O that a man might know
The end of this day's business ere it come.--_Julius Caesar_.
The diligence rolled into Genoa. Wentworth was in the _coupe_, and on
the top sat Morton, as his servant. They had made the journey without
interruption.
Morton reported himself to the American consul, and told his story.
The wrath and astonishment of that official were great; but they were
as nothing to the patriotic fury of three New York dry goods
importers, who, mingling pleasure with business, were just arrived
from Paris. Nothing was talked of but an immediate bombardment of
Trieste, and a probable assault of Vienna.
Escaping as soon as he could from this demonstration, Morton bade his
fervid countrymen good morning, and went out with Wentworth, who
introduced him to his banker. He learned from the consul that a
merchant brig was in port, nearly ready to sail for home, and gladly
took passage in her.
And now at last he was safe; and safety should have brought with it a
lightening of the spirits, a sense of relief. In fact, however, it
brought little or nothing of the kind. The human mind, happily, cannot
well hold more than one crowning evil at a time. One black thought,
firmly lodged, will commonly keep the rest at bay. The fear of famine
and a prison had left him no leisure to plague himself with less
imminent mischiefs; but now, this fear being ousted, a new devil
leaped into its empty seat. At the first moment when he could find
himself alone, he wrote to Edith Leslie, telling her how he had been
imprisoned, how, for almost five wretched years, her image had been
his constant friend, how he had escaped, and how he was hastening
homeward to claim the fulfilment of her word. He hinted nothing of his
conviction that Vinal had been instrumental to his detention. He began
divided between hope and fear, but as he wrote, a foreboding grew upon
him that she was no longer living, or, at least, no longer living for
him. The letter, despatched post haste, would reach home a full
fortnight before his own arrival.
Having seen his friend in safety, Wentworth set out on his return;
and, as they shook hands at parting, their eyes met with a look that
showed how clearly the two men understood each other.
Wentworth smiled as Morton tried to express his gratitude.
"You have cleared that score. I do not mean now the old affair on the
Big Horn. I have been dreaming, lately, and you have waked me."
"I should never have imagined that you were dozing."
"Call it what you will. The truth is," added Wentworth, with some
hesitation, "an old memory has been hanging about me, and I believe
has made a girl of me. But that is past and done. I shall leave the
Lake of Como. There is a career for me at home, and a good one, if I
will but take it. Come to England, and you will find me there."
Morton went with him past the gates, and, with a heavy heart, watched
him on his way northward.