As we draw near to the end of our voyage, we feel all the difficulty of
collecting the scattered vessels of our convoy; and while signalizing
the “clippers” to shorten sail, we are calling on the heavy sailers to
crowd “all their canvas.”
The main interest of our story would keep us beside Frank Dalton,
whose fate seemed daily to vacillate,----now threatening gloomily, now
rallying into all the brightness of hope. By slow and cautious journeys
the old Count proceeded to remove him to Vienna, where he expected soon
to-be joined by Kate. Leaving them, then, to pursue their road by steps
far too slow for our impatience, we hasten along with D'Esmonde, as,
with all the speed he could accomplish, he made for Florence.
Occasionally he tried to amuse himself and divert his thoughts by
conversing with Meekins, who accompanied him; but although the man's
shrewdness was above the common, and his knowledge of the world very
considerable, D'Esmonde quickly saw that a thick cloak of reserve
covered the real man on all occasions, and that his true nature lay many
a fathom deep below that smooth surface. The devout respect which he
felt for the Abbé might, perhaps, have increased this reserve; for
Meekins was an Irish peasant, and never forgot the deference due to a
priest.
Accustomed to read men at sight, D'Esmonde would give himself no trouble
in deciphering a page which promised little to reward the labor; and
so, after a while, he left his companion to occupy the “box,” while he
himself followed his own thoughts alone and undisturbed. Now and then
he would be aroused from his deep reveries by remarking the reverential
piety of the peasants as they passed some holy shrine or some
consecrated altar. Then, indeed, Meekins displayed a fervor so unlike
the careless indifference of the native, that D'Esmonde was led to
reflect upon the difference of their natures, and speculate on how far
this devotion of character was innate in the Irishman, or merely the
result of circumstances.
There was an expression of eager, almost painful meaning, too, in the
man's face as he muttered his prayers, that struck the keen eyes of the
Abbé; and he could not avoid saying to himself, “That fellow has a load
upon his heart. Fear, and not hope, is the mainspring of his devotions.”
At another moment D'Esmonde might have studied the case as a
philosopher studies a problem,--merely for the exercise it may give his
faculties,--but his own cares were too pressing and too numerous for
more than a passing notice.
The night was falling as they gained the crest of the mountain
over Florence; D'Esmonde stopped the carriage on the hill above the
“Moskova,” and gazed steadily for some moments on the spot. The villa,
partly shrouded in trees, was brilliantly illuminated; the lights
gleamed and sparkled through the foliage, and, as he listened, the sound
of rich music came floating on the air.
“This looks little like seclusion,” thought he. “These are signs of some
great festivity.” As he drew up to the gate, however, he found it closed
and locked. Not a carriage was to be seen. Even the usual lamps were
unlighted, and all appeared deserted and unoccupied. D'Esmonde stood
for a few seconds buried in thought; his emotion was deep and heartfelt;
for, as he grasped the iron bars of the gate, his strong frame shook and
trembled. “True--true!” muttered he to himself in an accent of almost
bursting agony,--“I could not have given thee this, Lola, and for this
alone hadst thou any heart!” He leaned his face against the gate,
and sobbed heavily. “What poison,” cried he, in a voice of
bitterness,--“what poison there must be in unholy passion, when it can
move a heart like mine, after years and years of time! To think that not
all the glory of a great cause, all the pride of successful ambition,
striving for rewards the very highest,--all that I possess of power and
influence,--all, all should give way to the grief for a half-forgotten,
unreturned love! How poor a thing the heart is, when we fancy its
desires to be noblest and highest!”
This burst of passionate grief over, he slowly returned to the carriage
and pursued his way to Florence; and, entering the city, he drove for
the house of Racca Morlache. The Jew was not at home, but was to return
by eleven o'clock, at which hour he had ordered supper for a guest and
himself. D'Esmonde lay down on a sofa, and fell asleep. Wearied as he
was, his watchfulness soon detected the approach of footsteps; and,
as he listened, he heard the voice of a stranger in colloquy with the
servant. The door opened at the same time, and Lord Norwood entered.
D'Esmonde only waited for the servant to retire, when he sprang forward
to salute him.
“Oh! I thought you were at the camp, or at Vienna, or somewhere to the
north'ard,” said the Viscount, coolly.
“I was so, my Lord; and there I should have remained, if a pressing duty
had not recalled me to Florence.”
“You have always so many irons in the fire, Abbé, that it requires some
skill to keep them all hot.”
“You are right, my Lord; some skill, and some practice too.”
“And do you never burn your fingers?” said the other, sarcastically.
“Very rarely, my Lord; for when I meddle with fire, I generally make use
of my friends' hands.”
“By Jove, it's not a bad plan!” cried the Viscount, laughing; for,
as the priest well knew, he had a most lively appreciation for every
species of knavery, and entertained real respect for all who practised
it. “You _are_ a very downy cove, Master D'Esmonde,” said he, gazing at
him; “and you 'd have made a very shining figure on the Turf, had your
fortune thrown you in that direction.”
“Perhaps so, my Lord,” said the Abbé, carelessly. “My own notion is,
that fair natural gifts are equal to any exigencies ever demanded of us;
and that the man of average talent, if he have only energy and a strong
will, has no superior to dread.”
“That may do well enough,” said Norwood, rising and pacing the
room,--“that may do well enough in the common occurrences of life, but
it won't do on the Turf, Abbé. The fellows are too artful for you there.
There are too many dodges and tricks and windings. No, no, believe
me; nothing has a chance in racing matters, without perfect and safe
'information;' you know what that means.”
“It is precisely the same thing in the world at large,” said D'Esmonde.
“The very cleverest men rush into embarrassments and involve themselves
in difficulties for which there is no issue, simply for want of what you
call 'information.' Even yourself, my Lord,” said he, dropping his voice
to a low and distinct whisper,--“even yourself may discover that you owe
safety to a Popish priest.”
“How do you mean? What do you allude to?” cried Norwood, eagerly.
“Sit down here, my Lord. Give me a patient hearing for a few minutes. We
have fortunately a moment of unbroken confidence now; let us profit by
it.”
Norwood seated himself beside the priest, without speaking, and, folding
his arms, prepared to hear him calmly.
“My Lord Norwood,” said the Abbé, “I will not torture you by any
prolixity, nor will I waste your time by any appeal to your forgiveness.
If my own conduct in the affair I am about to relate should not meet
your approval, it is enough that I have satisfied my own conscience.”
“Go on--go on,” said Norwood, in a tone of almost sarcasm; “I see that
you have injured me, let me hear how and where.”
“You shall hear both, my Lord, and briefly too. I have only to invoke
your memory, and the story is told. You remember being at Salamanca,
in the year 18----? you remember, too, a certain ballerina of the Grand
Opera? You had seen her first at Seville--”
“Yes----; yes,” broke in Norwood, reddening deeply; “I know what you
mean--the girl was my mistress.”
“Stay, my Lord. Do not dishonor yourself; she was your wife,--legally
and formally married to you,--the registry of the act is in existence,
and the priest who performed the ceremony now stands before you.”
“By Heaven!” said Norwood, springing to his feet,
“You are a bold fellow to dare this game with _me!_ and to try it in
such a place as this!”
“Ay, my Lord, the river rolls dark and silently beside us,” said
D'Esmonde, calmly; “and the Arno has covered up many a more dreadful
deed; but I have no fears,--not one. I am unarmed, in strength I am
certainly not your equal, and yet, I repeat it, my heart assures me that
I stand in no peril.”
For an instant Norwood seemed to hesitate how to act. The great veins of
his face and forehead became swollen and knotted, and he breathed with
the rushing sound of severe, restrained passion. At last, as if to guard
himself against any sudden impulse of anger, he walked round and seated
himself at the opposite side of the table.
D'Esmonde resumed as calmly as before: “Yes, my Lord, Lola took care
that everything should be regular and in form; and the names of
Gerald Acton and Lola de Seviglia are inscribed on the records of the
Collegiate Chapel. Two of the witnesses are still living; one of them,
then a poor boy carrying messages for the convent, is now captain in the
Pope's Guard.”
“Come, come,----enough of this,” cried Norwood, impatiently. “I see
the drift of it all. When the Church interposes her kind offices, the
question resolves itself always into money. How much--how much?”
“You mistake greatly, my Lord; but your error does not offend me. I know
too well how men of _your_ form of belief regard men of _mine!_ I am
not here either to combat a prejudice, or assert a right. I tell you,
therefore, calmly and dispassionately, that no demand is made upon you.
There is no siege laid against you, in person or in purse.”
“Then how does the matter concern me, if this girl be alive?--and even
of that I have my doubts--”
“You need have none,” said D'Esmonde, interruptingly. “Lady
Norwood-----”
“Stop! By Heaven! if you dare to give her that name, I'll not answer for
myself.”
“I call her as she styles herself,----as she is called by all around
her. Yes, my Lord, the shame is as open as gossip and malevolence can
make it. The foreigner is but too glad when he can involve an English
name and title in a reproach that we are prone to cast upon him. A
peeress is a high mark for scandal! Who stoops to ask how or when or
where she became this? Who interposes a charitable word of explanation
or of incredulity? From what you know of life, on what side, think you,
will lie the ingenuity and craft? Whether will the evidence preponderate
to prove her your wife or to exonerate _you?_ At all events, how will
the matter read in England? I speak not of your ruined hopes of an
alliance befitting your high station. _This_ is beyond repairing! But
are you ready to meet the shame and ignominy of the story? Nothing is
too base, nothing too infamous, for an imputation. Will any one, I ask
of you--will any one assert that you are ignorant of all this? Would any
one believe who heard it? Will not the tale be rather circulated with
all its notes and comments? Will not men fill up every blank by the
devices of their own bad ingenuity? Will not some assert that you are a
partner in your own infamy, and that your fingers have touched the price
of your shame?”
“Stop!” cried Norwood. “Another word--one syllable more like this--and,
by the Heaven above us, your lips will never move again!”
“It would be a sorry recompense for my devotion to you, my Lord,” said
the Abbé, with a profound sigh.
“Devotion!” repeated Norwood, in a voice of insulting sarcasm; “as if
I were to be tricked by this! Keep these artifices for some trembling
devotee, some bedridden or palsied worshipper of saintly relics and holy
legerdemain; I 'm not the stuff for such deceptions!”
“And yet, my Lord, what possible benefit can accrue to myself from this
ungracious task? With all your ingenuity, what personal gain can result
to me?”
“What care I for your motives, sir?” responded Norwood, fiercely. “I
only know that you had never incurred so critical a hazard without an
object. You either seek to exert a menace over me, or to be revenged on
_her_.”
“Alas, my Lord, I see how little hope I should have of vindicating
myself before you. Your estimate of the Papists suggests nothing above
craft and dishonesty. You will not believe that human affections, love
of country, and all the other associations of a home, are strong in
hearts that beat beneath the serge frock of the priest. Still less do
you know the great working principle of our Faith,--the law which binds
us, for every unjust act we have done in life, to make an expiation in
this world. For many a year has my conscience been burdened with this
offence. But for my weak compliance with your request, I should never
have performed this ceremony. Had _I_ been firm, _you_ had been saved.
Nay, in my eagerness to serve you, I only worked your ruin; for, on
confessing to my Superior what I had done, he at once took measures to
ratify the act of marriage, and my rank as a deacon took date from the
day before the ceremony.” D'Esmonde seemed not to notice the gesture of
indignation with which Norwood heard these words, but he went on: “It
is, then, to make some requital for this wrong, that I now risk all that
your anger may inflict upon me.”
“Where is this woman?” cried Norwood, savagely, and as if impatient at a
vindication for which he felt no interest. “Where is she?”
“She is here, my Lord,” said the other, meekly.
“Here? How do you mean? Not in this house?”
“I mean that she is now in Florence.”
“What, living openly here?--calling herself by my name?”
“She lives in all the splendor of immense wealth, and as openly as the
protection of Prince Midchekoff----”
“Midchekoff----Midchekoff, did you say?” cried Norwood, in a burst of
passion.
“Yes, my Lord. The haughty Russian exults in the insult that this offers
to the proudest aristocracy of Europe. This is the vengeance he exacts
for the cold disdain he experienced in London, and all that reserve that
met his attempts in English society.”
“How came she here?--who sent for her?--who devised this scheme? Tell me
the whole truth, for, by Heaven, if I see you equivocate, you'll never
quit this chamber living!”
“I' ll tell you everything, truthfully and fairly,” said the Abbé, with
calm dignity; and now in a few words he traced Nina's life, from the
time of her residence under Lady Hester's roof, to the moment of her
return to Florence. He omitted nothing; neither her intimacy with Jekyl
nor her passion for George Onslow. Even to the incident of the torn
dress on the night of the flight, he told all.
Norwood listened with the stern collectedness of one who had nerved
himself for a great effort. Although the blood spurted from his
compressed lips, and the nails of his fingers were buried in his hands,
he uttered never a word. At last, when D'Esmonde paused, he said,----
“And _you_ knew all this?”
“Nothing whatever of it I never chanced to see her at Florence, nor had
I the slightest suspicion of her presence there.”
“Lady Hester knew it? Miss Dalton knew it?”
“I suspect not at that time.”
“They know it _now_, then?”
“Who does not? Is not Florence ringing with the story? When has scandal
fallen upon such material for its malevolence? Such _dramatis personæ_
as a prince, an English peer, and his peeress, are not of every day's
good fortune!”
“Be cautious how you harp on this theme, priest. In your good zeal to
hammer the metal soft you may chance to crush your own finger.”
“I must be frank with you, my Lord, whatever the hazard. He would be a
sorry surgeon who, after giving his patient all the agony of the knife,
stopped short, and left the malady unextirpated.”
“Come now, D'Esmonde,” said Norwood, as with a strong grasp he drew the
other down on the sofa beside him, “_You_ have your debt to acquit in
this matter as well as myself. I do not seek to know how or why or
upon whom. Your priestly craft need not be called into exercise. I
want nothing of your secrets; I only ask your counsel. That much in our
common cause you cannot refuse me. What shall I do in this affair? No
cant, no hypocritical affectation of Christian forgiveness, none of that
hackneyed advice that you dole out to your devotees; speak freely, and
like a man of the world. What is to be done here?”
“If the marriage admitted of dispute or denial, I should say disavow
it,” said the priest “It is too late for this.”
“Go on. What next?”
“Then comes the difficulty. To assert your own honor, you must begin by
a recognition of her as your wife. This looks rash, but I see no other
course. You cannot call Midchekoff to a reckoning on any other grounds.
Then comes the question, is such a woman worth fighting for? or must the
only consideration be the fact that she bears your name, and that she is
the Viscountess Norwood in every society she can enter? How is this to
be borne? The stricter code of England rejects such claimants altogether
from its circle; but on the Continent they are everywhere. Will it be
possible for you to live under this open shame?”
“Your advice is, then,----shoot him!” said Norwood; and he bent his eyes
fixedly on the priest as he spoke. “It is my own notion, also. If the
choice were open to me, D'Esmonde, I 'd rather have exacted the payment
of this debt from Onslow; I hated the fellow from my very heart. Not
that I owe this Russian any good will. We have more than once been on
the verge of a quarrel. It was not my fault if it went no further.
They say, too, that he has no taste for these things. If so, one must
stimulate his appetite, that's all!--eh, D'Esmonde? _Your_ countrymen
seldom need such provocations?”
“We have our faults, my Lord; but this is scarcely amongst their
number.”
“You're right, D'Esmonde,” said the other, pursuing his former line
of thought. “It's no petty penalty to exact from a fellow with fifty
thousand a year! I almost fancy I should have been a coward myself at
such a price!”
“You 'll have some difficulty in obtaining access to him, my Lord,”
remarked the Abbé. “He lives in strict privacy, and refuses admission to
every one.”
“But a letter will reach him?”
“It may, or it may not; besides, it may come to hand, and yet never be
acknowledged.”
“What is to be done, then?”
“I 'll think over it, before we separate. I 'll try and suggest
something. But here comes Morlache; and now be cautious. Not a word to
show that you are ill at ease.” The warning was scarcely spoken, when
the Jew entered.
Morlache knew D'Esmonde too well to be surprised at seeing him anywhere
or at any moment He saluted him, therefore, as though they had met the
very day before, and the party sat down to supper, in all the seeming
ease of unburdened minds.
They chatted over the politics of Italy, and the change that had come
over Florence since the last time they had sat together in that chamber.
“It was a noisy scene, that night,” said Morlache; “but the streets are
quiet enough now.”
“Quiet as a corpse,” said Norwood, sternly. “You had no other nostrum
for tranquillity but to extinguish life.”
“What you regard as death, my Lord,” said the Abbé, “is only a trance.
Italy will rise grander and more powerful than ever. One element alone
has survived through all the convulsive throes, and all the changing
fortunes of this land,--the Papacy. The terrible wars of rival cities
and states, the more bloody conquests of ambitious houses, leave not a
trace behind them; but Rome holds on her proud way, and, like the great
river of the poet, 'Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis oevum. '”
“To which I beg, in a less classical quotation, to rejoin, 'Confound
your politics,'” cried Norwood, laughing. “Come, Morlache, let us
turn to a humbler theme. Who have you got here; who are coming for the
winter?”
“Say, rather, my Lord, who are going away; for there is a general flight
from Florence. All what hotel folk call good families are hastening off
to Rome and Naples.”
“What's the meaning of this, then?”
“It is not very difficult, perhaps, to explain,” said the Jew; “luxuries
are only the creations of mere circumstance. The rarity of one land
may be the very satiety of another; and the iced-punch that tastes so
exquisite at Calcutta would be but sorry tipple at Coppermine River.
Hence you will see, my Lord, that the English who come here for
wickedness find the place too bad for them. There is no zest to their
vice; they shock nobody, they outrage nothing,--in fact, they are only
as bad as their neighbors.”
“I suppose it's neither better nor worse than I remember it these dozen
years and more?” said Norwood.
“Probably not, my Lord, in fact; but, in outward appearance, it has
assuredly degenerated. People behave badly everywhere, but this is the
only city in Europe where it is deemed right to do so.”
“Since when have you taken up the trade of moralist, Master Morlache?”
said Norwood, with a sneer.
“I 'll answer that question,” broke in D'Esmonde. “Since the exchange on
England has fallen to forty-three and a half, Morlache sees his clients
diminish, and is consequently as angry with vice as he had been with its
opposite, if the same result had come to pass.”
“I own,” said the Jew, with a sneer, “the present order of things is far
more profitable to the confessional than to the _comptoir_.”
“That's the truth, I've no doubt of it,” broke in Norwood, laughing. “A
low tariff has given a great impulse to the trade of wickedness.”
“Taking your own illustration, my Lord, we are 'Protectionists,'” said
D'Esmonde; “whereas you Protestants are the 'Free-traders' in vice.”
“A plague on both your houses, say I,” cried Norwood, yawning.
“So, then, Morlache, neither you nor I would find this a desirable
residence?”
“I fear it will not repay either of us, my Lord,” said the Jew, with a
sly look.
“The world is growing wonderfully wide awake,” said Norwood. “When I
entered life, any fellow with a neat hand at billiards, a fair knowledge
of _écarté_ or short whist, good whiskers, and a well-cut waistcoat,
might have eked out a pretty existence without any risk, and very little
exertion. But see what the march of intelligence has done! There 's
not an Eton boy, not an unfledged 'sub' in a marching regiment, not an
unpaid attaché at a small court could n't compete with you now in any of
these high acquirements. I do not fret myself usually about what is to
come after _my_ time; but I really wonder how the next generation will
get on at all.”
“Civilization moves like the pendulum, my Lord,” said D'Esmonde; “the
next swing will be retrograde. And, by the way, that reminds me of
Russia, and Russia of Prince Midchekoff. Is it true that he is recalled,
Morlache?”
“Not that I know. That report is always circulated when there are no
dinners at the villa. Just as Marshal Soult is said to have won or lost
the battle of Toulouse according to the momentary estimation he is held
in.”
“You'll hear for certain, my Lord,” said D'Esmonde, addressing Norwood;
“You are going up there to-night?”
Norwood muttered an assent, and waited to see how this sally was to end.
“Ah! you are going there to-night,” repeated Morlache, in some surprise.
“Are _you_ one of the privileged, then?”
“Of course he is,” interposed D'Esmonde, authoritatively.
“Will you do me a very great favor, then, my Lord?” said Morlache,
----“which is to take charge of this small casket. I promised to take
it myself; but it is so late now, and I am so wearied, that I shall feel
much bound to you for the service.”
“You can easily acquit the debt of obligation, Morlache,” said
D'Esmonde; “for my Lord was just asking me, before you came in, if he
could take the liberty of begging the loan of your carriage to take him
up to the Moskova. You are aware that it would not be quite proper to
take a hired carriage, just now, up to the villa; that, as the Prince
affects to be absent----”
“To be sure,” broke in Morlache. “I am but too happy to accommodate your
Lordship. Your precaution was both delicate and well thought of. Indeed,
I greatly doubt that they would admit a fiacre at all.”
“I suppose I should have had to walk from the gate,” said Norwood, who
now saw the gist of the Abbé's stratagem.
“Morlache's old gray is a passport that requires no _visa_,” said
D'Esmonde. “You 'll meet neither let nor hindrance with him in front of
you. You may parody the great statesman's peroration, and say, 'Where
the King cannot enter, he can.' Such is it to be a banker's horse!”
Norwood heard little or nothing of this remark. Deeply sunk in his own
thoughts, he arose abruptly from the table.
“You are not going away, my Lord? You are surely not deserting that
flask of Marcobrunner that we have only tasted?”
But Norwood never heard the words, and continued to follow his own train
of reflection. Then, bending over D'Esmonde, he said, “In case we should
require to cross the frontier at Lavenza, must we have passports?”
“Nothing of the kind. There is no police, no inquiry whatever.”
“Good-bye, then. If you should not hear _from_, you will hear _of_ me,
Abbé. There are a few things which, in the event of accident, I will
jot down in writing. You 'll look to them for me. Good-evening, or
good-morning,--I scarcely know which.” And, with all the habitual
indolence of his lounging manner, he departed.
D'Esmonde stood for a few seconds silent, and then said, “Is the noble
Viscount deep in your books?”
“Deeper than I wish him to be,” said the Jew.
“Have no fears on that account. He 'll soon acquit all his debts,” said
the other. “Good-night, Morlache.” And with this abrupt leave-taking he
withdrew.