CHAPTER LII

THE OLD ADMIRAL PROPOSES

It was ten o'clock, and the boat from Colico at the head of Lake Como, which brought down the hosts of tourists from the Engardine and other places of resort in the Swiss Alps, was whistling off the little wharf.

The arrival and departure of this boat were the events of the day. This Belaggio was the great half way place between the Alps and Milan. Everybody stopped here at least a day to rest; many stopped months. But it was on this boat that travellers came who had been in the Tyrol or the Alps, and it was on this boat that tourists took passage for the nearest point on the railroad, which was at Como, who wished to visit France, England, America.

Hence the coming and going of this boat was a great event; and there was meeting, and greeting, and goodbye, and all that, all the time, from the moment people began to land till she had taken on her load of down passengers and pushed off into the lake for the edge of the plains of Lombardy.

The artist, wishing to forget for a moment the task before him and the fortunes or misfortunes that lay hidden away from him in the folds of the next few hours, stood out on the great balcony of the hotel that looked over the lake, and watched the coming and the going of the people, the excitement, the embraces, the farewells, the hurry and bustle about the boat which had just arrived and was about to depart.

There was a man being carried on the boat in a litter.

"Poor fellow!" sighed the artist; "he has come to Italy for his health and found his death. He will never live to see old England again; the long ride through the hot towns of France will kill him."

A carriage was driving tardily down the short road to the wharf.

The boat whistled, a bell rang, the rope was cast loose, the boat pushed off. Then a lady was seen to rise up excitedly in the carriage, call out in terror, wave her handkerchief, and call to the boat. She had been left behind.

The lady sank back in the carriage, and then a little boy put his arms about her neck and they wept together. He moved on the other seat soon, and the crowd — which had hidden the carriage and all but the face of the lady — now melted away, and the artist started with amazement. It was the lady in pink, the Countess Edna.

He hastened down stairs as soon as he could catch up his hat and cane, and was on his way to her side before he took a second thought. This man was not accustomed to take a second thought when he found any one in trouble. Had he reflected here he might have been less demonstrative, but it is doubtful if he had deviated the least bit in his coarse, or in any of his conduct which followed his meeting with this woman in this unfortnnate condition at this most inopportune time.

Her little hand was fluttering with excitement as it reached to receive him.

"We have been left. My poor father is gone, and gone only with that miserable Italian servant to attend him."

"And, dear lady, how could you allow them to separate you?"

"There is something wrong; there has been all the time. I tell you some one is at the bottom of this. I suspected it this morning. I told the proprietor of the H6tel Grande Bellagio."

"And you were at the Grande Bellagio? Why, I am there also."

"I know it, I know it. We only arrived last night — rested all night, and were trying to post on to England, for father is ill indeed, and wants to go home to his native land. Yes, I heard you were there, but as we had only sickness and trouble to tell you about, I did not care to trouble you. But as I was saying, I told the proprietor of the hotel that these servants were up to mischief, and would either get my little boy away from me, or leave my poor father behind."

She leaned her head over to the artist and whispered,—

"I promised not to leave Italy, but I must. I must get my father to England. I cannot remain here without him, and then it is not right that he should travel the long and dreadful journey without me."

"Well, well! It's too bad. But you can't sit here in the hot sun. Now what is to be done? Tell me what I can do and I will be glad to do it."

"When can I go on?"

"Not till the evening boat. Your father by that time will be in Milan."

"Merciful heaven!" sighed the lady, and she put up her little helpless baby hands as if to hide her eyes from the sight of the admiral before her.

"I am rough but honest," said a great voice, and a man in many jewels came forward and put out his hand to the countess, which somehow she felt compelled to take.

"Yes, I am a rough but honest sailor, and I have come upon the ground to help you."

"Can you help me, Murietta? Will you, will anyone, help me and get me out of the clutches of these treacherous men that seem to hold my very life in their hands?"

"Countess!" thundered the old man, coming forward and stroking his great chin and pulling his long grey moustache right and left, "I can help you, and I will help you."

"Only let me get to my father, get to America. I will give you money; heaps of money."

"Good! Now we will get on, now we will understand each other," said the man, lifting his hat and laying his hand on his heart.

"Get back to the hotel," said Murietta, "and out of the sun, or you will be ill, and then make such arrangements as you can to join your father. He will certainly await you in Milan and telegraph you from the first station."

The old admiral stood there as if waiting to take possession of the countess so soon as the artist stepped aside.

"Will you please sit by me? Take a seat here," she said, as her little pink hand drew back the rose and pink and silks at her side, nervously as if she was frightened almost to death at the bold attitude of the admiral.

The artist stepped into the carriage, ordered the man, who was evidently in the pay of the admiral from the glances they exchanged, to drive back to the hotel, and sitting there as the carriage turned up the hill he saw the doctor and the old admiral talking together in that loud and belligerent voice and manner common only among low and treacherous Italians.

The lady returned to her apartments, and the proprietor of the hotel smiled as she entered again, as if he had really done a good piece of business by detaining her.

"Now let us see what is to be done," said Murietta cheerfully, as he sat down opposite her in her saloon and saw how terribly she had been worn by her trials and troubles in the Tyrol, and how she was now shaken up by this new trouble.

"Think it out Mr. Murietta, and tell me what to do and how to do it. I do not know. Father could give the directions and I could take care of him, and that is the way we managed it. But here I am with my little boy, quite broken down myself, and quite at the mercy of these wretches that surround me."

Murietta knew perfectly well that the case was just about as bad as it could be, but he pretended to laugh at it all, and assured her that she would be able to get off by the evening boat and join her father at Milan that night. Thus it was agreed to wait for the evening boat since nothing else could be done, and then Murietta went out and down in the walk of trees by the water.

"Now, sir, I am a plain, blunt man. One word with you. You remember I told you all about the Brothers of the Altar on the Pincian Hill in Rome," began the admiral gruffly, as he met the artist face to face in the walk, where he had evidently followed him. "Well now, sir, I told you bluntly and plainly the truth, and implored you to become a member of the order. You did not choose to do so. Very well, that was your own business. I refer to this only to call to your mind that I very bluntly and plainly told you a great truth at that time; which you saw fit to fall in a passion about and threatened to tumble me over the wall. Very well, now I have another great truth to tell you, and a proposition to make."

The artist attempted to pass on down the narrow walk of yew wood, but the great monster of a man still stood before him.

"I have a proposition to make. You are a friend of the countess, she will do just as you tell her. Now, sir, you wish to serve her. She wishes to get out of Italy with her father."

"Yes, and will get out of Italy with her father without either your assistance or mine. And now do you stand aside or I—"

"Do it. Please to do it, and I will put you in prison and take possession of the countess myself, body and soul."

"You insufferable old villain! What do you mean?"

"I mean just what I say. I carry my heart in my hand, I am a rough but honest man. And now, sir, since you will not obhge me by knocking me down you will perhaps listen to my proposition. It is this." Then the old admiral stopped a moment, sighed, reflected a time, and then went on, "I have not lived the most regular life, I admit; I was born a gentleman, a poor Italian prince. Youthful indiscretions drove me to the sea. My brothers usurped my title and small estate. I have been a very unfortunate man, but now I have saved some money and am getting old and wish to retire."

"Then, old man, why not reform and retire, and leave off persecuting a helpless woman and a dying man?"

"Because — because I cannot leave that woman. Because I love her."

Murietta clutched him by the throat for a second, but let go and pushed him from him.

"Please to choke me, sir. Please to do it, and I will lock you up and have the field for myself, and get damages for the assault besides. But listen to me. You are a man of the clouds. I am a practical man. You see what I can do. I knew the countess must come this way. There are but two roads out of the TyroL 1 came here with my men. I waited. You see what 1 have done. I have sent her old father off alone in charge of one of my men. She cannot leave Italy without my consent. Now, sir, her weak and silly husband, the count, who dares not disobey a word of my commands, is and will remain in Rome til I give him leave to come away. Now I wish to got out of all these meshes of orders and associations that are no longer either creditable or pleasant. I swear to God I will reform. I wish to go to America and there settle down and end my days in peace. The countess can take me with her. Go to her, tell her to take me with her out of the country. I can escape under the pretence that I am still watching her, for you see I too am watched as well as others, and watched by my own men. Tell her to take me and I will treat her honourably. I will never say an impure word to her now, but will win her love by my devotion to her interest and her pleasures. Tell her that if she refuses me this she shall not leave Italy. No! her boy will be taken here, her father there, and she will be so tormented that she will wish a thousand times that she had taken even the vilest of my propositions."

Murietta had stood there with his arms folded up and doubled in, lest he should be tempted to strike this monster and thereby only involve the countess in deeper trouble. Then, as the man finished he turned away without a word and went down the other end of the walk.

"You will not serve the countess, then, by delivering my proposition?" The artist did not answer or look around.

"Well, then," thundered the man down the avenue of dark wood, "her blood and the blood of her father and her child be on your hands."