It was already past noon when Grounsell reached Florence. He was delayed at the gate by the authorities examining a peasant's cart in front of him,—a process which appeared to take a most unusual degree of care and scrutiny,—and thus gave the doctor another occasion for inveighing against the “stupid ignorance of foreigners, who throw every possible impediment in the way of traffic and intercourse.”
“What have they discovered now?” cried he, testily, as in a crowd of vehicles, of all sorts and sizes, he was jammed up like a coal-vessel in the river. “Is the peasant a revolutionary general in disguise? or has he got Bibles or British cutlery under the straw of his baroccino?”
“No, Eccellenza.” (Every one in a passion in Italy is styled Eccellenza, as an “anodyne.”) “It's a sick man, and they don't know what to do with him.”
“Is there a duty on ague or nervous fever?” asked he, angrily.
“They suspect he's dead, Eccellenza; and if so, there's no use in bringing him into the city, to bring him out again by and by.”
“And don't they know if a man be dead or alive?”
“Not when he's a foreigner, Illustrissimo; and such is the case here.”
“Ah, very true!” said Grounsell, dryly, as if acquiescing in the truth of the remark. “Let me have a look at him; perhaps I can assist their judgment.” And with this he descended, and made his way through the crowd, who, in all the eagerness of curiosity, thronged around the cart A peasant's great-coat was drawn over the figure and even the face of the sick man, as he lay at full length on the mat flooring of the baroccino; and on his chest some pious hand had deposited a rosary and a wooden crucifix.
Grounsell hastily drew back the covering, and then clutching an arm of those at either side of him, he uttered a faint cry, for the pale and deathlike features before him were those of George Onslow. The instincts of the doctor, however, soon rose above every other feeling, and his hand seized the wrist and felt for the pulse. Its beatings were slow, labored, and irregular, denoting the brain as the seat of injury. Grounsell, therefore, proceeded to examine the head, which, covered with clogged and matted blood, presented a terrific appearance; yet neither there nor elsewhere was there any trace of injury by fire-arms. The history of discovery was soon told. A shepherd had detected the body as he passed the spot, and, hailing some peasants on their way to Florence, advised their taking charge of it to the city, where they would be surely recompensed. The natural suggestion of Grounsel's mind was that, in making his escape from the gendarmes, Onslow had fallen over a cliff. To convey him home, and get him to bed, if possible, before Sir Stafford should hear of the misfortune, was his first care; and in this he succeeded. It was the time when Sir Stafford usually slept; and Grounsell was able to examine his patient, and satisfy himself that no fatal injury was done, long before the old Baronet awoke.
“Sir Stafford wishes to see you, sir; he asked for you repeatedly to-day,” said Proctor.
“Has he heard—does he know anything of this?” said Grounsell, with a gesture to the bed where George lay.
“Not a word, sir. He was very cheerful all the morning, but wondering where you could have gone, and what Mister George was doing.”
“Now for it, then,” muttered Grounsell to himself, as, with clasped hands and knitted brows, he walked along; his mind suffering the very same anxieties as had oftentimes beset him on the eve of some painful operation in his art.
“Well, Grounsell,” said the old man, with a smile, as he entered, “is it to give me a foretaste of my altered condition that you all desert me to-day? You have never come near me, nor George either, so far as I can learn.”
“We've had a busy morning of it, Stafford,” said the doctor, sitting down on the bed, and laying his finger on the pulse. “You are better—much better to-day. Your hand is like itself, and your eye is free from fever.”
“I feel it, Gronnsell,—I feel as if, with some twenty years less upon my back, I could like to begin my tussle with the world, and try issue with the best.”
“You 're young enough, and active enough yet, for what is before you, Stafford. Yesterday I told you of everything in colors perhaps gloomier than reality. The papers of to-day are somewhat more cheery in their tidings. The hurricane may pass over, and leave us still afloat; but there is another trial for you, my old friend, and you must take heart to bear it well and manfully.”
Sir Stafford sat up in his bed, and, grasping Grounsell by either shoulder, cried out, “Go on—tell it quickly.”
“Be calm, Stafford; be yourself, my old friend,” said Grounsell, terrified at the degree of emotion he had called up. “Your own courageous spirit will not desert you now.”
“I know it,” said the old man, as, relaxing his grasp, he fell back upon the pillow, and then, turning on his face, he uttered a deep groan. “I know your tidings now,” cried he, in a burst of agony. “Oh, Grounsell, what is all other disgrace compared to this?”
“I am speaking of George—of your son,” interposed Gronnsell, hastily, and seizing with avidity the opportunity to reveal all at once. “He left this for Pratolino this morning to fight a duel, but by some mischance has fallen over a cliff, and is severely injured.”
“He's dead,—you would tell me he is dead!” said the old man, in a faint, thrilling whisper.
“Far from it Alive, and like to live, but still sorely crushed and wounded.”
“Oh, God!” cried the old man, in a burst of emotion, “what worldliness is in my heart when I am thankful for such tidings as this! When it is a relief to me to know that my child—my only son—lies maimed and broken on a sick-bed, instead of—instead of—” A gush of tears here broke in upon his utterance, and he wept bitterly.
Grounsell knew too well the relief such paroxysms afford to interfere with their course; while, to avoid any recurrence, even in thought, to the cause, he hurriedly told all that he knew of George's intended meeting with the Frenchman, and his own share in disturbing the rendezvous.
Sir Stafford never spoke during this recital. The terrible shock seemed to have left its stunning influence on his faculties, and he appeared scarcely able to take in with clearness the details into which the other entered.
“She's gone to Como, then,” were the first words he uttered,——“to this villa the Prince has lent her?”
“So I understand; and, from what Proctor says, the Russian is going to marry the Dalton girl.”
“Miss Dalton is along with Lady Hester?”
“To be sure; they travel together, and George was to have followed them.”
“Even scandal, Grounsell, can make nothing of this. What say you, man?”
“You may defy it on that score, Stafford. But let us talk of what is more imminent,——of George.”
“I must see him, Grounsell; I must see my poor boy,” said he, rising, and making an effort to get out of bed; but weakness and mental excitement together overcame him, and he sank back again, fainting and exhausted. To this a deep, heavy sleep succeeded, and Grounsell stole away, relieved in mind by having acquitted himself of his painful task, and free to address his thoughts to other cares.
“Lord Norwood wishes to see you, sir,” said a servant to the doctor, as he at last seated himself for a moment's rest in his chamber; and before Grounsell could reply, the noble Viscount entered.
“Excuse this abrupt visit, sir; but I have just heard of poor Onslow's accident Is there any danger in his condition?”
“Great and imminent danger, my Lord.”
“By Jove!—sorry for it you don't happen to know how it occurred?”
“A fall, evidently, was the cause; but how incurred, I cannot even guess.”
“In the event of his coming about again, when might we expect to see him all right,—speaking loosely, of course?”
“Should he recover, it will take a month, or, perhaps, two, before he convalesces.”
“The devil it will! These Frenchmen can't be made to understand the thing at all; and as Guilmard received a gross personal outrage, he is perfectly out of his mind at the delay in obtaining satisfaction. What is to be done?”
“I am a poor adviser in such cases, my Lord; nor do I see that the matter demands any attention from us whatever.”
“Not from you, perhaps,” said Norwood, insolently; “but I had the misfortune to go out as his friend! My position is a most painful and critical one.”
“I should suppose that no one will understand how to deal with such embarrassments better than your Lordship.”
“Thanks for the good opinion; the speech I take to be a compliment, however you meant it. I believe I am not altogether unskilled in such affairs, and it is precisely because such is the case that I am here now. Onslow, in other hands than mine, is a ruined man. The story, tell it how you will, comes to this: that, having gone out to meet a man he had grossly insulted, he wanders away from the rendezvous, and is found some hours after at the foot of the cliff, insensible. He may have fallen, he may have been waylaid,—though everything controverts this notion; or, lastly, he may have done the act himself. There will be advocates for each view of the case; but it is essential, for his honor and reputation, that one story should be authenticated. Now, I am quite ready to stand godfather to such a version, taking all the consequences, however serious, on myself.”
“This is very kind, very generous, indeed, my Lord,” said Grounsell, suddenly warming into an admiration of one he was always prejudiced against.
“Oh, I'm a regular John Bull!” said the Viscount, at once assuming the burden of that canticle, which helped him in all moments of hypocrisy. “Always stand by the old stock,—nothing like them, sir. The Anglo-Saxon blood will carry all before it yet; never suffer a rascally foreigner to put his foot on one of your countrymen. Have him out, sir; parade the fellow at once: that's my plan.”
“I like your spirit!” cried Grounsell, enthusiastically.
“To be sure you do, old cock!” exclaimed Norwood, clapping him familiarly on the shoulder. “Depend upon it, I 'll pull George through this. I 'll manage the matter cleverly. There must be no mistake about it; no room for doubt or equivocation, you know. All straightforward, open, and manly: John Bull every inch of It That's my notion, at least,——I hope it's yours?”
“Perfectly,—thoroughly so!”
“Well, then, just hand that note to Sir Stafford.” Here he placed a sealed letter in Grounsell's hand. “Tell him what I've just told you. Let him fairly understand the whole question, and let me have the contents this evening at the café in the Santa Trinita,—say about nine o'clock; not later than that These fellows always gather about that hour.”
“I'll take care of it,” said Grounsell.
“All right!” cried Norwood, gayly, as he arose and adjusted the curls beneath his hat. “My compliments to the old gent, and tell George not to make himself uneasy. He 's in safe hands. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, my Lord, good-bye,” said Grounsell, who, as he looked after him, felt, as it were, unconsciously recurring to all his former prejudices and dislikes of the noble Viscount “Those fellows,” muttered he, “are as inexplicable to me as a new malady, of which I neither know the stages nor the symptoms. The signs I take for those of health may be precisely the indications of corruption; and what I deem unsound may turn out to be exactly the opposite.” And so be fell into a musing fit, in which certainly his estimate of Lord Norwood continued steadily to fall lower and lower the longer he thought of him. “He must be a rogue!—he must be a scoundrel! Nature makes all its blackguards plausible, just as poison-berries are always brilliant to look at They are both intended to be the correctives of rash impressions, and I was only a fool ever to be deceived by him. Out of this, at all hazards,—that's the first thing!” muttered Grounsell to himself, as he walked hastily up and down the room. “The place is like a plague district, and we must not carry an infected rag away from it! Glorious Italy, forsooth! There's more true enlightenment, there's a higher purpose, and a nobler view of life in the humblest English village, than in the proudest halls of their Eternal City!”
In such pleasant reflections on national character he entered Sir Stafford's room, and found his friend seated at a table covered with newly arrived letters; the seals were all unbroken, and the sick man was turning them over, and gazing at the different handwritings with a sad and listless apathy.
“I 'm glad you 've come, Grounsell. I have not courage for this,” said he, pointing to the mass of letters before him.
“Begging impostors, one half of them, I 'll be sworn!” said Grounsell, seating himself to the work. “Was I not right? Here's a Cabinet Minister suing for your vote on an Irish question, and entreating your speedy return to England, 'where, he trusts, the object you are both interested in may be satisfactorily arranged.' Evasive rascal! Could n't he say, 'you shall have the Peerage for your support'? Would n't it be more frank and more intelligible to declare, 'We take you at your price'? These,” said he, throwing half a dozen contemptuously from him, “are all from your constituents. The 'independent borough' contains seventy electors; and if you owned the patronage of the two services, with a fair share of the public offices and India, you could n't content them. I 'd tell them fairly, 'I have bought you already; the article is paid for and sent home. Let us hear no more about it!' This is more cheering. Shoenhals, of Riga, stands firm, and the Rotterdam house will weather the gale. That's good news, Onslow!” said he, grasping the old man's hand. “This is from Calcutta. Prospects are brightening a little in that quarter, too. Come, come,—there's some blue in the sky. Who knows what good weather 's in store for us?”
Onslow's lip trembled, and he passed his hand over his eyes without speaking.
“This is from Como,” said Grounsell, half angrily, tossing away a highly perfumed little three-cornered note.
“Give it to me,——let me see it,” said Onslow, eagerly; while with trembling fingers he adjusted his spectacles to read. Grounsell handed him the epistle, and walked to the window.
“She's quite well,” read Sir Stafford, aloud; “they had delightful weather on the road, and found Como in full beauty on their arrival.” Grounsell grumbled some angry mutterings between his teeth, and shrugged up his shoulders disdainfully. “She inquires most kindly after me, and wishes me to join them there, for Kate Dalton's betrothal.”
“Yet she never took the trouble to visit you when living under the same roof!” cried Grounsell, indignantly.
The old man laid down the letter, and seemed to ponder for some moments.
“What's the amount?—how much is the sum?” asked Grounsell, bluntly.
“The amount!—the sum!——of what?” inquired Sir Stafford.
“I ask, what demand is she making, that it is prefaced thus?”
“By Heaven! if you were not a friend of more than fifty years' standing, you should never address me as such again,” cried Onslow, passionately. “Has ill-nature so absorbed your faculties that you have not a good thought or good feeling left you?”
“My stock of them decreases every day,——ay, every hour, Onslow,” said he, with a deeper emotion than he had yet displayed. “It is, indeed, a sorry compromise, that if age is to make us wiser, it should make us less amiable, also!”
“You are not angry with me?—not offended, Grounsell?” said Onslow, grasping his hand in both his own.
“Not a bit of it But, as to temperament, I can no more help my distrust, than you can conquer your credulity, which is a happier philosophy, after all.”
“Then come, read that letter, Grounsell,” said Onslow, smiling pleasantly. “Put your prejudices aside for once, and be just, if not generous.”
Grounsell took the note, and walked to the window to read it. The note was just what he expected,—a prettily turned inquiry after her husband's health, interwoven with various little pleasantries of travelling, incidents of the road, and so forth. The invitation was a mere suggestion, and Grounsell was half angry at how little there was to find fault with; for, even to the “Very sincerely yours, Hester Onslow,” all was as commonplace as need be. Accidentally turning over the page, however, he found a small slip of silver paper,—a bank check for five hundred pounds, only wanting Onslow's signature. Grounsell crushed it convulsively in his palm, and handed the note back to Onslow, without a word.
“Well, are you convinced?—are you satisfied now?” asked Onslow, triumphantly.
“I am perfectly so!” said Grounsell, with a deep sigh. “You must write, and tell her that business requires your immediate presence in England, and that George's condition will necessitate a return by sea. Caution her that the Daltons should be consulted about this marriage, which, so far as I know, they have not been; and I would advise, also, seeing that there may be some interval before you can write again, that you should send her a check,—say for five hundred pounds.”
“So you can be equitable,-Grounsell,” cried the other, joyously.
“And here is a letter from Lord Norwood,” said Grounsell, not heeding the remark, and breaking the seal as he spoke. “Laconic, certainly. 'Let me have the enclosed by this evening.—N.' The enclosed are five acceptances for two hundred each; the 'value received' being his Lordship's services in upholding your son's honor. Now here, at least, Onslow, I 'll have my own way.” And, with these words, he seated himself at a table and wrote:——
“What have you said there, Grounsell? you look so self-satisfied, it can scarcely be over-civil.”
“There,——'To the Viscount Norwood'” said Grounsell, as he sealed and addressed the note. “We are getting through our work rapidly. In a week, or even less, if George's symptoms show nothing worse, we shall get away from this; and even on the sea one feels half as though it were England.”
We need not follow Grounsell through the busy days which ensued, nor track him in his various negotiations with tradespeople, bankers, house-agents, and that legionary class which are called “commissionaires.” Enough if we say that, in arranging for the departure of his friends, his impressions of Italian roguery received many an additional confirmation; and that, when the last day of their sojourn arrived, his firm conviction was that none but a millionnaire could afford to live in this the very cheapest capital of Europe!
And now they are gone! steaming calmly away across the Gulf of Genoa. They have closed the little episode of their life in Italy, and with heavy hearts are turning homeward. The great Mazzarini Palace looks sad and forlorn; nor do we mean to linger much longer on a scene whence the actors have departed.
Seated in the drawing-room where Lady Hester once held sway, in the very chair around which swarmed her devoted courtiers and admirers, Mrs. Ricketts now reclined, pretty much on the same terms, and with probably some of the same sentiments, as Louis Blanc or his friend Albert might have experienced on finding themselves domesticated within the Palace of the Luxembourg. They were, so to say, parallel circumstances. There had been a great reverse of fortune, an abdication, and a flight. The sycophants of the day before were the masters now, and none disputed the pretensions of any bold enough to assume dictation. To be sure, Mrs. Ricketts's rule, like Ledru Rollings, was but a provisional government; for already the bills for an approaching sale of everything were posted over the front of the palace, and Racca Morlache's people were cataloguing every article with a searching accuracy, very tormenting to the beholders.
From some confused impression that they were friends of Lady Hester, and that Mrs. Ricketts's health was in a precarious condition, Sir Stafford gave orders that they should not be molested in any way, but permitted to prolong their stay to the latest period compatible with the arrangement for sale. A sense of gratitude, too, mingled with these feelings; for Mrs. Ricketts had never ceased to indite euphuistic notes of inquiry after George himself,—send presents of impracticable compounds of paste and preserves, together with bottles of mixtures, lotions, embrocations, and liniments, one tithe of which would have invalided a regiment Gronnsell, it is true, received these civilities in a most unworthy spirit; called her “an old humbug,” with a very unpolite expletive annexed to it; and all but hurled the pharmacopoeia at the head of the messenger. Still, he had other cares too pressing to suffer his mind to dwell on such trifles; and when Onslow expressed a wish that the family should not be disturbed in their occupancy, he merely muttered, “Let them stay and be d——-d;” and thought no more of them.
Now, although the palace was, so to speak, dismantled, the servants discharged, the horses sent to livery for sale, the mere residence was convenient for Mrs. Ricketts. It afforded a favorable opportunity for a general “doing up of the Villino Zoe,”—a moment for which all her late ingenuity had not been able to provide. It opened a convenient occasion, too, for supplying her own garden with a very choice collection of flowers from the Mazzarini,—fuchsias, geraniums, and orchidae, being far beyond all the inventoriai science of Morlache's men; and lastly, it conferred the pleasing honor of dating all her despatches to her hundred correspondents from the Palazzo Mazzarini, where, to oblige her dear Lady Hester, she was still lingering,——“Se sacrificando” as she delighted to express it, “Jai doveri dell' amicizia.” To these cares she had now vowed herself a martyr. The General believed in her sorrows; Martha would have sworn to them; and not a whit the less sincerely that she spent hours in secreting tulip roots and hyacinths, while a deeper scheme was in perpetration,—no less than to substitute a copy of a Gerard Dow for the original, and thus transmit the genius of the Ricketts family to a late posterity. Poor Martha would have assisted in a murder at her bidding, and not had a suspicion of its being a crime!
It was an evening “at home to her few most intimate friends,” when Mrs. Ricketts, using the privilege of an invalid, descended to the drawing-room in a costume which united an ingenious compromise between the habit of waking and sleeping. A short tunic, a kind of female monkey-jacket, of faded yellow satin edged with swansdown, and a cap of the same material, whose shape was borrowed from that worn by the beef-eaters, formed the upper portion of a dress to which wide fur boots, with gold tassels, and a great hanging pocket, like a sabretasche, gave a false air of a military costume. “It was singular,” she would remark, with a bland smile, “but very becoming!” Besides, it suited every clime. She used to come down to breakfast in it at Windsor Castle. “The Queen liked it;” the Bey of Tripoli loved it; and the Hospodar of Wallachia had one made for himself exactly from the pattern. Her guests were the same party we have already introduced to our reader in the Villino Zoe,—Haggerstone, the Pole, and Foglass being the privileged few admitted into her august presence, and who came to make up her whist-table, and offer their respectful homage on her convalescence.
The Carnival was just over, the dull season of Lent had begun, and the Rickettses' tea-table was a resource when nothing else offered. Such was the argument of Haggerstone as he took a cheap dinner with Foglass at the Luna.
“She 's an infernal bore, sir,—that I know fully as well as you can inform me; but please to tell me who is n't a bore.” Then he added, in a lower voice, “Certainly it ain't you!”
“Yes, yes,——I agree with you,” said Foglass; “she has reason to be sore about the Onslows' treatment.”
“I said a bore, sir,—not sore,” screamed out Haggerstone.
“Ha!” replied the other, not understanding the correction. “I remember one day, when Townsend—”
“D——n Townsend!” said Haggerstone.
“No, not Dan,—Tom Townsend. That fellow who was always with Mathews.”
“Walk a little quicker, and you may talk as much balderdash as you please,” said the other, buttoning up his coat, and resolving not to pay the slightest attention to his companion's agreeability.
“Who is here?” asked Haggerstone, as he followed the servant up the stairs.
“Nobody but Count Petrolaffsky, sir.”
“Un Comte à bon compte,” muttered Haggerstone to himself, always pleased when he could be sarcastic, even in soliloquy. “They 'll find it no easy matter to get a tenant for this house nowadays. Florence is going down, sir, and will soon be little better than Boulogne-sur-Mer.”
“Very pleasant, indeed, for a month in summer,” responded Foglass, who had only caught up the last word. “Do you think of going there?”
“Going there!” shouted out the other, in a voice that made misconception impossible. “About as soon as I should take lodgings in Wapping for country air!”
This speech brought them to the door of the drawing-room, into which Haggerstone now entered, with that peculiar step which struck him as combining the jaunty slide of a man of fashion with the martial tread of an old soldier.
“Ha! my old adherents,——all my faithful ones!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, giving a hand to each to kiss; and then, in a voice of deep emotion, she said, “Bless you both! May peace and happiness be beneath your roof-trees! joy sit beside your hearth!”
Haggerstone reddened a little; for, however alive to the ludicrous in his neighbors, he was marvellously sensitive as to having a part in the piece himself.
“You are looking quite yourself again,” said he, bluntly.
“The soul, indeed, is unchanged; the spirit—”
“What's become of Purvis?” broke in Haggerstone, who never gave any quarter to these poetic flights.
“You 'll see him presently. He has been so much fatigued and exhausted by this horrid police investigation, that he never gets up till late. I 've put him on a course of dandelion and aconite, too; the first effect of which is always unpleasant.”
Leaving Foglass in conclave with the hostess, Haggerstone now approached the Count, who had for several times performed his toilet operation of running his hands through his hair, in expectation of being addressed.
“How d'ye do,——any piquet lately?” asked the Colonel, half cavalierly.
“As if I was tinking of piquet, wid my country in shains! How you can aske me dat?”
“What did you do with Norwood t'other night?” resumed the other, in a voice somewhat lower.
“Won four hundred and fifty,—but he no pay!”
“Nor ever will.”
“What you say?—not pay me what I wins!”
“Not a sou of it.”
“And dis you call English noblemans,—pair d'Angleterre!”
“Hush! Don't be carried away by your feelings. Some men Norwood won't pay because he does n't know them. There are others he treats the same way because he does know them,—very equitable, eh?”
The observation seemed more intelligible to the Pole than polite, for he bit his lip and was silent, while Haggerstone went on,——
“He 's gone, and that, at least, is a point gained; and now that these Onslows have left this, and that cur Jekyl, we may expect a little quietness, for a while, at least; but here comes Purvis.” And that worthy individual was led in on Martha's arm, a large green shade over his eyes, and his face plentifully sprinkled with flour.
“What's the matter with you, man? you 're 'got up' like a ghost in a melodrama.”
“They 've taken all the cuti-cuti-cuti—”
“Call it skin, sir, and go on.”
“Sk-skin off my face with a lin-liniment,” cried he, “and I could sc-scream out with pain whenever I speak!”
“Balm of marigolds, with the essential oil of crab-apple,” said Martha. “I made it myself.”
“I wish to Hea-Heaven you had tr-tried it, too,” whispered he.
“Brother Scroope, you are ungrateful,” said Mrs. Ricketts, with the air of a Judge, charging. “The vicissitudes of temperature, here, require the use of astringents. The excessive heat of that police-court—”
“By the way, how has that affair ended?” asked Haggerstone.
“I'll tell you,” screamed out Purvis, in a burst of eagerness. “They 've fi-fi-fiued me a hundred and f-f-fifty scadi for being w-where I never was, and fighting somebody I n-never saw.”
“You got off cheaply, sir. I 've known' a man sentenced to the galleys for less; and with a better character to boot,” muttered he to himself.
“Lord Norwood and the rest said that I was a pr-pr-principal, and he swore that he found me hiding in a cave.”
“And did he so?”
“Yes; but it was only out of curi-curi-curi—”
“Curiosity, sir, like other luxuries, must be paid for; and, as you seem a glutton, your appetite may be expensive to you.”
“The mystery remains unsolved as to young Onslow, Colonel?” said Mrs. Ricketts, half in question.
“I believe not, madam. The explanation is very simple. The gallant guardsman, having heard of Guilmard's skill, preferred being reported 'missing' to 'killed,' having previously arranged with Norwood to take his place. The price was, I fancy, a smart one,—some say five thousand, some call it ten. Whatever the amount, it has not been paid, and Norwood is furious.”
“But the accident?”
“As for that, madam, nothing more natural than to crack your skull when you lose your head.” And Haggerstone drew himself up with the proud consciousness of his own smartness.
“Then of course the poor young man is ruined?” observed Martha.
“I should say so, madam,—utterly ruined. He may figure on the committee of a Polish ball, but any other society would of course reject him.” This was said to obtain a sneer at Petrolaffsky, without his being able to guess why. “I believe I may say, without much fear of contradiction, that these Onslows were all humbugs! The old banker's wealth, my lady's refinement, the guardsman's spirit, were all in the same category,—downright humbugs!”
“How he hates us,—how he detests the aristocracy!” said Mrs. Ricketts, in a whisper to the Pole.
“And de Dalton——what of her?——is she millionnaire?” asked Petrolaffsky.
“The father a small shopkeeper in Baden, sir; children's toys, nut-crackers, and paper-knives being the staple of his riches. Foglass can tell you all about it. He wants to hear about those Daltons,” screamed he into the deaf man's ear.
“Poor as Job—has n't sixpence—lives 'three-pair back,' and dines for a 'zwanziger.' Lame daughter makes something by cutting heads for canes and umbrellas. He picks up a trifle about the hotels.”
“Ach Gott! and I was so near be in loaf wid de sister!” muttered the Pole.
“She is likely to d-d-do better, Count,” cackled in Purvis. “She caught her Tartar——ha, ha, ha!”
“Midchekoff doesn't mean marriage, sir, depend upon it,” said Haggerstone.
“Martha, leave the room, my dear,” said Mrs. Ricketts, bridling. “He could no more relish a pleasure without a vice than he could dine without caviare.”
“But they are be-be-betrothed,” cried Purvis. “I saw a letter with an account of the ceremony. Midchekoff fitted up a beautiful chapel at his villa, and there was a Greek priest came sp-epecial from M-M-M-Moscow—”
“I thought you were going to say from the moon, sir; and it would be almost as plausible,” croaked Haggerstone.
“I saw the letter. It was n't shown to me, but I saw it; and it was that woman from Breslau gave her away.”
“What! old Madame Heidendorf? She has assisted at a great many similar ceremonies before, sir.”
“It was the Emperor sent her on purpose,” cried Purvis, very angry at the disparagement of his history.
“In this unbelieving age, sir, I must say that your fresh innocence is charming; but permit me to tell you that I know old Caroline Meersburg,—she was sister of the fellow that stole the Archduke Michael's dress-sword at the Court ball given for his birthday. I have known her five-and-thirty years. You must have met her, madam, at Lubetskoy's, when he was minister at Naples, the year after the battle of Marengo.”
“I was wearing trousers with frills to them, and hunting butterflies at that time,” said Mrs. Ricketts, with a great effort at a smile.
“I have n't a doubt of it, madam.” And then muttered to himself, “And if childishness mean youth, she will enjoy a perpetual spring!”
“The ceremony,” resumed Purvis, very eager to relate his story, “was dr-droll enough; they cut off a——a——a lock of her hair and tied it up with one of his.”
“A good wig spoiled!” croaked Haggerstone.
“They then brought a b-b-b——”
“A baby, sir?”
“No, not a b-baby, a b-basin—a silver basin—and they poured water over both their hands.”
“A ceremony by no means in accordance with Russian prejudices,” chimed in Haggerstone. “They know far more of train-oil and bears' fat than of brown Windsor!”
“Not the higher nobility, Colonel,—not the people of rank,” objected Mrs. Ricketts.
“There are none such, madam. I have lived in intimacy with them all, from Alexander downwards. You may dress them how you please, but the Cossack is in the blood. Raw beef and red breeches are more than instincts with them; and, except the Poles, they are the dirtiest nation of Europe.”
“What you say of Polen?” asked Petrolaffsky.
“That if oil could smooth down the acrimony of politics, you ought to be a happy people yet, sir.”
“And we are a great people dis minet. Haven't we Urednfrskioctsch, de best general in de world; and Krakouventkay, de greatest poet; and Vladoritski, de most distinguish pianist?”
“Keep them, sir, with all their consonants; and Heaven give you luck with them,” said Haggerstone, turning away.
“On Tuesday—no, We-Wednesday next, they are to set out for St. P-P-Petersburg. And when the Emperor's leave is gr-granted, then Midchekoff is to follow; but not before.”
“An de tyrant no grant de leave,” said the Pole, gnashing his teeth and grasping an imaginary dagger in his wrath. “More like he send her to work in shains, wid my beautiful sisters and my faders.”
“He'll have more important matters to think of soon, sir,” said Haggerstone, authoritatively. “Europe is on the eve of a great convulsion. Some kings and kaisers will accept the Chiltern Hundreds before the year's out.”
“Shall we be safe, Colonel, here? Ought Martha and I—”
“Have no fears, madam; age commands respect, even from Huns and Croats. And were it otherwise, madam, where would you fly to? France will have her own troubles, England has the income-tax, and Germany will rake up some old grievance of the Hohenstaufen, or the Emperor Conrad, and make it a charge against Prince Metternich and the Diet! It's a very rascally world altogether, and out of Tattersall's yard I never expect to hear of honesty or good principles; and, à propos to nothing, let us have some piquet, Count.”
The table was soon got ready, and the players had just seated themselves, when the sound of carriage-wheels in the court attracted their attention.
“What can it mean, Scroope? Are you quite certain that you said I wouldn't receive to-night?”
“Yes; I told them what you b-bade me; that if the Archduke called——”
“There, you need n't repeat it,” broke in Mrs. Ricketts, for certain indications around Haggerstone's mouth showed the sense of ridicule that was working within him.
“I suppose, madam, you feel somewhat like poor Pauline, when she said that she was so beset with kings and kaisers she had never a moment left for good society?”
“You must say positively, Scroope, that I admit no one this evening.”
“The Signor Morlache wishes to see you, madam,” said a servant. And close behind him, as he spoke, followed that bland personage, bowing gracefully to each as he entered.
“Sorry—most sorry—madam, to intrude upon your presence; but the Prince Midchekoff desires to have a glance at the pictures and decorations before he goes away from Florence.”
“Will you mention to him that to-morrow, in the afternoon, about five or——”
“He leaves this to-morrow morning, madam; and if you could—”
But before the Jew could finish his request the door was flung wide, and the great Midchekoff entered, with his hands in his coat-pockets, and his glass in one eye. He sauntered into the room with a most profound unconsciousness that there were people in it. Not a glance did he even bestow on the living figures of the scene, nor did a trait of his manner evince any knowledge of their presence. Ranging his eyes over the walls and the ceilings, he neither noticed the martial attitude of Haggerstone, nor the graceful undulations by which Mrs. Ricketts was, as it were, rehearsing a courtesy before him.
“Originals, but all poor things, Morlache,” said the Prince. And really the observation seemed as though uttered of the company rather than the pictures.
“Mrs. Ricketts has been good enough, your Highness—” began the Jew.
“Give her a Napoleon,” said he, listlessly, and turned away.
“My sister, Mrs. Ricketts—Mrs. M-M-Montague Ricketts,” began Scroope, whose habitual timidity gave way under the extremity of provocation. And the Prince turned slowly round, and surveyed the speaker and the imposing form that loomed behind him.
“Tell them that I don't mean to keep any establishment here, Morlache.” And with this he strolled on, and passed into another room, while, like as in a tableau, the others stood speechless with rage and indignation.
“He took you for the housekeeper, ma'am,” said Haggerstone, standing up with his back to the fire——“and a housekeeper out of place!”
“Martha, where's the General? Where is he, I say?” cried Mrs. Ricketts, furious with passion.
“He went to bed at nine,” whispered Martha. “He thought, by rising early to-morrow, to finish the attack on Utrecht before night.”
“You are as great a fool as himself. Scroope, come here. You must follow that Russian. You must tell him the gross rudeness—”
“I'll be ha-ha-hanged if I do. I 've had enough of rows, for one winter at least. I 'll not get into another sc-scrape, if I can help it.”
“I 'm sorry, madam, that I cannot offer you my services,” said Haggerstone, “but I never meddle in a quarrel which can be made a subject of ridicule. Mr. Foglass, I 'm certain, has no such scruple.”
“The Prince appears a very agreeable man,” said the ex-Consul, who, not having the slightest notion of what was passing, merely followed his instincts of praising the person of high rank.
“De shains of my enslaved country is on my hands. I 'm tied like one galérien!” said Petrolaffsky, in a voice guttural with emotion.
“Your pardon once more, madam,” said Morlache, slipping into the chamber, and noiselessly approaching Mrs. Ricketts's chair. “The Prince will take everything,——pictures, plate, china, and books. I hope to-morrow, at noon, will not inconvenience you to leave this—”
“To-morrow! Impossible, sir. Perfectly impossible.”
“In that case, madam, we must make some arrangement as to rent. His Highness leaves all to me, and I will endeavor to meet your wishes in every respect. Shall we say two thousand francs a month for the present?” Without waiting for any reply, he turned to the Pole, and whispered, “He 'll take you back again. He wants a chasseur, to send to St. Petersburg. Come over to me in the morning, about ten. Mr. Foglass,” cried he, in a loud voice, “when you write to London, will you mention that the varnish on the Prince's drosky doesn't stand the cold of Russia, and that they must try some other plan with the barouche? Your brother is an ingenious fellow, and he 'll hit upon something. Colonel Haggerstone, the Prince did n't return your call. He says you will guess the reason when he says that he was in Palermo in a certain year you know of. I wish the honorable company good-night,” said he, bowing with a deference almost submissive, and backing out of the room as he spoke.
And with him we also take our leave of them. They were like the chance passengers we meet on the road of a journey, with whom we converse when near, and forget when we separate from. Were we not more interested for the actors than the scenes on which they “strut their hour,” we might yet linger a few moments on the spot so bound up with our memory of Kate Dalton,——the terrace where she sat, the little orangery where she loitered of a morning, the window where she read, and dreamed of that bright future, so much nearer to her grasp than she knew of! There they were all!—destined to feel new influences and know other footsteps, for she had left them forever, and gone forth upon her “Path” in life.