Tony went on his way early next morning, stealing off ere it was yet light, for he hated leave-takings, and felt that they weighed upon him for many a mile of a journey. There was enough on the road he travelled to have interested and amused him, but his heart was too full of its own cares, and his mind too deep in its own plans, to dispose him to such pleasures, and so he passed through little villages on craggy eminences and quaint old towers on mountain-tops, scarcely observing them. Even Pisa, with its world-known Tower, and the gem-like Baptistery beside it, scarce attracted notice from him, though he muttered as he passed, “Perhaps on some happier day I 'll be able to come back here and admire it” And so onward he plodded through the grand old ruined Massa and the silent Sarzana, whose palaces display the quarterings of old crusading knights, with many an emblem of the Holy War; and by the beauteous Bay of Spezia he went, not stopping to see poor Shelley's home, and the terrace where his midnight steps had almost worn a track. The road now led through the declining ridges of the Apennines, gorgeous in color,—such color as art would have scarce dared to counterfeit, so emerald the dark green of the waving pines, so silver-like the olive, so gloriously purple the great cliffs of porphyry; and then through many a riven cleft, through feathery foliage and broad-leaved fig-trees, down many a fathom low the sea!—the blue Mediterranean, so blue as to seem another sky of deeper meaning than the one above it.

He noticed little of all these; he felt none of them! It was now the third day of his journey, and though he had scarcely uttered a word, and been deeply intent on his own fate, all that his thinking had done was to lead, as it were, into some boundless prairie, and there desert him.

“I suppose,” muttered he to himself, “I am one of those creatures that must never presume to plan anything, but take each day's life as I find it. And I could do this. Ay, I could do it manfully, too, if I were not carrying along with me memories of long ago. It is Alice, the thought of Alice, that dashes the present with a contrast to the past, and makes all I now attempt so poor and valueless.”

As the road descends from Borghetto, there is a sudden bend, from which, through a deep cleft, the little beach and village of Levanto are seen hundreds of feet beneath, but yet in that clear still atmosphere so near that not only the white foam of the breaking wave could be seen, but its rhythm-like plash heard as it broke upon the beach. For the first time since he set out had the charm of scenery attracted him, and, descending a few feet from the road, he reached a large square rock, from which he could command the whole view for miles on every side.

He took out his bread and cheese and a melon he had bought that morning, and disposed himself to eat his dinner. He had often partaken of a more sumptuous meal, but never had he eaten with so glorious a prospect at his feet.

A little lateen-sailed boat stole out from beneath the olives and gained the sea; and as Tony watched her, he thought if he would only have been a fisherman there, and Alice his wife, how little he could have envied all that the world has of wealth and honors and ambitions. His friend Skeffy could not do this, but he could. He was strong of limb and stout of heart; he could bear hardships and cold; and it would be so fine to think that, born gentleman as he was, he never flinched from the hardest toil, or repined at the roughest fare, he and Alice treasuring up their secret, and hoarding it as a miser hoards his gold.

Ay, down there, in that little gorge, with the pine-wood behind and the sea before, he could have passed his life, with never a longing thought for the great world and its prizes. As he ran on thus in fancy, he never heard the sound of footsteps on the road above, nor noticed the voices of persons talking.

At last he heard, not the words, but the tone of the speakers, and recognized them to be English. There is that peculiar sound in English utterance that at once distinguishes it from all other speech; and Tony, quite forgetting that his high-peaked Calabrian hat and massive beard made him far more like an Italian brigand than a British gentleman, not wishing to be observed, never turned his head to look at them. At last one said, “The little fishing-village below there must be Levante. John Murray tells us that this is the land of the fan palm and the cactus, so that at length we are in Italy.”

“Do you know—shall I confess it,” said the other, “that I am not thinking of the view, beautiful as it is? I am envying that peasant with his delicious melon on the rock there. I am half tempted to ask him to share it with me.”

“Ask him, by all means,” said the first speaker, laughing.

“You are jesting,” replied the other, “but I am in sober earnest. I can resist no longer. Do you, however, wait here, or the carriage may pass on and leave us behind.”

Tony heard nothing of these words; but he heard the light footsteps, and he heard the rustle of a woman's dress as she forced her way, through bramble and underwood, till at last, with that consciousness so mysterious, he felt there was some one standing close behind him. Half vexed to think that his isolation should be invaded, he drew his hat deeper over his eyes, and sat steadfastly gazing on the sea below him.

“Is that Levante I see beneath that cliff?” asked she, in Italian,—less to satisfy her curiosity than to attract fris attention.

Tony started. How intensely had his brain been charged with thoughts of long ago, that every word that met his ears should seem impregnated with these memories! A half-sulky “Si” was, however, his only rejoinder.

“What a fine melon you have there, my friend!” said she; and now her voice thrilled through him so strangely that he sprang to his feet and turned to face her. “Is my brain tricking me?—are my senses wandering?” muttered he to himself. “Alice, Alice!”

“Yes, Tony,” cried she. “Who ever heard of so strange a meeting? How came you here? Speak, or I shall be as incredulous as yourself!” But Tony could not utter a word, but stood overwhelmed with wonder, silently gazing on her.

“Speak to me, Tony,” said she, in her soft winning voice,—“speak to me; tell me by what curious fortune you came here. Let us sit down on this bank; our carriage is toiling up the hill, and will not be here for some time.”

“So it is not a dream!” sighed he, as he sat down beside her. “I have so little faith in my brain that I could not trust it.”

It was easy to see that his bewilderment still remained; and so, with a woman's tact, she addressed herself to talking of what would gradually lead his thoughts into a collected shape. She told how they were all on their way to the South,—Naples or Palermo, not certain which,—somewhere for climate, as Isabella was still delicate. That her father and mother and sister were some miles behind on the road, she having come on more rapidly with a lighter carriage. “Not all alone, though, Master Tony; don't put on that rebukeful face. The lady you see yonder on the road is what is called my companion,—the English word for duenna; and I half think I am scandalizing her very much by this conduct of mine, sitting down on the grass with a brigand chief, and, I was going to say, sharing his breakfast, though I have to confess it never occurred to him to offer it. Come, Tony, get up, and let me present you to her, and relieve her mind of the terrible thoughts that must be distressing her.”

“One moment, Alice,—one moment,” said he, taking her hand. “What is this story my mother tells me?” He stopped, unable to go on; but she quickly broke in, “Scandal travels quickly, indeed; but I scarcely thought your mother was one to aid its journey.”

“She never believed it,” said he, doggedly.

“Why repeat it, then? Why give bad money currency? I think we had better join my friend. I see she is impatient.”

The coldness with which she spoke chilled him like a wintry blast; but he rallied soon, and with a vigorous energy said, “My mother no more believed ill of you than I did; and when I asked you what the slander meant, it was to know where I could find the man to pay for it.”

“You must deny yourself the pleasure this time, Tony,” said she, laughing. “It was a woman's story,—a disappointed woman,—and so, not so very blamable as she might be; not but that it was true in fact.”

“True, Alice,—true?”

“Yes, sir. The inference from it was the only falsehood; but, really, we have had too much of this. Tell me of yourself,—why are you here? Where are you now going?”

“You 've heard of my exploits as a messenger, I suppose,” said Tony, with a bitter laugh.

“I heard, as we all heard with great sorrow, that you left the service,” said she, with a hesitation on each word.

“Left it? Yes; I left to avoid being kicked out of it I lost my despatches, and behaved like a fool. Then I tried to turn sailor, but no skipper would take me; and I did turn clerk, and half ruined the honest fellow that trusted me. And now I am going—in good truth, Alice, I don't exactly know where, but it is somewhere in search of a pursuit to fit a fellow who begins to feel he is fit for nothing.”

“It is not thus your friends think of you, Tony,” said she, kindly.

“That's the worst of it,” rejoined he, bitterly; “I have all my life been trying to justify an opinion that never should have been formed of me,—ay, and that I well knew I had no right to.”

“Well, Tony, come back with us. I don't say with me, because I must be triple discreet for some time to come; but come back with papa; he 'll be overjoyed to have you with us.”

“No, no,” muttered Tony, in a faint whisper; “I could not, I could not.”

“Is that old grudge of long ago so deep that time has not filled it up?”

“I could not, I could not,” muttered he, evidently not hearing the words she had just spoken.

“And why not, Tony? Just tell me why not?”

“Shall I tell you, Alice?” said he; and his lip shook and his cheek grew pale as he spoke,—“shall I tell you?”

She nodded; for she too was moved, and did not trust herself to speak.

“Shall I tell you?” said he; and he looked into her eyes with a meaning so full of love, and yet of sorrow, that her cheek became crimson, and she turned away in shame.

“No, Tony,” whispered she, faintly, “better not say—what might pain us both, perhaps.”

“Enough, if you know,” said he, faintly.

“There, see, my friend has lost all patience; come up to the road, Tony. She must see that my interview has been with an English gentleman, and not a brigand chief. Give me your arm, and do not look so sulky.”

“You women can look any way you will,” mumbled he, “no matter what you may feel; that is, if you do feel.”

“You are the same old savage, Tony, as ever,” said she, laughing. “I never got my melon, after all, Miss Lester; the sight of an old friend was, however, better. Let me present him to you,—Mr. Butler.”

“Mr. Tony Butler?” asked she, with a peculiar smile; and though she spoke it low, he heard her, and said, “Yes; I am Tony Butler.”

“Sir Arthur will be charmed to know you are here. It was but yesterday he said he 'd not mind taking a run through Calabria if we only had you with us.”

“I have said all that and more to him, but he does n't mind it,” said Alice.

“Is this fair, Alice?” whispered he.

“In fact,” resumed she, “he has nowhere particular to go to, provided it be not the same road that we are taking.”

“Is this kind, Alice?” whispered he, again.

“And though I have told him what pleasure it would give us all if he would turn back with us—”

“You 'll drive me to say it,” muttered he, between his teeth.

“If you dare, sir,” said she, in a low but clear whisper; and now she stepped into the carriage, and affected to busy herself with her mufflers. Tony assisted Miss Lester to her place, and then walked round to the side where Alice sat.

“You are not angry with me, Alice?” said he, falteringly.

“I certainly am not pleased,” said she, coldly. “There was a time I had not to press a wish,—I had but to utter it.”

“And yet, Alice,” said he, leaning over, and whispering so close that she felt his breath on her face,—“and yet I never loved you then as I love you now.”

“You have determined that I should not repeat my invitation,” said she, leaning back in the carriage; “I must—I have no help for it—I must say good-bye!”

“Good-bye,” said he, pressing her hand, from which he had just drawn off the glove, to his lips. She never made any effort to withdraw it, but leaned forward as though to conceal the action from her companion.

“Good-bye, dearest Alice,” said he, once more.

“Give me my glove, Tony. I think it has fallen,” said she, carelessly, as she leaned back once more.

“There it is,” muttered he; “but I have another here that I will never part with;” and he drew forth the glove she had thrown on the strand for him to pick up—so long ago!

“You will see papa, Tony?” said she, drawing down her veil; “you can't fail to meet him before night. Say you saw us. Good-bye.”

And Tony stood alone on the mountain, and watched the cloud of dust that rose behind the carriage, and listened to the heavy tramp of the horses till the sounds died off in the distance.

“Oh if I could trust the whisper at my heart!” cried he. “If I could—if I could—I 'd be happier than I ever dared to hope for.”