Half Brothers. Stretton Hesba
so glad, so thankful, old fellow!" he exclaimed. "I don't mind now telling you, uncle was in an awful rage, swore he would disinherit you, and cut you off without even a shilling, you know; and sent me to find you out, because I was to be the heir in your place, if it was true. Perhaps he thought that would make me keen to find it true. But oh, how thankful I am to find it false? We are more like brothers than cousins, Sidney; and I'd rather lose a dozen fortunes that lose you."
Sidney grasped his hand with a firm, strong clasp, but said nothing. For the moment he was dumb; his pulses beat too strongly for him to speak in a natural tone. Disinherited! He who had not a penny of his own. George Martin attributed his silence and agitation to the indignation he must be feeling.
"Come home at once with me," he said, "and make it all right with Uncle John. It was a vile scandal, and just the thing to exasperate him. It's only giving up a few weeks of your holiday; and it's worth while, I tell you, Sid. He said he had it on good authority; but if you go back with me, he'll be satisfied."
"I don't know," answered Sidney, with some hesitation; "it's like owning I am afraid of being disinherited. Leave me to think it over; it is not a thing to be decided in a moment."
Yet he knew at the bottom of his heart that he had already decided. It seemed to him as if he had been saved from a fatal exposure by the drift of circumstances. But for Sophy's violent temper she would either have been with him when his cousin met him at Innsbruck, or George would have pursued his journey to the Ampezzo valley, and found them there. Then it would have been impossible to conceal the truth—the hateful truth—any longer. That would have been utter ruin for them both. He could do nothing to maintain a wife or, indeed, himself, if his uncle disinherited him. So far he had never earned a six-pence in his life. If he acknowledged Sophy just now, it would only be to bring her to destitution; or to make himself dependent upon her exertions.
He went back to his hotel, and wrote a long letter to his young wife, carefully worded, lest it should fall into wrong hands. He told her to make her way as directly as possible to England to her father's house; and to let him know immediately of her return there. She could reach it by tolerably easy railway journeys in about a week; and he carefully traced out her route, entering the moment of departure for each train she must take, and telling her at what hotels she must stay. It was now a week since he had left her, and he had no doubt she was on her way after him. It seemed to him as though he was taking an almost tender care for her safety and comfort, more than she deserved; and thought she ought to be very grateful to him for it. He urged the utmost prudence upon her in regard to their secret.
He left this letter with the landlord of the Goldne Sonne, doing so with considerable caution, very well concealed. It was addressed to S. Martin only, and might have been either for a man or a woman. If no person claimed it, it was to be forwarded to him intact at the end of three months, when he would send a handsome acknowledgment for it. But it would probably be asked for in the course of a few days; for Sidney reminded himself, with self-gratulation, that at both of the hotels he had quitted lately he had left instructions for Sophy; with a careful description of her appearance, that no wrong person should receive them.
These steps set his conscience at rest; and he returned to England with no heavier burden on his spirits than the dread of discovery, which must be borne as long as he was absolutely dependent upon his uncle's favor.
CHAPTER III.
A FORSAKEN CHILD.
Sophy finished her letter, the letter which was to be posted the next day. But before the morning came her child was born, and the young mother lay speechless and motionless, unconsciously floating down the silent sea of death. There was no one with her but Chiara, the working housekeeper of the inn; but there was no sign that the girl felt troubled or lonely. Chiara laid the baby across her chilling, heaving breast, and for a moment there flickered a smile about her pale lips, as she made a feeble effort to clasp her new-born babe in her arms. But these signs of life were gone in a moment like the passing of a fitful breeze; and her rough nurse, stooping down to look more closely at her white face, saw that the young foreigner was dead.
For some minutes Chiara stood gazing at the dead girl, and the living child on her bosom, without moving. She had dispatched a boy to fetch the nearest doctor, but he was gone to a patient some miles away, and it would be two or three hours before he could reach the inn. All the house and all the village were asleep, except the watchman in the bell-tower, who struck the deep-toned bell every quarter. It had not occurred to her to summon any helper; she had known what was coming, and had made all necessary preparations. But she had not counted on any risk to the life of the young mother; and this made all the difference in the world.
Chiara believed she perfectly understood the position of affairs. The young Englishman who had disappeared three weeks ago had grown weary of his whim, pretty as the girl was; and would not care if he never heard of her again. That was as plain as the day.
Was there nothing to Chiara's advantage in the turn affairs had taken? The pretty Englishwoman had left boxes enough and goods enough of many kinds, and Chiara was well acquainted with their value, for Sophy was careless with her keys, excepting the key of a strong jewel-case, which the inn servant had never seen open. It was not difficult now to find the key. In a little while she opened the case, and her eyes glistened as they fell upon a roll of bank-notes and a quantity of ducats and gulden, how many she had not time to count. There were a few jewels, too; and the jewel-case was an easy thing to take away and hide. Chiara was a woman of prompt measures. Yes, she could adopt the child, and take care of this fortune for him herself. If it fell into the hands of the landlord, or the padre, or the mayor, there would be nothing left by the time the boy grew up. It was the best thing she could do for him; and the Englishman would be glad enough to be rid of the burden of the child, even if he ever returned to make inquiries after the girl he had deserted. He had left all this money behind him to make amends to her for his desertion, and was sure not to come back. That was as clear as day.
She left the baby lying across its dead mother, and stole away softly to her own garret to hide her treasure securely. The dawn was breaking in a soft twilight which would strengthen into the full day long before the sun could climb the high barrier of the rocks. Very soon the cocks began to crow, and the few birds under the eaves to twitter. The doctor was not yet come when Chiara thundered at her master's door, and called out in a loud voice:
"Signore, a boy is born, and the little signora is dead."
The landlord was a man who cared for nothing if his dinner was to his liking and his wines good. Chiara had managed all domestic affairs so well for so many years that he was willing she should manage this little difficulty. The trusty woman produced enough money to defray all the expenses incurred by the English people, who had honored his hotel with their custom. No one questioned the claim of Chiara to the clothes and the few jewels left by the English lady, especially as she took upon herself the entire charge of the child. The dead mother was buried without rite or ceremony in a solitary corner of the village cemetery, for everybody knew she was not entitled to a Christian burial, being an accursed heretic; but the child was baptized into the Catholic Church.
It was not possible for Chiara to keep the baby herself in the bustling life of the village inn; and she had no wish to do so. She had a sister, with children of her own, living up on the mountains, in a small group of huts where a few shepherds and goatherds lived near one another for safety and companionship during the bitter winter months, when the wolves prowled around the hovels, under whose roofs the goats and sheep were folded, as well as the men, women, and children. The children received almost less care and attention than the sheep and goats, which were worth money. The whole community led a savage and uncivilized life. Behind their little hamlet rose the huge escarpment of gray rocks, which hid the sun from them until it was high in the heavens, and in whose clefts the snow and ice lay unmelted ten months in the year. Far below them was the valley, with its church and clock-tower, from which the chiming of bells came up to their ears plainly enough; but the distance was