrew, unobserved, into his chamber. A half-hour
afterward, trembling with curiosity, he again
tried the panel. It was fastened on the other
side.