A sort of numbness came over her. He had gone, without a word, without making any effort to see her again. His "Good-bye" had been spoken in solemn earnest. He had been stronger than Elizabeth; although in ordinary matters it might be thought that her nature was the stronger of the two. There was nothing, therefore, for her to say or do; she could not write to him, she could not call him back. If she could have done so she would. She had never known before what it was to hunger for the sight of a beloved face, to think of the words that she might have said, and long to say them. She did not as yet know by what name to call her misery. Only, little by little she woke up to the fact that it was what people meant when they spoke of love. Then she began to understand her position. She had promised to marry Percival Heron, but her heart was given to the penniless tutor who called himself John Stretton.

CHAPTER XXV.

A COVENANT.

Brian had no fixed notion of what he should do, but he thought it better to go to London, where he could more easily decide on his future movements. He was in no present difficulty, for the liberal salary which he had received from the Herons during the past few months was almost untouched, and although he had just now a morbid dislike to touching the money that had come to him through Elizabeth's generosity, he had the sense to see that he must make use of it, and turn it to the best possible account.

In the course of his journey he bought a newspaper. His eyes fell almost immediately upon a paragraph which caused him some amazement.

"Mysterious Case of Attempted Murder.--A young man of respectable appearance was discovered early this morning in a state of complete insensibility at the end of a passage leading out of Mill-street, Blackfriars. He was found to have received a severe wound, presumably with a knife, in the left side, and had lost a considerable amount of blood, but, although weak, was still living. His watch and purse had not been abstracted, a fact which points to the conclusion either that the wound was inflicted by a companion in a drunken brawl, or that the thief was disturbed in his operations before the completion of the work. The young man speaks a little English as well as Italian, but he has not yet been able to give a precise account of the assault committed upon him.

It is thought that the police have a clue to the criminal. The name given in the gentleman's pocket-book is Vasari; and he has been removed to Guy's Hospital, where he is reported to be doing well."

"Vasari! Dino Vasari! can it be he?" said Brian, throwing down his newspaper. "What brings him to London?"

Then it occurred to him that Father Cristoforo's long letter might have contained information concerning Dino's visit to London: possibly he had been asked to do the young Italian some service, which, of course, he had been unable to render as he had not read the letter. He felt doubly vexed at his own carelessness as he thought of this possibility, and resolved to go to the hospital and see whether the man who had been wounded was Dino Vasari or not. And then he forgot all about the newspaper paragraph, and lost himself in sad reflections concerning the unexpected end of his connection with the Herons.

Arrived in London, he found out a modest lodging, and began to arrange his plans for the future. A fit of restlessness seemed to have come upon him. He could not bear to think of staying any longer in England. He paid a visit next morning to an Emigration Agency Office, asking whether the agents could direct him to the best way of obtaining suitable work in the Colonies. He did not care where he went or what he did; his preference was for work in the open air, because he still at times felt the effect of that brain-fever which had so nearly ended his existence at San Stefano; but his physique was not exactly of the kind which was most suited to bush-clearing and sheep-farming. This he was told, and informed, moreover, that so large a number of clerks arrived yearly in Australia and America, that the market in that sort of labour was over-stocked, and that, if he was a clerk, he had a better chance in the Old World than in the New.

"I am not a clerk; I have lately been a tutor," said Brian.

References?

He could refer them to his late employer.

A degree? Oxford or Cambridge?

And there the questions ceased to be answered satisfactorily. He could not tell them that he had been to Oxford, because he dared not refer them to the name under which he studied at Balliol. He hesitated, blundered a little--he certainly had never mastered the art of lying with ease and fluency--and created so unfavourable an impression in the mind of the emigration agent that that gentleman regarded him with suspicion from that moment, and apparently ceased to wish to afford him any aid.

"I am very sorry," he said, politely, "but I don't think that we have anything that would suit you. There is a college at Dunedin where they want a junior master, but there, a man with a good degree and--hum--unimpeachable antecedents would be required. People out there are in want of men with a trade: not of clerks, nor of poor professional men."

"Then I must go as a hodman or a breaker of stones," said Brian, "for I mean to go."

"I don't think that that employment is one for which you are especially fitted, Mr. Smith," said the agent, with a slight smile. Brian had impatiently given the name of Smith in making his application, and the agent, who was a man of wide experience, did not believe that it was his own; "but, of course, if you like to try it, you can look at these papers about 'assisted passages.'"

"Thank you, that is not necessary," answered Brian, rather curtly. "A steerage passage to Australia does not cost a fortune. If I go out as a labouring man I think I can manage it. But I am obliged to you for your kindness in answering my questions."

He had resumed his usual manner, which had been somewhat ruffled by the tone taken by the agent, and now asked one or two practical questions respecting the fares, the lines of steamers, and matters of that kind; after which he bade the agent a courteous good-morning and went upon his way.

He foresaw that the inevitable cloud hanging over his past story would prove a great obstacle to his obtaining employment in the way he desired. Any work requiring certificates or testimonials was utterly out of the question for him in England. In Australia or New Zealand things might be different. He had no great wish to go to America--he had once spent a summer holiday in the Eastern States, and did not fancy that they would be agreeable places of residence for him in his present circumstances, and he had no great desire to "go West;" besides, he had a wish to put as great a distance as possible between himself and England. As he walked away from the emigration office he made up his mind to take the first vessel that sailed for Sydney.

He had nothing to do. He wanted to divert his mind from thoughts of Elizabeth. It flashed across his mind that he would go to the hospital and inquire after the man who had been stabbed, and who called himself Vasari.

He made his request to see the patient, and was admitted with such readiness that he suspected the case to be a dangerous one. And, indeed, the house-surgeon acknowledged this to be so. The stab, he said, had gone wonderfully near the vital parts; a hair's-breadth deviation to the right or left, and Vasari would have been a dead man. It was still uncertain whether he would recover, and all agitation must be avoided, as he was not allowed either to move or speak.

"I am not sure whether he is the young man I used to know or not," said Brian, doubtfully. "Vasari--was there a Christian name given as well?"

"Yes: Bernardino, and in another place simply Dino. Was that the name of your friend?"

"Yes, it was. If I saw him I should be sure. I don't suppose that my appearance would agitate him," said Brian, little suspecting the deep interest and importance which would attach to his visit in Dino's mind.

"Come, then." And the surgeon led the way to the bed, hidden by a screen from the rest of the ward, where Dino lay.

Brian passed with the nurse inside the screen, and looked pityingly at the patient.

"Yes," he said, in a low tone, "it is the man I know."

He thought that Dino was unconscious, but at the sound of his voice--low though it was--the patient opened his eyes, and fixed them upon Brian's face. Brian had said that his appearance would produce no agitation, but he was mistaken. A sudden change passed over that pale countenance.

Dino's great dark eyes seemed to grow larger than ever; his face assumed a still more deathly tinge; the look of mingled anguish and horror was unmistakable. He tried to speak, he tried to rise in his bed, but the effort was too great, and he sank back insensible. The indignant nurse hustled Brian away, and would not allow him to return; he ought to have known, she said, that the sight of him would excite the patient. Brian had not known, and was grieved to think that his visit had been unacceptable. But that did not prevent him from writing an account of the state in which he had found Dino Vasari to his friend, Padre Cristoforo; nor from calling at the hospital every day to inquire after the state of his Italian friend. He was glad to hear at last that Dino was out of danger; then, that he was growing a little stronger; and then that he had expressed a desire to see the English gentleman when he called again.

By this time he had, to some extent, changed his plans. Neither Australia nor New Zealand would be his destination. He had taken his passage in a vessel bound for Pernambuco, and a very short time remained to him in England. He was glad to think that he should see Dino before he went.

He found the young man greatly altered: his eyes gleamed in orbits of purple shadow: his face was white and wasted. But the greatest change of all lay in this--that there was no smile upon his lips, no pleasure in his eyes, when he saw Brian draw near his bed.

"Dino!" said Brian, holding out his hand. "How did you come here, amico mio?" And then he noticed the absence of any welcoming word or gesture on Dino's part. The large dark eyes were bent upon him questioningly, and yet with a proud reserve in their shadowy depths. And the blue-veined hands locked themselves together upon the coverlet instead of returning Brian's friendly grasp.

"Why have you come?" said Dino, in a loud whisper. "What do you want?"

"I want nothing save to ask how you are and to see you again," replied Brian, after a pause of astonishment.

"If you want to alter your decision it is not yet too late. I have taken no steps towards the claiming of my rights."

"His mind must be wandering," thought Brian to himself. He added aloud in a soothing tone, "I have made no decision about anything, Dino. Can I do anything for you?"

Dino looked at him long and meditatively. Brian's face expressed some surprise, but perfect tranquility of mind. He had seated himself at Dino's bed-side, and was leaning his chin upon his hand and his elbow upon his crossed knees.

"Why did you make Hugo Luttrell your messenger? Why not come to meet me yourself as Padre Cristoforo begged you to do?"

Brian shook his head. "I don't think you had better talk, Dino," he said. "You are feverish, surely. I will come and see you again to-morrow."

"No, no: answer my question first," said Dino, a slight flush rising to his thin cheeks. "Why could you not come yourself?"

"When?"

"When! You know."

"Upon my honour, Dino, I don't know what you mean."

"You--you--had a letter from Padre Cristoforo--about me?" said Dino, stammering with eagerness.

Brian looked guilty. "I was a great fool, Dino," he said, penitently. "I had a letter from him, and I managed to lose it before I had read more than the first sheet, in which there was nothing about you. I suppose he told me in that letter why you came to London, and asked me to meet you or something; and I wish I had met you, if it would have prevented this unfortunate accident of yours, or whatever it was. My own carelessness is always to blame," said Brian, with a heavy sigh, "and I don't wonder that you look coldly upon me, Dino, when I seem to have done you such an unfriendly turn. But I don't think I need say that I never meant to do it."

"How did you know that I was here?" asked Dino, with breathless interest.

"I saw in the papers an account of your being found insensible from a wound in your side. The name Vasari was mentioned, and I came to see if it could possibly be you."