By Order of the League E-Book

Fred M. White

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 230

Beschreibung

THE shades of evening had commenced to fall; already the slanting sun shining through the open window glittered on the array of crystal glasses, turning the wine within them to a blood-red hue. The remains of an ample dessert were scattered about the bare polished table, rich luscious-looking fruits and juicy pines filling the air with their fragrance. A pleasant room, with its panelled walls and quaint curiosities, with here and there a modern picture framed; and again other works standing upon easels or placed against the wainscot. From the Corso below came the sounds of laughter and gaiety; while within, the delicate scent of the pines was overpowered by the odour of tobacco which rose from the cigarettes of the three men sitting there. They were all young-artists evidently, and from the appearance of one of them, he was of a different nationality from the others. Frederick Maxwell was an Englishman, with a passion for art, and no doubt had he been forced to gain a living by his brush, would have made some stir in the world; but being born with the traditional silver spoon in his mouth, his flirtation with the arts never threatened to become serious.

Leseprobe

By Order of the League

By Order of the LeagueCHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IXCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XVCHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XIXCHAPTER XXCopyright

By Order of the League

Fred M. White

CHAPTER I

THE shades of evening had commenced to fall; already the slanting sun shining through the open window glittered on the array of crystal glasses, turning the wine within them to a blood-red hue. The remains of an ample dessert were scattered about the bare polished table, rich luscious-looking fruits and juicy pines filling the air with their fragrance. A pleasant room, with its panelled walls and quaint curiosities, with here and there a modern picture framed; and again other works standing upon easels or placed against the wainscot. From the Corso below came the sounds of laughter and gaiety; while within, the delicate scent of the pines was overpowered by the odour of tobacco which rose from the cigarettes of the three men sitting there. They were all young—artists evidently, and from the appearance of one of them, he was of a different nationality from the others. Frederick Maxwell was an Englishman, with a passion for art, and no doubt had he been forced to gain a living by his brush, would have made some stir in the world; but being born with the traditional silver spoon in his mouth, his flirtation with the arts never threatened to become serious. He was leaving Rome in a few days, and the dessert upon the table was the remains of a farewell dinner—that custom dear to every English heart. A handsome fair-haired man this Englishman, his clear bright cheek and blue eyes contrasting with the aquiline features and olive-hued complexions of his companions. The man with the black moustache and old velvet painting-jacket, a man with bohemian stamped on him indelibly, was Carlo Visci, also an artist, and a genius to boot, but cursed with that indomitable idleness which is the bane of so many men of talent. The other and slighter Italian, he with the melancholy face and earnest eyes, was Luigi Salvarini, independent as to means, and possessed, poor fool, with the idea that he was ordained by Providence for a second Garibaldi There is an infinite sense of rest and comfort, the desire to sit silent and dream of pleasant things, that comes with tobacco after dinner, when the eye can dwell upon the wax lights glittering on glass and china, and on the artistic confusion the conclusion of the repast produces. So the three men sat listlessly, idly there, each drowsily engaged, and none caring to break the delicious silence, rendered all the more pleasing from the gay girlish laughter and the trip of little feet coming up from the Corso below. But no true Briton can remain long silent; and Maxwell, throwing his cigarette out through the window, rose to his feet, yawning. 'Heigh-ho! So this pleasant life is come to an end,' he exclaimed. 'Well, I suppose one cannot be expected to be always playing.' Carlo Visci roused himself to laugh gently. 'Did you ever do anything else, my friend?' he asked. 'You play here under sunny skies, in a velvet painting-jacket; then you leave us to pursue the same arduous toil in the tall hat of Albion's respectability, in the land of fogs and snows. Ah! yes, it is only a change of venue, my philosopher.' 'Not now,' Salvarini corrected gravely. 'Remember, he has vowed by all in his power to aid the welfare of the League. That vow conscientiously followed out is undertaking enough for one man's lifetime.' 'Luigi, you are the skeleton at the feast,' Visci remonstrated. 'Cannot you be happy here for one brief hour without reminding us that we are bound by chains we cannot sever?' 'I do not like the mocking tone of your words,' Salvarini replied. 'The subject is too earnest for jesting upon.—Surely, Maxwell, you have not so soon forgotten the solemnity of the oath you took last night?' 'I do remember some gibberish I had to repeat, very much like the conspirators' chorus at the Opera,' Maxwell returned with a careless shrug. 'It is not bad fun playing at sedition.—But for goodness' sake, Luigi, do not keep harping on the same string, like another Paganini, but without that wizard's versatility.' 'You think it play, do you?' Salvarini asked almost scornfully. 'You will find it stern reality some day. Your hour may not come yet, it may not come for years; but if you are ordered to cut off your right hand, you will have to obey.' 'Oh, indeed. Thanks, most earnest youth, for your estimation of my talent for obedience.—Come, Luigi! do not be so Cassandra-like. If the worst comes to the worst, I can pitch this thing into the Tiber.' He took a gold coin from his pocket as he spoke, making a gesture as if to throw it through the open lattice. Salvarini stood up, terror written in every line of his face, as he arrested the outstretched arm. 'For heaven's sake, Maxwell, what are you thinking of? Are you mad, or drunk, that you can dream of such a thing?' Maxwell laughed as he restored the coin to his pocket. 'All right, old fellow. I suppose I must honour your scruples; though, mind you, I do not consider myself bound to do anything foolish even for the League.' 'You may not think so; indeed, I hope not; but time will tell.' Maxwell laughed again, and whistled carelessly, thinking no more of the little episode. The League, the coin, everything was forgotten; but the time did come when he in his hour of need remembered Luigi's words, and vividly realised the meaning of the look on his stern earnest face. Visci looked on at the incident, totally unmoved, save by a desire to lead the conversation into more pleasant channels. 'When do you leave, Maxwell?' he asked. 'I suppose you are not going for a few days?' 'In about a week probably, not sooner. I did not know I had so many friends in Rome, till I was going to leave them.' 'You will not forget your visit to my little place? Genevieve will never forgive me if I let you go without saying good-bye.' 'Forget little Genevieve!' Maxwell cried. 'No, indeed. Whatever my engagements may be, I shall find time to see her; though, I daresay, the day will come when she will forget me easily enough.' 'I am not so sure of that; she is a warm-hearted child. I tell you what we will do; and perhaps Sir Geoffrey and his daughter will join us. We will go down the day alter to-morrow, and make a day of it—Of course you will be one, Luigi?' It was growing dark now, too dark to see the rich flush that mounted to the young Italian's cheek. He hesitated a moment before he spoke. 'With pleasure, Carlo. A day at your little paradise is not to be lightly refused. I will come gladly.' 'You make a slight mistake, Visci, when you speak of Genevieve as a child,' Maxwell observed reflectively. 'She is seventeen—a woman, according to your Italian reckoning. At any rate, she is old enough to know the little blind god, or I am much mistaken.' 'I hope not,' Visci returned gravely. 'She is quick and passionate, and somewhat old for her years, by reason of the seclusion she keeps. But let the man beware who lightly wins her heart; it would go hard with him if I crossed his path again!' 'There are serpents in every paradise,' Maxwell replied sententiously; 'and let us hope little Gen is free from the curiosity of her original ancestress. But child or not, she has a woman's heart worth the winning, in which assertion our silent friend here will bear me out.' Luigi Salvarini started from his reverie. 'You are right, Maxwell,' he said. 'Many a man would be proud to wear her gage upon his arm. Even I—But why ask me? If I was even so disposed to rest under my own fig-tree, there are ties which preclude such a blissful thought' Maxwell whistled softly, and muttered something about a man drawing a bow at a venture—the words audible to Salvarini alone. 'I am tied, as I told you,' he continued coldly. 'I do not know why you have drawn me into the discussion at all. I have sterner work before me than dallying by a woman's side looking into her eyes—' 'And not anything like so pleasant, I dare swear,' Maxwell interrupted cheerfully. 'Come, Luigi; do not be so moody. If I have said anything in my foolish way to offend you, I am heartily sorry.' 'I am to blame, Maxwell, not you. You wonder why I am so taken up with this League; if you will listen, I will tell you. The story is old now; but I will tell you as best I can remember.' 'Then, perhaps you will wait till I have found a seat and lighted my cigarette,' exclaimed a voice from the background at this moment. 'If Salvarini is going to oblige, I cut in as a listener.' At these words, uttered in a thin, slightly sneering voice, the trio turned round suddenly. Had it been lighter, they would have seen a trim, well-built figure, with head well set on square shoulders, and a perfectly cut, deadly pale face, lighted with piercing black eyes, and adorned by a well-waxed, pointed moustache. From his accents, there must have been something like a sneer upon his lips. But whatever he might have been, he seemed to be welcome enough now as he drew a chair to the open window. 'Better late than never,' Maxwell cried. 'Help yourself to wine, Le Gautier; and make all due apologies for not turning up to dinner.' 'I will do so,' the newcomer said languidly. 'I was detained out of town.—No; you need not ask if a pair of bright eyes were the lodestars to my ardent soul, for I shall not tell you; and in the second place, I have been obtaining your permit as a Brother of the League. I offered up myself on the shrine of friendship; I lost my dinner, voilà tout;' and saying these words, he put a narrow slip of parchment in Maxwell's hands. 'I suppose I had better take care of this?' the Englishman answered carelessly. 'I got so exasperated with Salvarini, that I came near ditching the sacred moidore out of the window. I presume it would not be wise?' 'Not if you have any respect for a sound body,' Le Gautier returned dryly. 'I gather that Luigi has been talking largely about the sacredness of the mission. Well, he is young yet, and the gilt of his enthusiasm does not yet show the nickel beneath, which reminds me. Did my ears deceive me, or were we going to hear a story?' 'It is no story,' the Italian replied, 'merely a little family record, to show you how even patriots are not exempt from tyranny.—You remember my brother, Visci? and his wife. He settled down, after fighting years for his country, not many miles from here. Living with him was his wife's father, an aged man, universally beloved—a being who had not a single enemy in the world. Well, time went on, till one day, without the slightest warning, the old fellow was arrested for compliance in some so-called plot. My brother's wife clung round her father's neck; and there, in my brother's sight, he saw his wife stricken brutally down by the ruffianly soldiers—dead; dead, mind—her only crime that little act of affection—killed by order of the officer in charge. But revenge followed. Paulo shot three of the scoundrels dead, and left the officer, as he thought, dying. Since then, I have never heard of Paulo.—And now, do you wonder why I am a Socialist, with my hand against all authority and order, when it is backed up by such cowardly, unprovoked oppression as this?' For a time the listeners remained silent, watching the twinkling stars as they peeped out one by one, nothing to be seen now of each but the glowing tip of his cigarette as the blue smoke drifted from the casement. 'You do not think that your brother and Paulo Lucci, the celebrated brigand we hear so much of, are the same men?' Visci asked at length. 'People have said so, you understand.' 'I have heard such a tale,' Salvarini replied sardonically. 'The affair created quite a stir in the province at the time; but the peasants do me too much homage in connecting my name with so famous a character. Our Italian imagination does not rest at trifles.' 'Pleasant for the officer who ordered them to strike down your brother's wife,' Le Gautier drawled, as he emitted a delicate curl of smoke from his nostrils. 'Did you ever hear the name of the fellow?' 'Curiously enough, his name is the same as yours, though I cannot be sure, as it is five years ago now. He was a Frenchman, likewise.' 'Moral—let all Le Gautiers keep out of Paulo Lucci's way,' Maxwell exclaimed, rising to his feet 'We do not pay you the compliment of believing you are the same man; but these brigands are apt to strike first and inquire after. Of course, this is always presuming Salvarini's brother and Paulo Lucci are one.—I am going as far as the Villa Salvarini. Who says ay to that proposal?—The ayes have it' They rose to their feet with one accord, and after changing their coats for something more respectable, trooped down the stairs. 'You will not forget about Friday?' Visci reminded. 'I shall ask Sir Geoffrey and his daughter to come. We are going down to my little place on that day.—Will you make one, Le Gautier?' 'A thousand thanks, my dear Visci,' the Frenchman exclaimed; 'but much as I should like it, the thing is impossible. I am literally overwhelmed in the most important work.' A general laugh followed this solemn assertion. 'I am sorry,' Visci returned politely. 'You have never been there. I do not think you have ever seen my sister?' 'Never,' Le Gautier replied with an inexplicable smile. It is a pleasure to come.'

CHAPTER II

WITHOUT the city walls, hidden by the umbrella pines, and back from those secluded walks where young Rome takes its pleasure, stood the Villa Salvarino, almost under the shade of the walls, and hard by the gate of San Pancrazio. In the more prosperous days of the Eternal City, it might have been, and indeed was, the residence of some great Roman family; but aristocracies decline and families pass away; and the haughty owners were by no means averse from making a few English pounds by letting it to any traveller who had the inclination or the means to spend a few months there. The present tenant at this bright Easter-time, Sir Geoffrey Charteris, of Grosvenor Square, London, W., and Haversham Park, in the county of Dorset, Baronet, Deputy-lieutenant, and Justice of the Peace, was a man of long descent The pale azure fluid in his veins was not the blood of us poor mortals; his life-giving stream had been transmitted through succeeding generations from a long line of gallant warriors and gentle dames; from fearless ancestors who followed their sovereign at the call to arms, marched with Richard of the Lion-heart to the Holy Sepulchre, and maybe crossed swords with the doughty Saladin himself. The title, conferred upon a Charteris by the Black Prince in person after the glorious field of Crécy, had known no tarnish as it passed down the long line of great and good men, soldiers, statesmen, and divines, to the present worthy representative of all these honours. Not that he had greatly distinguished himself in any field, save as an Under-secretary in a short-lived inglorious Ministry, where he had made a lasting name as the most incompetent individual ever appointed to office, though he dated every subsequent event and prefixed every after-dinner story by an allusion to the time when he was in the Earl of Muddleton's Ministry.

The reception rooms of the villa were crowded when our friends arrived. It was a kind of informal after-dinner reception, attended by most of the English visitors lingering after the Carnival, with some sprinkling of the resident aristocracy; for Sir Geoffrey liked to gather people round him, birth and genius being equally welcome. Sir Geoffrey looked every inch an English gentleman, standing there among his guests. He was apparently about fifty years of age, tall and straight, thoroughbred from his stiff gray hair to the small shapely feet, as yet untroubled by the family gout His eyes were pale blue, and somewhat weak; his face, clear-cut and refined, with an aquiline nose and a high white forehead, but the whole marred by a mouth weak and nervous to the last degree. A connoisseur of art, a dabbler in literature, and last, but not least, a firm believer in spiritualism.

Enid Charteris, his only daughter and heiress, a girl about eighteen, must be taken for granted. Imagine in all your dreams of fair women what a golden-bronzed-haired girl should be, and you have Enid, with all her charms of manner and person, with that perfect expression without which the most classic features are cold. She smiled brightly as the new-comers entered. It is not given to everyone to be able to disguise their likings and antipathies, and it did not need a practised eye to see her cold greeting for Le Gautier, and the instantaneous glance for Maxwell.

'I really began to think you were going to fail me,' she said; 'and this is the last of our receptions too. I shall always have pleasant recollections of my visit to Rome.'

'We have been dining with Maxwell, Miss Charteris,' Visci explained. 'Could we forget you, if we tried! And now, before you are so engaged that you can have no word for poor me, I want to ask you a favour. We are going to my country retreat on Friday, and my sister Genevieve is dying to see you. Do persuade Sir Geoffrey to come.'

'Here he is to answer for himself,' she replied, as the baronet sauntered up to the group.—' Papa, you must promise to take me to see Signor Visci's country-house on Friday.—Do you hear?'

'Anything you say is law, my dear,' Sir Geoffrey answered with comic resignation. 'Anything you desire.—Le Gautier, I wish to speak to you,' he whispered quietly; 'come to me presently.—Salvarini, you here? I thought you had forsworn gaieties of all descriptions. Glad to see you are thinking better of your misanthropy.'

Le Gautier turned off with the baronet somewhat impatiently, leaving the rest together. Salvarini, looking on somewhat thoughtfully, almost fancied there was a look of relief on Enid's face as the Frenchman left; certainly, she was less constrained.

'We shall look forward to Friday with great pleasure, then, Signor Visci,' she said. 'I have heard you speak so much of the Villa Mattio, that I am expecting to see a perfect paradise.'

'With two Eves,' Maxwell whispered in English. Visci was not a man to misunderstand the meaning of true company, so, with a bow and a little complimentary speech, he turned aside, taking Salvarini by the arm, and plunged into the glittering crowd.

'I do not understand the meaning there,' Salvarini remarked as they walked through the rooms. 'If Maxwell means—'

'Orange blossoms,' Visci interrupted laconically; 'and right, too.—Let us get into the music-room. Le Fanu is going to play.'

Maxwell remained by Enid's side, toying with her fan and discoursing in their native language in a low voice. From the expression on his face and the earnest ring in his voice, there was no doubting the power of the attraction that chained him there.

'When do you leave Rome, Miss Charteris?' he asked, abruptly changing the conversation. 'This is your last reception, I know.'

'We shall leave in the middle of next week for certain. I shall be very sorry for some reasons, for I have been happy here.'

'I shall probably return with you,' Maxwell observed. 'I have deferred my departure too long already. It would be pleasant to leave together.'

'After learning everything that Rome could teach you,' Enid put in archly. 'Then the Eternal City has no more artistic knowledge to impart?'

'Yes; I have learned some lessons here.' Maxwell replied with a tender inflection, 'besides artistic ones. I have been learning one lately that I am never likely to forget. Am I presumptuous, Miss Enid?'

'Really, Mr Maxwell, you are too mysterious. If I could understand you—'

'I think you do understand me; I fervently hope you do.'

For a moment, a little wild-rose bloom trembled and flushed on the girl's cheek, then she looked down, playing with her fan nervously. No reason to say she did not understand now. Maxwell did not follow up his advantage; some instinct warned him not; and adroitly changing the conversation, he told her of his life in Rome, each passing moment linking his chains the firmer. Gradually, as they sat talking, a group of men gathered round, breaking in upon their tête-à-tête, laughing and talking after the most approved drawing-room fashion.

In a distant corner, Sir Geoffrey had buttonholed Le Gautier, and was apparently deep in conversation on some all-absorbing subject The Frenchman was a good listener, with that rare faculty of hearing all that was worthy of note and entirely ignoring the superfluous. He was not a man to talk much of himself, and consequently heard a great deal of family history; details and information that astute young man had found valuable on occasions. He was interested now, Maxwell thought, as he idly speculated upon his face.

'Yes,' Sir Geoffrey was saying, 'I am firmly impressed with that belief.'

He had got upon his favourite topic, and was talking with great volubility. 'There are certain gifted beings who can call spirits from the vasty deep, and, what is more, the spirits will come. My dear sir, they have been manifested to me.'

'I should not wonder,' Le Gautier replied, stifling a yawn in its birth. 'I think you are quite right I am what people call a medium myself, and have assisted at many a séance.'

'Of course you believe the same as I. Let unbelievers scoff if they will, I shall always believe the evidence of my eyes.'

'Of course,' Le Gautier returned politely, his thoughts wandering feebly in the direction of nightmare, and looking round for some means of escape. 'I have seen ghosts myself, or thought I have?'

'It is no imagination, Le Gautier,' Sir Geoffrey continued, with all the prosy earnestness of a man with a hobby. 'The strangest coincidence happened to me. My late brother, Sir Ughtred, who has been dead nearly twenty years, manifested himself to me the other night. Surely that implies some coming evil, or some duty I have neglected?'

'Perhaps he charged you with some commission,' Le Gautier observed, pricking up his ears for any scrap of useful information.

'Not that I remember; indeed, I did not see him for years before he died. He was an eccentric man, and an extreme politician—in fact, he got into serious trouble with the authorities, and might even have been arrested, had he not removed himself to New York.'

'New York?' queried Le Gautier, wondering vaguely where he had heard of this Ughtred Charteris before. 'Was he connected with any secret society—any Socialist conspiracy?'

'Do you know, I really fancy he was,' Sir Geoffrey whispered mysteriously. 'There were certainly some curious things in his effects which were sent to me. I can show you some now, if you would like to see them.'

Le Gautier expressed his willingness; and the baronet led the way into a small room at the back of the house, half library, half studio. In one corner was an old ebony cabinet; and opening the front, he displayed a multitude of curiosities such as a man will gather together in the course of years. In one little drawer was a case of coins. Le Gautier turned them over carelessly one by one, till, suddenly starting, he eagerly lifted one and held it to the light.

'Where did you get this?' he asked abruptly.

Sir Geoffrey took it in his hand. It was a gold coin, a little larger than an ordinary sovereign, and bearing on the reverse side a curious device.

'That came with the rest of my brother's curiosities.—But why do you ask? You look as if the coin had burnt you.'

For a moment, Le Gautier had started back, his pale face aglow with suppressed excitement; but as he noticed the baronet's wondering eyes upon him, he recovered himself by a violent effort.

'It is nothing'—with a smile. 'It is only the coincidence which startled me for a moment. If you will look here, you will see that I wear a similar coin upon my watch-chain.'

Sir Geoffrey looked down, and, surely enough, on the end of Le Gautier's pendant was the facsimile of the medal he held in his hand.

'Bless me, what an extraordinary thing!' the startled baronet exclaimed. 'So it is! Perhaps you do not mind telling me where you procured yours?'

'It was given to me,' Le Gautier replied, with an enigmatic smile. 'It could not help you, if I told you.—Sir Geoffrey, may I ask you to lend me this coin for a short while? I will tell you some time what I want it for.'

'Some other time, perhaps.'—Le Gautier threw the coin into its place.—'You see, I regard it as a valuable curiosity and relic, or perhaps I might part with it. You will pardon me.—But I forgot all about our spiritualistic discourse. As you are a medium, I will ask you—'

'At some future time, with all the pleasure in life,' Le Gautier interrupted hastily. 'Meanwhile, it is getting late—past eleven now.'

As they walked back to the salon, the Frenchman was busy with his thoughts. 'What a lucky find!' he muttered. 'It is the missing insignia, sure enough, and the ill-fated Ughtred Charteris is mine host's brother. I wonder what I can make out of this? There ought to be something in it, with a feeble-minded man who believes in spiritualism, if my hand has not lost its cunning. Nous verrons.'

He showed nothing of his thoughts, however, as he parted from Enid with a smile and neatly turned compliment. It was getting late now; the streets were empty as the friends turned homeward, Salvarini bidding the others goodnight and turning off in the direction of his apartments.

'You had better change your mind, and come with us on Friday, Hector,' Visci urged Le Gautier. 'The baronet and his daughter are to be of the party. Throw work to the dogs for the day, and come.'

'My dear Carlo, the thing is impossible. Do you think I should be chained here this lovely weather, if stern necessity did not compel? If possibly I can get over later in the day, I will not fail you.'

'I am very sorry,' Visci replied regretfully, 'because this is the last time, in all probability, our friends will meet together for some time.'

'I am sorry too, Carlo, but I cannot help it. Good-night'

Le Gautier watched his friend along the moonlit street, a smile upon his face not pleasant to see. 'Ah, yes,' he murmured, 'it is quite impossible. Genevieve is a good little girl, but good little girls are apt to cloy. It is getting dangerous. If Visci should find out, it would be a case of twelve paces and hair-triggers; and I cannot sacrifice myself yet—not even for Genevieve.'

CHAPTER III

LE GAUTIER was not far wrong in his estimate of Carlo Visci. The game the former was playing was a dangerous one. He had met the youthful Genevieve in one of his country excursions, and, struck by her beauty, conceived the idea of finding some slight amusement in her society. It was not hard, in that quiet place, with his audacity and talents, to make himself known to her; nor did the child—for she was little more—romantic, passionate, her head filled with dreams of love and devotion, long remain cold to his advances. Friendship soon ripens into love in the sunny South, where temperaments are warmer, and the cold restraints of northern society do not exist The Frenchman had no sinister intentions when he commenced his little flirtation—a mere recreation pour passer le temps on his side; but alas for good intentions; the moth may not approach too near the flame without scorching its wings. Begun in playfulness, almost sport, the thing gradually ripened into love—love such as most women never know, love encountered by keen wit and a knowledge of the evil side of life. When the story opens, Genevieve had known Le Gautier for six months—had known him, loved him, and trusted him.