in his route, and thus try to secure the treasures in which I had forestalled him. He then pointed out and proved to me that several of the manuscripts which I had purchased were of much greater value than I had supposed.
More than ever fascinated by his manner, I asked him if he had made any definite engagement as to what he would do after his arrangements in England were completed. He told me that he had no fixed purpose, and no particular tie that bound him to Palermo. He was a man of few words, and in a short time we made an agreement that as soon as possible he was to join me as assistant and partner in my studies and researches. I explained to him that my laboratory was not conducted for any personal profit, but for the love of science alone; however, in case any advantageous discoveries were made, he was to receive his full share of the prize.
We parted, to all appearances mutually satisfied, Antonio promising to meet me, in three days’ time, at Boulogne.
My affairs all being settled in Paris, on the third day I set out by rail for Boulogne, and arriving there in the evening, I at once went on board the steamer. It was a beautiful summer evening, and as I walked backwards and forwards on the deck, I waited impatiently for the arrival of my new colleague. I had made several cigars vanish in smoke in the still air, passengers and luggage had come bundling on board with their usual noise and confusion; but still there was no appearance of my Italian friend. Darkness came on, for the moon had not yet risen, and my eyes ranged ceaselessly along the dusky quay line, but I waited and looked in vain. The bell rang, the official with the cocked hat and cutlass growled his last ill-natured growl about the visés, strangers left, ladders were removed, and with much screeching and splashing we steamed out between the piers.
I was disappointed at not having met my new acquaintance; but having given him my address in London, I still hoped to see him shortly, as I felt convinced that he would be a valuable auxiliary.
It was a lovely night. There was very little wind, the sky was cloudless, and as the moon rose she cast a long glancing white pathway on the crests of the waves. I stood, leaning over the side-rail, watching the beautiful change and glancing of the reflection, and forgetting everything else around me. There was, however, a considerable swell on the sea, notwithstanding the calmness of the weather, and in a short time most of the passengers were either below or hors de combat.
I looked round at the remainder, and was immediately struck with a young lady who was sitting in the covered seats a short distance from me. I never gazed on so lovely a face. She seemed to be dressed in deep mourning, and had thrown back her thick crape veil in order to look at the reflection of the moonlight on the waters, which I had just been watching. Her complexion appeared almost paler than was natural in the moonbeams, while her large brown eyes had a tenderly mournful expression in them that thrilled through my heart, and I fancied I saw tears in them; a suspicion almost confirmed by the nervous movement of her exquisitely formed mouth.
Seeing that she had no wrappers, I hastened to offer her some that I had, for it was now very cold. She accepted them with a startled flush and a pleased and grateful smile—such a smile, it appeared to me, as we only meet with in those who are not much accustomed to meet with even little acts of kindness. I sat down opposite to her, and we soon entered into conversation. I was charmed with her freshness, her frankness, and her simplicity. As she spoke on any subject that interested her, her face lighted up with such intelligence and enthusiasm, that in my eyes she looked more and more beautiful every instant.
With an almost childish cry of delight she pointed out a falling star, and I, instead of looking at the star, was looking at her with feelings of admiration and affection that had long been strangers to my breast, when I was suddenly conscious that I was watched by one who stood between me and the light.
With a start of astonishment, I discovered in the dark figure before me the Italian chemist Antonio Maffi.
I rose up instantly, saying:
“Signor Maffi, I am glad to see you. I had given you up, as I did not observe you on board before we left the harbour.”
“I have to request your pardon, signor,” said he, “for not having seen you before. My passage is taken in the fore part of the vessel, and as I felt tired when I came on board, I have been asleep ever since. Pray accept my apologies.”
He bowed and, passing me, went up to my young companion, who had drawn down her veil on hearing his voice. He addressed her respectfully, but in rather stern tones.
“Miss Hawthorne, I am rather surprised to find you on deck. Would it not be better for you to go below to the cabin.”
She excused herself in a collected manner, saying that the cabin was very close, and that she was warmly wrapped up. Antonio sat down by her side, and, as I walked away, I heard them speaking earnestly in low tones.
As I could see that my company was not then desired, I kept away; but, on returning about half an hour afterwards, I found my young friend once more alone, and again had the pleasure of hearing her speak and of gazing on her beautiful face.
The brief account which she then gave me of herself, rather reluctantly, I may as well now state:
Louisa Hawthorne was the only daughter of a clergyman who died a few years after her birth. Her widowed mother strove to give her daughter a lady’s education, but, in consequence of poverty and ill-health, Louisa, shortly after leaving school, was obliged to take the post of governess in an English family about to travel on the Continent. She obtained this situation through the exertions of the lady principal in the school where she had been educated. The family in which Miss Hawthorne was engaged at length determined to settle in Palermo, and whilst in that town she received the news of her mother’s death. Her
