 | The bandit queen |  |
THE BANDIT QUEEN.
A TALE OF ITALY
BY EMERSON BENNETT,
Author of “Sol Slocum,” “Prairie Flower,” “Phantom of the Forrest,” “Clara
Moreland,” “Forged Will,” etc, etc.,
1. CHAPTER I.
THE ATTACK AND RESCUE.
I was in Naples, master of my own
time, at the romantic age of twenty-two
years. After finishing my collegiate
course, my father, a banker of the city
of New York, advised me to travel a year
in Europe, and satisfy the craving of
youth for sight-seeing and adventure, and
then return and settle down for life.
Shortly after, with my passport and letter
of credit, I sailed for England, spent
some time in London, went to Paris, and
thence departed for Italy.
I had been in Naples a week, had obtained
my permit to remain, and had
visited several places of note, when a series
of rather curious, remarkable and
romantic adventures began, of which I
propose to give a true and faithful account.
One calm, lovely evening in May, as I
was nearing the suburbs of the city, on
my return from a short excursion I had
that day made on foot, a carriage passed
me at a rapid pace, going in the same direction
as myself. In a minute or so it
was lost among a grove of trees; but
scarcely had it disappeared from my
view, ere I was startled by a piercing
scream, followed by a loud cry for help in
a different voice, and then the sharp report
of some two or three firearms.
I had read and heard much of the boldness
of Italian brigands, and I at once
conjectured that the party in the carriage
was being assailed by some of these pests
of the country. Though armed with a
good revolver, and naturally as courageous
as men in general, I think if I had
stopped a single moment to reflect on the
consequences, I should have kept out of
danger; but as it was I acted solely on
an impulse, and darted forward to the
assistance of those in distress.
As I entered among the trees, I dimly
saw some dark object a head of me, which
proved to be the carriage, and heard
several voices speaking excitedly in Italian.
Though I could understand the
language nearly as well as a native, I
could not at first distinguish anything
that was said; but I soon caught the
command:
“Quick, comrades! take what you can
get and be off for we are in danger here!”
“Come on!” I shouted, as if calling to
my companions; “we have the villains
in a trap at last.”
As I spoke, I discharged my revolver
in the air, hoping thus to frighten the
robbers. My ruse succeeded, and, much
to my satisfaction, the rascals all fled at
my approach.
On coming up to the carriage, I found
the door open and a man lying on the
ground and groaning. The driver was
on his seat, with the reins in his hand,
and I fancied was looking on too calmly
to be honest himself.
“What is all this, sirrah?” I exclaimed
in Italian.
“His excellency resisted, and I'm afraid
the robbers have killed him,” replied the
man on the box.
“Well, it seems you at least made no
resistance!” returned I, rather sharply.
“No, your excellency, I am an Italian,
and know better than to resist the brigands,”
coolly replied the fellow.
I was about to tell him I thought him
one, but changed my mind and asked:
“Who is this gentleman?”
“An Englishman, your excellency.”
“A stranger here?”
“He has been some months in Naples.”
“Has he a dwelling here?”
“Yes, on the bill”
“We must get him to it then as soon
as possible. Is there not a lady here? I
thought I heard a female voice.”
“San Gennaro!” exclaimed the man;
“I hope the rascals have not killed her!”
I thrust my head into the carriage, and
found a lady leaning back in one corner
and very still. I took hold of her and
asked her if she was hurt. She did not
move or answer.
“Either killed or fainted,” said I.
The man on the ground now groaned
heavily, and seemed to make a feeble attempt
to get up. In a moment I was
bending over him, with my hand upon
his breast. I felt something warm and
wet, and knew it was his blood. He probably
had been shot and might be dying.
“Villains!” he now exclaimed in Italian,
evidently supposing me to be one of
the robbers; “take all we have, but—”
“I am a friend, come to assist you, sir,'
I said in English.
“What? I don't understand!” he returned,
apparently not a little surprised
to hear himself addressed in his native
tongue.
“You have been assailed by some cowardly
ruffians, and I fear dangerously
hurt; but they all fled at my approach,
and I am now here to render you what
service I can.”
“Sure you're not one of the cursed
thieves?”
“Sir,” returned I, rather sharply, “I
will charitably suppose you are not aware
of the insult conveyed in your language
—or, in other words, that you do not
know what you are saying!”
“Bless my soul, I believe not!' he
muttered, “for my head sings like a teakettle.
Ah! I've a wound in my breast I find.”
“Yes, sir you should get to a surgeon
as quick as possible!” said I, placing my
arnts under his and assisting him to rise.
“If you will get into the carriage. I will
have you driven into the city with all
speed.'
“No, sir—home! home!”
“As you please.”
“Georgine?” he called; “Georgine
us! have they killed the girl too?”
“There is a lady in the carriage who is
very still, but I hope she has only fainted.”
“Quick, quick, then—see to her and
don't mind me!”
“If you will get into the carriage, Mr.
Delamere, I will render her what assistance
I can while you are being driven
home, and thus no time will be lost.”
“You've got some sense I find,” he
said, as he fairly stumbled into the vehicle.
I followed him, closed the door, and
shouted to the coachman in Italian.
“Drive home, man, and don't spare
your horses!”
In another moment we were whirling
over the smooth road.
“Georgine dear? Georgine?” exclaimed
the wounded man, in a tone of the
deepest anxiety.
“Here!” groaned a female voice.
“Bless my soul, she's alive!” was returned
in a tone of joyful relief.
“Oh, uncle, are you here and alive
too?”
“Yes, and worth twenty dead men yet,
as the scoundrels will find some day if I
can catch them? Are you hurt, Georgine?”
“Only frightened, I believe, dear uncle.
And you?”
“Well, my head's bruised, and there's
a wound in my breast; but I'll do well
enough, so don't be scared, my poor
puss!”
“Had you not better stanch the wound
in your breast, Mr. Delamere?” said I.
“My name's not Delamere, sir,” he
replied, “but Blakely—Chester Blakely.
I've got my handkerchief there. Thank
you.”
“We are not alone then it seems?” observed
the lady, evidently much surprised
at hearing my voice, for it was too dark
in the carriage for her to see me.
“No, there's somebody here that we'll
have to thank for coming to our rescue
and frightening off the robbers,” replied
the uncle. “I don't know his name yet,
and haven't seen his face; but if he's not
a young American, I'm much mistaken.”
`Why do you think me a young American,
Mr. Blakely?” I queried, in some
surprise.
“Because an old head would have staid
away; from America, I know, by your
accent.”
“You are right, Mr. Blakely, and it
proves you a shrewd observer. I am
twenty-two years of age, from the city of
New York, and my name is Alfred Thornton.”
`May Heaven bless you, Mr. Thornton,
for the generous deed that has saved
our lives!” said the lady, in a voice that
to me sounded sweetly melodious.
“Tell us all about it, Alfred!” said Mr.
Blakely. “Excuse me! but I always call
young men by their Christian names. If
you don't like it, call me Chester.”
“When I feel like retaliating for the
liberty I will,” returned I, not a little
amused at his idea of an equivalent, and
believing I had found a rather eccentric
character.
I then stated the facts of my coming to
his assistance, as I have already given
them to the reader, and was again rewarded
by the thanks of the young lady,
expressed in the same sweet tones as before.
For a few moments Mr. Blakely made
no further remark, and then said abruptly:
“Alfred, you can't see me
Englishman, having some friends
and a good many enemies. I feel the
worse for my abuse to-night, and so I'll
spare my words and come to the point.
You're going home with us now, and you
can stay there, if you like, till one of us
gets tired of the other. This is my niece
here, Georgine Delamere, a sister's child,
an orphan, who's living in my family, and
a good little girl, not yet out of her teens.
I've got a wife and daughter who make
some pretense to fashion, consider Georgine
a poor relation, have got more pride
than is good for them, and don't like
Americans at all. Now if you find them
any way disagreeable, you must charge
the blame on them, and not on Georgine
or me. That's all.”
“Am I to understand, after this statement,
that you wish me to accompany
you home, Mr. Blakely?”
“If I hav'n't frightened you—yes.”
“Then, sir, I will not leave you till I
put you under the surgeon's care at
least.”
Shortly after we entered a gateway,
dashed up among a grove of trees, and
stopped before a white dwelling, some
two or three of whose windows were
sparkling with lights. A servant in livery
was apparently waiting for the carriage,
and in a moment he had the door open.
“Quick, John, run for Dr. Graham, and
bring him here in all haste!” was the
startling order the man received from the
lips of Miss Delamere. “We have been
attacked by brigands, and your master is
dangerously wounded.”
“Oh, Miss Georgine!” cried the servant,
holding up his hands in horror.
“John, you rascal,” exclaimed his master,
“don't let puss frighten all the little
sense you've got out of you! I'm not
half so dead as I might be. If you'd
been driving, instead of Luigi, you'd
been killed. You ought to learn to drive
and try it once.”
“Oh, master!”
“There, be off, and don't frighten the
doctor!”
In a minute John had alarmed the inmates
of the dwelling; and before I could
assist Mr. Blakely out of the carriage, we
were surrounded by half-a-dozen persons,
some of them speaking excitedly.
I did not stop to answer any questions;
but, with the help of Luigi, who had now
condescended to get down from his box,
assisted Mr. Blakely into the dwelling,
and saw him comfortably placed upon a
bed, in an elegantly furnished chamber,
the windows of which were open, for the
weather in Naples in May is of summer
heat.
“Don't be frightened, anybody,” he
said to those crowding around him, “for
I'm sure I'm not badly hurt. Water!
water! get me some water!”
This was quickly brought by a female
servant, and soon after the wounded man
declared he felt much better.
In the light of the apartment I now saw
he was a short, stout man, with a full,
florid face, bald on the crown of his head,
and iron-gray hair at the sides. Just
above the right temple he had received a
wound from some dull instrument, probably
a club or musket, which had laid
open the flesh and caused an immense
swelling, and from which the blood had
run down one side of his face so as to
stain his garments. There was also an
ugly stain of blood on his waistcoat, from
a wound just below the right lung, made
I supposed by a bullet, and this was, I
feared, a dangerous one—though he kept
it was nothing serious, and refused to
have it examined before the arrival of the
surgeon.
While waiting for the doctor, I had an
opportunity of observing the appearance
of those among whom I had been so unceremoniously
introduced. Three of
them were servants, whom I shall dismiss
without description. Of the others, one
was the wife, and another the daughter,
of the wounded man; and the third was
a young dandy, who chanced to be at the
dwelling on an evening visit. Mrs.
Blakely was a tall, stately, rather handsome,
and very haughty-looking brunette;
her daughter was what her mother might
have been at her age, say two-and-twenty;
and the dandy was a slender, effeminate
specimen of humanity, with light, curly
hair, blue eyes, and having a very downy
mustache on his upper lip, which he was
continually trying to twist into sharp
points at the corners, though unfortunately
the hair was only long enough to
afford him an imaginary hold. Neither
wife nor daughter seemed to be much affected
by the condition of the husband
and father, from which I judged they had
more pride than heart.
From the faces mentioned I turned to
that of Georgine Delamere, and was
struck with her loveliness, and the shrinking
timidity and affectionate anxiety with
which, standing back behind the others,
she seemed to regard her uncle, and which
so forcibly contrasted with the want of
feeling displayed by his nearer kin. I
remembered what he had told me, and I
could see that alone loved him; but,
being in a measure a dependent, or poor
relation, was kept under painful restraint
by her haughty female relatives. She
was slender and delicate, with a sweet,
pale, classic face, sunny hair and blue
eyes, and some years younger than her
cousin.
“Mrs. Blakely, this is my preserver,
Alfred Thornton, from America,” said the
wounded man, after a few questions had
been asked and answered.
The lady of the mansion bowed quite
stiffly.
“This is my daughter, Carile,” pursued
Mr. Blakely.
Another formal, fashionable, but somewhat
haughty inclination of the head and
body.
“And this,” continued the wounded
man, as if he were trotting out some animal,
“is the Hon. Augustus Drummerly,
a younger son, who may some day be a
lord.”
There was nothing very noticeable in
the words, but something in the tone and
manner of the speaker, which led me to
believe he did not regard the Hon. Augustus
as the greatest man im the world.
Mr. Thingumbob—I crave pardon, Mr.
Drummerly, I mean—seemed to think it
was all right, however; and first glancing
at the ladies, with a slight simper, and
giving his would-be mustache an imaginary
twist with his gloved fingers, he
bowed slightly, and started at me, and felt
for his eye-glass. He was got up externally
in the best style of the tailor's art,
and I was covered with dust; he was the
son of an English lord, and I was only an
unknown adventurer from the wilds of
America. I knew, therefore, he felt the
difference between us to be great—so
great, in fact, as to lead him to doubt
whether he ought to notice me or not.
Now a number of things had combined
to render me a little mischievous just
dandy by seeming anxious to make the
most of his acquaintance. So, after looking
at him a few moments, in an admiring
sort of a way, I stepped forward,
presented my ungloved and somewhat
bloody hand, and said, in my blandest
manner:
“Honorable sir, I am delighted to have
the honor of greeting you in the hearty
manner with which we children of America
delight in honoring those we honor of
the Mother Country.”
With these words I seized the half-withdrawn
hand, shook it well, and
squeezed it so hard that the owner
winced, and tears almost came into his
soft eyes.
“Weally,” he answered, in a drawling,
affected way, with what he intended for
cutting dignity, glancing at the ladies
with a kind of simper for their approval,
“you do me too much honaw—indeed
you do.”
“Not a bit of it,” returned I, bluntly.
“England, we all know, is the mother of
America, and grand-mother to the children
of America; and, of course, grandchildren
cannot do too much honor to
the children of their grand-mother, you
know. What would America be without
England, sir? and what would England
be without her aristocracy? and what
would her aristocracy be without some
noble representative like yourself?”
This little speech, so logically deep
that I could hardly comprehend it myself,
completely nonplussed my little hero,
an he answered, with considerable
confusion;
“Weally, I don't know—I don't,
weally.”
Neither did I.
I glanced at the bed, and saw that the
wounded man was secretly enjoying the
joke.
“Why do you look so frightened, Georgine?”
now spoke Mrs. Blakely, with
haughty sternness, compressing her thin
lips, as she suddenly turned upon her
niece.
“The poor child's been scared out of
her senses,” replied Mr. Blakely.
“Did she lose much?” was the sneering
rejoinder.
“Quite as much as you ever had,
madam,” was the cutting retort.
Instantly the poor girl was overwhelmed
with confusion, and I pitied her.
“You are very dusty at least, and may
retire and change your dress,” pursued
the unfeeling mistress of the mansion.
The fair object of her scorn seemed
only too glad of this dismissal, and immediately
left the apartment.
Shortly after, Dr. Graham made his
appearance—a stout, hale, intelligent-looking
Englishman, then a resident of
Naples on the hill, to whom I was presented
by the host as a young American
who had risked my life to save his, and
by whom I was received in a kind and
genial manner that quite won my good
opinion.
The doctor proceeded to examine the
wounds of his patient, at the same time
inquiring into all the particulars, and I
felt no little anxiety to know his professional
opinion of the case. Not to enter
into the matter in a technical way, it will
be sufficient to say that Mr. Blakely had
received no mortal hurt, though he had
been shot through the body, dragged out
of the carriage in a brutal manner, and
knocked senseless by a heavy blow on
the head from some blunt instrument.
him he must keep himself perfectly quiet
for a few days, by which time he hoped
to see him about again as well as ever.
When I took my leave of Mr. Blakely
that night, not one of the ladies was
present. At his urgent request I promised
to call early on the following day.
By his orders his carriage was in waiting,
and I was soon whirled down to my
hotel in the heart of the crowded, noisy
city.
Somehow the pale, sweet, sad face of
Georgine Delamere went with me and
hovered around me in the dreams of my
chamber.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE INVALID AND HIS FRIENDS.
The next morning after breakfast, I
made a careful toilet, and, ordering a carriage,
paid a visit to my new acquantance,
who occupied a very beautiful villa
on the hill, overlooking the pictnresque
city and lovely bay, with old smoking
Vesuvius rising grandly on the left.
Early as it was, some three or four carriages
were at the door, and quite a number
of visitors within, for news of the
outrage had spread, and had already occasioned
much excitement among the foreign
residents of Naples, especially the
English.
In answer to my inquiry, the footman
informed me, in a rather surly way, that
his master had not rested well through
the night, that the surgeon had advised
him not to see many visitors, and that in
consequence he had denied himself to
nearly every one.
“You may take up my card,” said I,
“and then you can inform me whether I
am one of the excluded parties or not.”
The man, who either feigned not to
know me or really did not, hesitated, and
expressed by his looks that he thought it
would be of no use. At length he turned
away, with a surly “Walk in, sir,” and
showed me into a small, elegautly furnished
parlor, where I remained alone
during his absence. I say alone, because
there was no other person in the room;
but a door, opening into a large saloon
or drawing-room, was sufficiently ajar
for me to overhear a conversation evidently
not intended for my ear.
“Those odions Americans,” said a voice
that I instantly recognized as that of Mrs.
Blakely. “I do wish there were any way
to keep them out of our family, short of
a quarrel with my hege lord, as the saying
is.”
“I do wonder at papa's taste!” said the
daughter. “I fear he will be worse than
ever now, since he claims that a newcomer
of that crew saved his life last
night.”
“From the fellow's appearance I should
rather believe he had a hand in the robbery
first,” rejoined the mother. “Like
things have happened, you know, count.”
“Very true, madam,” replied a smooth,
mellow, insinuating, masculine voice,
with a slight Italian accent, “I once knew
of a similar case myself.”
“Do tell us about it, Count!” sweetly
pleaded Miss Carile Blakely.
“It was an affair like this just mentioned.
A rich gentleman and his daughter
were assailed by robbers, a stranger
came to their rescue and saved them. He
was invited home and became intimate
with the family, and at length married
the young lady. Two years after he was
apprehended as the robber chief, and, to
save his reputation, swallowed poison.”
“Was he an American?” queried Mrs.
Blakely.
“Now I think of it, I believe he was,
madam.”
“I was sure of it.”
“I cannot bear them!” said another
feminine voice.
“They are so inquisitive and impertinent!”
said still another.
“I always avoid them when I can,” was
remarked, in a masculine tone, by still
another speaker.
“Aw, yes, weally, I do myself,” coincided
the Hon. Jackanapes whom I had
met the night before.
“This affair, though, will never have
the termination of the one you mention,
my lord,” said Miss Blakely; “for in this
case, I am the daughter of the rescued
gentleman, and I am sure I shall never
marry an American!”
At this moment the servant returned
and said his master wished to see me immediately.
I arose and followed him,
feeling somewhat indignant at the scandal
I had heard, and yet, on the whole, not
a little amnsed at the idea of being taken
for a bandit chief. What would my fashionable
friends of New York say to such
complimentary conjectures?
I found Mr. Blakely undressed in bed,
with his head bandaged, his features unusually
pale, and having a general appearance
of much nervous excitability.
“I'm glad you've come, Alfred,” he
said, in a kind of rough but cordial way,
extending his hand and grasping mine as
if he had a soul in him.
“I hope I see you better this morning,
Mr. Blakely?”
“I wish you did, but you don't. I didn't
rest well last night. I don't like being
confined to my bed at all; but Dr. Graham
says I'll have to stay here for a while.
Ah! I only wish I had those scoundrels
where I could pay them off! I'll have
them yet, too. I've already sent for Mr.
Barber, the acting English consol, a
friend of mine, and I'm going to offer a
heavy reward for the detection and conviction
of the villains.”
“If what I have heard of the Italian
manner of catching and dealing with
criminals of that class be true, I am afraid
it will not amount to anything,” I observed.
“Did you see any one of them, Alfred,
so that you'd know him again?”
“No, it was too dark, and they all fled
before I came up. By-the-by, Mr. Blakely,
did you make any resistance that led
them to assault you in that murderous
way?”
“Wall, you see, when they stopped the
carriage, and ordered me to hand over
my watch, jewelry and purse, Georgine,
she screamed, I cried out, and fired off a
small pocket pistol to scare them. The
next minute I was shot and dragged out
in the roughest kind of way, and that's
about all I recollect till I heard your
voice.”
“I suppose they robbed you?”
“Yes, to be sure they got my watch and
purse, a diamond breast-pin, a seal ring,
and Georgine's earnings. The whole
affair wouldn't amount to much, taking
out the insult of robbing an Enslishman,
only that the watch and ring were heirlooms,
that I wouldn't have parted with
for five times their value.”
“Perhaps by offering a reward for them
of more than their real value, you may
get them back!”
“You're suggestion 's a good one,
Alfred, and I'll think about it. I would
like to have those trinkets back, that's
true. I think I'll try it. By-the-by, do
to do with the robbery?”
“He was certainly taking matters very
coolly when I came up, and I had my suspicions.
But then his coolness might
have been only an Italian habit. The
people of this country are so used to
brigandage, that they rather expect it,
and are seldom unprepared for it.”
“You talk as if you knew the country
well. How long have you been here?”
“Only a week or so, but I was pretty
well read up before I came.”
“After all, I've no right to suspect the
fellow, for he was recommended to me by
a very warm friend of the family, no less
a person than Alfonzo Count Saverlini.”
“An Italian who speaks English Well?”
queried I.
“Yes, do you know him?”
“No, but while waiting below, I heard
some one in the adjoining apartment addressed
as count, and I heard his voice
in reply.”
“That must be him then! I wonder he
hasn't sent up to see me!”
I was tempted to repeat to Mr. Blakely
the whole conversation I had overheard,
but on reflection decided not to do it.
“How long have you known the
count?” I inquired.
“I've only known him about eight
months myself—slnce I first came to Naples
to live—but my wife and daughter
met him a year before, at a German
watering-place.”
“Is he a resident of Naples?”
“Well, not exactly, I believe. He's
here and there, and travels a good deal.”
“Wealthy?”
“So reputed. He's got a flne castle
and estate, back among the mountains.
I've never seen it; but he proposes to take
us all out there for a sojourn during the
hot weather.”
“Do you intend going?”
“I did think of it, and may if I get well
enough in time, replied the invalid, now
fixing his eyes upon me in a peculiar
way. But why these questions, Alfred?”
“I hardly know,” I answered, with some
confusion, “curiosity I think. You know
we Americans are proverbially inquisitive.
I beg your pardon, though! I did
not intend to inquire into your private
affairs!”
“Oh, pshaw, Alfred! there's nothing
private about it, I didn't mean that. And
so you think my coachman, Luigi, is a
sort of a spy, eh?”
“I merely stated my first suspicion,
Mr. Blakely; but you know the man better
than I do, and should be the best
judge.”
“I've a mind to discharge him—though
the fellow, if honest. is very useful, for
he's a good driver, and knows the roads
and country well for miles around.”
“Do not be hasty in your conclusions
then, for you might make a mistake.”
“At any rate I'll have a talk with the
count about him, and see what he
thinks.”
After some further conversation, I
asked the question which had all along
been uppermost in my mind:
“How is Miss Delamere this morning?
I hope she has entirely recovered from
her fright.”
“Not altogether, poor girl! and she
didn't rest well last night,” replied the
invalid, in a sympathetic tone. “She
worries too much about me—though I've
tried my best to make her believe it's not
anything very serious.”
“She loves you, Mr. Blakely, that is
very evident.”
“Bless her sweet little heart, I believe
she does,” he replied, looking at me in a
peculiar manner. “And, Alfred,” he
added, glancing around the chamber, and
lowering his voice in a confidential way,
“I'm afraid she's the only one of my
family who does.”
“Oh, I hope not, sir.”
“Yes, I'm feared it's too true,” he pursued,
with a rather sorrowful shake of
the head. “You see, I'm a plain, blunt,
straightforward sort of a man, and not
stylish enough for my proud, haughty
wife and daughter—not fashionable
enough for them, nor yet simple enough
to be used as a mere tool. Lady Blakely,
as I sometimes call her—for her maternal
grandfather was a knight—is always
boasting of her blood, and thinks nothing
under some ninny of rank her equal.
She was poor and I was rich, and so she
condescended to marry me and tease me
—though when I do get roused, she finds
I'm no driveling fool to be led by the
nose. She hates Georgine, too, the poor
child! and that worries me at times, for
it's so unpleasant for one to live in a family
where one's not welcomed by all.
Poor puss! she's had trouble. Her
mother, my sister, married a man who
get led off by gamesters, spent all his
money and hers, too, and then blew his
brains out. His wife loved him, and
didn't long survive him. And then,
three years ago, I brought Georgine home
to live with me. But they don't make
anything by treating her coldly,” he pursued,
looking at me with a meaning
smile. “I only take to her the more,
and I've fixed things so that when I get
out of the way she'll be provided for. All
this to yourself, though, Alfred! It isn't
my habit to be communicative to strangers,
and I've told you more than I
should, perhaps; but somehow one feels
as if he could make a confidant of the
man that saved his life.”
“Depend upon it, Mr. Blakely, your
confidence shall never be abused,” said I.
“I knew that before I told you, Alfred.
I can read faces and hearts, too. By the
way, would you like to see Georgine?”
“If agreeable to herself, I should be
much pleased to meet her again,” said I,
feeling a quickening of the blood at the
thought.
He rung the bell and sent for his niece.
3. CHAPTER III.
THE NIECE AND THE NOBLEMAN.
In a few minutes Georgine appeared,
looking very beautiful, and her neatly
attired figure was slight, symmetrical,
and full of grace. The features were
regular, delicate, and pretty; but there
was a light in them—something born of
angelic purity and mortal suffering—a
clearness and brightness of spirit, shadowed
with touching melancholy—of which
no language can more than convey a faint
idea. When her clear, soft, blue eyes
looked at you, they appealed to your
heart, if you had one, and won your
sympathy; when her coral lips parted
and showed her pearly teeth, you naturally
expected to hear a voice of gentle,
saddened melody, and you heard it. For
the rest, your imagination must fill up
the picture. When she appeared, her
face was pale and anxious. When she
saw me, there sprung into it a faint tinge
of emotion. With a slight, melancholy
smile of welcome, she advanced with the
delicate timidity of the fawn, offered me
her hand, and said:
“I am so glad to meet you again, Mr.
Thornton, to express once more my gratitude
for what you did for us last night!
To your generous daring we probably
owe our lives.”
“I did but my duty, Miss Delamere;
but I am certainly rendered very happy
in thinking I may have been of some
service to you and your uncle.”
The color deepened in her lovely features,
and she seemed a little embarrassed.
“Of course, we're very grateful and all
that, and of course you don't merit anything
in particular, and so on,” said Mr.
Blakely. “That's all as it should be.”
I laughed, and Georgine smiled; and
turning to him, she said:
“I hope you feel better, dear uncle.”
“Oh, don't worry about me, Puss! I'll
be all right in time.”
I soon managed to draw Georgine into
conversation, and was highly gratified at
finding she had intellectual abilities of a
high order, a poetic temperament, a delicate
fancy, a singleness of heart, and a
most exquisite refinement of thought,
sentiment, and feeling. She was indeed
a rare human flower, blooming in a world
all too selfishly chilling.
While seated by an open window, looking
out upon a most beautiful scene, with
the soft air of southern Italy stealing in
upon us from balmy groves of the orange
and olive, the footman entered and whispered
to his master.
“Show him up at once, John,” was his
answer.
“The Count Saverlini, Alfred,” he said
to me, as the servant withdrew. “I'll
introduce you.”
At the mention of the name of the
count, the sweet features of my compan
ion suddenly became much flushed, and
she seemed not a little embarrassed. I
confess I was surprised and annoyed at
this; but I did not feel that our brief acquaintance
would justify me in asking
any questions.
Shortly after, the count entered with a
bow and a smile, and kindly greeted the
uncle and niece. I was then presented
to his lordship by Mr. Blakely, in what
to me seemed a little too obsequious a
manner.
“Allow me, my lord, the pleasure of
making known to you Mr. Alfred Thornton,
a young gentleman to whose courageous
daring my niece and self are probably
indebted for our lives.”
“Most happy to know you, Mr. Thornton,
and quite envy you,” said the count,
in the same soft, insinuating tone I had
heard below, accompanied by a dignified
and graceful bow, and a smile intended
to express a most fascinating suavity.
“As an odious American, I feel myself
highly honored by such distinguished
notice,” returned I, with a low bow;
“and I shall only be too happy if I am
not eventually arrested as a robber
chief.”
Count Saverlini was no ordinary man,
as will be shown hereafter. His feelings
and features were usually quite under
his control, but in this instance he was
so completely taken aback at hearing
me repeat the disparaging remarks of his
lady friends, that he slightly started and
flushed, and glanced quickly at Mr.
Blakely and Georgine, as if to see if
they understood the words as well as
he did. They did not, of course, and
the features of both expressed surprise.
Perhaps it was not very polite in me to
answer thus at such a time; but somehow
for flinging back the slurring
words was too good to be neglected, and
I used it.
“How? What, Alfred? What do you
mean?” exclaimed Mr. Blakely, in surprise.
“Only a little pleasantry of mine, sir,”
I answered, with a smile, and a marked
glance at the count. Though we never
met before, I fancy his lordship understands
me.”
The latter drew himself up rather
haughtily, compressed his lips, and passing
me without further notice, took a
seat by the side of Miss Delamere, and,
renewing his habitual smile, at once entered
into conversation with her, congratulating
her on her providential escape
in his blandest tones, and saying how
happy he was at finding she had sustained
no personal injury.
As I had risen from my seat on being
presented to the count, and still remained
standing, and now began to feel my-rather
out of place in that company, I
was naturally in the mood to be more
critical in my observation of the nobleman
than I might have been under ordinary
circumstances.
He was a tall, finely-formed, graceful,
elegantly-dressed man, of perhaps eight-and-twenty.
His dark, Italian features
were classic and handsome. He had
long, black hair, which swept down
around his neck and shoulders; a broad,
intellectual forehead; a straight nose; a
beautiful mouth, with a heavy mustache
on his upper lip, and a well turned chin.
So far as mere physical beauty went, his
face was almost perfect; but there was
something in the expression—the looking
out through all, as it were, of a dark,
unprincipled spirit—that I did not like.
The glittering eyes had too much of the
serpent in them for me—the smile too
much of deceit—and there was in, over,
and through all, a certain undefinable
something, that to my view bespoke the
mere selfish, sensual voluptuary. Having
a wonderful command over the external
man, even with passion boiling and seething
within, and being a perfect master of
all fashionable art, with every confidence
in his own powers of fascination, he was
certainly a dangerous person to bring in
contact with the young, and lovely, and
innocent of the opposite sex.
And yet he was now seated by the side
of the lovely Georgine Delamere, talking
to her with a familiarity that seemed to
tell of a long and intimate acquaintance.
She was blushing and embarrassed, too—
the natural result, it might be, of feeling
flattered by the marked attention of such
a brilliant, charming man of rank in the
presence of a comparative stranger who
was steadily observing her. Perhaps I
was in the way and ought to take my
leave. In spirit I trembled for her, and
longed to warn her against an insidious
enemy, at the same time knowing that by
all the laws of good breeding I had no
right to interfere. Had it been otherwise,
his countship would have been
speedily removed, either quietly or by
force. But I was powerless to act, and I
knew and felt it—felt it painfully.
And yet what was she to me, or I to
her, on an hour's acquaintance? She
was very sweet, very lovely, very innocent—but
I was not her Mentor. We
had first met under very peculiar circumstances.
I had risked my life to save
hers; she had called me her preserver,
my deepest sympathies had been excited
by the scornful treatment she had received
from her aunt the night before,
morning, and somehow my romantic nature
had been wrought up in a manner
that I had not stopped to analyze. Without
due consideration, I had let my fancy
run forward and unconsciously begin
to build some airy castles. I had
been poetically dreaming, only to be suddenly
and rudely awakened.
“My dear Georgine, I have not seen so
much of you of late as I could wish,” I at
length heard the count remark, in his
most insinuating tone, and with his most
charming smile.
She was at the moment looking up into
his face, and the color deepened on
hers. I did not listen for her reply. I
had no right to stand there, even if I had
desired to do so. My resolution was instantly
taken. I would leave at once.
Approaching Mr. Blakely, therefore, I
extended my hand and said:
“I really hope, sir, that the next time
I have the pleasure of seeing you I shall
find you in a fair way of recovery.”
“Bless me, Alfred, you're not going already?”
he exclaimed in a tone of surprise.
“Yes,” said I, with a furtive glance at
Georgine, whose sweet, blue eyes I now
found were fixed earnestly, I somehow
fancied almost reproachfully, upon me,
“I have some matters to which I must
give immediate attention.”
“I'm really sorry, Alfred, you're in
such a hurry. I wanted to talk over this
outrage a little more, and settle upon
some plan of action, with your approval;
but of course I can't ask you to stay
against your interest.”
“You have a counselor in your noble
friend,” said I.
“Very true. How long do you remain
in Naples?”
“I do not know—I may leave at any
minute.”
I again glanced furtively at Georgine,
and I fancied that I saw her lovely features
turn pale. This might have been
fancy, however, but they were certainly
very sad.
“Surely, Alfred, you won't go without
seeing me again?”
“No, Mr. Blakely, I promise you that.”
“Where are you stopping?”
“At the Hotel des Etrangers.”
“Will a note there find you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, come soon again, and Heaven
bless you.”
He shook my hand warmly, and I was
turning away, when Georgine started up
rather suddenly and came forward. The
count still remained seated, and now studiously
gazed out of the window.
“Are you about to leave us, Mr. Thornton?”
she inquired, in that timid, hesitating
way which seemed to express regret.
I replied the same as to the uncle, that
I had some affairs to look after.
Her clear, sweet, blue eyes seemed to
look into my very soul, as she said, so
earnestly:
“I hope you will believe, Mr. Thornton,
that I shall always feel very, very
grateful to you, as the preserver of
my dear uncle's life, not to mention my
own!”
I quietly took her little lily hand, and,
as I slightly pressed it, replied, in a low
tone, that reached no ears but hers:
“Miss Delamere, I hope you will believe
in return that I shall always be the
happier for knowing that I have in any
manner served you.”
I do not know what my face expressed, but
hers flushed and paled as from some strong internal
emotion; and, as if in spite of herself, a
tear gathered in her eye.
At this moment, which had become not a little
embarrassing to both of us, the footman entered
to announce the arrival of Mr. Barber, the
English consul, and with another gentle pressure
of the hand and a `good morning, Miss
Delamere,” I took my leave, with a feeling so
strangely different from that I had ever experienced
before in parting from any human heing,
that I began to fancy that I had fallen in
love.
4. CHAPTER IV.
SURPRISES.
I returned to the Hotel des Etrangers in a
very peculiar frame of mind, different from any
I had ever before experienced. The day was
hot, it was approaching the hour of noon, and I
resolved not to go out again till the mountain
shadows should be thrown far to the eastward.
I had a fine, airy room, commanding a view of
the beautiful bay and the hill of Posilipo. I repaired
thither, locked myself in, seated myself
by an open window, and gazed out upon an animated
scene. There was enough of the picturesque
to attract the eye, had it sought only
external things, in the moving boats, vessels
and steamers upon the glassy waters; but I soon
lost sight of everything in a reverie which reproduced
the persons of those from whom I had
so recently parted, and the sweet, innocent
Georgine Delamere was before me, as an angel
of light, beside the dark spirit of Count Saverlini.
Suddenly I was aroused and half startled by a
thundering knocking at my door, accompanled
by the words, in English:
“Open Sesame!”
“Whoever you are, your impudence far exceeds
your wisdom,” thought I, as, in no very
amiable mood. I arose and gave my visitor admittance.
The next moment I found myself in the embrace
of the last man in the world I expected to
see—a wild, hare-brained, rattle-headed fellow,
who had once been my class-mate at Yale, but
who had been expelled for severe practical
jokes and mischievous conduct generally.
“Bless your heart and soul, Al, it is you, isn't
it!” he cried, in a loud voice, first giving me a
squeeze that nearly took the breath out of me,
and then shaking me by both hands till I feared
he would disiocate my arms. “Glad to see you,
my boy—never more so—though I always liked
you, you know. Whe-e-w!” he whistled and
rattled on, without giving me time to speak;
“thunder and lightning! what a place
for noise, crowds, filth and beggars! l've
been nearly torn to pieces by the infernal crew
that have blocked up every inch of my way
since I landed from the steamer. I showered
some coin among the wretches, and such scrambling
and fighting you never saw, and I believe
it made the rascals worse instead of better.
How I got here alive is more than I can teil,
and there's a mob outside now big enough to
sack a city. `Any Americans here, in this Pandemonium
of yours?' I said to the governor of
the hotel; and he pointed out three or four
names on the register, yours among them, and
I broke for you, and here I am, right side up
with care, as they label glass. And now how
how are you, my dear boy, and what are you
doing with yourself here, eh?”
I replied to his questions, and then asked
what brought him to Napies.
“Well, to see the sights, I suppose—I don't
know what else to say. A man must live, go
somewhere, do something, you know, Al, and
I've been roving round this six months. After
the old gentleman died—”
“Is your father dead, then?”
“Yes,” he's been gone over a year. His old
friend the gout stepped in one day, and stayed
so long that he stepped out to get rid of him.
Well, as I was saying, after he died, and left
me the snug little sum of a hundred thousand,
I thought I'd steady myself down and be somebody.
I tried it for six months, and then concluded
it wasn't my style, you know. I'd sowed
a good many wild oats, but I found I'd quite a
stock still on hand, and concluded I might as
well get rid of them; and as I had scattered
pretty freely in America, I thought it wasn't
fair to Europe not to give her a sprinkling too.
So I first went to London; but the eternal rain
and fog soon soaked me out of there, and I shot
over to Paris, where I spent the winter and saw
some fun. Abot six weeks ago I pulled up
stakes and planted myself in Madrid, but that
place didn't suit me at all. I saw two or three
bull-fights, made love to a few pretty women,
fought a couple of duels, and left the country
for the country's good—and mine too. Come,
man, I'm dry as a baked clam; and so let us have
in some of the governor's best and drink each
other's health.
'Pon my soul, I'm glad to meet you!”
I could have echoed the words heartily, had
the man before me been any other acquaintance
than Wild Nat, as we used to call him; and even
as it was, my soul yearned to him as one I had
known in my native land and now beheld on a
foreign shore.
Ah! how strong is the tie of country when we
are thousands of miles from the scenes of our
youth, among those of a different nation and
race! and how near and dear to us seems any
one from our worshiped land. The man whom,
as a neighbor at home, we might never have
known, we now greet as something akin to us;
and to find an acquaintance there, is to find a
brother indeed.
I liked Matthew Larkins—I had always liked
him—I could not help it—there was for me in
him a magnetic attraction that I could not resist—a
great soul worthy of a brighter name.
But then, withal, he was such a fellow in the
way of mischief, that I was afraid of him—
afraid of being drawn into some difficulty when
least expecting it. I could never tell when I
was safe. He had talents of a high order, and
would have made a remarkable actor. I never
saw a man who could so completely change himself
from one character to another—losing his
own identity for the time and becoming an entirely
different being. It was with such tricks
he used to amuse himself at college.
One day, when a certain member of the Faculty
was hearing a class, Mat Larkins, disguised
as an old woman, came in boldly, claimed to be
the Professor's aunt, and conducted himself in
such an unsophistocated way, that the man of
lore, who was naturally supercilious, was mortified
beyond measure, and all the students were
convulsed with laughter. And yet, though personally
known to everyone present, the fellow
actually departed, made his escape, and no one
suspected him. It was not till long after, when
he showed the disguise and told the story himself,
that the truth was known.
From all this the reader will perceive that my
friend was indeed a character, and will, I trust,
be prepared for some of the remarkable things
to be presented in the course of my narrative.
Matthew Larkins was of medium hight, slender,
graceful, and so exceedingly well formed,
so firmly and compactly knit together that his
physical strength far exceeded any estimate
that could be based upon his personal appearance.
His features were almost regular, animated,
and quite handsome, with a high forehead,
dark hair, large, brown, expressive eyes,
a nose slightly inclined to the Roman, a fine
mouth, and a beautifully rounded chin. Though
a year my senior in age he looked much younger
—in fact almost boyish—for he had scarcely
any beard, and always kept his face cleanly
shaved. Wild and boisterous though he might
be at times, he was often sober and demure,
and soft-spoken as a girl in her teens,
for he had varying moods, and often made sudden
and unexpected changes. In short, you
might be with him daily and yet never know
how you would find him from one minute to another
and perhaps never be able to fully understand
his eccentric nature. He was a native of
southern Virginia, an only son of a once rich,
indulgent father, and had been quite spoiled in
his youth. He had many noble,generous traits,
and was as brave as a lion, and at times bold
and daring to a reckless degree.
Over our wine we talked of the past, and
brought up many pleasing reminiscences, and
some that were rather painful. I did not mention
my late adventure, being undecided whether
I ought to tell it to my friend or not. I
would wait and be governed by circumstances.
He declared he must room with me, and rather
reluctantly I gave my consent; whereupon he
ordered up his baggage, and proceeded to doff
the careless dress he first appeared in, and don
one of black, with a white neck-tie, which, with
the demure, sanctified look he then chose to put
on, gave him the appearance of a clerical student.
Late in the afternoon we sallied out for a
walk; and though a crowd of beggars was
about the hotel and importnned us for charity,
they did not recognize in Mat the man who in
the morning had drawn them thither by his
liberality, and for whom they were really lying
in wait, it being the custom of the wretches to
lay siege to whoever is so imprudent as to display
a sympathizing or generous disposition.
An hour before sunset is just the time to see
Naples in all its human glory, for then the after-dinner
siesta is over, and everybody is
abroad, high and low, rich and poor, the noble
and the beggar.
All who can afford it, ride—all who cannot,
walk—but all are in the streets at the same
time; and such another throng and jam, with
the noise of a thousand Bedlams let loose, is
presented no where else in the world. The
baker, the hatter, the carpenter, the shoemaker,
the tailor, with many other trades, are all
at work in the open air, in the narrow streets,
which are crowded with animals, people and
vehicles of every description—horses, donkeys,
priests, soldiers, lazzaroni, beggars, women
and children.
As there are no side-walks for pedestrians,
the wonder is that in the crush and jam of the
human swarm many are not killed daily. And
then everybody talks in his loudest key, as if
everybody else were deaf, and everybody gesticulates
as if he were fighting all the rest of
mankind. Venders shout and scream, drivers
curse and beat their half-starved beasts, cattle
low, horses neigh, donkeys bray, females sing,
and the bewlldered stranger, if afoot, is often
glad to enter the first carriage that wants a
fare and save his life and brain.
Mat and I had set out for a walk, and therefore
we declined every public conveyance that
offered. As I had been a whole week in Naples,
and he had only just arrived, I assumed
the superiority of a cicerone, pointed out various
curiosities, and answered his questions
with the air of a man who knows what he is
talking about.
After passing through several minor streets,
we entered the grand thoroughfare of Naples,
the Strada di Toledo, where we beheld more
moving life and seemingly greater confusion,
and heard the thousands of human voices as
the roar of a mighty cataract. At a booth of
the acquajolo, we stopped and quenched our
thirst with lemon juice and water, the latter
cooled by snow instead of ice; then looked at a
party of macaroni eaters, as with great dexterity
and evident gusto they threw into their
mouths and devoured the long, white, quill-shaped
paste, prepared from flour, which may
be called the national dish of the lower orders;
listened a while to the comic drolleries and witicisms
of punchinello, which I translated for
my friend, who only imperfectly understood
Italian, and at length halted near the table of a
public scribe.
“What is the business of this old, gray-headed
man?” inquired Larkins.
“He writes letters, messages and the like, for
the ignorant and illiterate,” replied I. “Most
of the lower classes neither know how to read
or write, and therefore he finds plenty of employment
in his vocation.”
“I see! and he evidently has one customer
now, in that hang-dog fellow sitting near him.
What a cut-throat countenance that rascal has,
Al! and as he is pretty decently dressed for a
Neapolitan, I suppose villainy thrives in this
country as well as in ours.”
“No doubt of it,” laughed I.
“I wonder now if he is dictating a love-letter,
or appointing some meeting with a brother
thief.”
“It is not likely we shall ever know, Mat.”
“I tell you what, my boy, if I only understood
Italian well, I should like to follow the profession
of a public scribe for a few days.”
“For what purpose?”
“Oh, curiosity—to get at some of the secrets
that would have to be poured into my ear, you
know.”
“And what good would they do you?”
“I don't know, perhaps none, except to
amuse me for the time, which is about all the
good I get out of anything. Ah, that old man
must know a good deal of Italian life, love and
intrigue, and doubtless could some tales unfold
worth listening to.”
“For my part,” returned I, “I do not care for
what does not concern me.”
“But when you care for it, my boy, it does
concern you, don't you see? There, he has finished
the epistle, and is folding it up, and I'm
going to try and see the superscription.”
“Pshaw, Mat, what is it to you? Let us move
on!”
“Wait a minute, Al.”
As he spoke, Mat Larkins sauntered up to the
table, in a careless way. The old scribe, who
was busy folding up and sealing the letter he
had just written, took no notice of him; but the
fellow who was waiting for it, and who had
now risen from his seat, stared at him in a
bold, impudent, and rather suspicious manner.
He was a short and rather stout-built person,
of perhaps five-and-thirty, with a black, bushy
beard, covering most of his sinister face, and
with small, black, piercing eyes, looking fiercely
out from under shaggy brows. He wore a blue
striped shirt, with falling collar; a dark neckerchief,
tied sailor-fashion; a sort of roundabout,
fancifully trimmed; gray pantaloons, belted
around his waist, shoes on his feet—a luxury
seldom indulged in by the lower orders—and a
blue cloth cap, set rather jantily on one side of
his head, below which his long, jet-black hair
descended in great profusion.
The look which this fellow bestowed upon my
friend, induced me to draw near, fearing some
insult might be offered him, and a dangerous
quarrel result before I could interfere. My
coming up drew the attention of the man from
Mat to myself, and he seemed about to make
some unpleasant remark, when the old scribe
asked him for the address to the letter. Instantly
he produced a small strip of paper and
handed it to the latter, who unfolded and held
it before him. Scarcely had he done so, when
Larkins, who was now looking over his shoulder,
exclaimed, in English:
“Good gracious, Thornton, it is your name!”
“Mine?” cried I, springing forward.
“The Bandit Queen” will be continued in
Street & Smith's New York Weekly, No. 45,
now ready, which is the largest, most beautiful
and best literary paper published in the United
States, and for sale by every News Agens
throughout the Union.
☞ When you have read this little book send it to your friends in the
country, or show it to your city acquaintances, and request them to read
it.—Publishers.
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