CHAPTER LVIII

IN THE BLESSED ISLES

The work was done. Nothing, was now required but time and! patience to complete the journey; which had been begun and carried thus far under such fearful difficulties.

They reached England, and found the old father there waiting for his child.

He put out his hand to his daughter, and said faintly, -

"I am waiting here: I am waiting to cross the great sea and go home."

The countess, pale now with travel and trouble, turned to Murietta, for her heart was bleeding at sight of this.

"Oh!" said she, "it is not the great sea that he will cross to go home; it is the great dark river of death."

And it was so. Still talking of home, and rest, and peace, under the cool trees on the other side of the great sea, he folded his hands and died.

And now the poor, beautiful, but broken hearted woman was more alone than ever before. She fell down and wished to die and be buried, and be at rest from it all. Then for many days she was very, very ill, and was wild and out of her mind with a fever.

Murietta watched with her then, and did all that a brother could do — all that a father could do, for now he was, indeed, old. He was as cold at heart and almost as old as the old man he had ust seen borne to his grave.

While he watched by the bedside of the countess, and when she was almost recovered again, he received a package of papers from the consul at Milan.

There was one, an illustrated paper with a frightful picture. It was the picture of a man, a large man, hanging by his neck to the bars of his cell. A cord, a rich red silk sash, the paper stated, had been passed around the middle bar, and by this the man had hung himself, and was found dead the second day after his imprisonment.

The old admiral, the founder of the order of the Brothers of the Altar, was dead. Murietta meditated as he thought of the red sash, and then remembered how that once on the banks of the Tiber the countess had shuddered at the sight of it, and said that it looked like blood.

During her illness the countess had spoken more than once about her husband. Would he come to her? Could he come to her? Then she would begin to talk of the admiral, and say that it was impossible, and that he loved his clannish companions better than his family.

Murietta had noticed this, and had not been idle. But now that he knew the admiral was no more, he at once decided what to do, and acted accordingly.

Soon the countess was able to be wheeled into her parlour. She seemed more beautiful than ever, yet more sad than ever. Murietta tried in vain to rouse her and call her spirits back again to the beautiful things of the world. It was no use.

One day she was standing by the window with her little boy as the artist entered. She was nearly well now, and he, still weary, still worn from time and trouble and thought, had come to say good bye, for he wanted to get away, to be alone— to go up into the mountains and pray, as it were.

"I have written to the count," she began, smiling sadly, "and — and I have written him a long letter today. Perhaps you had better read it."

"I read your letter, lady!"

"Well, no, not that. But you understand how things are better than I do, and perhaps you might improve the letter." Then she hesitated, drooped her great brown eyes, lifted them up again, and said, "At all events, I want you to send him some money. Send him plenty of money. Send it at once — by telegraph — today — now."

"Countess, I have sent him money. All the time you have been ill you spoke of it and he has not been left in want."

The brown eyes were again of the carpet, and then looking up and opening them very wide, she asked:

"Do you not think he would like to see his family?"

"Certainly I do."

"But no, no, no: he cannot come. That oath., that order, that terrible man, the admiral. Ah! I shall go mad at last!"

"As for the old admiral, he will trouble you no more. He is dead," answered the artist solemnly.

She clasped her fitde hands, and (shall it be told?) said "Thank God!"

She held her head down a long time in thought and in tears. At last, looking up, she said:

"You will send for Connt Edna for me at once. Send at once — send by telegraph and say he is needed here. Say anything only so that he leaves that country and comes to me, to a Christian land."

"Lady, I have already sent for him"

"What! Have you?"

"I sent for him days ago, and have had answers, and he is on his way to join you."

"Heaven is merciful! And when will he arrive?"

"This evening — this hour."

She sank in a chair and held down her head, and hid her face in her hands as if in prayer. Murietta stood up before her, and was very pale. Her delicate foot tapped nervously on the floor in the old way, as she looked up, half smiling through her tears, and with a brighter face than she had shown for a long, long time.

"I have come to say goodbye, for I am going away. I shall return now to my work, and busy myself once more with creatures of imagination."

Her little fingers were winding themselves up in the tassels of her crape shawl. At last she put out her round, soft, baby hand. She looked down into her lap with her great brown eyes, half hidden under the drooping lashes, and said:

"Goodbye."

Murietta did not speak. He leaned forward, bowed above the beautiful woman, kissed her tenderly on the fair brow — kissed her for the first and the last time — and was gone.

He had done what he conceived to be his duty. He had done this at a countless cost. What she thought of it now was another matter. What the world thought of it was nothing to him now. He left her with her husband, and went on his way alone. He was satisfied with himself, and that was his recompense.

Murietta had returned to Italy. Fair Italy! With all its faults, the finest land upon earth. Gentle Italians — with all their follies, the only real artists — saving the exceptions — in all the world.

He felt that he was in disgrace in the great cities, and kept well away. He had a studio in Perugia, and worked there very faithfully. He was a silent man, and as abstemious as a monk. His hair was turning grey, and yet his heart was warm to the poor and the distressed about, and people came to understand that this man hiding away among them, and who Was growing prematurely old, had a history.

There was a beautiful picture of a beautiful woman in his studio, and the Italian; artists, who sometimes came to visit him, often stood before it with silent admiration.! This was the picture of a lady looking back over her shoulder. On the back of this picture was the one word, "Rubicon."

The artist had been here nearly a year alone and quietly, and in a measure contentedly at work. Two people climbed up to the lofty studio, with its windows looking out on the Upper Tiber. He did not look up from his work. He supposed them some other artists who had more leisure than he, and that they knew how to make themselves at home. He went on with his work. He was dreaming. And this man was dreaming now of Annette, the One Fair Woman. In fact, it would have been difficult to find a moment in his life now when he was not dreaming of her, and her only. The world took no part of his time or attention. He thought only of this beautiful real ideal and went on with his work.

There was a rustle of silk, and a soft hand touched his own. He turned his eyes, and then he dropped his brush. He could not realize it at first, but stood staring into the face of the wonderful being before him, and mute and quite overcome.

Then he thought it was a vision, for he I had been thinking of her; but there was the dreamy old general behind her, and he was looking at a picture on the wall close by.

"This is the picture, Annette, that was promised you, I know."

"You see, Mr. Murietta, we have come after my picture. And will you not shake hands?"

How gentle, how like a dream she was! yet how matchless and magnificent. All the man's life came tiding i)ack to his veins again, and the blood mounted to his face in confusion.

He did not reach his hand to her. He could not speak. He was stooping to pick up his brush.

"No, no," she said, laughing pleasantly at his confusion; "let your brush lie there on the floor. Let it lie there for a time at least, and let us shake hands over the dead year that is gone."

He reached his hand, and looking in hier face said earnestly:

"Beautiful woman, is it best to reach hands over the gulf that rolls between us? You see I am satisfied here — tranquil at least — half content. Why shall I suffer myself to return again to the rack and torture? Fate decided against me at Como. I accepted the verdict."

"At Como you were a simpleton." The lady laughed and he looked puzzled. "You are the veriest child in the world. Why did you not come to me with that poor lady's misfortune instead of applying to strangers? Do you not know that I would have been proud to help her through it?"

"And then you know all and understand all?"

He looked in her face as he spoke, and holding her hand, drew her close to his breast, and called her his own in a whisper, and she did not shrink away, but held his hand and listened to what he chose to say of scattering roses in her path of life now, even on to the end.

"No, do not think women blind," she said at last. "Men do not deceive women as often as they suppose, either for good or evil. I understand you better than you understand yourself. Had you flinched from your duty to that lady when she needed your help, I should have hated you, my hero."

THE END