Produced by David Widger
THE DALTONS;
OR,
THREE ROADS IN LIFE.
By Charles Lever.
With Illustrations By Phiz.
In Two Volumes: Volume Two.
Boston:
Little, Brown, And Company.
1904.
THE DALTONS; or, THREE ROADS IN LIFE
CHAPTER I. A MORNING OF MISADVENTURES.
“Well, my Lord, are we to pass the day here,” said Count Trouville,
the second of the opposite party, as Norwood returned from a fruitless
search of George Onslow, “or are we to understand that this is the
English mode of settling such matters?”
“I am perfectly ready, Monsieur le Comte, to prove the contrary, so far
as my own poor abilities extend,” said Norwood, calmly.
“But your friend has disappeared, sir. You are left alone here.”
“Which is, perhaps, the reason of your having dared to insult me,”
rejoined the other; “that being, perhaps, the French custom in such
affairs.”
“Come, come, gentlemen,” interposed an old cavalry officer, who acted
as second friend to Guilmard, “you must both see that all discussion of
this kind is irregular and unseemly. We have come here this morning for
one specific purpose,----to obtain reparation for a great injury. The
gentleman who should have offered us the amende has suddenly withdrawn
himself. I offer no opinion on the fact that he came out accompanied by
only one friend; we might, perhaps, have devised means to obviate this
difficulty. For his own absence we have no remedy. I would therefore ask
what you have to propose to us in this emergency?”
“A little patience,--nothing more. My friend must have lost his way;
some accident or other has detained him, and I expect to see him here
every instant.”
“Shall we say half an hour longer, my Lord?” rejoined the other, taking
out his watch. “That will bring us to eight o'clock.”
“Which, considering that our time was named 'sharp six,'” interposed
Trouville, “is a very reasonable 'grace.'”
“Your expression is an impertinence, Monsieur,” said Norwood, fiercely.
“And yet I don't intend to apologize for it,” said the other, smiling.
“I 'm glad of it, sir. It's the only thing you have said to-day with
either good sense or spirit.”
“Enough, quite enough, my Lord,” replied the Frenchman, gayly. “'Dans la
bonne société, on ne dit jamais de trop.' Where shall it be, and when?”
“Here, and now,” said Norwood, “if I can only find any one who will act
for me.”
“Pray, my Lord, don't go in search of him,” said Trouville, “or we shall
despair of seeing you here again.”
“I will give a bail for my reappearance, sir, that you cannot doubt of,”
cried Norwood, advancing towards the other with his cane elevated.
A perfect burst of horror broke from the Frenchmen at this threat,
and three or four immediately threw themselves between the contending
parties.
“But for this, my Lord,” said the old officer, “I should have offered
you my services.”
“And I should have declined them, sir,” said Norwood, promptly. “The
first peasant I meet with will suffice;” and, so saying, he hurried
from the spot, his heart almost bursting with passion. With many a
malediction of George--with curses deep and cutting on every one whose
misconduct had served to place him in his present position--he took his
way towards the high-road.
“What could have happened?” muttered he; “what confounded fit of
poltroonery has seized him? a fellow that never wanted pluck in his
life! Is it possible that he can have failed now? And this to occur at
the very moment they are beggared! Had they been rich, as they were a
few months back, I'd have made the thing pay. Ay, by Jove! I 'd have
'coined my blood,' as the fellow says in the play, and written a
swingeing check with red ink! And now I have had a bad quarrel, and
nothing to come of it! And so to walk the high-roads in search of some
one who can load a pistol.”
A stray peasant or two, jogging along to Florence, a postilion with
return horses, a shabbily dressed curate, or a friar with a sack behind
him, were all that he saw for miles of distance, and he returned
once more to interrogate the calessino driver as to the stranger who
accompanied him from the city.
Any one whose misfortune it may have been to make inquiries from
an Italian vetturino of any fact, no matter how insignificant or
unimportant, will sympathize with Norwood's impatience at the evasive
and distrustful replies that now met his questions. Although the fact
could have no possible concern or interest for him, he prevaricated and
contradicted himself half-a-dozen times over, as to the stranger's age,
country, and appearance, so that, utterly baffled and provoked, the
Viscount turned away and entered the park.
“I, too, shall be reported missing, I suppose,” said he, bitterly, as he
walked along a little path that skirted a piece of ornamental water. “By
Jupiter! this is a pleasant morning's work, and must have its reparation
one day or other.”
A hearty sneeze suddenly startled him as he spoke; he turned hastily
about, but could see no one, and yet his hearing was not to be deceived!
He searched the spot eagerly; he examined the little boat-shed, the
copse, the underwood,--everything, in fact,--but not a trace of living
being was to be seen; at last a slight rustling sound seemed to issue
from a piece of rustic shell-work, representing a river god reclining
on his urn, and, on approaching, he distinctly detected the glitter of a
pair of eyes within the sockets of the figure.
“Here goes for a brace of balls into him,” cried Norwood, adjusting a
cap on his pistol. “A piece of stonework that sneezes is far too like a
man to be trusted.”
Scarcely was the threat uttered, when a tremulous scream issued from
within, and a voice, broken with terror, called out,----
“D-don't fire, my Lord. You'll m-m-murder me. I'm Purvis--Sc-Sc-Scroope
Purvis.”
“How did you come to be there, then?” asked Norwood, half angrily.
“I 'll tell you when I g-get out!” was the answer; and he disappeared
from the loophole at which he carried on the conversation for some
seconds. Norwood began to fancy that the whole was some mystification of
his brain, for no trace of him was to be had; when he emerged from
the boat-house with his hat stripped of the brim, and his clothes in
tatters, his scratched face and hands attesting that his transit had not
been of the easiest. “It's like a r-r-rat-hole,” cried he, puffing for
breath.
“And what the devil brought you there?” asked Norwood, rudely.
“I ca-came out to see the fight!” cried he; “and when you're inside
there you have a view of the whole park, and are quite safe, too.”
“Then it was you who drove out in the calessino meant for the doctor?”
said Norwood, with the air of a man who would not brook an equivocation.
“Yes; that was a d-d-dodge of mine to get out here,” said he, chuckling.
“Well, Master Purvis,” said Norwood, drawing his arm within his own, “if
you can't be the 'doctor,' you shall at least be the 'second.' This is a
dodge of mine; so come along, and no more about it.”
“But I ca-can't; I never was--I never could be a se-se-second.”
“You shall begin to-day, then, or my name's not Norwood. You've been the
cause of a whole series of mishaps and misfortunes; and, by Jove! if the
penalty were a heavier one, you should pay it.”
“I tell you, I n-never saw a duel; I--I never f-fought one; I never will
fight one; I don't even know how they g-go about it.”
“You shall learn, sir, that 's all,” said Norwood, as he hastened along,
dragging the miserable Purvis at his side.
“But for you, sir,” continued he, in a voice thick with passion,--“but
for you, sir, and your inveterate taste for prying into what does not
concern you, we should have experienced no delay nor disappointment this
morning. The consequences are, that I shall have to stand where another
ought to have stood, and take to myself a quarrel in which I have had no
share.”
[Illustration: 022]
“H-how is that? Do----do----do tell me all about it!” cried Purvis,
eagerly.
“I 'll tell you nothing, sir, not a syllable. Your personal adventures
on this morning must be the subject of your revelations when you get
back to Florence, if ever you do get back.”
“Why, I--I'm----I'm not going to fight anybody,” exclaimed he, in
terror.
“No, sir, but _I_ am; and in the event of any disastrous incident,
_your_ position may be unpleasant. If Trouville falls, you 'll have to
make for Lombardy, and cross over into Switzerland; if he shoots me,
you can take my passport; it is _visé_ for the Tyrol. As they know me
at Innsprück, you 'd better keep to the southward,--some of the smaller
places about Botzen, or Brixen.”
“But I don't know Bo-Bo-Botzen on the map! and I don't see why I 'm to
sk-sk-skulk about the Continent like a refu-refu-refugee Pole!”
“Take your own time, then; and, perhaps, ten years in a fortress may
make you wiser. It's no affair of mine, you know; and I merely gave you
the advice, as I 'm a little more up to these things than you are.”
“But, supposing that I 'll have no-nothing to do with the matter, that I
'll not be present, that I refuse to see--”
“You shall and you must, sir; and if I hear another word of objection
out of your mouth, or if you expose me, by any show of your own
poltroonery, to the ribald insolence of these Frenchmen, by Heaven! I
'll hold your hand in my own when I fire at Count Trouville.”
“And I may be mu-mu-murdered!” screamed Purvis. “An innocent man's
bl-blood shed, all for nothing!”
“Bluebeard treated his wives to the same penalty for the same crime,
Master Purvis. And now listen to me, sir, and mark well my words. With
the causes which have led to this affair you have no concern whatever;
your only business here is in the capacity of my second. Be present when
the pistols are loaded; stand by as they step the ground; and, if you
can do no more, try, at least, to look as if you were not going to be
shot at.” Neither the counsel nor the tone it was delivered in were very
reassuring; and Purvis went along with his head down and his hands in
his pockets, reflecting on all the “accidents by firearms” he had read
of in the newspapers, together with the more terrible paragraphs about
fatal duels, and criminal proceedings against all concerned in them.
The Frenchmen were seated in the garden, at a table, and smoking their
cigars, as Norwood came up, and, in a few words, explained that a
countryman of his own, whom he had met by chance, would undertake the
duties of his friend.
“I have only to say, gentlemen,” he added, “that he has never even
witnessed an affair of this kind; and I have but to address myself to
the loyal good faith of Frenchmen to supply any deficiencies in his
knowledge. Mr. Purvis, Messieurs.”
The old Colonel, having courteously saluted him, took him to a short
distance aside, and spoke eagerly for a few minutes; while Norwood,
burning with anxiety and uneasiness, tried to smoke his cigar with every
semblance of unconcern.
“I 'm sure, if you think so,” cried Scroope, aloud, “I'm not the m-man
to gainsay the opinion. A miss is as g-g-good as a m-mile; and as he did
n't strike him--”
“Tonnerre de Dieu! sir--strike him!” screamed the old soldier. “Did you
say strike him?”
“No, I didn't--I couldn't have meant that,” broke in Purvis. “I meant to
remark that, as there was no mischief done--”
“And who will venture to say that, sir?” interposed the other. “Is it
nothing that a Frenchman should have been menaced?”
“That's a gr-great deal,----a tremendous deal. It's as much as beating
another man; I know that,” muttered poor Purvis, deprecatingly.
“Is this a sneer, sir?” asked the Colonel, drawing himself up to his
full height.
“No, no, it ain't; no, upon my soul, I 'm quite serious. I never was less
disposed for a jest in my life.”
“You could never have selected a less opportune moment for one, sir,”
rejoined the other, gravely. “Am I to conclude, sir,” resumed he, after
a second's interval, “that we have no difference of opinion on this
affair?”
“None whatever. I agree with you in everything you have s-said, and
everything you in-intend to say.”
“Your friend will then apologize?” resumed the Colonel.
“He shall,--he must.”
“Simply expressing his regret that an unguarded action should have
occasioned a misconception, and that in lifting his arm he neither
intended the gesture as a menace nor an insult. Is n't that your
meaning?”
“Just so; and that if he _had_ struck he would n't have hurt him.”
“Feu d'enfer! sir, what _are_ you saying? or do you mean this for a
mockery of us?” screamed the Colonel, in a fit of passion.
“You terrify me so,” cried Purvis; “You are so impeimpe-impetuous,
I don't know what I 'm saying.”
The Frenchman measured him with a glance of strange meaning. It was
evident that such a character was somewhat new to him, and it required
all his skill and acuteness to comprehend it “Very well, sir,” said
he, at last, “I leave the details entirely to yourself; speak to your
friend, arrange the matter between you, and let us finish the affair as
speedily as may be.”
“What is all this delay about?” muttered Norwood, angrily, as the
other joined him; “is there any difficulty in stepping twelve or twenty
paces?”
“None; but we've hit upon a b-better plan, and you've only to say that
you 're sorry for it all, that you did n't m-mean anything, and that you
never did b-b-beat a Frenchman, nor will you ever do so in future.”
“Why, what do you mean?” asked Norwood, in astonishment.
“That we 'll all go back and lunch at the 'Luna;' for there's no-nothing
to fight about.”
Norwood pushed by him contemptuously, and with hurried steps walked up
to where the old Colonel stood. “You are a French officer, sir,” said
he, “and I rely upon your honor that, whether from the ignorance or
inaptitude of that gentleman, no blame may attach itself to me in this
business. I have no apology to offer, nor any amende save one.”
“Very well, sir, we are ready,” said the Colonel. “I will ask one of my
countrymen to act for you, for I see you are in very indifferent hands.”
And now, like men who were well accustomed to the task, they set about
the details of the duel; while Purvis, being at full liberty, slipped
from the spot, and retired into the wood.
“You 've won the first fire, my Lord,” said a young Frenchman to
Norwood. “The conditions are twelve paces--back to back--to torn at the
word, and fire.”
Norwood bowed, and, without speaking, followed the other to the spot
where he was to stand. As he waited thus, pistol in hand, he was
directly opposite to the place wherein Purvis had taken refuge, and who,
seeing Norwood in front of him, with a cocked pistol, and his finger on
the trigger, uttered a scream of terror, and fell flat on the ground.
Before the rest could discover the cause of the outcry, a shout from
outside of “The Police!” “The Gendarmes!” was heard, and Dr. Grounsell
rushed into the garden, followed by several dismounted dragoons. In
an instant all were away. Norwood sprang over a low balcony into a
vineyard; while in various directions the others scampered off, leaving
Purvis alone upon the field.
But too happy to have fallen into the safe keeping of the authorities,
Purvis accepted his captivity with a most placid contentment.
“Where's Captain Onslow? Have you seen him, sir?” whispered Grounsell to
him.
“I have seen everybody, but I don't re-remember anything. It's all a
dr-dr-dream to me.”
“There was no duel? They hadn't fought?” asked Grounsell.
“I--I--I think not; pro-pro-probably not,” said Purvis, whose faculties
were still very cloudy.
Grounsell turned away from him in disdain, and entered the house. To
all his inquiries from the waiters of the inn the answers were vague and
insufficient, nor could the doctor discover either what had occurred,
or the reasons of the long delay on the ground. Meanwhile the
_Carabinieri_, stimulated by liberal promises of reward, were searching
the park in every quarter, and scouring the country around to arrest the
fugitives; and the peasantry, enlisted in the pursuit, hastened hither
and thither to aid them. Whether really unable to come up with them,
or, as is more probable, concurring in the escape through bribery, the
dragoons returned to the inn after about an hour's absence, without the
capture of a single prisoner.
Grounsell cursed their Italian indolence, and reviled every institution
of their lazy land. How he raved about foreign falsehood and rascality,
and wished for a London detective and a magistrate of Bow Street! Never
did Lord Palmerston so thirst to implant British institutions in a
foreign soil, as did he to teach these “macaroni rascals what a good
police meant.” What honest indignation did he not vent upon English
residents abroad, who, for sake of a mild climate and lax morality,
could exchange their native country for the Continent; and at last,
fairly worn out with his denunciations, he sat down on a bench, tired
and exhausted.
“Will you t-t-tell them to let me go?” cried Purvis. “I've done
nothing. I never do anything. My name is Purvis,--Sc-Sc-Scroope
Purvis,--bro-brother to Mrs. Ricketts, of the Villino Zoe.”
“Matters which have no possible interest for _me_, sir,” growled out
Grounsell; “nor am I a corporal of gendarmes, to give orders for your
liberation.”
“But they 'll take me to--to prison!” cried Purvis.
“With all my heart, sir, so that I be not your fellow captive,” rejoined
the doctor, angrily, and left the spot; while the police, taking as many
precautions for securing Purvis as though he had been a murderer or a
house-breaker, assisted him into a calèche, and, seated one on either
side of him, with their carbines unslung, set out for Florence.
“They'll take me for Fr-Fr-Fra Diavolo, if I enter the city in this
fashion,” cried Purvis; but certainly his rueful expression might have
belied the imputation.
Grounsell sat down upon a grassy bench beside the road, overcome with
fatigue and disappointment. From the hour of his arrival in Florence, he
had not enjoyed one moment of rest. On leaving Lady Hester's chamber he
had betaken himself to Sir Stafford's apartment; and there, till nigh
daybreak, he sat, breaking the sad tidings of ruin to his old friend,
and recounting the terrible story of disasters which were to crush him
into poverty. Thence he hastened to George Onslow's room; but he was
already gone. A few minutes before he had started with Norwood for
Pratolino, and all that remained for Grounsell was to inform the police
of the intended meeting, while he himself, wisely suspecting that
nothing could go forward in Florence unknown to Jekyl, repaired to that
gentleman's residence at once.
Without the ceremony of announcement, Grounsell mounted the stairs, and
opened the door of Jekyl's apartment, just as its owner had commenced
the preparations for his breakfast. There was an almost Spartan
simplicity in the arrangements, which might have made less composed
spirits somewhat abashed and ill at ease. The little wooden platter of
macaroni, the small coffee-pot of discolored hue and dinged proportions,
the bread of Ethiopian complexion, and the bunch of shrivelled grapes
offered a meal irreproachable on the score of either costliness or
epicurism. But Jekyl, far from feeling disconcerted at their exposure to
a stranger's eyes, seemed to behold them with sincere satisfaction, and
with a most courteous smile welcomed the doctor to Florence, and thanked
him for the very polite attention of so early a visit.
“I believe I ought to apologize for the unseasonable hour, sir,”
blundered out Grounsell, who was completely thrown off his balance by
this excessive urbanity; “but the cause must plead for me.”
“Any cause which has conferred the honor on me is sure of being
satisfactory. Pray come nearer the table. You 'll find that macaroni
eat better than it looks. The old Duke de Montmartre always recommended
macaroni to be served on wood. His maxim was, 'Keep the “plat d'argent”
for a mayonnaise or a galantine.'”
“Excuse me if I cannot join you, sir. Nothing but a matter of extreme
importance could warrant my present intrusion. I only reached this city
a few hours back, and I find everything at the Mazzarini Palace in
a state of discord and confusion. Some are questions for time and
consideration; others are more immediately pressing. One of these is
this affair of George Onslow's. Who is he about to meet, and for what?”
“His antagonist is a very agreeable young man; quite a gentleman, I
assure you, attached to the French mission here, and related to the
'Morignys,' whom you must have met at 'Madame Parivaux's' formerly.”
“Never heard of one of them, sir. But what's the quarrel?”
“It originated, I believe, in some form of disputation,--an
altercation,” simpered Jekyl, as he sweetened and sipped his coffee.
“A play transaction,--a gambling affair, eh?”
“I fancy not; Count Guilmard does not play.”
“So far, so good,” said Grounsell. “Now, sir, how is it to be
arranged?--what settlement can be effected? I speak to you frankly,
perhaps bluntly, Mr. Jekyl, for my nature has few sympathies with
courteous ambiguities. Can this business be accommodated without a
meeting?”
Jekyl shook his head, and gave a soft, plaintive little sigh.
“Is friendly interference out of the question, sir?”
Another shake of the head, and a sigh.
“Is there any law in the country? Can the police do nothing?”
“The frontiers are always easily accessible,” simpered Jekyl, as he
stole a look at his watch.
“Ay, to be sure,” broke in Grounsell, indignantly; “the very geography
of the Continent assists this profligacy, and five paces over an
imaginary boundary gives immunity in a case of murder! Well, sir, come
along with me to the place of meeting. It is just possible that we may
be of some service even yet.”
“Nothing could be more agreeable to me than the opportunity of
cultivating your acquaintance, Dr. Grounsell; but I have already
sent off a few lines to Lord Norwood, to apologize for my absence,--a
previous engagement.”
“What! at this hour of the morning, sir!” burst out Grounsell.
“Even at this early hour, doctor, our cares commence,” said Jekyl,
blandly.
“Upon this occasion they must give way to duties, then,” said Grounsell,
sternly. “The word may sound strangely in your ears, sir, but I use it
advisedly you have been well received and hospitably entertained by
this family. They have shown you many marks of kindness and attention.
Now is the opportunity to make some sort of requital. Come, then, and
see if this young man cannot be rescued from peril.”
“You touch my feelings in the very tenderest spot,” said Jekyl, softly.
“When gratitude is mentioned, I am a child,--a mere child.”
“Be a man, then, for once, sir; put on your hat and accompany me,” cried
Grounsell.
“Would you have me break an appointment, doctor?”
“Ay, to be sure I would, sir,--at least, such an appointment as I
suspect yours to be. This may be a case of life or death.”
“How very dreadful!” said Jekyl, settling his curls at the glass.
“Pascal compares men to thin glass phials, with an explosive powder
within them, and really one sees the force of the similitude every day;
but Jean Paul improves upon it by saying that we are all burning-glasses
of various degrees of density, so that our passions ignite at different
grades of heat.”
“Mine are not very far from the focal distance at this moment,” said
Grounsell, with savage energy; “so fetch your hat, sir, at once, or--”
“Unless I prefer a cap, you were going to add,” interposed Jekyl, with a
sweet smile.
“We must use speed, sir, or we shall be too late,” rejoined the doctor.
“I flatter myself few men understand a rapid toilet better,” said Jekyl,
rising from the table; “so if you'll amuse yourself with 'Bell's Life,'
'Punch,' or Jules Janin, for five minutes, I 'm your man.”
“I can be company for myself for that space, sir,” said the other,
gruffly, and turned to the window; while Jekyl, disappearing behind the
drapery that filled the doorway, was heard humming an opera air from
within.
Grounsell was in no superlative mood of good temper with the world, nor
would he have extended to the section of it he best knew the well-known
eulogy on the “Bayards.” “Swindlers,” “Rakes,” and “Vagabonds” were
about the mildest terms of the vocabulary he kept muttering to himself,
while a grumbling thunder-growl of malediction followed each. The very
aspect of the little chamber seemed to offer food for his anger; the
pretentious style of its decoration jarred and irritated him, and he
felt a wish to smash bronzes and brackets and statues into one common
ruin.
The very visiting-cards which lay scattered over a Sèvres dish offended
him; the names of all that were most distinguished in rank and station,
with here and there some little civility inscribed on the corner,
----“Thanks,” “Come, if possible,” or “Of course we expect
you,”--showing the social request in which Jekyl stood.
“Ay,” muttered he to himself, “here is one that can neither give dinners
nor balls, get places nor pensions nor orders, lend money nor lose
it, and yet the world wants him, and cannot get on without him. The
indolence of profligacy seeks the aid of his stimulating activity, and
the palled appetite of sensualism has to borrow the relish from vice
that gives all its piquancy. Without him as the fly-wheel, the whole
machinery of mischief would stand still. His boast is, that, without a
sou, no millionnaire is richer than he, and that every boon of fortune
is at his beck. He might add, that in his comprehensive view of
wickedness he realizes within himself all the vice of this good capital.
I 'd send such a fellow to the treadmill; I 'd transport him for life;
I 'd sentence him to hunt kangaroos for the rest of his days; I'd--” He
stopped short in his violent tirade; for he suddenly bethought him how
he himself was at that very moment seeking aid and assistance at his
hands; and somewhat abashed by the recollection, he called out, “Mr.
Jekyl, are you ready yet?”
No answer was returned to this question, and Grounsell repeated it in a
louder voice. All was silent, and not even the dulcet sounds of the
air from “Lucia” broke the stillness; and now the doctor, losing all
patience, drew aside the curtain and looked in. The chamber was empty,
and Jekyl was gone! His little portmanteau, and his still
smaller carpet-bag, his hat-case, his canes--every article of his
_personnel_--were away; and while Grounsell stood cursing the “little
rascal,” he himself was pleasantly seated opposite Lady Hester and Kate
in the travelling-carriage, and convulsing them with laughter at his
admirable imitation of the poor doctor.
Great as was Grounsel's anger at this trickery, it was still greater
when he discovered that he had been locked in. He quite forgot the
course of time passed in his meditations, and could not believe it
possible that there was sufficient interval to have effected all these
arrangements so speedily.
Too indignant to brook delay, he dashed his foot through the door, and
passed out The noise at once summoned the people of the house to the
spot, and, to Grounsell's surprise, the police officer amongst them,
who, in all the pomp of office, now barred the passage with a drawn
sword.
[Illustration: 032]
“What is it?--what's this?” cried he, in astonishment.
“Effraction by force in case of debt is punishable by the 127th
section of the 'Code,'” said a dirty little man, who, with the air of a
shoeblack, was still a leading member of the Florence “Bar.”
“I owe nothing here,----not a farthing, sir; let me pass,” cried
Grounsell.
“'Fathers for sons of nonage or over that period, domiciliated in the
same house,'” began the Advocate, reading out of a volune in his hand,
“'are also responsible.'”
“What balderdash, sir! I have no son; I never was married in my life;
and as for this Mr. Jekyl, if you mean to father him on me, I'll resist
to the last drop of my blood.”
“'Denunciation and menace, with show of arms or without,'” began the
lawyer again, “'are punishable by fine and imprisonment.'”
Grounsell was now so worked up by fury that he attempted to force a
passage by main strength; but a general brandishing of knives by all
the family, from seven years of age upwards, warned him that the attempt
might be too serious, while a wild chorus of abusive language arose from
various sympathizers who poured in from the street to witness the scene.
A father who would not pay for his own son! an “assassin,” who had no
bowels for his kindred; a “Birbante,” a “Briccone,” and a dozen similar
epithets, rattled on him like hail, till Grounsell, supposing that the
“bite” might be in proportion to the “bark,” retreated into a small
chamber, and proposed terms of accommodation. Few men take pleasure
in acquitting their own debts, fewer still like to pay those of their
neighbors, and Grounsell set about the task in anything but a pleasant
manner. There was one redeeming feature, however, in the affair.
Jekyl's schedule could not have extracted a rebuke from the severest
Commissioner of Bankruptcy. His household charges were framed on the
most moderate scale of expenditure. A few crowns for his house-rent,
a few “Pauls” for his eatables, and a few “Grazie” for his washing,
comprised the whole charge of his establishment, and not even Hume would
have sought to cut down the “estimates.” Doubtless more than one half of
the demands were unjust and extortionate, and many were perhaps already
acquitted; but as all the rogueries were but homoeopathic iniquities
after all, their doses might be endured with patience. His haste to
conclude the arrangements had, however, a very opposite tendency. The
more yielding he became, the greater grew their exactions, and several
times the treaty threatened to open hostilities again; and at last it
was full an hour after Jekyl's departure that Grounsell escaped from
durance, and was free to follow George Onslow to Pratolino.
With his adventures in the interval the reader is sufficiently
acquainted; and we now come back to that moment where, bewildered and
lost, he sat down upon the bench beside the high-road.