CHAPTER II.
ABOUT five months after Alfred Monkton came of age I left college, andresolved to amuse and instruct myself a little by traveling abroad.
At the time when I quitted England young Monkton was still leadinghis secluded life at the Abbey, and was, in the opinion of everybody,sinking rapidly, if he had not already succumbed, under the hereditarycurse of his family. As to the Elmslies, report said that Ada hadbenefited by her sojourn abroad, and that mother and daughter were ontheir way back to England to resume their old relations with the heir ofWincot. Before they returned I was away on my travels, and wanderedhalf over Europe, hardly ever planning whither I should shape my coursebeforehand. Chance, which thus led me everywhere, led me at last toNaples. There I met with an old school friend, who was one of the_attaches_ at the English embassy, and there began the extraordinaryevents in connection with Alfred Monkton which form the main interest ofthe story I am now relating.
I was idling away the time one morning with my friend the _attache_in the garden of the Villa Reale, when we were passed by a young man,walking alone, who exchanged bows with my friend.
I thought I recognized the dark, eager eyes, the colorless cheeks, thestrangely-vigilant, anxious expression which I remembered in past timesas characteristic of Alfred Monkton's face, and was about to question myfriend on the subject, when he gave me unasked the information of whichI was in search.
"That is Alfred Monkton," said he; "he comes from your part of England.You ought to know him."
"I do know a little of him," I answered; "he was engaged to Miss Elmsliewhen I was last in the neighborhood of Wincot. Is he married to heryet?"
"No, and he never ought to be. He has gone the way of the rest of thefamily--or, in plainer words, he has gone mad."
"Mad! But I ought not to be surprised at hearing that, after the reportsabout him in England."
"I speak from no reports; I speak from what he has said and done beforeme, and before hundreds of other people. Surely you must have heard ofit?"
"Never. I have been out of the way of news from Naples or England formonths past."
"Then I have a very extraordinary story to tell you. You know, ofcourse, that Alfred had an uncle, Stephen Monkton. Well, some time agothis uncle fought a duel in the Roman States with a Frenchman, who shothim dead. The seconds and the Frenchman (who was unhurt) took to flightin different directions, as it is supposed. We heard nothing here ofthe details of the duel till a month after it happened, when one of theFrench journals published an account of it, taken from the papers leftby Monkton's second, who died at Paris of consumption. These papersstated the manner in which the duel was fought, and how it terminated,but nothing more. The surviving second and the Frenchman have never beentraced from that time to this. All that anybody knows, therefore, of theduel is that Stephen Monkton was shot; an event which nobody can regret,for a greater scoundrel never existed. The exact place where hedied, and what was done with the body are still mysteries not to bepenetrated."
"But what has all this to do with Alfred?"
"Wait a moment, and you will hear. Soon after the news of his uncle'sdeath reached England, what do you think Alfred did? He actually put offhis marriage with Miss Elmslie, which was then about to be celebrated,to come out here in search of the burial-place of his wretched scamp ofan uncle; and no power on earth will now induce him to return to Englandand to Miss Elmslie until he has found the body, and can take it backwith him, to be buried with all the other dead Monktons in the vaultunder Wincot Abbey Chapel. He has squandered his money, pesteredthe police, and exposed himself to the ridicule of the men and theindignation of the women for the last three months in trying to achievehis insane purpose, and is now as far from it as ever. He will notassign to anybody the smallest motive for his conduct. You can't laughhim out of it or reason him out of it. When we met him just now, Ihappen to know that he was on his way to the office of the policeminister, to send out fresh agents to search and inquire through theRoman States for the place where his uncle was shot. And, mind, all thistime he professes to be passionately in love with Miss Elmslie, and tobe miserable at his separation from her. Just think of that! And thenthink of his self-imposed absence from her here, to hunt after theremains of a wretch who was a disgrace to the family, and whom he neversaw but once or twice in his life. Of all the 'Mad Monktons,' as theyused to call them in England, Alfred is the maddest. He is actually ourprincipal excitement in this dull opera season; though, for my own part,when I think of the poor girl in England, I am a great deal more readyto despise him than to laugh at him."
"You know the Elmslies then?"
"Intimately. The other day my mother wrote to me from England, afterhaving seen Ada. This escapade of Monkton's has outraged all herfriends. They have been entreating her to break off the match, which itseems she could do if she liked. Even her mother, sordid and selfish asshe is, has been obliged at last, in common decency, to side with therest of the family; but the good, faithful girl won't give Monkton up.She humors his insanity; declares he gave her a good reason in secretfor going away; says she could always make him happy when they weretogether in the old Abbey, and can make him still happier when they aremarried; in short, she loves him dearly, and will therefore believe inhim to the last. Nothing shakes her. She has made up her mind to throwaway her life on him, and she will do it."
"I hope not. Mad as his conduct looks to us, he may have some sensiblereason for it that we cannot imagine. Does his mind seem at alldisordered when he talks on ordinary topics?"
"Not in the least. When you can get him to say anything, which is notoften, he talks like a sensible, well-educated man. Keep silence abouthis precious errand here, and you would fancy him the gentlest and mosttemperate of human beings; but touch the subject of his vagabond of anuncle, and the Monkton madness comes out directly. The other nighta lady asked him, jestingly of course, whether he had ever seen hisuncle's ghost. He scowled at her like a perfect fiend, and said that heand his uncle would answer her question together some day, if they camefrom hell to do it. We laughed at his words, but the lady fainted at hislooks, and we had a scene of hysterics and hartshorn in consequence. Anyother man would have been kicked out of the room for nearly frighteninga pretty woman to death in that way; but 'Mad Monkton,' as we havechristened him, is a privileged lunatic in Neapolitan society, becausehe is English, good-looking, and worth thirty thousand a year. He goesout everywhere under the impression that he may meet with somebody whohas been let into the secret of the place where the mysterious duel wasfought. If you are introduced to him he is sure to ask you whether youknow anything about it; but beware of following up the subject after youhave answered him, unless you want to make sure that he is out of hissenses. In that case, only talk of his uncle, and the result will rathermore than satisfy you."
A day or two after this conversation with my friend the _attache,_ I metMonkton at an evening party.
The moment he heard my name mentioned, his face flushed up; he drew meaway into a corner, and referring to his cool reception of my advanceyears ago toward making his acquaintance, asked my pardon for what hetermed his inexcusable ingratitude with an earnestness and an agitationwhich utterly astonished me. His next proceeding was to question me, asmy friend had said he would, about the place of the mysterious duel.
An extraordinary change came over him while he interrogated me on thispoint. Instead of looking into my face as they had looked hitherto, hiseyes wandered away, and fixed themselves intensely, almost fiercely,either on the perfectly empty wall at our side, or on the vacant spacebetween the wall and ourselves, it was impossible to say which. I hadcome to Naples from Spain by sea, and briefly told him so, as the bestway of satisfying him that I could not assist his inquiries. He pursuedthem no further; and, mindful of my friend's warning, I took care tolead the conversation to general topics. He looked back at me directly,and, as long as we stood in our corner, his eyes never wandered awayagain to the empty wall or the vacant space at our side.
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Though more ready to listen than to speak, his conversation, when he didtalk, had no trace of anything the least like insanity about it. He hadevidently read, not generally only, but deeply as well, and could applyhis reading with singular felicity to the illustration of almost anysubject under discussion, neither obtruding his knowledge absurdly, norconcealing it affectedly. His manner was in itself a standing protestagainst such a nickname as "Mad Monkton." He was so shy, so quiet, socomposed and gentle in all his actions, that at times I should have beenalmost inclined to call him effeminate. We had a long talk together onthe first evening of our meeting; we often saw each other afterward, andnever lost a single opportunity of bettering our acquaintance. I feltthat he had taken a liking to me, and, in spite of what I had heardabout his behavior to Miss Elmslie, in spite of the suspicions whichthe history of his family and his own conduct had arrayed against him, Ibegan to like "Mad Monkton" as much as he liked me. We took many a quietride together in the country, and sailed often along the shores of theBay on either side. But for two eccentricities in his conduct, which Icould not at all understand, I should soon have felt as much at my easein his society as if he had been my own brother.
The first of these eccentricities consisted in the reappearance onseveral occasions of the odd expression in his eyes which I had firstseen when he asked me whether I knew anything about the duel. No matterwhat we were talking about, or where we happened to be, there were timeswhen he would suddenly look away from my face, now on one side of me,now on the other, but always where there was nothing to see, and alwayswith the same intensity and fierceness in his eyes. This looked so likemadness--or hypochondria at the least--that I felt afraid to ask himabout it, and always pretended not to observe him.
The second peculiarity in his conduct was that he never referred, whilein my company, to the reports about his errand at Naples, and never oncespoke of Miss Elmslie, or of his life at Wincot Abbey. This not onlyastonished me, but amazed those who had noticed our intimacy, and whohad made sure that I must be the depositary of all his secrets. But thetime was near at hand when this mystery, and some other mysteries ofwhich I had no suspicion at that period, were all to be revealed.
I met him one night at a large ball, given by a Russian nobleman, whosename I could not pronounce then, and cannot remember now. I had wanderedaway from reception-room, ballroom, and cardroom, to a small apartmentat one extremity of the palace, which was half conservatory, halfboudoir, and which had been prettily illuminated for the occasion withChinese lanterns. Nobody was in the room when I got there. The view overthe Mediterranean, bathed in the bright softness of Italian moonlight,was so lovely that I remained for a long time at the window, lookingout, and listening to the dance-music which faintly reached me from theballroom. My thoughts were far away with the relations I had left inEngland, when I was startled out of them by hearing my name softlypronounced.
I looked round directly, and saw Monkton standing in the room. A lividpaleness overspread his face, and his eyes were turned away from mewith the same extraordinary expression in them to which I have alreadyalluded.
"Do you mind leaving the ball early to-night?" he asked, still notlooking at me.
"Not at all," said I. "Can I do anything for you? Are you ill?"
"No--at least nothing to speak of. Will you come to my rooms?"
"At once, if you like."
"No, not at once. _I_ must go home directly; but don't you come to mefor half an hour yet. You have not been at my rooms before, I know, butyou will easily find them out; they are close by. There is a card withmy address. I _must_ speak to you to-night; my life depends on it. Praycome! for God's sake, come when the half hour is up!"
I promised to be punctual, and he left me directly.
Most people will be easily able to imagine the state of nervousimpatience and vague expectation in which I passed the allotted periodof delay, after hearing such words as those Monkton had spoken tome. Before the half hour had quite expired I began to make my way outthrough the ballroom.
At the head of the staircase my friend, the _attache,_ met me.
"What! going away already?" Said he.
"Yes; and on a very curious expedition. I am going to Monkton's rooms,by his own invitation."
"You don't mean it! Upon my honor, you're a bold fellow to trustyourself alone with 'Mad Monkton' when the moon is at the full."
"He is ill, poor fellow. Besides, I don't think him half as mad as youdo."
"We won't dispute about that; but mark my words, he has not asked youto go where no visitor has ever been admitted before without a specialpurpose. I predict that you will see or hear something to-night whichyou will remember for the rest of your life."
We parted. When I knocked at the courtyard gate of the house whereMonkton lived, my friend's last words on the palace staircase recurredto me, and, though I had laughed at him when he spoke them, I began tosuspect even then that his prediction would be fulfilled.