Read Crocodile on the Sandbank Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: #Historical fiction, #Detective and mystery stories, #Mystery fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #Suspense, #Crime & mystery, #Political, #Women detectives - Egypt, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictious character), #Crime & Thriller, #Mummies, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Egyptology, #Cairo (Egypt), #Mystery, #Detective, #Women detectives, #Emerson, #Radcliffe (Fictitious character), #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Archaeologists' spouses, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Egypt, #Fiction - Mystery
Crocodile on the Sandbank (2 page)
so far as I could see, no one in the
crowd was doing anything except stare. I rose to my feet, therefore,
and after brushing off my bustle, I approached the group. My parasol
proved useful in passing through
it; I had to apply the ferrule quite
sharply to the backs of several gentlemen before they would move.
Eventually I penetrated to the center of the circle. As I had surmised,
no one was behaving with sense or compassion. Indeed, several of the
ladies were pulling their escorts away, with comments about infection
and criticism of the fallen lady's probable character.
She was so pitiful as she lay there on the cold, damp ground that only
a heart of stone could have been unmoved. There are many hearts of that
composition, however.
I sat down upon the ground and lifted the girl's head onto my knee. I
regretted very much that I had not worn a cloak or mantle. However,
that was easily remedied. "Your coat, sir," I said to the nearest
gentleman. He was a stout, red-faced person whose extra layers of flesh
should have been enough to
keep him warm, without the fur-lined
greatcoat he wore. He carried a handsome gold-headed stick,
which he had been using to poke at the fallen girl
as a lecturer in a waxworks indicates the exhibits.
When I addressed
him, he turned from his companion, to whom he had been speaking in an
undertone, and stared at me.
"What— what?" he snorted.
"Your coat," I said impatiently. "Give it to me at once." Then, as he
continued to stare, his face getting redder and redder, I raised my
voice. "Sir— your coat, at once!"
I put the coat over the girl. Having assured myself that she was only
in a faint, I was at leisure to look
at her more closely. I was not a
whit distracted by the whalelike sputter-ings of the red-faced
gentleman whose coat I had appropriated.
I have said that I am a plain woman. For this reason I have a quite
disinterested love of beauty in all its forms. I could therefore
disinterestedly admire the girl who lay unconscious before me.
She was English, surely; that flawless white skin and pale-golden hair
could belong to no other nation.
She was naturally fair of complexion;
now, in her fainting state, her face was as pallid and pure as marble.
The features might have been those of an antique Venus or young Diana.
Her lashes were several shades darker than her hairs forming a pleasing
contrast. She was dressed, quite inappropriately for the chilly
weather, in a summer frock and thin blue cloak; both cloak and gown
were sadly worn, but had once been expensive— they were of costly
material and showed good workmanship. The gloves on her small hands had
been neatly mended. The girl presented a picture of poverty and
abandonment that excited
my curiosity as much as it aroused my
compassion; I wondered what had reduced a young woman of obvious
refinement to this state. I surmised that she suffered chiefly from
cold and hunger; the thin white face was pinched and sunken.
As I watched, her dark-gold lashes fluttered and lifted, disclosing
eyes of an exquisite deep blue. They stared dreamily about
for a time, and then fixed themselves on my face. The girl's expression
changed;
a touch of color came to her thin cheeks, and she struggled to
sit up.
"Be still," I said, putting her down with one hand and beckoning Piero
with the other. "You have fainted and are still weak. Partake of some
nourishment, if you please, before we proceed to further measures
to
relieve you."
She tried to protest; her helpless state and the circle of staring,
unfriendly eyes clearly distressed her. I was perfectly indifferent to
the observers, but since she seemed embarrassed, I decided to rid
myself of them. I told them to go. They did so, except for the
indignant gentleman whose-eoat was over the girl.
"Your name and hotel, sir," I said, cutting short a loud protest. "Your
coat will be returned later this evening. A person of your excessive
bulk should not wear such heavy clothing in any case."
The lady by his side, who had the same rotund outlines and hard red
face, exclaimed aloud.
"How dare you, madame! I have never heard of such a thing!"
"I daresay you have not," I agreed, giving her a look that made her
step back. "I do not doubt that it is too late to awaken in you any
faint sense of Christian compassion or normal human emotion, so I
shan't try. Take yourself away, madame, and this— I can hardly say
'gentleman'— this male person with you."
As I spoke I was administering bits of food from my basket to the
fallen girl. The fastidious manner in which she ate, despite her
obvious hunger, confirmed my assumption that she was a lady. She seemed
better when she had finished a piece of bread and the remainder of my
tea; and since the crowd had retired to a distance I was able, with
Piero's assistance, to raise her to her feet. We then proceeded, by
carriage, to my hotel.
The young lady was suffering from starvation and cold only. There was
no sign of infection, and she was recovering quickly.
A plan had taken shape in my mind, and I considered it, striding up and
down the drawing room of my suite, as is my habit when engaged in
thought. It did not take me long to reach a decision. Frail as the girl
appeared, she must have a stout constitution in order to have resisted,
in her weakened state, the putrid air and water of Rome. Clearly she
had no friends or relatives to whom she could look for relief, or she
would not have sunk to such a state. Equally clearly, she could not be
left in that state.
Having made up my mind, I went to tell the young lady what was to be
done.
She was sitting up in bed, taking soup from the hand of my maid,
Travers. Neither of them appeared to be enjoying the process. Travers
is a living contradiction to the theories of the physiognomists, for
her face and shape do not at all reflect her personality. She is a
round, cheery-faced little person with the soul of a dried-up old
spinster. She did not approve of my taking in a "stray," as she would
have said, and her sour look expressed her feelings. To be fair, that
was the only way in which Travers
could
express her feelings. I do not
permit verbal complaints.
"That will do," I said. "Too much food might be ill advised at present.
Go away, Travers, and be sure
you close the door tightly."
When she had obeyed, I studied my patient and was pleased at what I
saw. My flannel nightdress was considerably too large for the girl. She
would need clothing— dainty, delicate things, to suit her
fairness— garments of the sort ! had never been able to wear. She would
look charming in pale shades, blue and pink and lavender. There was
color in her face
now, a delicate rose flush that made her even prettier. How on earth, I
wondered, had such a girl come to her present pass?
My stare must have been more intent than I realized. The girl's eyes
dropped. Then she raised her head and spoke, with a firmness I had not
expected. Her voice settled any lingering doubts as to her class; it
was that of a well-bred young lady.
"I am more indebted than I can say," she began. "But be assured, ma'am,
I shall not take advantage of your charity. I am quite recovered now;
if you will direct your maid to return my clothing, I will rid you of
my presence."
"Your clothing has been thrown away," I said absently. "It was not
worth the trouble of laundering. You must remain in bed for the rest of
the day in any case. I will order a seamstress to come tomorrow.
There is a boat leaving for Alexandria on Friday next. A week should be
sufficient. You will need to do some shopping, of course, but first I
had better see what you have with you. If you will tell me where
you
have been staying, I will send a man around for your boxes."
Her face was very expressive. It had registered a variety of emotions
as I spoke; the blue eyes had
flashed with indignation and then
narrowed with suspicion. But the ultimate emotion was openmouthed
bewilderment. I waited for her to speak, but she merely opened and
closed her mouth, so I said impatiently, "I am taking you to Egypt with
me, as my companion. Miss Pritchett failed me; she took the typhoid. I
had agreed to pay her ten pounds a year. Naturally I will be
responsible for equipping you for the journey. You can hardly travel in
a flannel nightdress!" "No," the girl agreed, looking dazed."But— but—
"My name is Amelia Peabody. You will call me Amelia. I am a spinster of
independent means, traveling for pleasure. Is there anything else you
wish to know about me?" "I know all I need to know," the girl said
quietly. "I was not entirely unconscious when you came to my rescue,
and I hope I am
able to recognize true kindness of heart. But my dear Miss Peabody—
very
well, Amelia— you know nothing about
me!
"
"Is there something I should know?"
"I might be a criminal! I might be vicious—unprincipled!"
"No, no," I said calmly. "I have been accused of being somewhat abrupt
in my actions and decisions, but I never act without thought; it is
simply that I think more quickly and more intelligently than most
people. I am an excellent judge of character. I could not be deceived
about yours."
A dimple appeared at the corner of the girl's mouth. It trembled, and
was gone. The blue eyes fell.
"You
are
deceived," she said,
so softly I could hardly hear. "I am not
what you think. I owe it to you to tell you my story; and when you have
heard it, then—then you will be justified in ordering me out of
your
sight."
"Proceed," I said. "I will be the judge of
that.
"
"I am sure you will!" The dimple reappeared, but did not linger. Her
face pale, her eyes steady, the girl began to speak.
infant, I was brought up by my grandfather, the Earl of Ellesmere. I
see you recognize the name. It is an ancient name and an honorable
one— although many of the holders of the tide have not been men of
honor. My grandfather... well, I cannot speak fairly of him. I know he
is regarded by many as miserly and selfish; though he possesses one of
the greatest fortunes in England, he has never been known as a
philanthropist. But he was always good to me. I was his pet, his little
lamb, as he called me. I think perhaps I was the only human being to
whom he never spoke harshly. He even forgave me for being a girl and
not the heir he
so
ardently desired.
I suspect you are a feminist, Miss— Amelia? Then you will be indignant,
but not surprised, to know that although I am the only child of my
grandfather's eldest son, I cannot inherit his title or estates. There
are few exceptions to the rule that only male descendants may inherit.
When my father died prematurely,
the next male heir was my cousin,
Lucas Hayes.
Poor Lucas! I have not seen a great deal of him, but I always liked
him, and I cannot help but pity him because Grandfather was so cruelly
unfair to him. Of course Grandfather would never admit to prejudice. He
claims to dislike Lucas because of his extravagance and wild habits.
.But I feel sure such tales are only rumors. Grandfather really hates
my unfortunate cousin for the sin of being his father's son. You see,
his mother, Grandfather's eldest daughter, ran away with—with an
Italian gentleman----- (Excuse my emotion, Amelia, you will understand
its cause presently. There; I am better
now.)
My grandfather is British to. the core. He despises all foreigners, but
especially those of Latin descent.
He considers them sly, slippery— oh,
I cannot repeat all the terrible things he says! When my aunt eloped
with the Conte d'Imbrogiio d'Annunciata, Grandfather disowned her and
struck her name from the family Bible. Even when she lay dying he sent
no word of comfort or forgiveness. He said the Conte was no nobleman,
but a fraud and a fortune hunter. I am sure that is untrue. The Conte
had very little money, to be sure, but that does not mean his title was
not genuine. However, Lucas, on reaching maturity, felt it wise to
change his name, since his true one maddened Grandfather. He calls
himself Lucas Elliot Hayes now, and he has abandoned his Italian tide.
For a time it seemed that Lucas had succeeded in winning Grandfather by
his assiduous attentions. I even wondered whether Grandfather was
considering a marriage between us. It would have been a happy solution
in a sense, for, the estate and
title being entailed, Lucas would eventually inherit them. But without
my grandfather's private fortune, which was his to dispose of, the
earldom would be a burden rather than a privilege; and Grandfather made
no secret of his intention of leaving that money to me.
Yet if there was such a scheme, it came to nothing. Hearing of some new
misbehavior, Grandfather flew into a rage and sent Lucas away. I am
ashamed to admit I was relieved. Fond as I was of Lucas, I did
not love
him; and being a foolish, sentimental girl, I fancied love must precede
marriage. I see you frown, Amelia, to hear me use such terms of myself.
They are too mild, as you will soon learn.
For love came, as I thought; and it proved my utter undoing.
While Lucas was with us I had become interested in drawing. Lucas said
I had considerable natural skill, and before he left he taught me what
he knew. Afterward, I was desirous of continuing, so Grandfather, who
indulged me more man I deserved, advertised for a drawing master. Thus
Alberto came into my life.
I cannot speak of him calmly. The handsome features and shining dark
hair, which seemed to me angelic, now take on a diabolical aspect. His
soft voice, with its tender broken accents— for he spoke English rather
badly— come back to me, in retrospect, as the sly whispers of a fiend.
He— he... Let me be short and succinct. He seduced me, in short, and
persuaded me into an elopement. At his instigation I fled my
home; I abandoned the old man who had loved and sheltered me; I flung
away every consideration of religion, moral training, and natural
affection. I cannot speak of Alberto without loathing; but, believe me,
dear Amelia, when I say that I blame myself even more. How true are the
old sayings, that evil brings its own punishment! I deserve my wretched
fate; I brought it on myself, and I cannot blame those who would shun
me—
Forgive me. I will not give way again.
The end of the story is soon told. I had taken with me the few jewels,
suitable for a young girl, which Grandfather's generosity had bestowed
upon me. The money procured from the sale of these jewels did not last
long as we made our way across Europe toward Rome. Alberto insisted
that we live in a style that was worthy of me. The lodgings we took in
Rome were not worthy of me, but by men my money had run out. When I
asked Alberto what we were to do, he was evasive. He was also evasive
about marriage. As a good Catholic he could not entertain the idea of a
civil ceremony.
But I was not a Catholic----- Oh, his excuses were feeble, I see that
now, but I was so naive-----
The blow finally came a week ago. Alberto had been increasingly
elusive; he was out a good part of the day, and when he returned he
would be intoxicated and sullen. I awoke one morning, in the shabby,
freezing attic room toT which our poverty had reduced us, to find
myself alone. He had had the courtesy to leave me a gown and cloak and
a pair of shoes. Every other object I possessed had gone with him, from
my ivory brushes to my hair ornaments. He had also left a note.
The sight of this ill-spelled, badly written document was the final
blow; its crudities stung me even more than the message it contained,
though this was blunt enough. Alberto had selected me as his prey
because I was a wealthy heiress. He had expected that my grandfather
would react to our elopement by cutting me out of his will; and through
communication with the British authorities in Rome he had learned that
this had in fact happened. He had believed, however, that with time the
old man, as he disrespectfully called him, would relent. His most
recent visit to the consul — whom he had always refused to let me
visit— had destroyed this hope. My poor grandfather had suffered a most
violent stroke, as a result of my cruel abandonment. He had retained
his senses only long enough to make a new will, cutting me off with a
shilling, and had then fallen into a coma that was expected to end in
death. Finding his expectations frustrated, Alberto saw no reason to
waste any more time with
me. There were, as he explained, more enticing prospects.
You may only faintly imagine my state of mind, Amelia. I was ill for
several days, grudgingly nursed by the horrid old woman who owned the
lodging house. She did not want a corpse on her hands, I suppose, for
charity had no part in her actions. As soon as I was well enough to
speak, she discovered that I was penniless. This very day she evicted
me from the last refuge I had, poor as it was. I went out, fully
determined to end a life which had become unbearable. What other option
had I? I had no money and no means of procuring employment. For all I
knew, my darling grandfather might already be dead. If some miracle had
spared him, the dear old gentleman would rightfully refuse to take me
back, even if I could communicate with him; and I would rather the than
admit to anyone that I had been so cruelly betrayed. My wrongdoing was
bad enough; my folly I would admit to no man. No, I had no choice, or
so it seemed then; but you need not fear, your kindness has saved me
from that ultimate crime. I will not take my own life. But I can no
longer stay here. Your countenance is as benevolent as your mind; it
betrays no sign of the loathing and disgust you must feel, but you need
not spare me. Indeed, I would welcome words of contempt, for punishment
relieves some of my feelings of guilt. Speak, Amelia—Miss
Peabody—speak,
I beg you. Chastise me, and I will welcome your
reproaches in the spirit of Christian humility in which I hope to end
my miserable existence.
crowd was doing anything except stare. I rose to my feet, therefore,
and after brushing off my bustle, I approached the group. My parasol
proved useful in passing through
it; I had to apply the ferrule quite
sharply to the backs of several gentlemen before they would move.
Eventually I penetrated to the center of the circle. As I had surmised,
no one was behaving with sense or compassion. Indeed, several of the
ladies were pulling their escorts away, with comments about infection
and criticism of the fallen lady's probable character.
She was so pitiful as she lay there on the cold, damp ground that only
a heart of stone could have been unmoved. There are many hearts of that
composition, however.
I sat down upon the ground and lifted the girl's head onto my knee. I
regretted very much that I had not worn a cloak or mantle. However,
that was easily remedied. "Your coat, sir," I said to the nearest
gentleman. He was a stout, red-faced person whose extra layers of flesh
should have been enough to
keep him warm, without the fur-lined
greatcoat he wore. He carried a handsome gold-headed stick,
which he had been using to poke at the fallen girl
as a lecturer in a waxworks indicates the exhibits.
When I addressed
him, he turned from his companion, to whom he had been speaking in an
undertone, and stared at me.
"What— what?" he snorted.
"Your coat," I said impatiently. "Give it to me at once." Then, as he
continued to stare, his face getting redder and redder, I raised my
voice. "Sir— your coat, at once!"
I put the coat over the girl. Having assured myself that she was only
in a faint, I was at leisure to look
at her more closely. I was not a
whit distracted by the whalelike sputter-ings of the red-faced
gentleman whose coat I had appropriated.
I have said that I am a plain woman. For this reason I have a quite
disinterested love of beauty in all its forms. I could therefore
disinterestedly admire the girl who lay unconscious before me.
She was English, surely; that flawless white skin and pale-golden hair
could belong to no other nation.
She was naturally fair of complexion;
now, in her fainting state, her face was as pallid and pure as marble.
The features might have been those of an antique Venus or young Diana.
Her lashes were several shades darker than her hairs forming a pleasing
contrast. She was dressed, quite inappropriately for the chilly
weather, in a summer frock and thin blue cloak; both cloak and gown
were sadly worn, but had once been expensive— they were of costly
material and showed good workmanship. The gloves on her small hands had
been neatly mended. The girl presented a picture of poverty and
abandonment that excited
my curiosity as much as it aroused my
compassion; I wondered what had reduced a young woman of obvious
refinement to this state. I surmised that she suffered chiefly from
cold and hunger; the thin white face was pinched and sunken.
As I watched, her dark-gold lashes fluttered and lifted, disclosing
eyes of an exquisite deep blue. They stared dreamily about
for a time, and then fixed themselves on my face. The girl's expression
changed;
a touch of color came to her thin cheeks, and she struggled to
sit up.
"Be still," I said, putting her down with one hand and beckoning Piero
with the other. "You have fainted and are still weak. Partake of some
nourishment, if you please, before we proceed to further measures
to
relieve you."
She tried to protest; her helpless state and the circle of staring,
unfriendly eyes clearly distressed her. I was perfectly indifferent to
the observers, but since she seemed embarrassed, I decided to rid
myself of them. I told them to go. They did so, except for the
indignant gentleman whose-eoat was over the girl.
"Your name and hotel, sir," I said, cutting short a loud protest. "Your
coat will be returned later this evening. A person of your excessive
bulk should not wear such heavy clothing in any case."
The lady by his side, who had the same rotund outlines and hard red
face, exclaimed aloud.
"How dare you, madame! I have never heard of such a thing!"
"I daresay you have not," I agreed, giving her a look that made her
step back. "I do not doubt that it is too late to awaken in you any
faint sense of Christian compassion or normal human emotion, so I
shan't try. Take yourself away, madame, and this— I can hardly say
'gentleman'— this male person with you."
As I spoke I was administering bits of food from my basket to the
fallen girl. The fastidious manner in which she ate, despite her
obvious hunger, confirmed my assumption that she was a lady. She seemed
better when she had finished a piece of bread and the remainder of my
tea; and since the crowd had retired to a distance I was able, with
Piero's assistance, to raise her to her feet. We then proceeded, by
carriage, to my hotel.
* * *
The doctor I summoned assured me that my diagnosis had been correct.The young lady was suffering from starvation and cold only. There was
no sign of infection, and she was recovering quickly.
A plan had taken shape in my mind, and I considered it, striding up and
down the drawing room of my suite, as is my habit when engaged in
thought. It did not take me long to reach a decision. Frail as the girl
appeared, she must have a stout constitution in order to have resisted,
in her weakened state, the putrid air and water of Rome. Clearly she
had no friends or relatives to whom she could look for relief, or she
would not have sunk to such a state. Equally clearly, she could not be
left in that state.
Having made up my mind, I went to tell the young lady what was to be
done.
She was sitting up in bed, taking soup from the hand of my maid,
Travers. Neither of them appeared to be enjoying the process. Travers
is a living contradiction to the theories of the physiognomists, for
her face and shape do not at all reflect her personality. She is a
round, cheery-faced little person with the soul of a dried-up old
spinster. She did not approve of my taking in a "stray," as she would
have said, and her sour look expressed her feelings. To be fair, that
was the only way in which Travers
could
express her feelings. I do not
permit verbal complaints.
"That will do," I said. "Too much food might be ill advised at present.
Go away, Travers, and be sure
you close the door tightly."
When she had obeyed, I studied my patient and was pleased at what I
saw. My flannel nightdress was considerably too large for the girl. She
would need clothing— dainty, delicate things, to suit her
fairness— garments of the sort ! had never been able to wear. She would
look charming in pale shades, blue and pink and lavender. There was
color in her face
now, a delicate rose flush that made her even prettier. How on earth, I
wondered, had such a girl come to her present pass?
My stare must have been more intent than I realized. The girl's eyes
dropped. Then she raised her head and spoke, with a firmness I had not
expected. Her voice settled any lingering doubts as to her class; it
was that of a well-bred young lady.
"I am more indebted than I can say," she began. "But be assured, ma'am,
I shall not take advantage of your charity. I am quite recovered now;
if you will direct your maid to return my clothing, I will rid you of
my presence."
"Your clothing has been thrown away," I said absently. "It was not
worth the trouble of laundering. You must remain in bed for the rest of
the day in any case. I will order a seamstress to come tomorrow.
There is a boat leaving for Alexandria on Friday next. A week should be
sufficient. You will need to do some shopping, of course, but first I
had better see what you have with you. If you will tell me where
you
have been staying, I will send a man around for your boxes."
Her face was very expressive. It had registered a variety of emotions
as I spoke; the blue eyes had
flashed with indignation and then
narrowed with suspicion. But the ultimate emotion was openmouthed
bewilderment. I waited for her to speak, but she merely opened and
closed her mouth, so I said impatiently, "I am taking you to Egypt with
me, as my companion. Miss Pritchett failed me; she took the typhoid. I
had agreed to pay her ten pounds a year. Naturally I will be
responsible for equipping you for the journey. You can hardly travel in
a flannel nightdress!" "No," the girl agreed, looking dazed."But— but—
"My name is Amelia Peabody. You will call me Amelia. I am a spinster of
independent means, traveling for pleasure. Is there anything else you
wish to know about me?" "I know all I need to know," the girl said
quietly. "I was not entirely unconscious when you came to my rescue,
and I hope I am
able to recognize true kindness of heart. But my dear Miss Peabody—
very
well, Amelia— you know nothing about
me!
"
"Is there something I should know?"
"I might be a criminal! I might be vicious—unprincipled!"
"No, no," I said calmly. "I have been accused of being somewhat abrupt
in my actions and decisions, but I never act without thought; it is
simply that I think more quickly and more intelligently than most
people. I am an excellent judge of character. I could not be deceived
about yours."
A dimple appeared at the corner of the girl's mouth. It trembled, and
was gone. The blue eyes fell.
"You
are
deceived," she said,
so softly I could hardly hear. "I am not
what you think. I owe it to you to tell you my story; and when you have
heard it, then—then you will be justified in ordering me out of
your
sight."
"Proceed," I said. "I will be the judge of
that.
"
"I am sure you will!" The dimple reappeared, but did not linger. Her
face pale, her eyes steady, the girl began to speak.
THE
GIRL'S STORY
My name is Evelyn Barton-Forbes. My parents having died when I was anGIRL'S STORY
infant, I was brought up by my grandfather, the Earl of Ellesmere. I
see you recognize the name. It is an ancient name and an honorable
one— although many of the holders of the tide have not been men of
honor. My grandfather... well, I cannot speak fairly of him. I know he
is regarded by many as miserly and selfish; though he possesses one of
the greatest fortunes in England, he has never been known as a
philanthropist. But he was always good to me. I was his pet, his little
lamb, as he called me. I think perhaps I was the only human being to
whom he never spoke harshly. He even forgave me for being a girl and
not the heir he
so
ardently desired.
I suspect you are a feminist, Miss— Amelia? Then you will be indignant,
but not surprised, to know that although I am the only child of my
grandfather's eldest son, I cannot inherit his title or estates. There
are few exceptions to the rule that only male descendants may inherit.
When my father died prematurely,
the next male heir was my cousin,
Lucas Hayes.
Poor Lucas! I have not seen a great deal of him, but I always liked
him, and I cannot help but pity him because Grandfather was so cruelly
unfair to him. Of course Grandfather would never admit to prejudice. He
claims to dislike Lucas because of his extravagance and wild habits.
.But I feel sure such tales are only rumors. Grandfather really hates
my unfortunate cousin for the sin of being his father's son. You see,
his mother, Grandfather's eldest daughter, ran away with—with an
Italian gentleman----- (Excuse my emotion, Amelia, you will understand
its cause presently. There; I am better
now.)
My grandfather is British to. the core. He despises all foreigners, but
especially those of Latin descent.
He considers them sly, slippery— oh,
I cannot repeat all the terrible things he says! When my aunt eloped
with the Conte d'Imbrogiio d'Annunciata, Grandfather disowned her and
struck her name from the family Bible. Even when she lay dying he sent
no word of comfort or forgiveness. He said the Conte was no nobleman,
but a fraud and a fortune hunter. I am sure that is untrue. The Conte
had very little money, to be sure, but that does not mean his title was
not genuine. However, Lucas, on reaching maturity, felt it wise to
change his name, since his true one maddened Grandfather. He calls
himself Lucas Elliot Hayes now, and he has abandoned his Italian tide.
For a time it seemed that Lucas had succeeded in winning Grandfather by
his assiduous attentions. I even wondered whether Grandfather was
considering a marriage between us. It would have been a happy solution
in a sense, for, the estate and
title being entailed, Lucas would eventually inherit them. But without
my grandfather's private fortune, which was his to dispose of, the
earldom would be a burden rather than a privilege; and Grandfather made
no secret of his intention of leaving that money to me.
Yet if there was such a scheme, it came to nothing. Hearing of some new
misbehavior, Grandfather flew into a rage and sent Lucas away. I am
ashamed to admit I was relieved. Fond as I was of Lucas, I did
not love
him; and being a foolish, sentimental girl, I fancied love must precede
marriage. I see you frown, Amelia, to hear me use such terms of myself.
They are too mild, as you will soon learn.
For love came, as I thought; and it proved my utter undoing.
While Lucas was with us I had become interested in drawing. Lucas said
I had considerable natural skill, and before he left he taught me what
he knew. Afterward, I was desirous of continuing, so Grandfather, who
indulged me more man I deserved, advertised for a drawing master. Thus
Alberto came into my life.
I cannot speak of him calmly. The handsome features and shining dark
hair, which seemed to me angelic, now take on a diabolical aspect. His
soft voice, with its tender broken accents— for he spoke English rather
badly— come back to me, in retrospect, as the sly whispers of a fiend.
He— he... Let me be short and succinct. He seduced me, in short, and
persuaded me into an elopement. At his instigation I fled my
home; I abandoned the old man who had loved and sheltered me; I flung
away every consideration of religion, moral training, and natural
affection. I cannot speak of Alberto without loathing; but, believe me,
dear Amelia, when I say that I blame myself even more. How true are the
old sayings, that evil brings its own punishment! I deserve my wretched
fate; I brought it on myself, and I cannot blame those who would shun
me—
Forgive me. I will not give way again.
The end of the story is soon told. I had taken with me the few jewels,
suitable for a young girl, which Grandfather's generosity had bestowed
upon me. The money procured from the sale of these jewels did not last
long as we made our way across Europe toward Rome. Alberto insisted
that we live in a style that was worthy of me. The lodgings we took in
Rome were not worthy of me, but by men my money had run out. When I
asked Alberto what we were to do, he was evasive. He was also evasive
about marriage. As a good Catholic he could not entertain the idea of a
civil ceremony.
But I was not a Catholic----- Oh, his excuses were feeble, I see that
now, but I was so naive-----
The blow finally came a week ago. Alberto had been increasingly
elusive; he was out a good part of the day, and when he returned he
would be intoxicated and sullen. I awoke one morning, in the shabby,
freezing attic room toT which our poverty had reduced us, to find
myself alone. He had had the courtesy to leave me a gown and cloak and
a pair of shoes. Every other object I possessed had gone with him, from
my ivory brushes to my hair ornaments. He had also left a note.
The sight of this ill-spelled, badly written document was the final
blow; its crudities stung me even more than the message it contained,
though this was blunt enough. Alberto had selected me as his prey
because I was a wealthy heiress. He had expected that my grandfather
would react to our elopement by cutting me out of his will; and through
communication with the British authorities in Rome he had learned that
this had in fact happened. He had believed, however, that with time the
old man, as he disrespectfully called him, would relent. His most
recent visit to the consul — whom he had always refused to let me
visit— had destroyed this hope. My poor grandfather had suffered a most
violent stroke, as a result of my cruel abandonment. He had retained
his senses only long enough to make a new will, cutting me off with a
shilling, and had then fallen into a coma that was expected to end in
death. Finding his expectations frustrated, Alberto saw no reason to
waste any more time with
me. There were, as he explained, more enticing prospects.
You may only faintly imagine my state of mind, Amelia. I was ill for
several days, grudgingly nursed by the horrid old woman who owned the
lodging house. She did not want a corpse on her hands, I suppose, for
charity had no part in her actions. As soon as I was well enough to
speak, she discovered that I was penniless. This very day she evicted
me from the last refuge I had, poor as it was. I went out, fully
determined to end a life which had become unbearable. What other option
had I? I had no money and no means of procuring employment. For all I
knew, my darling grandfather might already be dead. If some miracle had
spared him, the dear old gentleman would rightfully refuse to take me
back, even if I could communicate with him; and I would rather the than
admit to anyone that I had been so cruelly betrayed. My wrongdoing was
bad enough; my folly I would admit to no man. No, I had no choice, or
so it seemed then; but you need not fear, your kindness has saved me
from that ultimate crime. I will not take my own life. But I can no
longer stay here. Your countenance is as benevolent as your mind; it
betrays no sign of the loathing and disgust you must feel, but you need
not spare me. Indeed, I would welcome words of contempt, for punishment
relieves some of my feelings of guilt. Speak, Amelia—Miss
Peabody—speak,
I beg you. Chastise me, and I will welcome your
reproaches in the spirit of Christian humility in which I hope to end
my miserable existence.
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