How like the great world is every little section of it! How full of
all its passions and interests, its warring jealousies and its selfish
struggles! Within the Mazzarini Palace that night were at work every
emotion and sentiment which sway the wide communities of men; and hope
and fear, the yearnings of ambition, and the gloomy forebodings of
despair, sat beside the pillows of those who, in vain, sought sleep and
forgetfulness.
Before that long night ended, Sir Stafford had learned his ruin, for it
was little less. Kate had yielded, to the pressing entreaties of Lady
Hester, her consent to accept Midchekoff; and, just as day was breaking,
George Onslow stole to his father's bedside to see him once more,
perhaps for the last time. It would be difficult to say in which of
those three hearts the darkest sorrow brooded. With noiseless step and
cautious gesture, George crossed the little sitting-room, and entered
his father's chamber; and, without awaking the servant, who kept watch
habitually without, but now had dropped off to sleep, he gained the
bedside, and sat down.
The terrible tidings he had just heard were evidently working on Sir
Stafford's brain, and, despite all the influence of his opiate, still
engaged his faculties; for his lips continued to move rapidly, and short
broken sentences fell from him incessantly. “Poor George! poor George!”
he muttered from time to time, and the tears rolled down the young man's
cheek as he heard them.
“How unworthy of him have I been!” thought he; “how shamefully unworthy
and forgetful! Here should have been my place, for those hours which
I have spent in noisy dissipation and debauch; and now I come for the
first time, and probably the last! Oh, my poor father! How will you bear
up against the shock that is preparing for you? for, with all my faults,
I know how you have loved me!” A heavy tear dropped from him on the old
man's cheek as he said this; and gently brushing it off with his hand,
Sir Stafford opened his eyes and awoke. A mild and gentle smile broke
over his features as he saw his son beside him, and he drew him towards
him, and kissed him.
“Have you been long here, George?” said he, affectionately.
“But a few minutes. I am so sorry to have disturbed you,” muttered the
other, in confusion,
“Have you seen Grounsell yet? Has he told you?” asked Sir Stafford.
“Grounsell? no, sir. I did not even hear of his arrival. What are his
tidings?”
“The saddest, perhaps, one friend can bring another,” sighed Onslow,
as he covered his eyes with his hand. “Nay, nay, I am wrong,” said he,
rapidly. “So long as Sydney and yourself are spared to me I have no
right to say this; still, George, it is a terrible blow that strikes a
man down from affluence to poverty, and, in place of wealth and power,
leaves him nothing but insignificance and ruin!”
“Good heavens, father! is your brain wandering? What fancies are these
that are flitting across your mind?”
“Sad and stern truths, my poor boy,” replied the old man, grasping his
son's hand in his fevered palm. “A few weeks more will see the great
house of Onslow bankrupt. These things cannot be told too briefly,
George,” said he, speaking with a tremulous and eager rapidity. “One
should hear misfortune early, to gain more time for future measures. A
great crash has fallen upon the moneyed interest of England. The vast
speculations in railways have overreached themselves; failures of great
houses abroad have added to the difficulty. The correspondents whose
solvency we never doubted are tottering to ruin. Every post brings
tidings of some new failure; and from Odessa, from Hamburg, and from
the ports of the Baltic to the distant shores of the New World, there is
nothing but bankruptcy.”
“But you have large estates, sir; you possess property of various kinds
beyond the reach of these casualties.”
“I own nothing to which my creditors have not a just right; nor, if I
did, could I exercise the privilege of retaining it, George,” said the
old man. “From what Grounsell tells me, there will be sufficient to meet
every claim, but no more. There will remain nothing after. Lady Hester's
settlement will, of course, secure to her a moderate competence; and
we--you and I must look about, and see how we can face this same world
we have been feasting so long. My time in it will needs be brief; but
you, who may look forward with hope to long years of life, must bethink
you at once of the new path before you. Arouse yourself, then, to the
task, and I do not know but I may be prouder of you yet, buffeting
the wild waves of adversity, and fighting the manful part of a bold,
courageous spirit, than I have ever been in seeing you in the brilliant
circle of all your high and titled acquaintances. Ay, George, the
English merchant never died out in my heart, for all the aristocratic
leaven which accident mixed up with my fortunes. I never ceased to glory
in the pride of wealth accumulated by generous enterprises and honorable
toil. I loved the life of labor that disciplined the faculties,
and exercised not alone intelligence, but turned to use the gentler
charities of life, linking man to man, as brethren journeying the same
road, with different burdens, perhaps, but with the same goal. For
myself, therefore, I have few cares. It remains with you to make them
even fewer.”
“Tell me what you propose for me, sir,” said George, in a low, weak
voice.
“First of all, George, you ought to leave the army. Grounsell, I must
tell you, is not of this opinion; he advises an exchange into a regiment
in India, but I think differently. To repair, if it be possible, the
shattered wreck of our fortunes, you must address yourself to business
life and habits. You 'll have to visit the West Indies, and, probably,
the East. We still possess property in Ceylon, of value; and our coffee
plantations there, as yet only in their infancy, need nothing but good
management to ensure success. Grounsell laughed at my suggesting you for
such duties, but I know you better, George, far better, than he does.
The English pluck that storms a breach or heads a charge is the very
same quality that sustains a man on the long dark road of adverse
fortune. I have often told Grounsell that the stuff was in you, George.”
The young man squeezed his father's hand, but was obliged to turn away
his head to hide the tears which filled his eyes; for what a terrible
deception was he practising at that very moment, and what duplicity was
there even in the silence with which he heard him!
For a few seconds Sir Stafford seemed to revel in all the bright visions
of a warm fancy. The prospect his imagination had conjured up appeared
to have momentarily lifted him above the reach of sorrow. He thought of
his son engaged in the active business of life, and displaying in this
new career the energies and resources of a bold and courageous spirit.
He imagined the high-principled youth becoming the British merchant, and
making the name of “Onslow” great and respected in the old arena of all
their victories, the city of London. Could this but come to pass, were
this dream to be realized, and he would bless the hour that wrecked his
fortune, and thus made his poverty the foundation of future greatness.
“I confess, George,” said he, “that I have a pride in thinking that I
knew you better than others did, and that I read in the very wayward
caprices of your disposition the impatience of an active mind, and not
the ennui of an indolent one.” From this the old man branched off into
his plans for the future; and, as if the emergency had suggested energy,
talked well and clearly of all that was to be done. They were to start
for England at once. Sir Stafford felt as if he was able to set out
that very day. Some weeks would elapse before the crash came, and in the
interval every preparation might be taken. “I hope,” said he, feelingly,
“that I have few enemies; I am not sanguine enough to say, none; but,
such as they are, they will not seek to humiliate me, I trust, by any
unnecessary publicity.” The theme was a very painful one, and for a few
seconds he could not go on. At last he resumed: “The extravagance of
this household, George, will give much and just offence. It must be
retrenched, and from this very day, from this very hour. You will
look to this. It must not be said of us that, with ruin before us, we
continued these habits of wasteful excess. Let these troops of idle
servants be discharged at once. Except Lady Hester's carriage, sell
off all equipage. Take no heed of what will be the town talk; such a
downfall as ours can never be kept a secret. Let us only take care that
we fall with dignity. Grounsell will remain here after us to settle
everything, and our departure ought to be as speedy as may be. But you
are not listening, George; do you hear me?”
It was quite true George heeded little of what his father spoke; for,
with bent-down head, he was trying to catch the sounds of what seemed
a long, low whistle from the court without. As he listened, the whistle
was repeated; he knew now that it was Norwood's signal, and that “his
time was up.”
“I must leave you, my dear father,” said he, assuming all that he could
of calmness. “I have an appointment this morning, and one that I cannot
well shake off. Norwood and I have promised to meet some friends at
Pratolino.”
“It was of that same Norwood I wished to speak to you, George. The
sophistry of thinking him 'no worse than his set' will serve no longer.
Such men are not fitting acquaintances for one whose character must be
above reproach. Norwood is a most unworthy friend for you.”
“I scarcely ever thought of him in that light. We are intimate, it is
true; but such intimacy is not friendship.”
“The greater the pollution of such acquaintanceship, then,” said the old
man, gravely. “To see the dark side of such a nature, and yet live
under its baneful shadow, is infinitely worse, George, than all the
self-deception of a rash confidence. Keep your promise to-day, but I
beseech you, let it be for the last time in such company.”
Again the whistle was heard, and with the sharp crack of a whip,
denoting impatience; and fearful that some accident might betray his
secret, George clasped the old man's hand fervidly within his own, and
hurried away without a word.
“Is that George?” cried Norwood, as he stood beside a calessino ready
harnessed, and with lamps lighted, for the morning was still dark, “is
that George? Why, where have you been loitering this half-hour, man?
Our time is six sharp, and it is now considerably past five, and the way
lies all up hill.”
“I have often done the distance in half an hour,” said George, angrily.
“Perhaps the errand was a pleasanter one,” rejoined Norwood, laughing;
“but jump in, for I feel certain the others are before us.”
George Onslow was in no mood for talking as he took his seat beside his
companion. The late scene with his father and the approaching event were
enough to occupy him, even had his feeling for Norwood been different
from what it was; but in reality never had he experienced the
same dislike for the Viscount. All the flippant ease, all the cool
indifference he displayed, were only so many offences to one whose
thoughts were traversing the whole current of his life, from earliest
boyhood down to that very moment. A few hours hence he might be no more!
And thence arose to his mind the judgments men would pass upon him, the
few who would speak charitably, the still fewer who would regret him.
“What a career!” thought he. “What use to have made of fortune, station,
health, and vigor; to have lived in dissipation, and die for a street
brawl! And poor Kate! to what unfeeling scandal will this unhappy
meeting expose you! how impossible to expect that truth will ever
penetrate through that dark atmosphere of mystery and malevolence the
world will throw over the event!”
Norwood was provoked at the silence, and tried in various ways to break
it. He spoke of the road, the weather, the horse's trotting action,
the scenery, over which the breaking day now threw fitful and uncertain
lights, but all in vain; and at last, piqued by non-success, he
spitefully pointed attention to a little valley beside the road, and
said, “Do you see that spot yonder, near the pine-trees? that 's where
Harry Mathews was shot. Malzahn sent the bullet through the brain
at forty paces. They were both first-rate pistol-shots, and the only
question was who should fire first. Harry determined to reserve his
shot, and he carried the privilege into the other world with him.
Malzahn knew he might trust his skill, and fired the very instant he
took his ground. The moral of which is, always try and have first fire
with a foreigner.”
“I heard the sound of wheels behind us; who are they?” said George, not
heeding either the story or the counsel.
“The doctor, I suspect. I ordered a calessino to wait for him at the
door of the palace, and bring him up as fast as possible.”
“If Guilmard be equal to his reputation, we shall not want his
services,” said Onslow, with a faint smile.
“Who can tell? We 'll put you up at a short distance; and there 's
nothing shakes the nerves of your practised pistol-shot more than ten or
twelve paces.”
The road here became so steep that they were obliged to get down and
walk for some distance, while the horse toiled slowly up behind them. As
they went, Norwood continued to talk on incessantly of this, that, and
t' other, as though bound to occupy the attention of his companion;
while George, with half-closed eyes, strolled onward, deep in his own
thoughts.
“We 're not far off the place now, George,” said Norwood, at last, “and
I wish you 'd throw off that look of care and abstraction. These foreign
fellows will be quite ready to misinterpret it. Seem at your ease, man,
and take the thing as I have seen you take it before, as rather good fun
than otherwise.”
“But that is precisely what I do not feel it,” said George, smiling
quietly. “Twenty-four hours ago, when life had every possible advantage
to bestow on me, with the prospect of an ample fortune before me, I was
perfectly ready to turn out with any man who had the right to ask me;
and now that I am ruined--”
“Ruined!” broke in Norwood; “what do you mean? You have not lost to that
Greek fellow so largely as that?”
“Now that my father is on the verge of utter ruin,” repeated George,
slowly, “the news came last night, I never felt the desire of life so
strong within me. A few days or weeks more will make it public gossip,
so I may tell you that we have not escaped the torrent that is sweeping
away so many of the richest houses in Europe; and what between our
immense liabilities and my father's scrupulous sense of honor, the
chances are we shall be utterly beggared.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Norwood, whose thoughts at once reverted to his
own claims on George, and the unpaid acceptances he still held of his.
“That's what I feel so strange,” said George, now speaking with a degree
of warmth and interest, “that it should be exactly when life ceases
to give promise that I should care for it; and I own to you, I 'd give
anything that this meeting was not before me.”
Norwood started, and turned his keen eyes on the other, but in the calm,
unmoved features he saw no traces of fear or even agitation; and it was
in his habitually calm voice Onslow resumed,
“Yes, I wish the Count's hand would shake a little, Norwood. I 'd be
most grateful to the bullet that would take to the right or the left of
me.”
“Come, come, George, no more of this. We are alone here, it's true; but
if you talk this way now, you may chance to look like it by and by.”
“And if I do not, my looks will strangely belie my sentiments, that I
can tell you,” said Onslow, with a quiet laugh. “I don't care how you
read the confession, Norwood, but I tell you frankly, that if the insult
in this instance admitted of an apology, if there were any way to come
off consistent with honor, I 'd take it, and not fight this Frenchman.”
“Have you forgotten his reputation as a shot?” asked Norwood, hastily.
“I was not thinking of it. My mind was dwelling merely on myself and my
own interests, how far my life, if preserved, could be rendered useful
to others, and in what way my death might occasion detriment and
injury.”
“A most mercantile estimate of profit and loss, by Jove!” said Norwood,
laughing; “and perhaps it is fortunate for you there is no amende
possible, for if Guilmard should miss you--”
“As to these acceptances,” said George, not paying attention to what the
other said, “I 'd prefer that they should not be presented to my father
under our actual circumstances. My horses and carriages, and some other
trumpery of mine, when sold, will more than meet them, and I have given
orders to that end.”
“Come, old fellow, it's not gone that far yet,” said Norwood, affecting
a tone of friendship, suggested by the self-satisfaction the promise of
payment afforded him. “But, hush! There they are, all together. Let us
talk no more of these matters; and now, George, for Heaven's sake, be
cool.”
Norwood drew the other's arm within his own as he said this, and
advanced to where a group of some half-dozen persons were standing,
beside a low balcony, overlooking the Val d'Arno and the graceful valley
in which Florence stands. Norwood quitted his friend's arm as he came
forward and saluted the company. Nothing could possibly be more easy and
unconstrained than the tone of their conversation, as they chatted away
about the prospect beneath, and over which, like a gauzy veil, the gray
shadow of dawn was hanging. With the exception of an Italian or two,
they were all French, the young fashionables who were the loungers of
the salons and cafes of the city.
“Have you breakfasted, my Lord?” said one. “If not, let me recommend
some excellent cutlets, which are not too cold, even yet.”
“And the best chocolate I ever tasted out of Paris,” cried another.
“Thanks,” said Norwood. “We 'll profit by the good counsel.” And, taking
a cigar from his case, he lighted it from Guilmard's, as, with hands in
his paletot, he sat negligently on the wall, surveying the scene below
him.
“Come, George, let's have something,” whispered Norwood, eagerly;
for the vacant and unoccupied stare of Onslow continued to cause the
Viscount the most intense anxiety. “These fellows are affecting to be
devilish cool. Let us not be behindhand.” And, rather by force than mere
persuasion, he dragged Onslow along, and entered the little parlor of
the inn.
A large table, covered with the remains of an ample breakfast, stood
in the middle of the room, and a dish of cutlets was placed to keep hot
before the stove. Several loose sheets of paper lay scattered about the
table, on which were scrawled absurd and ill-drawn caricatures of duels,
in which attitudes of extravagant fear and terror predominated. Norwood
glanced at them for a moment, and then contemptuously threw them into
the fire.
“Sit down, George,” said he, placing a chair for the other; “and, if
you cannot eat, at least take a 'nip' of brandy. Jekyl will be up, I
suppose, in a few minutes. I told him to come with the doctor.”
“I never felt an appetite at this early hour,” said Onslow; “and perhaps
the present is not the time to suggest one.”
“Did you remark Guilmard?” said Norwood, as he helped himself to a
cutlet, and prepared his plate most artistically for a savory meal. “Did
you observe him, George?”
“No; I never looked that way.”
“By Jove! he has got a tremendous scar on his cheek; the whole length,
from the eye to the corner of his mouth. English knuckles do not
certainly improve French physiognomy. A left-hander, eh?”
“I remember nothing about it,” said Onslow, carelessly.
“Well, you 've left him a memorandum of the transaction, any way,”
said the Viscount, as he ate on. “And you were talking about an apology
awhile ago?”
“I was wishing that the case admitted of one,” said Onslow, calmly.
Norwood gave a sidelong glance at the speaker, and, although he said
nothing, a gesture of angry impatience revealed what was passing within
him.
“Do try that brandy. Well, then, take a glass of curacoa,” said he,
pushing the bottle towards him.
“Something! anything, in fact, you would say, Norwood, that might serve
to make my courage 'carry the bead;' but you are altogether mistaken in
inc. It is not of myself I am thinking; my anxieties are. But what could
you care, or even understand, about my motives? Finish your breakfast,
and let us make an end of this affair.”
“In one minute more I'm your man; but if I have a weakness, it is for a
plain roast truffle, with butter. It was a first love of mine, and,
as the adage says, 'only revient toujours.' Were I in your shoes this
morning, George, I 'd not leave one on the dish.”
“On what principle, pray?” asked Onslow, smiling.
“On that of the old Cardinal, who, when his doctors pronounced his case
hopeless, immediately ordered a supper of ortolans with olives. It was
a grand opportunity to indulge without the terror of an indigestion; and
_a propos_ to such themes, where can our worthy doctor be all this time?
The calessino was close up with us all the way.”
Leaving Norwood to continue his meal, George strolled out in quest
of the surgeon, but none had seen nor knew anything of him. An empty
calessino was standing on the roadside, but the driver only knew that
the gentleman who came with him had got out there, and entered the park.
“Then we shall find him near the little lake,” said Norwood, coolly, as
George returned, disappointed. “But it's strange, too, that he should
be alone. Jekyl was to have been with him. These foreigners ever insist
upon two seconds on either side. Like the gambler that always is calling
for fresh cards, it looks very like a suspicion of foul play. Go back,
George, and see if the fellow knows nothing of Jekyl. You 've only to
name him, for every cab, cad, and barcaruolo of Florence is acquainted
with Master Albert.”
George returned to the spot, but without any success. The man stated
that he took his stand, as he was desired, at the gate of the palace,
and that a little man, apparently somewhat elderly, came out and asked
which way the others had gone, and how long before they had started.
“See that you pick them up then,” said he, “but don't pass them. He
talked incessantly,” added the man, “the whole way, but in such bad
Italian that I could make nothing of it, and so I answered at random.
If I were tired of him, I fancy he was sick of me; and when he got out
yonder, and passed into the park, it was a relief to us both.”
George was just turning away, when his eye caught a glimpse of the
glorious landscape beneath, on which a freshly risen sun was shedding
all its splendor. There are few scenes, even in Italy, more striking
than the Val d'Arno around Florence. The beautiful city itself, capped
with many a dome and tower, the gigantic castle of the Bargello, the
graceful arch of the Baptistery, the massive facade of the Pitti, all,
even to the lone tower on the hill where Galileo watched, rich in
their storied memories; while on the gentle slope of the mountain stood
hundreds of beauteous villas, whose very names are like spells to the
imagination, and the Dante, the Alfieri, the Boccaccio, vie in interest
with the sterner realities of the Medici, the Pazzi, the Salviati, and
the Strozzi. What a flood of memory pours over the mind, to think how
every orange-grove and terrace, how each clump of olives, or each
alley of cedars, have witnessed the most intense passions, or the most
glorious triumphs of man's intellect or ambition, and that every spot we
see has its own claim to immortality!
Not in such mood as this, however, did Onslow survey the scene. It was
in the rapt admiration of its picturesque beauty. The glittering river,
now seen and lost again, the waving tree-tops, the parterres of bright
flowers, the stately palaces, whose terraces were shadowed by the
magnolia, the oleander, and the fig, all made up a picture of rich and
beautiful effect, and he longed to throw himself on the deep grass and
gaze on it for hours. As he stood thus, unable to tear himself away, he
heard the sharp cracking of a postilion's whip immediately beneath him,
and, on looking down, saw two heavily laden travelling-carriages, which
all the power of eight horses to each could barely drag along against
the steep ascent. A mounted courier in advance proclaimed that the
travellers were persons of condition, and everything about the equipages
themselves indicated wealth and station. As Onslow knew all who moved
in a certain class in society, he was curious to see who was journeying
northward so early in the year, and, stepping into a little copse beside
the road, he waited for the carriages to pass.
They came slowly forward, now halting to “breathe” the weary horses, now
struggling for a brief space against the hill, and at last, turning a
sharp angle of the way, the first carriage drew short up, directly in
front of where he stood. The panels bore the flaunting and pretentious
arms of Prince Midchekoff, with many an armorial emblem, which, however
tolerated in the rest of Europe, the Czar would not suffer within his
own dominions. As George glanced at these, he started, for a well-known
voice caught his ear, and, forgetting his desire of concealment, he
leaned forward to listen. It was Kate was speaking; he could not hear
the words, but the accents were her own. “Oh for one look at her,
for the last time!” thought he; and dashed headlong through the copse
towards where, by another bend, the road made a rapid turn upwards.
Already the horses had regained their wind, and were away at a brisk
trot, as George tore onward through the closely interwoven branches and
thick underwood of the grove. There was no path, nor, once out of sight
or sound of the road, anything to guide him; but he dashed on, in the
direction he supposed the carriage must take. At every step the way grew
more intricate and difficult; the pits the peasants dig for chestnut
leaves, the little heaps collected for firewood, intercepted him at
each moment. With torn clothes and bleeding hands he still rushed madly,
resolutely bent upon his object; and, with many a bruise and many a
scar, at last gained the open country just in time to see the second
carriage crowning the peak of the mountain above his head, while he
could hear the sharp, clanking sound of the drag as they fastened it to
the leading carriage. Any attempt to overtake them on the hill must
now be hopeless. He well knew the pace at which a continental postilion
descends a mountain, and how the steepest galleries of Alps and
Apennines are often galloped down at speed. For miles below him he could
see the winding zigzags of the road, and at each turning he fancied
how he might catch sight of her. The mountain itself was terraced with
vineyards from base to summit; but, from the steepness of its side,
these terraces were but narrow strips of ground, barely sufficient for
the vine-dresser to pass when tending his plants, or gathering in their
produce. To look down on this giant stair, for such it seemed, was a
giddy sensation, and few could have surveyed the precipitous descent
without a sense of danger. Onslow's thoughts, however, had but one
object, to see Kate once, and for the last time. By a straight descent
of the mountain, leaping from terrace to terrace, it was possible for
him to reach the bottom before the carriages could traverse the winding
course of the road; and no sooner was the thought conceived than he
proceeded to execute it. It is difficult to convey to those who have
never seen these terraced flights of earth a true notion of the peril of
such an undertaking; but they who have beheld them will acknowledge
that little short of utter recklessness could dare it. Less leaping than
dropping from height to height, the slightest impulse will carry the
footsteps beyond the edge of the terrace, and then all self-control is
lost, and destruction, to every appearance, inevitable.
The youth whose nerves have been trained by the sports of fox-hunting
and deer-stalking, however, is seldom unprepared for sudden danger; and
George never hesitated when once the undertaking seemed practicable. By
sidelong leaps he descended the first three or four terraces well and
safely. Impressed with the risk of the exploit, he never turned his eyes
from the spot whereon he meant to alight, and measured every bound with
accuracy. Suddenly, however, his attention was caught by the postilion's
bugle sounding, several hundred feet below him, and, in a bend of the
road, he saw the dust left by the fast-descending carriage. Forgetful of
safety, of everything, save his object, he leaped at random, and with a
tremendous bound cleared one terrace completely, and alighted on the one
beneath it. The impulse drove him forwards, and ere he could recover, he
was on the very verge of the cliff. Even yet his presence of mind might
have rescued him, when the loose masonry gave way, and carried him
down with it. He fell forwards, and headlong; the force of the descent
carried him on, and now, half falling, half-struggling, he bounded from
height to height, till, shattered, maimed, and bleeding, he rolled, an
unconscious heap of clay, in the long grass of the valley.
Not fifty yards from where he lay, the carriages passed, and Kate even
leaned from the window to gaze upon the winding glen, little thinking
how terrible an interest that quiet scene was filled with. And so the
equipages held their speed, and pressed onward; while, with a faint
breathing, poor George lay, sleeping that dreamless slumber that seems a
counterfeit of death.
END OF VOL. I.