He went without delay straight to the small Italian village in which
Harry had made his home. Harry's letters had prepared him for trouble
and poverty, but he had little idea of the real condition of the heir of
Sandal-Side. A few bare rooms in some dilapidated palace, grim with
faded magnificence, comfortless and dull, was the kind of place he
expected. He found him in a small cottage surrounded by a barren, sandy
patch of ground overgrown with neglected vines and vagabond weeds. The
interior was hot and untidy. On a couch a woman in the firm grip of
consumption was lying; an emaciated, feverish woman, fretful with acute
suffering. A little child, wan and waxy-looking, and apparently as ill
as its mother, wailed in a cot by her side. Signor Lanza was smoking
under a fig-tree in the neglected acre, which had been a vineyard or a
garden. Harry had gone into the village for some necessity; and when he
returned Julius felt a shock and a pang of regret for the dashing young
soldier squire that he had known as Harry Sandal.
He kissed his wife with passionate love and sorrow, and then turned to
Julius with that mute look of inquiry which few find themselves able to
resist.
"He is alive yet,--much better, he says; and Charlotte thinks he may be
in the fields again next season."
"Thank God! My poor Beatrice and her baby! You see what is coming to
them?"
"Yes."
"And I am so poor I cannot get her the change of air, the luxuries, the
medicines, which would at least prolong life, and make death easy.
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