Billy Traynor sat, deeply sunk in study, in the old recess of the palace library. A passage in the “Antigone” had puzzled him, and the table was littered with critics and commentators, while manuscript notes, scrawled in the most rude hand, lay on every side. He did not perceive, in his intense preoccupation, that Massy had entered and taken the place directly in front of him. There the youth sat gazing steadfastly at the patient and studious features before him. It was only when Traynor, mastering the difficulty that had so long opposed him, broke out into an enthusiastic declamation of the text that Massy, unable to control the impulse, laughed aloud.

“How long are you there? I never noticed you comin' in,” said Billy, half-shamed at his detected ardor.

“But a short time; I was wondering at—ay, Billy, and was envying, too—the concentrated power in which you address yourself to your task. It is the real secret of all success, and somehow it is a frame of mind I cannot achieve.”

“How is the boy Bacchus goin' on?” asked Billy, eagerly.

“I broke him up yesterday, and it is like a weight off my heart that his curly bullet head and sensual lips are not waiting for me as I enter the studio.”

“And the Cleopatra?” asked Traynor, still more anxiously.

“Smashed,—destroyed. Shall I own to you, Billy, I see at last myself what you have so often hinted to me,—I have no genius for the work?”

“I never said,—I never thought so,” cried the other; “I only insisted that nothing was to be done without labor,—hard, unflinching labor; that easy successes were poor triumphs, and bore no results.”

“There,—there, I'll hear that sermon no more. I'd not barter the freedom of my own unfettered thoughts, as they come and go, in hours of listless idleness, for all the success you ever promised me. There are men toil elevates,—me it wearies to depression, and brings no compensation in the shape of increased power. Mine is an unrewarding clay,—that's the whole of it. Cultivation only develops the rank weeds which are deep sown in the soil. I'd like to travel,—to visit some new land, some scene where all association with the past shall be broken. What say you?”

“I'm ready, and at your orders,” said Traynor, closing his book.

“East or west, then, which shall it be? If sometimes my heart yearns for the glorious scenes of Palestine, full of memories that alone satisfy the soul's longings, there are days when I pant for the solitude of the vast savannas of the New World. I feel as if to know one's self thoroughly, one's nature should be tested by the perils and exigencies of a life hourly making some demand on courage and ingenuity. The hunter's life does this. What say you,—shall we try it?”

“I 'm ready,” was the calm reply.

“We have means for such an enterprise, have we not? You told me, some short time past, that nearly the whole of our last year's allowance was untouched.”

“Yes, it's all there to the good,” said Billy; “a good round sum too.”

“Let us get rid of all needless equipment, then,” cried Massy, “and only retain what beseems a prairie life. Sell everything, or give it away at once.”

“Leave all that to me,—I'll manage everything; only say when you make up your mind.”

“But it is made up. I have resolved on the step. Few can decide so readily; for I leave neither home nor country behind.”

“Don't say that,” burst in Billy; “here's myself, the poorest crayture that walks the earth, that never knew where he was born or who nursed him, yet even to me there's the tie of a native land,—there's the soil that reared warriors and poets and orators that I heard of when a child, and gloried in as a man; and, better than that, there's the green meadows and the leafy valleys where kind-hearted men and women live and labor, spakin' our own tongue and feelin' our own feelin's, and that, if we saw to-morrow, we 'd know were our own,—heart and hand our own. The smell of the yellow furze, under a griddle of oaten bread, would be sweeter to me than all the gales of Araby the Blest; for it would remind me of the hearth I had my share of, and the roof that covered me when I was alone in the world.”

The boy buried his face in his hands and made no answer. At last, raising up his head, he said,—

“Let us try this life; let us see if action be not better than mere thought. The efforts of intellect seem to inspire a thirst there is no slaking. Sleep brings no rest after them. I long for the sense of some strong peril which, over, gives the proud feeling of a goal reached,—a feat accomplished.”

“I'll go wherever you like; I'll be whatever you want me,” said Billy, affectionately.

“Let us lose no time, then. I would not that my present ardor should cool ere we have begun our plan. What day is this? The seventh. Well, on the eighteenth there is a ship sails from Genoa for Porto Rico. It was the announcement set my heart a-thinking of the project. I dreamed of it two entire nights. I fancied myself walking the deck on a starlit night, and framing all my projects for the future. The first thing I saw next morning was the same placard, 'The “Colombo” will sail for Porto Rico on Friday, the eighteenth.'”

“An unlucky day,” muttered Billy, interrupting.

“I have fallen upon few that were otherwise,” said Massy, gloomily; “besides,” he added, after a pause, “I have no faith in omens, or any care for superstitions. Come, let us set about our preparations. Do you bethink you how to rid ourselves of all useless encumbrances here. Be it my care to jot down the list of all we shall need for the voyage and the life to follow it. Let us see which displays most zeal for the new enterprise.”

Billy Traynor addressed himself with a will to the duty allotted him. He rummaged through drawers and desks, destroyed papers and letters, laid aside all the articles which he judged suitable for preservation, and then hastened off to the studio to arrange for the disposal of the few “studies,” for they were scarcely more, which remained of Massy's labors.

A nearly finished Faun, the head of a Niobe, the arm and hand of a Jove launching a thunderbolt, the torso of a dead sailor after shipwreck, lay amid fragments of shattered figures, grotesque images, some caricatures of his own works, and crude models of anatomy. The walls were scrawled with charcoal drawings of groups,—one day to be fashioned in sculpture,—with verses from Dante, or lines from Tasso, inscribed beneath; proud resolves to a life of labor figured beside stanzas in praise of indolence and dreamy abandonment. There were passages of Scripture, too, glorious bursts of the poetic rapture of the Psalms, intermingled with quaint remarks on life from Jean Paul or Herder. All that a discordant, incoherent nature consisted of was there in some shape or other depicted; and as Billy ran his eye over this curious journal,—for such it was,—he grieved over the spirit which had dictated it.

The whole object of all his teaching had been to give a purpose to this uncertain and wavering nature, and yet everything showed him now that he had failed. The blight which had destroyed the boy's early fortunes still worked its evil influences, poisoning every healthful effort, and dashing with a sense of shame every successful step towards fame and honor.

“Maybe he's right after all,” muttered Billy to himself. “The New World is the only place for those who have not the roots of an ancient stock to hold them in the Old. Men can be there whatever is in them, and they can be judged without the prejudices of a class.”

Having summed up, as it were, his own doubts in this remark, he proceeded with his task. While he was thus occupied, Massy entered, and threw himself into a chair.

“There, you may give it up, Traynor. Fate is ever against us, do and decide on what we will. Your confounded omen of a Friday was right this time.”

“What do you mean? Have you altered your mind?”

“I expected you to say so,” said the other, bitterly. “I knew that I should meet with this mockery of my resolution, but it is uncalled for. It is not I that have changed!”

“What is it, then, has happened,—do they refuse your passport?”

“Not that either; I never got so far as to ask for it. The misfortune is in this wise: on going to the bank to learn the sum that lay to my credit and draw for it, I was met by the reply that I had nothing there,—not a shilling. Before I could demand how this could be the case, the whole truth suddenly flashed across my memory, and I recalled to mind how one night, as I lay awake, the thought occurred to me that it was base and dishonorable in me, now that I was come to manhood, to accept of the means of life from one who felt shame in my connection with him. 'Why,' thought I, 'is there to be the bond of dependence where there is no tie of affection to soften its severity?' And so I arose from my bed, and wrote to Sir Horace, saying that by the same post I should remit to his banker at Naples whatever remained of my last year's allowance, and declined in future to accept of any further assistance. This I did the same day, and never told you of it,—partly, lest you should try to oppose me in my resolve; partly,” and here his voice faltered, “to spare myself the pain of revealing my motives. And now that I have buoyed my heart up with this project, I find myself without means to attempt it. Not that I regret my act, or would recall it,” cried he, proudly, “but that the sudden disappointment is hard to bear. I was feeding my hopes with such projects for the future when this stunning news met me, and the thought that I am now chained here by necessity has become a torture.”

“What answer did Sir Horace give to your letter?” asked Billy.

“I forget; I believe he never replied to it, or if he did, I have no memory of what he said. Stay,—there was a letter of his taken from me when I was arrested at Carrara. The seal was unbroken at the time.”

“I remember the letter was given to the Minister, who has it still in his keeping.”

“What care I,” cried Massy, angrily, “in whose hands it may be?”

“The Minister is not here now,” said Billy, half speaking to himself, “he is travelling with the Duke; but when he comes back—”

“When he comes back!” burst in Massy, impatiently; “with what calm philosophy you look forward to a remote future. I tell you that this scheme is now a part and parcel of my very existence. I can turn to no other project, or journey no other road in life, till at least I shall have tried it!”

“Well, it is going to work in a more humble fashion,” said Billy, calmly. “Leave me to dispose of all these odds and ends here—”

“This trash!” cried the youth, fiercely. “Who would accept it as a gift?”

“Don't disparage it; there are signs of genius even in these things; but, above all, don't meddle with me, but just leave me free to follow my own way. There now, go back and employ yourself preparing for the road; trust the rest to me.”

Massy obeyed without speaking. It was not, indeed, that he ventured to believe in Traynor's resources, but he was indisposed to further discussion, and longed to be in solitude once more.

It was late at night when they met again. Charles Massy was seated at a window of his room, looking out into the starry blue of a cloudless sky, when Traynor sat down beside him. “Well,” said he, gently, “it's all done and finished. I have sold off everything, and if you will only repair the hand of the Faun, which I broke in removing, there's nothing more wanting.”

“That much can be done by any one,” said Massy, haughtily. “I hope never to set eyes on the trumpery things again.”

“But I have promised you would do it,” said Traynor, eagerly.

“And how—by what right could you pledge yourself for my labor? Nay,” cried he, suddenly changing the tone in which he spoke, “knowing my wilful nature, how could you answer for what I might or might not do?”

“I knew,” said Billy, slowly, “that you had a great project in your head, and that to enable you to attempt it, you would scorn to throw all the toil upon another.”

“I never said I was ashamed of labor,” said the youth, reddening with shame.

“If you had, I would despair of you altogether,” rejoined the other.

“Well, what is it that I have to do?” said Massy, bluntly.

“It is to remodel the arm, for I don't think you can mend it; but you 'll see it yourself.”

“Where is the figure,—in the studio?”

“No; it is in a small pavilion of a villa just outside the gates. It was while I was conveying it there it met this misfortune. There's the name of the villa on that card. You 'll find the garden gate open, and by taking the path through the olive wood you 'll be there in a few minutes; for I must go over to-morrow to Carrara with the Niobe; the Academy has bought it for a model.”

A slight start of surprise and a faint flush bespoke the proud astonishment with which he heard of this triumph; but he never spoke a word.

“If you had any pride in your works, you'd be delighted to see where the Faun is to be placed. It is in a garden, handsomer even than this here, with terraces rising one over the other, and looking out on the blue sea, from the golden strand of Via Reggio down to the headlands above Spezia. The great olive wood in the vast plain lies at your feet, and the white cliffs of Serravezza behind you.”

“What care I for all this?” said Massy, gloomily. “Benvenuto could afford to be in love with his own works,—I cannot!”

Traynor saw at once the mood of mind he was in, and stole noiselessly away to his room.