In Direst Peril | Page 4

daughter has no idea that
he is alive. Yet I saw him no more than six weeks ago."
"And you have not told her?" I asked.
"Why should I pain her for nothing?" he demanded in his turn. "She
never saw him. She never even knew enough of him to grieve for him.
He is not so much as a memory in her mind. And since they can never
come together, it is better for her to go on believing that he died while
she was in her babyhood."
"What is to prevent their coming together?" I asked.
"He is a prisoner," said Brunow, gravely. "Mind you, Fyffe, I tell you
this in the strictest confidence, and I know you well enough to trust
you."
I knew Brunow well enough to know that if there were any truth in the
story, it would be told in the strictest confidence until it was property as

common as the news of the town crier. I knew him well enough to
know also that if it were not true, but merely one of his countless
romances, it would be forgotten in the morning in the growth of some
new invention as romantic and as baseless as itself. In any case, I gave
him the assurance he asked for, and he went on with his story.
"More than two-and-twenty years ago Miss Ros-sano's grandfather,
General Sir Arthur Rawlings, and his wife made a trip through Italy.
They took with them their daughter Violet, and in Rome they met the
Conte di Rossano, who by all accounts was then a young, rich,
handsome fellow, and the hope of the National party. The National
party in Italy has always had a hope of some sort, and their hope is
always just about as hopeful as a sane man's despair."
"I am not so sure of that," I cried. "I shall live to see the Italians a free
people yet!"
"You are one of the enthusiasts," said Brunow, laughing. "And I
suppose that if you got an opportunity you'd lend the cause a hand." I
said "Assuredly," and Brunow laughed again. "Well, to keep to the
story," he went on, "the count saw Miss Rawlings, and fell head over
ears in love with her at first sight. He was young, he was handsome; he
had spent years in England, and spoke the language like a native. He
made love like Romeo, but the young lady at first would not listen to
him. He followed the party to England, stuck to his cause like a man,
and finally won it. The only objection anybody had to urge against him
was that he was hand in glove with the conspirators against Austrian
rule. The Austrian's were just as much a fixture in Italy as they are at
this day; the Italians were just as hotly bent as they are now on getting
rid of them, and Sir Arthur, who was an old diplomat, was afraid of the
prospective son-in-law's political ideas. He tried at first to make
marriage a question of surrender of the cause, but the count was
ultra-romantic, ultra-patriotic, ultra-Italian all over in point of fact. Not
even for love's sake would he throw over his country, and, oddly
enough, it was this bit of romanticism which clinched the lady's
affection."
"And why oddly?" I asked him.

"My dear fellow," said Brunow, "why should I characterize or analyze
a woman's whims. The story is the main point. Miss Rawlings married
the count. Within three months of their marriage the count went back to
Italy to assist in the stirring up of some confounded Italian hot-pot or
other, and was never heard of again. Seven or eight months after, the
girl you met to-night was born. Her mother died a few months later.
The count's estates were confiscated by the Austrian government, and
the little orphan was bred by her grandparents. They are dead now, and
Miss Rossano is chaperoned by her aunt, Lady Rollinson, and lives
with her. When she is two-and-twenty she will come in for her dead
mother's money, some forty or maybe fifty thousand pounds. In the
meantime she inherits some two thousand a year from her grandfather.
There are better things in the marriage market, but--"
There he stopped and sipped at his tumbler, and I sat thinking for a
while. Barring that one little point in the story at which Brunow
introduced himself, I was disposed to give the history entire credence.
But that Brunow should have seen the mournful hero of the tale within
the last six weeks was altogether too like Brunow to be believed
without some confirmation. One rarely tells even the most practised
romancer outright and in so many words that he is not telling the truth,
but I fenced