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THE WOMAN OF THE SANTA SALVATOR.…

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THE WOMAN OF THE SANTA SALVATOR. By MAX PEMBERTON, .Author of "The Iron Pirate," "The Affair a, the Red House," &c. [ALL BIGHTS RESERVED.J I was upon the heels of the man as he4afb the station ab Venice; and my purpose to go with him, as he had wished, was sbronger when we came out before the Canal. It was very plain to me that he had acquaibance of the city, which I was wanting, and his word, that he would show me a matter which I should remember, was not tis be pub aside by one looking for the side-lights of adventure. But above this, the figure of the fellow, both in breadth and height, and the exceeding fineness of bis face, drew me to him, as to one treading the unfrequented paths of the world, to a man whose words were seed for thought, and whose story IjSwould well have had. We bad come together first at Verona, where he had begged a French paper of me, and had asked me if I knew the city of the lagoon, I observed then that he was dressed merely as a seafaring man, having coat and breeches of serge, bub he wore a brimmed hat of black felt, and there was a diamond of fine size and quality set in a ring upon his finger. Of his age I could form no opinion beyond this, thab he was still young, but he told me that Venice was his home, and thither be was going after five years of absence. It was wonderful to me, even at the first hearing of this, bow little the fact appeared to please him. His depression was a thing for all the town to see, and he did nob choose in any way to cloak it even before me, who was so complete A stranger to him. But be asked me to go with bim, for, said he, I can show you something whicb you will not see in Venice again, though you come here every autumn of your life. And at this, he whetted my curiosity to a sharp point, and I gave him the promise. In ons way. I doubt nob, it was a foolish thing to do. The first impression of the city of Dandolo is the besb to be had in no man's company. Tbe very silence of the wheelless streets, the music of paddles upon the water, the note of song floating above tbe frieze and column (and if be that you come upon the city at night, as we did), the light of coloured lanterns swing- ing between pullers of marble, the play of the moon upon dome and bridge—these are no matters for talk, but in themselves give sufficiency for contemplation. And for my part. though I pressed upon the man's heels as we quitted the station, I forgot him again when we stood upon the quay, and. saws with my eyes that spectacle which alone in all Europe is a fresh experience to the wanderer. The moonlight was then full upon the water the black shapes of the gondolas all lacking the falze, as they ever do in summer, were thick at the foot of steps which lead to the station the exquisite voice of an Italian lad, who sang at his oar, came up to me most musically. But above all this was the chiming of bells in a neighbouring church, of such bells as you would journey twenty leagues to hear, but will never hear save thus in Venice, where their note is all sweetness, their melody above praise or eulogy. As I listened and watched, my mind running hack upon such history as I have, my senses soothed already by the touch of the city's power, the man returned to me, and I saw that he had a gondola in waiting at the steps. "Come," said he, "the place I spoke of is half an hour from here, and we are late already. If the matter interests you, I will tell you more of ill as we go; otherwise, I will wish you bon voyage. The privilege is mine," said I, as we entered the gondola, and passed quickly to the broad of the canal. In any case I could not do better than see Venice in your company. Change must have been busy in your absence, but Venice, they tell me, is always the same." "They tell you truly," said he; "it is no more possible to root out thejromance of her history than it is to rid Cairo of her East or your own London of her drinking den. Sausovino is beynd the steamer; Titian is stronger than the coupon; the very marble is stout enough to bear the heel of co-operative travel. Observe now. we are passing the last churoh which Palladio built; we have return tickets in our pockets, perhaps, and over yonder is the announcement of yeb another smoke-producing machine which they call a steam saw. Is the beauty of the artist's work the less for that, less majestic, or lacking that power of years which is the first power of every stone that we have ? Nay, truly Venice is always the same, the same in her silence, in her loveliness, in her shadow of a past; the same in her power to impress, in her power to draw the love of men to her." And yet, if I may say so," exclaimed I, wondering at the warmth he betrayed, there is something at this moment whioh mars your own sense of content, which makes you almost regret- ful that you are home again." It is the knowledge of a story," said he, as he leant back upon the cushions, and lighted another of the long cheroots which he smoked perpetually, the knowledge of a story, another desire to hear the last chapter of it. In some part I was an actor in it—but that was five years ago. I have lived amongst Englishmen since, and learned to like them. I saw that you wrote something as we came from Verona, and I don't know why, if no names be in Writing, this matter I speak of should nob add to your impressions." I should be glad to have "the opportunity," said I, in reply, "and the tvish would be a con. dition." We had now come into a narrow calla bordered by palaces of marble, exceeding lofty, and the way was dark and very silent. The heat of the summer's night drew a damp and noxious miasma from the water, and iu such lighted openings as there were, these being usually before some cafe, we observed many people of the city seeming to find cool in the consumption of ice and the use of the fan, which was even carried by the men. But the mists were Reaching, and the whole atmos- phere burned so that I pulled a cape upon my shoulder, and sank deeper in the cushions of the gondola. And thus lounging I listened to the story. "To-day," said the man, when he took up the talk again, is the twenty-fifth of August. I re. call the same date five years ago when one I knew in this city was to have been married in the Church of the Santo Salvatore. The matter bad gone sO far thab it was before the civil aubhoribies, who had notice of it, and there was an apartment taken for the couple in the Calle dell' Erbe. That was a week before they had made an appointment with the priest-but when the woman came to the church, the man had left Venice for Paris and there went with him M wife the other woman. with whom many had already linked his name, Eugenie Gaulio, who had been playing at the Teatro della Fenice. People said it was mystery, but I knew there was little mystery, unless passion be itself "mysterious, and consent in the face of rivalry a thing not to be under. stood. On the one hand, I-saw a girl nob yet in her eighteenth year, acieature divinely moulded as a creation of Jiutoretto, but with cold upon her lips and eyes unawakened to the warmth for the love she fed upon. On the other there was a woman of thirty possessing nothing but a wonderful vivacity, a strange unrest, a power of winning men; a woman whose touch was a thrill, whose eyes could make your heart leap, whose lips invited you to kiss them. And the man I speak of, swaying in the net of doubt— was uncertain ot himself. In a sense, bound to the child by the tie of years and of that affection which years breed, he longed for the woman in the weaker moments of his passion, and was caught suddenly by her whim, to which he surrendered blindly, as men have done before, and will do again. An old story you say. In truth as old a story as history—but one with a new sequel—" "And that?" I asked, compelled to speak, yet feeling vastly more interested in the great palace by which we passed than in his earnest narrative. "The sequel of the girl's illness," said he, with a reversion to bis gloom of the railway carriage, "she never spoke for twelve months after tbenews of the man's going came to her. And the first words she uttered were upon the anniversary of that which should have been her wedding day. They proved that her mind had gone with her heart. On the 25th of August, one year after the desertion, she insisted on being taken to the church, drsssed in all things as a bride. Her friends, very ready to please, humoured the folly; but to shield the subject of it from the common gaze, they took her to the Santo Salvatore by night. The priest at the churoh was friendly to the family. He read them the service of the Benediction, and the child—you could not call her more—heard it through with a calm which amazed those who knew her most intimately. As she came from the church she fell in a faint, and from that hour until twelve months had gone she never opened her lips. On each succeeding anniversary the same play has been performed for this silent victim of capricious fortune. In the between-time she has never opened her lip3. But they tell me she has now grown a woman, whose beauty is the talk of Venice. I am axious to see if the mock drama will be played "again on this; the night of the twenty-fifth of the month, in which it is to be expected. That is why I have directed the man to take me to the steps of the church, and have asked you to accompany me. Do you find in it a sufficient reason;" „ There could not be a better one, said I, always assuming that the spectacle will be repeated." Ah," he replied, that I cannot guarantee, but my letters point strongly to the conclusion that it will. During the lasb twelve months the girl has been the victim of the same silenoe which has occupied her for the previous four years a silence unbroken even though she bad news thab the other woman died in New York recently, and that the man was coming back to Europe. There is every reason to expect the annual awakening to-day. In any case, you are on the way to your hotel, and will be none the worse for a delay of ten minutes before the doors of tbe Santo Salvatore." • I assented to his words, and as he finished speaking we shot into the Grand Canal, now lacking the light of the moon, which lay hid behind a pile of cloud, bub illumined with many lamps that shone from black prous. Again, as ab the railway station, there were lanterns of many colours in the windows of some of the palaces which had become shops—there being reason, my friend told me, for an attempt at illumination in the city—and music was often to be heard both from the open gondola and from the campas. The sudden brightness was, however, lost quickly to us as we passed from the Canalazzo through a very lane of water which brought us after a few minutes' passage to the river of the church the man had mentioned. There, forbidding the gondola to come quite at the steps, we lay in the shadow of the building, and my companion looking all his watch told me that we had yeb some minutes to wait. "I don't thiak,"s»id hv^yPtt WU < appointed, for the door is open, and if you look you will see lights at the altar of the Madonna. It is probable that there will b9 some service which it may interest you to watch, though this is very far from being one of the finest of ourj ctmrches. Except for the picture of the Annun-• ciation by Titian and Sansovino's monument to Venier, I don't know that I would cross the streeb to see the place." I thought that he was hard upon the building which, so far as I could observe, through the open door, had an interior ia" noble proportion, and not lacking richness. But I had scarce lookeS at ib when my attention was diverted to another spectacle of greater interest. Even while we talked, a couple of gondolas had come up to the steps of the building. Though the nitrht was hot with humid heat, which was almost insupportable, the first of the gondolas was covered with the falza, and there were curtains hung about the windows, so that none of those within could be seen; but presently, the boat being stopped against the steps, a girl came from it, and as a ray of light fell upon her face, I knew she was the one of whom the man spoke. A more exquisite face I had never seen. There was marked in it all the emotions—fear, hope, sadness, love there was a pathos in the eyes such as eyes never had before. And the girl was beautiful with a beauty I had ► never known, save in the pictures of the mas- ters who have embodied visions upon their canvases. Luminant black hair, in which roses were twined, fell thickly upon her shoulders her bare arms were round and supple as those of a 1 creature of tbe fields, her features were clear; cut, yet nob assertive; ber figure, with its matured outline visible beneath her light dress of white, was a figure which painters mighb have dreamed. Nor was there anything either in j ber look or action to mark the malady of which she was a victim. She bore herself with ex- ceeding errace as she want, followed by two little children in white and and by an elderly woman, her mother, from the gondola to tbe altar. She knelt as any woman might have knelt, while the rosary was said by a priest who, beyond the curious company, was th« only occupant of the church. Nor was there anything whatever to mark the tragedy of her life as the service passed, and we, venturing toO the porch, watched the group; from the door. Indeed. I was about to turn away, rebukingmy own curiosity whe a sight of the man at my side held me back, and awakened me in a moment to the fuller meaning of the situation. As the light again flooded upon the steps of the churoh, and passed out of the shadow, I learnt his secret. He was now leaning against a pillar, but there was whiteness upon his face such as I had not seen there, and his nerves quivered until you could follow the play of them. But more than this, there was a tale in bis eyes which needed no words—a tale of regret and of longing, of love and of reproach. And as he stood oblivious of all about him, of churoh and e&nal and city, of everything but the woman who knelt, she suddenly rose from her knees, and came swiftly out of the building with a glow as of divine happiness upon her; and yet he did not move nor seek to return to the gondola again. Nor did it seem to me that you could have counted ten before they were face to face, there upon the pavement, which the moonlight flooded, and that she was matching him as he leant still against the pillar, and the words he would have spoken died away upon his lips. And when next I looked, he was holding ber in his arms, and her reason came swiftly back to her in a flood of tears. But to me the strange thing was that the man should thus have told mo the story of his own life. The End.

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