Christine of the Hills

Front matter

Christine of the Hills. BY MAX PEMBERTON, AUTHOR OF "THE IRON PIRATE, "THE LITTLE HUGUENOT, ETC. LONDON : A. D. INNES & CO., BEDFORD STREET. 1897. TO SIR WEMYSS REID. [hommage reconnaissant.] FOREWORD. The islands of the " spouseless sea," their beauty and their romance, have appealed often to the traveller and the poet ; less frequently to the novelist. While Italy and the Mediterranean have furnished the scenes of innumerable stories, the Dalmatian coast is almost without friends among the number of romancers. And yet, of all the shores of Europe, this, perhaps, has the richest store of legend and of moving history. There are few towns between Metkovich and Trieste whose traditions are not worthy the attention of the writer and the historian. The Adriatic herself abounds in islands which are the havens of the brigand and the desperado — true sons of the uscocchi of the past.

Every peak and crag of the Dinaric Alps seem to record some scene in that truce less war which Venice and the West waged against the East and the barbarian. And thus it is that the East has put her mark upon FOREWORD. VI the West — that you find, beyond the mountains, the new and the old, civilization and yet barbarities, the Christian and the Mussulman crying together for their liberties. And this is the fascination of the islands themselves — the fascination of a living past which wars upon the present, and often is victorious. "Christine of the Hills" is in part a true story, in part the outcome of a recent voyage to these beautiful islands. If I cannot hope to have done any justice, either to their romance or their people, I can, nevertheless, confess to a lasting appreciation of the kindness of those who helped me on my way, and of the many services they rendered me.

And of all my memories of recent travel, none is more vivid than that of the mountain town of Jajce — the superb and majestic city upon a hill, standing as she stood a thousand years ago, with a hundred minarets lifted above her mighty cata racts, and the glory of a Southern sun warm and radiant upon her foaming river. She is, indeed, Queen of the savage lairs which Europe gave to Austria, now nearly twenty years ago. MAX PEMBERTON. London, January 2yd, 1897. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE Prologue: The Pavilion of the Island i I. Christine the Child ... ... 12 II. The Quest of the Woman ... ... 18 III. Andrea finds Christine ... ... 26 IV. The Word is spoken ... ,., ... 48 V. A Wedding Journey ... ... 57 VI. In the Hut of Orio ... ... ... 71 VII. Christine awakes ... ... ... 84 VIII. A Man of the Mountains ... ... 93 IX.

Prologue

. THE PAVILION OF THE ISLAND. We had been sailing for some hours with no word between us ; but Barbarossa woke up as the yacht went about under the lee of the pro montory, and with a lordly sweep of his brown burnt arms he indicated the place. " Ola, excellency," said he, " yonder is the pavilion of little Christine." I had called him Barbarossa, though, Heaven knows, he was neither Suabian nor renegade Greek of Mitylene, but an old sinner of Se benico who chanced to have a yacht to let and a week to idle through. " Show your excellency the islands ? " cried B he, when I had made him the offer. " Madonna mia, there is no man in all the city that knows them so well ! From Trieste to Cattaro I shall lead you with a handkerchief upon my eyes. Hills and woods and cities — they are my chil dren ; the Adriatic — she is my daughter.

Hasten to step in, excellency. God has been good to you in sending you to me." It was all very well for him thus to appro priate the special dispensations of Providence ; but, as the fact went, he proved almost an ideal boatman. Silent when he saw that silence was my mood ; gay when he read laughter in my voice ; well-informed to the point of learning — this sage of Sebenico was a treasure. For days together I let him lead me through the silent islands and the infinitely blue channels of the " spouseless sea " ; for days together we pitched our tent in some haven which the foot of man never seemed to tread. No bay or bight was there of which he had not the history ; no island people whose story he could not write for you. Now rising in finely-chosen heroics to the dead splendours of Venice, now cackling upon the trickeries of some village maiden, the resources of this guide of guides were infinite, beyond praise, above all experience.

And I admitted the spell of mastership quickly, and avowed that Barbarossa was a miracle in a land where miracles were rare and to be prized. "Yonder is the pavilion of little Christine." It was early in the afternoon of the seventh day when the words were spoken. We were cruising upon the eastern side of an island whose name I did not then know. When the little yacht was put about, she came suddenly into a bay, beautiful beyond any of the bays to which the sage had yet conducted me. Here the water was in colour like the deepest indigo ; the hills, rising from a sweep of golden sand, were decked out with vines and orange trees and rare shrubs ; and beyond those, again, with shade-giving woods of chestnuts and of oaks. So powerful was the sunshine, though the month was September, that all the splendid foliage was mirrored in the waters ; and, looking down from the ship's deck, you could see phantom thickets and flowery dells and dark woods wherein the nereids might have loved to play.

Yet I turned my eyes rather to the shore, for thereon was the house I had come to see, and there, if luck willed it, was the woman in whom my guide had interested me so deeply. We had held a slow course for many minutes in this haven of woods and flowers before Bar barossa was moved to a second outburst. Until that came I had observed little of the pavilion which he had spoken of ; though its shape was plain, standing out white and prominent in a clearing of the woods. I saw at once that it was a new building, for the flowering creepers had scarce climbed above its lower windows, and gardeners were even then engaged in laying out formal terraces and in setting up fountains. But the house was no way remarkable, either for size or beauty, resembling nothing so much as the bungalows now common upon the banks of the Thames ; and my first impression was one of disappointment, as the excellent Bar barossa did not fail to observe.

J " Diamine," said he, " it is necessary to wait. To-day they build ; to-morrow we praise. There will be no finer house in Dalmatia when the sirocco comes again. God grant that she is not alone then ! " He was stroking his fine beard as he spoke, and there was a troubled look upon his face ; but, at the very moment when it was on my lips to protest against his riddles, he gripped me by the arm and pointed quickly to the shore. "Accidente! " cried he ; "there is little Chris tine herself." At the word, we had drawn quite close to the woods upon the northern side of the bay. Here was a great tangle of flowering bush and generous creeper rising up above a bank which sloped steeply to the water's edge. Through the tracery of tree and thicket I could see the glades of the island, unsurpassably green, and rich in the finest grasses.

Countless roses gave colour to the dark places of the copse. Rare orchids, blossoms ripe in the deepest tones of violet and of purple, contrived the perfection of that natural garden. And conspicuous in it — nay, first to be observed — was the girl who had called the exclamation from Barbarossa. She was standing, as then I saw her, in a gap of the bank, in a tiny creek where the sea lapped gently and the bushes bent down their heads to the cool of the water. She had red stockings upon her feet, and a short skirt of dark blue stuff showed her shapely limbs in all their perfection. I observed that the sun had burnt her naked arms to a tint of the deepest brown, and that the dress she wore hung upon her loosely, and without affording protection even to her shoulders. Nor was there any token elsewhere in her attire of that state and condition to which rumour had elevated her.

A tawdry Greek cap, such as skilled impostors sell to tourists for a gulden, scarce hid anything of the beauty of her gold-brown hair. Her hands, small to the point of absurdity, were without rings ; her wrists without bracelets. She might have been a little vagrant of the hills, run out of school to let the waves lap about her feet, to gather roses from the banks above the sea. This, I say, she might have been ; yet I knew well that she was not. Though I had led Barbarossa to believe me profoundly ignorant even of the existence of his " little Christine," I had seen her once before — at Vienna, in the first week of the January of that year. She was driving a sleigh in the Prater then, and all the city pointed the finger and cried, " That is Christine." I remembered the look of girlish triumph upon her face when she drove through the throngs which were so eager to anticipate a victory for her ; I could recollect even the splendour of her furs and the excellence of her horses; the muttered exclamations to which her coming gave birth.

Yet here she played the peasant again, on the island of Zlarin. We had come upon the girl suddenly, as I have written, and the drift of our boat towards the shore was without wash of water, so that minutes passed and she did not see us. So close, for a truth, did the stream carry us to the bank that I could have put out my hand and clutched the roses as we passed. From this point of view the child's face was plainly to be observed. In many ways it was the face of the Mademoiselle Zlarin I had seen in Vienna ; but it lacked the feverish colour which then had been the subject of my remark ; and there were lines now where no lines had been eight months before. Whatever had been her story, the fact that she had suffered much was patent to all the world. Yet suffering had but deepened that indescribable charm of feature and of expression which set Vienna running wild after her in the January of the year.

She was of an age when a face loses nothing by repose. Her youth dominated all. She could yet reap of the years, and glean beauty from their harvest. Neither dress nor jewels were needed to round off that picture. I said to myself that she was the prettier a hundred times for her tawdry Greek cap and her skirt of common stuff. I declared that the role of peasant girl became her beyond any part that she had played in the life of the city. And with this thought there came the engross ing question — how was it that she, who had disappeared like a ray of sunlight from her haunts and her triumphs in the capital, should be here upon an island of the Adriatic, the mistress of a home which made the people about her raise their hands in wonder, the subject of a story of which no man was able to tell more than a chapter?

And this was the question I now set myself to answer. All this passed through my mind quickly as our felucca lay shaking her sails in the wind, and we drifted slowly under the shadow of the bushes. I was still speculating upon it when the girl saw us, and awoke, as it were, from a reverie, to spring back and hide herself behind the bushes. But Barbarossa called out loudly at the action ; and when she heard his voice she returned again to the water's edge and kissed her hand to him most prettily. Then she ran away swiftly towards her house, and was instantly hidden from our sight by the foliage. "Barbarossa," said I, when she was gone, " does your wife permit you often to come to these islands ? " The old rogue feigned astonishment for a moment, but, pluming himself upon the com pliment, he leered presently like some old man of the sea, and his body danced with his laughter. ■ Ho, ho, that is very good.

Does my wife permit? Per Baccho, that I should have a woman at my heels — I, who am the father of the city and can kiss where I please ! Ho, ho, excellency, what a fine wit you have ! " " But," said I, with some indignation, " the lady had the bad taste to mean that salute for you and not for me." He became grave instantly, stroking his long beard and carrying his mind back in thought. " Securo ? " cried he, after a pause ; " it was meant for me, and why not ? Have I not been a father to her ? Was it not to me that she came for bread when all the world cried out upon her for a vagrant and worthless ? Did I not shelter her from her brother's blows and the curses of the priest ? Nay, she is my daughter — the little Christine that I love." I heard him out, silent in astonishment. " You know the story of her life, then ?

" I exclaimed. " Santa Maria ! The story of her life ! Who should know it if I do not ? " "Then you shall tell it me to-night, when we have dined, my friend." He nodded his head gravely at the words, repeating them after me. "To-night, when we have dined, the story of Christine ? Benissimo ! There are few that have my tongue, excellency. God was good to you in sending you to me."

Chapter I. Christine The Child

We dined upon a little grass bank of the island named Incoronata, in a clearing of the woods, where the soft night wind breathed cool upon our faces, and the rustle of the leaves was as a harmony of sleep. It was not until the boat had been moored for the night, and new logs had been thrown upon the fire, that Barbarossa bethought him of his promise, and consented to begin his narra tive. Squatting upon his haunches, with his cigar held deftly as a bdton, when the need of emphasis was, this strange old man unfolded a history no less strange. So clear was his sense of proportion, so simple were his words, that I would give much to tell the story of CHRISTINE THE CHILD. 13 Christine as then — and again on other nights — he told it to me. But his narrative remains a memory — a memory often inaccurate, always lacking those pleasing touches of colour with which he graced his picture.

Nor, I think, could any pen set down the charm of his rich voice or the wonders of his manner. " Excellency," said he, " the story of Christine is the story of one who, five years ago, had learnt to call me father that she in turn might be called daughter by me. To-day she is the mistress of riches and of a great house ; I am still the beggar of the city who has no right to raise my eyes to her. Yet you have seen that she remembers, as I, on my part, still love. " I remember Christine — ay, God witness, I remember the day she came, the day she went. Her father was an Italian merchant of Zara ; her mother was the daughter of a musician of Marseilles. They brought her to my city when she was a babe ; she was seven years old when the fever struck them down and left her to the care of her half-brother, Nicolo Boldu.

You have heard of Nicolo — nay, how should you have heard ? He was one to be forgotten in his shame ; a drunkard, and a lover of women. Well was it for Sebenico that a brawl sent him trembling for his life to that very island where the pavilion of Christine stands to-day. Three days the soldiers hunted for him ; three days he lay in the cellar of my house, wailing for mercy with the tongue of a woman. Then I took him in my boat to Zlarin, and within a month he had sent to me for Christine. " She was twelve years old then ; a pretty child whom strangers pointed at in our streets and the priests spoke of for example in the schools. I say nothing of that part which I played both in attending to her education and making it my care that she did not want for bread. God knows, she would have feared ill if no other hand than Nicolo's had ministered to her necessities.

Rare was the day when he had food even for himself. What money he got from his wretched inn out beyond the city walls scarce served for his own pleasures. CHRISTINE THE CHILD. 15 When the child hungered, he beat her with his belt ; when she was hurt with the cold, he turned her into the road to sleep. I alone in all the city opened my door to her ; I alone saw her weep, for she had the courage of a woman, and there is no courage like to that. "Nicolo went to Zlarin, and within a month he had sent for Christine. The trouble which had banished him from the city was a trouble no more. The police had forgotten or did not care to remember him. He had a right to such help as the girl could give him in his hut upon the island ; the law allowed me no claim upon his sister. Yet I parted from her as from one of my own, for she had been the light of my house, and oh, excellency! it is good to give bread to a little child.

" ' Andrea, dear Andrea,' she cried to me when I put her into the boat — for Andrea is my true name, signore — 'you love me, Andrea ; then why do you send me to Nicohb ? ' " ' Child,' I answered, ' God knows that I love you. But he is your brother, and it is right that you should be with him.' " ' He will beat me, Andrea.' " ' As he does to you, so I will do to him a hundredfold.' " ' I have no one to help me in Zlarin, Andrea.' " 'Nay, but you will make friends little one.' "'You will come and see me often — if you love me, Andrea ? ' " ' Before the seventh day passes I shall be at Nicolo's door, Christine. Oh, have no fear ; am I not your father, child ? Nay, but I will write to the priest at Zlarin, and you shall be his charge.' "So I comforted her, excellency; yet was my heart heavy for her as she put her arms about my neck, and laid her pretty face upon my shoulder, bidding me 'Good-bye' and again ' Good-bye,' until my hands were wet with her tears and my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth.

Her brother had sent a neighbour to carry her in his fishing-boat to the island ; and it was noon of the day when at last she left me. CHRISTINE THE CHILD. 17 I watched the sails of the ship until they were hidden by the headland of the gulf, and then returned with heavy foot to my own labour. Nor did I know that God had willed that I should not see little Christine again until four years had made a woman of her, and of me an old and time-worn man." C

Chapter II. The Quest Of The Woman

" Yes, excellency, four years passed from the going of little Christine from Sebenico until the day I found her again. You may have heard tell in the city how that I, when youth was still my abundant riches, served in the navy of his Majesty, our Kaiser. I had the training of an engineer ; and to engineer's work at Pola they called me on the morrow of the child's departure. I had looked for employment for a week ; but weeks became months, and months were made years before I set foot in my house at Sebenico again. Often had I written to those that I knew for tidings of my little one. For a season they answered me that it was well with her. The priest spoke of her brother's industry and charity. I began to think that exile had made a new man of him, and to hope for Christine. Not until years had passed did I hear the talk which awoke me from my dreams.

One day a man of Zlarin came to Pola, and, in answer to my earnest question, how the child did, told me that nothing was known of her ; that she had fled to Vienna to dance in the Prater — that she was dead. I believed none of it, and sent word to her by a friend who had business in Zlarin. He returned to me with the tale that Nicol6 Boldu's house was a ruin ; that man and child alike had disappeared. " I say, excellency, that four years passed before I saw Christine again. It was in the fourth year that my agent returned to me from the island with the tidings which awoke me to self-reproach, that I had forgotten the hour of her farewell. Vain indeed that I had taught her to call me father, when thus I left her friendless and without word in the place of her brother's exile. Heavily as my work pressed upon me in Pola, I turned my back on it as the awakening came to me, and was con tent to look lightly upon my loss, if I might but repair the injury I had done.

Nay, three days after they told me that the island knew the child no more, the steamer set me down at the priest's house upon it, and I was asking for news of her. "' I have come for Christine, sister to Nicolo Boldu,' said I to the bent old man who ad ministered to the needs of twenty souls with a vigilance that would have served for a thousand ; ' she is still among your people, father ? ' " ' God reward you for the thought of her,' he answered me, 'and grant that she may merit it.' " I saw that he was troubled, and wished to turn from the subject ; but when I pressed him he told me the whole story. " ' Would that I could speak otherwise,' said he ; ' the child has been a thorn in my side since the day you sent her to us. Neither love nor example avails with her. She is a shame to my people and to my village ; and now she has become a beggar, and lives like a wild beast in the woods.

What was to be done I have done ; but she has no thanks for me, as she has none for the good brother who is gone- God rest his soul.' "'Father,' said I, when I heard him out, 'you speak of a good brother ; the man I knew as the guardian of Christine in Sebenico answered to no such description. It is of another, you think ! ' " ' Per nulla,' he answered me, somewhat coldly. " I refer to Nicolo Boldu, who had the hut down by the headland ; a Christian man who denied himself bread that his charge might eat. Well, she has rewarded him — and me who taught her the Mass out of my own mouth, and held her pen while she learnt to shape the letters.' " ' Oh ! ' cried I, when he had done, ' now is this the season of miracles. Nicolo Boldu denied himself bread ! Per Baccho, he was sick with the fever when that happened ! ' " But I will not weary you, excellency, with any account of that which passed between the priest and myself.

I saw at once that he was not well disposed towards the child, and I left him, to learn, if that were possible, what was the whole story of her case, and how it came about that the village pointed the finger at her. And first I went over to the headland where the hut of Nicolo used to be ; but the house I found tumbling and in ruins ; nor was there any sign of recent habitation. A neighbour told me that the man had died in the winter of the year — for it was summer when I returned to Zlarin — and that his sister lived from that time in a hut over by the eastern bay, supporting herself none knew by what means — nor, indeed, cared to ask. He counselled me, if I would find her, to strike the bridle path to the highland above the bay, and there to hunt for her as I would hunt wolf or bear ; for the most part of her time she spent in the woods, and there must she be sought.

" ' Not that she is worth your trouble, signore,' he added, as I thanked him and struck upon the path he indicated ; ' the man who could do good with Christine of the Hills must yet be born. Madonna mia, she is pledged to the devil, and the feast will be soon ! ' " I turned away from him with anger at my heart and heaviness in my limbs. I had loved the child, excellency, and to hear this of her was worse than a blow to me. ' Fools all,' I cried in my bitterness, 'who know not charity nor loving kindness. There was none better than Christine, none so pretty. As she is, so have you made her. Black be the day he took her from me ! ' " Thus did I reproach myself again and again as I followed the path which led me to the head of the woods and the higher places of the island. You have seen Zlarin to-day, signore — have seen what time and money and a man's love have made it ; but it was another place when I hunted its thickets for her I had called daughter, and beat my breast because there was no answer to my cry.

The village, which stood then in the shelter of the bight, stands no longer; gardens bear flowers where swamps breathed out fever and pestilence ; there are paths in the brushwood where then the foot of man could sind no resting-place. Yet the island was a haven to many a rogue when Christine ran wild in it ; many an assassin turned to bless the dark places upon its heights. Well I remember it upon that June afternoon, when, running through the woods and hollows, I raised my voice to hear it echo from rock to rock and pool to pool. On the one hand, the blue of the sleeping sea ; on the other, and far away as a haze of cloud, the red cliffs and distant moun tains of my own Dalmatia. Shady groves everywhere invited to rest and sleep ; the splash of falling cascades mingled melodiously with the distant throb of the sea ; the scent of flowers filled the whole air with the sweetest perfumes.

A traveller would have called it a garden of delights, and have loved to linger there. For myself, the thought of the child was my only thought ; and, insensible to all but the necessity of finding her, I pushed on through the woods, forcing a path where no path had been before, cutting my hands often with the briars, blaming myself always for the things which had come to pass. "Yet had I known what misfortunes my visit was to bring upon Christine, I might well have turned my back upon Zlarin, and prayed to God to carry her from the path I trod."

Chapter III. Andrea Finds Christine

" I HAD continued in my occupation for some hours, excellency, when at last I found Chris tine. My walk carried me across the island to that north-westerly point of it which looks over towards the city of Venice. Here there is a great slope of the grassy cliffs to the beach, which is of the finest sand, soft as silk and sparkling as pure gold. A creek of the sea, running inland, has formed a haven, to which the trees dip down their branches and the bushes their leaves. I had not thought that the child would find a home in such a spot as this ; nor would I have gone down to it had not the music of a violin, exquisitely played, as only one of my own countrymen can play it, drawn me thither. In the hope of learning something from the player, I descended the slope of the cliff; and when I had walked, it might be the third of a mile, I came suddenly upon a hut built cunningly of wood and thatch in the full shelter of the grassy ravine.