There is something of mediaeval look and air about the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, which gives it a peculiar interest to the traveller. The quaint little low shops on either side, all glittering with gold and gems; the gorgeous tiaras of diamonds; the richly enamelled cups and vases aside of the grotesque ornaments of peasant costume; the cumbrous ear-rings of stamped gold; the old-fashioned clasps and buckles of massive make; the chains fashioned after long-forgotten models; the strings of Oriental pearls, costly and rare enough for queens to wear, are all thrown about in a rich profusion, curiously in contrast to the humble sheds for they are little more that hold them.
The incessant roll of equipages,—the crowd and movement of a great city; the lingering peasant, gazing with rapturous eyes at the glittering wares; the dark Israelitish face that peers from within; the ever-flowing tide of population of every rank and age and country, giving a bustle and animation to the scene, so beautifully relieved by the view that opens on the centre of the bridge, and where, in a vacant space, the Arno is seen wending peacefully along, and scattering its circling eddies beneath the graceful arches of the “Santa Trinita,” that little glimpse of hill and vineyard and river, the cypress-clad heights of San Miniato, and the distant mountain of Vallombrosa, more beautiful far than all the gold Pactolus ever rolled, or all the gems that ever glittered on crown or coronet.
There was one stall at the end of the bridge so humble-looking and so scantily provided that no stranger was seen to linger beside it. A few coral ornaments for peasant wear, some stamped medals for pious use, and some of those little silver tokens hung up by some devout hands as votive offerings at a holy shrine, were all that appeared; while, as if to confirm the impression of the scanty traffic that went on, the massive door was barred and bolted like the portal of a prison. An almost erased inscription, unrenewed for nigh half a century, told that this was the shop of “Racca Morlache.”
There may have been much of exaggeration in the stories that went of the Jew's enormous wealth; doubtless many of the accounts were purely fabulous; but one fact is certain, that from that lowly roof went forth sums sufficient to maintain the credit of many a tottering state, or support the cost of warlike struggles to replace a dynasty. To him came the heads of despotic governments, the leaders of rebellious democracy, the Russian and the Circassian, the Carlist and the Cristino. To the proud champion of divine right, or the fearless promulgator of equality, to all he was accessible. Solvency and his profit were requirements he could not dispense with; but, for the rest, in what channel of future good and evil his wealth was to flow, whether to maintain a throne or sap its foundation, to uphold a faith or to desecrate its altars, to liberate a people or to bind their fetters more closely, were cares that sat lightly on his heart.
He might, with his vast means, have supported a style like royalty itself. There was no splendor nor magnificence he need have denied himself; nor, as the world goes, any society from which he should be debarred, gold is the picklock to the doors of palaces as of prisons; but he preferred this small and miserable habitation, which for above two centuries had never borne any other name than the “Casa Morlache.”
Various reasons were given out for a choice so singular; among others, it was said that the Grand-Duke was accustomed to visit the Jew by means of a secret passage from the “Pitti;” while some alleged that the secret frequenters of Morlache's abode all came by water, and that in the dark night many a boat skimmed the Arno, and directed its course to the last arch of the Ponte Vecchio. With these rumors we have no concern, nor with Morlache himself have we more than a passing business.
When Kate Dalton had driven up to the door, she had all but determined to abandon her intention. The arguments which in the morning had taken her by surprise seemed now weak and futile, and she was shocked with herself for even the momentary yielding to Jekyl's counsels. Her only doubt was whether to drive on without further halt, or leave some short message, to the effect that she had called but could not delay there. This seemed the better and more courteous proceeding; and while she was yet speaking to the dark-eyed, hook-nosed boy who appeared at the door, Jekyl came up.
“Be quick, Miss Dalton! Don't lose an instant,” said he. “Morlache is going to the palace, and we shall miss him.”
“But I have changed my mind. I have resolved not to accept this assistance. It is better far better that I should not.”
“It is too late to think of that now,” said he, interrupting, and speaking with some slight degree of irritation.
“How too late? What do you mean?”
“That I have already told Morlache the whole story, and obtained his promise for the loan.”
“Oh, sir! why have you done this?” cried she, in a voice of anguish.
“I had your free permission for it, Miss Dalton. When we parted this morning, the matter was fully agreed on between us; but still, if you desire to retract, your secret is in safe keeping. Morlache never betrays a confidence.”
“And he has heard my name!” cried she, in a broken, sobbing tone.
“Not for the first time, be assured. Even Croesus looked up from his ingots to ask if it were 'la belle Dalton;' and when I said 'Yes,' 'That's enough,' replied he; 'would that all my moneys had so safe investment!' But stay; there is Purvis yonder. He is pretending to examine an eye-glass in that shop opposite, but I see well that he is there only en vedette.”
“What shall I do?” exclaimed the poor girl, now torn by impulses and emotions the most opposite.
“One thing you must do at once,” said Jekyl; “get out of the carriage and visit two or three of the shops, as if in quest of some article of jewelry. His anxiety to learn the precise object of your search will soon draw him from his 'lair.'”
The decision of this counsel, almost like a command, so far imposed upon Kate that she at once descended, and took Jekyl's arm along the bridge. They had not gone many yards when the short, little, shuffling step of Purvis was heard behind them. Lingering to gaze at some of the splendid objects exposed for sale, they at last reached a very splendid stall, where diamonds, pearls, and rubies lay in heaps of gorgeous profusion. And now Purvis had stationed himself exactly behind them, with his head most artistically adjusted to hear everything that passed between them.
Jekyl seemed to feel his presence as if by an instinct, and without even turning his eye from the glass case, said, in a voice of some disparagement,
“All modern settings! very lustrous very brilliant, but not at all what we are looking for.”
Kate made no reply; for, while she had scruples about abetting a mere scheme, she was not the less eager to be free of the presence of the “Great Inquisitor.”
“That, perhaps,” said Jekyl, pointing to a magnificent cross of brilliants, “would not go ill with the necklace, although the stones are smaller. Say something, anything,” added he, in a lower tone; “the spell is working.”
“That is very handsome,” said Kate, pointing at a venture to an object before her.
“So it is,” said Jekyl, quickly. “Let us see what value they place upon it. Oh, here is Mr. Purvis; how fortunate! Perhaps in all Florence there is not one so conversant with all that concerns taste and elegance, and, as an old resident, happily exempt from all the arts and wiles played off upon our countrymen.”
“How d'ye do d'ye do?” cried Purvis, shaking hands with both. “You heard of the bl-bl-blunder I made last night about the Ar-Archduke?”
“Not a word of it,” replied Jekyl.
“I told him he was a-a-a fool,” cried Purvis, with a scream and a cackle that very constantly followed any confession of an impertinence.
“Meno male!” exclaimed Jekyl. “Even princes ought to hear truth sometimes; but you can help us here. Mr. Purvis, do you see that chatelaine yonder, with a large emerald pendant; could you ascertain the price of it for Miss Dalton? They'll not attempt to be extortionate upon you, which they would, assuredly, if she entered the shop.”
“To be sure; I'll do it with pl-pleasure. Who is it for?”
“That 's a secret, Mr. Purvis; but you shall hear it afterwards.”
“I guess al-ready,” said Scroope, with a cunning leer. “You 're going to be m-m-m-married, ain't you?”
“Mr. Purvis, Mr. Purvis, I must call you to order,” said Jekyl, who saw that very little more would make the scene unendurable to Kate.
“I hope it 's not an It-It-Italian fellow; for they 're all as poor as Laza-Laza-Laza—”
“Yes, yes, of course; we know that. Your discretion is invaluable,” said Jekyl; “but pray step in, and ask this question for us.”
“I'll tell who'll do better,” said Purvis, who, once full of a theme, never paid any attention to what was said by others. “Midche-Midche-Midche-k-k-off; he owns half of—”
“Never mind what he owns, but remember that Miss Dalton is waiting all this time,” said Jekyl, who very rarely so far lost command of his temper; and at last Purvis yielded, and entered the shop.
“Come now,” said Jekyl to his companion; “it will take him full five minutes to say 'chatelaine,' and before that we shall be safely housed.” And with these words he hurried her along, laughing, in spite of all her anxieties, at the absurdity of the adventure. “He 'll see the carriage when he comes out,” added he, “and so I 'll tell the coachman to drive slowly on towards the Pitti.” And thus, without asking her consent, he assumed the full guidance at once; and, ere she well knew how or why, she found herself within the dark and dusty precincts of Morlache's shop.
Jekyl never gave Kate much time for hesitation, but hurried her along through a narrow passage, from which a winding flight of stone steps led downwards to a considerable distance, and at last opened upon a neat little chamber on the level of the Arno, the window opening on the stream, and only separated from it by a little terrace, covered with geraniums in full flower. There was a strange undulating motion that seemed communicated from the stream to the apartment, which Jekyl at once explained to his companion as a contrivance for elevating and depressing the chamber with the changes in the current of the river; otherwise the room must have been under water for a considerable portion of the year. While he descanted on the ingenuity of the mechanism, and pointed attention to the portraits along the walls, the Kings and Kaisers with whom Morlache had held moneyed relations, the minutes slipped on, and Jekyl' s powers as a talker were called upon to speak against time, the figety nervousness of his manner, and the frequent glances he bestowed at the timepiece, showing how impatiently he longed for the Jew's arrival. To all Kate's scruples he opposed some plausible pretext, assuring her that, if she desired it, no mention should be made of the loan; that the visit might be as one of mere curiosity, to see some of those wonderful gems which had once graced the crowns of royalty; and that, in any case, the brief delay would disembarrass them on the score of Purvis, whose spirit of inquiry would have called him off in some other direction. At last, when now upwards of half an hour had elapsed, and no sound nor sight bore token of the Jew's coming, Jekyl resolved to go in search of him; and requesting Kate to wait patiently for a few minutes, he left the room.
At first, when she found herself alone, every noise startled and terrified her; the minutes, as she watched the clock, seemed drawn out to hours. She listened with an aching anxiety for Jekyl's return, while, with a sorrowing heart, she reproached herself for ever having come there. To this state of almost feverish excitement succeeded a low and melancholy depression, in which the time passed without her consciousness; the half-dulled sounds of the city, the monotonous plash of the stream as it flowed past, the distant cries of the boatmen as they guided their swift barks down the strong current, aiding and increasing a feeling that was almost lethargic. Already the sun had sunk below the hills, and the tall palaces were throwing their giant shadows across the river, the presage of approaching night, and still she sat there all alone. Jekyl had never returned, nor had any one descended the stairs since his departure. Twice had she shaken off the dreamy stupor that was over her, and tried to find the door of the chamber, but, concealed in the wainscoting, it defied her efforts; and now, worn out with anxiety and disappointed, she sat down beside the window, gazing listlessly at the water, and wondering when and how her captivity was to end.
The lamps were now being lighted on the quays, and long columns of light streaked the dark river. Across these a black object was seen to glide, and as it passed, Kate could perceive it was a boat that advanced slowly against the current, and headed up the stream. As she watched, it came nearer and nearer; and now she could hear distinctly the sound of voices talking in French. What, however, was her surprise when, instead of making for the centre arches of the bridge, the boat was vigorously impelled across the river, and its course directed towards the very place where she sat?
However painful her situation before, now it became downright agony. It was clear there were persons coming; in another moment she would be discovered, unable to explain by what course of events she had come there, and thus exposed to every surmise and suspicion that chance or calumny might originate. In that brief but terrible moment what self-accusings, what reproaches of Jekyl crossed her mind; and yet all these were as nothing to the misery which coming events seemed full of. For a second or two she stood irresolute, and then with something like an instinct of escape, she stepped out upon the little terrace that supported the flowers, and, trembling with fear, took her stand beneath the shadow of one of the great buttresses of the bridge. The frail and half-rotten timbers creaked and bent beneath her weight, and close under her feet rolled along the dark river, with a low and sullen sound like moaning. Meanwhile the boat came nearer, and slowly gliding along, was at last brought up at the window. Two figures passed into the chamber, and the boatmen, as if performing a long-accustomed task, rowed out a few lengths into the stream to wait.
From the window, which still remained open, a stream of light now issued, and Kate's quick hearing could detect the rustling sound of papers on the table.
“There they are,” said a voice, the first accents of which she knew to belong to the Abbe D'Esmonde. “There they are, Signor Morlache. We have no concealments nor reserve with you. Examine them for yourself. You will find reports from nearly every part of the kingdom; some more, some less favorable in their bearings, but all agreeing in the main fact, that the cause is a great one, and the success all but certain.”
“I have told you before,” said the Jew, speaking in a thick, guttural utterance, “that my sympathies never lead me into expense. Every solvent cause is good, every bankrupt one the reverse, in my estimation.”
“Even upon that ground I am ready to meet you. The committee—”
“Ay, who are the committee?” interrupted the Jew, hastily.
“The committee contains some of the first Catholic names of Ireland, men of landed fortune and great territorial influence, together with several of the higher clergy.”
“The bishops?”
“The bishops, almost to a man, are with us in heart; but their peculiar position requires the most careful and delicate conduct. No turn of fortune must implicate them, or our cause is lost forever.”
“If your cause be all you say it is, if the nationality be so strong, and the energies so powerful as you describe, why not try the issue, as the Italians and the Hungarians are about to do?” said Morlache. “I can understand a loan for a defined and real object, the purchase of military stores and equipment, to provide arms and ammunition, and I can understand how the lender, too, could calculate his risk of profit or loss on the issue of the struggle; but here you want half a million sterling, and for what?”
“To win a kingdom!” cried D'Esmonde, enthusiastically. “To bring back to the fold of the Church the long-lost sheep; and make Ireland, as she once was, the centre of holy zeal and piety!”
“I am not a pope, nor a cardinal, not even a monsignore,” said Morlache, with a bitter laugh. “You must try other arguments with me; and once more I say, why not join that party who already are willing to risk their lives in the venture?”
“Have I not told you what and who they are who form this party?” said D'Esmonde, passionately. “Read those papers before you. Study the secret reports sent from nearly every parish in the kingdom. In some you will find the sworn depositions of men on their death-beds, the last words their lips have uttered on earth, all concurring to show that Ireland has no hope save in the Church. The men who now stir up the land to revolt are not devoid of courage or capacity. They are bold, and they are able, but they are infidel. They would call upon their countrymen in the name of past associations, the wrongs of bygone centuries; they would move the heart by appeals, touching enough, Heaven knows, to the galling sores of serfdom, but they will not light one fire upon the altar; they will not carry the only banner that should float in the van of an Irish army. Their bold denouncings may warn some; their poetry will, perhaps, move others; but their prose and verse, like themselves, will be forgotten in a few years, and, save a few grassy mounds in a village churchyard, or a prisoner's plaint sent over the sea from a land of banishment, nothing will remain of Ireland's patriots.”
“England is too powerful for such assailants,” said the Jew.
“Very true; but remember that the stout three-decker that never struck to an enemy has crumbled to ruin beneath the dry rot,” said D'Esmonde, with a savage energy of manner. “Such is the case now. All is rot and corruption within her; pauperism at home, rebellion abroad. The nobles, more tolerant as the commonalty grows more ambitious; resources diminishing as taxation increases; disaffection everywhere, in the towns where they read, in the rural districts where they brood over their poverty; and lastly, but greatest of all, schism in the Church, a mutiny in that disorderly mass that was never yet disciplined to obedience. Are these the evidences of strength, or are they sure signs of coming ruin? Mark me,” said he, hurriedly, “I do not mean from all this that such puny revolt as we are now to see can shake powers like that of England. These men will have the same fate as Tone and Emmet, without the sympathy that followed them. They will fail, and fail egregiously; but it is exactly upon this failure that our hopes of success are based. Not a priest will join them. On the contrary, their scheme will be denounced from our altars; our flocks warned to stand aloof from their evil influence. Our bishops will be in close communication with the heads of the Government; all the little coquetries of confidence and frankness will be played off; and our loyalty, that's the phrase, our loyalty stand high in public esteem. The very jeers and insults of our enemies will give fresh lustre to our bright example, and our calm and dignified demeanor form the contrast to that rampant intolerance that assails us.”
“But for all this classic dignity,” said Morlache, sneeringly, “you need no money; such nobility of soul is, after all, the cheapest of luxuries.”
“You are mistaken, mistaken egregiously,” broke in D'Esmonde. “It is precisely at that moment that we shall require a strong friend behind us. The 'Press' is all-powerful in England. If it does not actually guide, it is the embodiment of public opinion, without which men would never clothe their sentiments in fitting phrase, or invest them with those short and pithy apothegms that form the watchwords of party. Happily, if it be great, it is venal; and although the price be a princely ransom, the bargain is worth the money. Fifty or a hundred thousand pounds, at that nick, would gain our cause. We shall need many advocates; some, in assumed self-gratulation over their own prescience, in supporting our claims in time past, and reiterating the worn assertion of our attachment to the throne and the constitution; others, to contrast our bearing with the obtrusive loyalty of Orangeism; and others, again, going further than either, to proclaim that, but for us, Ireland would have been lost to England; and had not our allegiance stood in the breach, the cause of rebellion would have triumphed.”
“And is this character for loyalty worth so much money?” said the Jew, slowly.
“Not as a mere empty name, not as a vain boast,” replied D'Esmonde, quickly; “but if the tree be stunted, its fruits are above price. Our martyrdom will not go unrewarded. The moment of peril over, the season of concessions will begin. How I once hated the word! how I used to despise those who were satisfied with these crumbs from the table of the rich man, not knowing that the time would come when we should sit at the board ourselves. Concession! the vocabulary has no one word I 'd change for it; it is conquest, dominion, sovereignty, all together. By concession, we may be all we strive for, but never could wrest by force. Now, my good Signor Morlache, these slow and sententious English are a most impulsive people, and are often betrayed into the strangest excesses of forgiveness and forgetfulness; insomuch that I feel assured that nothing will be refused us, if we but play our game prudently.”
“And what is the game?” said the Jew, with impatience; “for it seems to me that you are not about to strike for freedom, like the Hungarians or the Lombards. What, then, is the prize you strive for?”
“The Catholicism of Ireland, and then of England, the subjugation of the haughtiest rebel to the Faith, the only one whose disaffection menaces our Holy Church; for the Lutheranism of the German is scarce worth the name of enemy. England once Catholic, the world is our own!”
The enthusiasm of his manner, and the excited tones of his round, full voice seemed to check the Jew, whose cold, sarcastic features were turned towards the priest with an expression of wonderment.
“Let us come back from all this speculation to matter of plain fact,” said Morlache, after a long pause. “What securities are offered for the repayment of this sum? for, although the theme be full of interest to you, to me it has but the character of a commercial enterprise.”
“But it ought not,” said D'Esmonde, passionately. “The downfall of the tyranny of England is your cause as much as ours. What Genoa and Venice were in times past, they may become again. The supremacy of the seas once wrested from that haughty power, the long-slumbering energies of Southern Europe will awaken, the great trading communities of the Levant will resume their ancient place, and the rich argosies of the East once more will float over the waters of the tideless sea.”
“Not in our time, Abbe, not in our time,” said the Jew, smiling.
“But are we only to build for ourselves?” said D'Esmonde. “Was it thus your own great forefathers raised the glorious Temple?”
The allusion called up but a cold sneer on the Israelite's dark countenance, and D'Esmonde knew better than to repeat a blow which showed itself to be powerless.
A tap at the door here broke in upon the colloquy, and Jekyl's voice was heard on the outside.
“Say you are engaged, that you cannot admit him,” whispered D'Esmonde. “I do not wish that he should see me here.”
“A thousand pardons, Morlache,” said Jekyl, from without; “but when I followed you to the 'Pitti,' I left a young lady here, has she gone away, or is she still here?”
“I never saw her,” said Morlache. “She must have left before I returned.”
“Thanks, good-bye,” said Jekyl; and his quick foot was heard ascending the stairs again.
“The night air grows chilly,” said the Abbe, as he arose and shut the window; and the boatmen, mistaking the sound for a summons to approach, pulled up to the spot.
With a sudden spring Kate bounded into the boat, while yet some distance off, and hurriedly said, “To the stairs beside the Santa Trinita.”
The clink of money, as she took out her purse, made the brief command intelligible, and they shot down the stream with speed.
“Do not speak of me,” said she, covering her face with her kerchief as she stepped from the boat; and a gold Napoleon enforced the caution.
It was now night, the lamps were all lighted, and the streets crowded by that bustling throng of population whose hours of business or pleasure commence when day has closed. A thin drizzling rain was falling, and the footway was wet and muddy. Dressed in the height of fashion, all her attire suited to a carriage, Kate set out to walk homeward, with a heart sinking from terror. Many a time in her condition of poverty, with patched and threadbare cloak, had she travelled the dark road from Lichtenthal to Baden after nightfall, fearless and undismayed, no dread of danger nor of insult occurring to her happy spirit, the “Gute nacht” of some homeward-bound peasant the only sound that saluted her. But now, she was no longer in the secluded valley of the great Vaterland; her way led through the crowded thoroughfares of a great city, with all its crash and noise and movement.
If, in her wild confusion, she had no thought for each incident of the morning, her mind was full of “self-accusings.” How explain to Lady Hester her long absence, and her return alone and on foot? Her very maid, Nina, might arraign her conduct, and regard her with distrust and suspicion. How should she appear in Jekyl's eyes, who already knew her secret? and, lastly, what answer return to her poor father's letter, that letter which was the cause of all her misfortunes?
“I will tell him everything,” said she to herself, as she went along. “I will detail the whole events of this morning, and he shall see that my failure has not come of lukewarmness. I will also strive to show him the nature of my position, and let him know the full extent of the sacrifice he would exact from me. If he persist, what then? Is it better to go back and share the poverty I cannot alleviate?
“But what alternative have I? Jekyl's flatteries are but fictions. Would I wish them to be otherwise? Alas, I cannot tell; I do not even know my own heart now. Oh for one true-hearted friend to guide and counsel me!” She thought of George Onslow, rash, impetuous, and ardent; she thought of the priest, D'Esmonde, but the last scene in which he figured made her shrink with terror from the man of dark intrigues and secret wiles. She even thought of poor Hanserl, who, in all the simplicity of his nature, she wished to have that moment beside her. “But he would say, 'Go back; return to the humble home you quitted; put away all the glittering gauds that are clinging to and clasping your very heart. Take, once more, your lowly place at hearth and board, and forget the bright dream of pleasure you have passed through.' But how forget it? Has it not become my hope, my very existence? How easy for those who have not tasted the intoxicating cup, to say, 'Be cool of heart and head!' Nor am I what I was. How then go back to be that which I have ceased to be? Would that I had never left it! Would that I could live again in the dreamland of the poets that we loved so well, and wander with dearest Nelly through those forest glades, peopled with the creations of Uhland, Tieck, and Chammisso! What a glorious world is theirs, and how unlike the real one!”
Thus, lost in thoughts conflicting and jarring with each other, mingling the long past with the distant future, hoping and fearing, now seeking self-persuasion here, now controverting her own opinions there, she walked hurriedly on, unconscious of the time, the place, and even the rude glances bestowed upon her by many who gazed at her with an insolent admiration. What an armor is innocence! how proof against the venomed dart of malice? Kate never knew the ordeal through which she was passing. She neither saw the looks nor heard the comments of those that passed. If her mind ever turned from the throng of thoughts that oppressed it, it was when some momentary difficulty of the way recalled her to herself; for, as she escaped from the smaller streets, the crowd and crash increased, and she found herself borne along as in a strong current.
“Does this lead to the Piazza Annunziata?” asked she of a woman at a fruit-stall.
“Tell her, Giacomo,” said the woman to a youth, who, with a water-melon in his hand, lay at full length on the pavement.
“Per Baccho! but she 's handsome!” said he, holding up the paper lantern to gaze at her. And Kate hurried on in terror.
LADY HESTER ONSLOW had passed a day of martyrdom. There was scarcely a single contrariety in the long catalogue of annoyances which had not fallen to her share. Her servants, habitually disciplined to perfection, had admitted every bore of her acquaintance, while, to the few she really wished to see, admittance had been denied. The rumor of an approaching departure had got wind through the servants, and the hall and the courtyard were crowded with creditors, duns, and begging impostors of every age and class and country. It seemed as if every one with a petition or a bill, an unsatisfied complaint or an unsettled balance, had given each other a general rendezvous that morning at the Mazzarini Palace.
It is well known how the most obsequious tradespeople grow peremptory when passports are signed and posthorses are harnessed. The bland courteousness with which they receive “your Ladyship's orders” undergoes a terrible change. Departure is the next thing to death. Another country sounds like another world. The deferential bashfulness that could not hint at the mention of money, now talks boldly of his debt. The solvent creditor, who said always “at your convenience,” has suddenly a most pressing call “to make up a large sum by Saturday.”
All the little cajoleries and coquetries, all the little seductions and temptations of trade, are given up. The invitations to buy are converted into suggestions for “cash payment.” It is very provoking and very disenchanting! From a liberal and generous patron, you suddenly discover yourself transformed into a dubious debtor. All the halo that has surrounded your taste is changed for a chill atmosphere of suspicion and distrust. The tradesfolk, whose respectful voices never rose above a whisper in the hall, now grew clamorous in the antechamber; and more than once did they actually obtrude themselves in person within those charmed precincts inhabited by Lady Hester.
What had become of Miss Dalton? where could she be all this while? Had not Mr. Jekyl called? what was he about that he had not “arranged” with all these “tiresome creatures”? Was there no one who knew what to do? Was not Captain Onslow, even, to be found? It was quite impossible that these people could be telling the truth; the greater number, if not all of them, must have been paid already, for she had spent a world of money latterly “somehow.” Ce'lestine was charged with a message to this effect, which had a result the very opposite to what it was intended; and now the noisy tongues and angry accents grew bolder and louder. Still none came to her rescue; and she was left alone to listen to the rebellious threatenings that murmured in the courtyard, or to read the ill-spelled impertinences of such as preferred to epistolize their complaints.
The visitors who found their way to the drawing-room had to pass through this motley and clamorous host; and, at each opening of the door, the sounds swelled loudly out.
More than once she bethought her of Sir Stafford; but shame opposed the resolution. His liberality, indeed, was boundless; and therein lay the whole difficulty. Were the matter one for discussion or angry remonstrance, she could have adventured it without a dread. She could easily have brought herself to confront a struggle, but was quite unequal to an act of submission. Among the numerous visitors who now thronged the salons, Lord Norwood, who had just returned from his shooting excursion in the Maremma, was the only one with whom she had anything like intimacy.
“I am but a poor counsellor in such a case,” said he, laughing. “I was never dunned in my life, personally, I mean, for I always take care not to be found; and as to written applications, I know a creditor's seal and superscription as well as though I had seen him affix them. The very postmark is peculiar.”
“This levity is very unfeeling at such a moment,” said Lady Hester, angrily; “and when you see me so utterly deserted, too!”
“But where 's Jekyl? He ought to know how to manage this!”
“He has never been here since morning. His conduct is inexcusable!”
“And George?”
“Out the whole day!”
“And the 'Dalton'? for she has rather a good head, if I don't mistake her.”
“She took the carriage into town, and has not returned.”
“By Jove! I'd write a line to Sir Stafford; I 'd tell him that I was going for change of ah—, and all that sort of thing, to Como for a week or two, and that these people were so pestering and pressing, and all that; that, in fact, you were worried to death about it; and finding that your means were so very limited—”
“But he has been most liberal. His generosity has been without bounds.”
“So much the better; he'll come down all the readier now.”
“I feel shame at such a course,” said she, in a weak, faint voice.
“As I don't precisely know what that sensation is, I can't advise against it; but it must needs be a very powerful emotion, if it prevent you accepting money.”
“Can you think of nothing else, Norwood?”
“To be sure I can—there are twenty ways to do the thing. Close the shutters, and send for Buccellini; be ill dangerously ill and leave this to-morrow, at daybreak; or give a ball, like Dashwood, and start when the company are at supper. You lose the spoons and forks, to be sure; but that can't be helped. You might try and bully them, too though perhaps it 's late for that; and lastly and, I believe, best of all raise a few hundreds, and pay them each something.”
“But how or where raise the money?”
“Leave that to me, if it must be done. The great benefactor of mankind was the fellow that invented bills. The glorious philanthropist that first devised the bright expedient of living by paper, when bullion failed, was a grand and original genius. How many a poor fellow might have been rescued from the Serpentine by a few words scrawled over a five-shilling stamp! What a turn to a man's whole earthly career has been often given, as his pen glided over the imaginative phrase 'I promise to pay'!”
Lady Hester paid no attention to the Viscount's moralizings. Shame indignant shame monopolized all her feelings.
“Well,” said she, at last, “I believe it must be so. I cannot endure this any longer. Jekyl has behaved shamefully; and George I 'll never forgive. They ought to have taken care of all this. And now, Norwood, to procure the money what is to be done?”
“Here 's the patent treasury for pocket use the 'Young Man's Best Companion,'” said he, taking out of a black morocco case three or four blank bill-stamps, together with a mass of acceptances of various kinds, the proceeds of various play debts, the majority of which he well knew to be valueless. “What amount will be sufficient, how much shall we draw for?” said he, seating himself, pen in hand, at the table.
“I cannot even guess,” said she, trembling with embarrassment and confusion. “There are all these people's accounts and letters. I suppose they are all horrid cheats. I 'm sure I never got half the things, and that the rest are already paid for. But no matter now; let us have done with them at any cost.”
“'Morlandi, coachmaker' pretty well for Signer Morlandi!” said Norwood “eleven hundred scudi for repairs to carriages for destroying your patent axles, and replacing English varnish by the lacquer of a tea-tray something less than two hundred and fifty pounds!”
“He is an obliging creature,” said Lady Hester, “and always punctual.”
“In that case we 'll deal generously with him. He shall have half his money, if he gives a receipt in full.”
“'Legendre, coiffeur; eight thousand francs.' Pas mal, Monsieur Legendre! kid gloves and perfumes, Madonna bands and Macassar oil, are costly things to deal in.”
“That is really iniquitous,” said Lady Hester. “I see every bouquet is put down at a hundred francs!”
“A conservatory, at that rate, is better property than a coal-mine. Shall we say one thousand francs for this honest coiffeur?”
“Impossible! He would scorn such an offer.”
“Pardon me. I know these people somewhat better and longer than you do; and so far even from suffering in his estimation if that were a matter of any consequence you will rise in his good opinion. An Italian always despises a dupe, but entertains a sincere respect for all who detect knavery. I 'll set him down for one thousand, to be increased to fifteen hundred if he'll tell me how to cut down his neighbor, Guercini.”
“What of Guercini? How much is his claim?”
“A trifle under five thousand crowns.”
“Nearly one thousand pounds!” exclaimed she. “Say, rather, eleven hundred and upwards,” said Norwood.
“It is incredible how little I've had from him: a few trifling rings and brooches; some insignificant alterations and new settings; one or two little presents to Kate; and, I really believe, nothing more.”
“We are getting deeper and deeper,” said Norwood, turning over the bills. “Contardo, the wine-merchant, and Frisani, table-decker, are both large claimants. If pine-apples were the daily food of the servants' hall, they could scarcely cut a more formidable figure in the reckoning, indeed, if the whole establishment did nothing but munch them during all their leisure hours, the score need not be greater. Do you know, Hester, that the rogueries of the Continent are a far heavier infliction than the income-tax, and that the boasted economy of a foreign residence is sensibly diminished by the unfortunate fact that one honest tradesman is not to be found from Naples to the North Pole? They are Spartans in deceit, and only disgraced whenever the rascality is detected. Now, it is quite absurd to read such an item as this: 'Bonbons and dried fruits, three hundred and seventy crowns!' Why, if your guests were stuffed with marrons glaces, this would be an exaggeration.”
“You are very tiresome, Norwood,” said she, peevishly. “I don't want to be told that these people are all knaves; their character for honesty is no affair of mine; if it were, Buccellini could easily mesmerize any one of them and learn all his secrets. I only wish to get rid of them, it 's very distressing to hear their dreadful voices, and see their more dreadful selves in the court beneath.”
“The task is somewhat more difficult than I bargained for,” said Norwood, thoughtfully. “I fancied a few 'hundreds' would suffice, but we must read 'thousands' instead. In any case, I 'll hold a conference with them, and see what can be done.”
“Do so, then, and lose no time, for I see Midchekoff s chasseur below, and I 'm sure the Prince is coming.”
Norwood gave her a look which made her suddenly become scarlet, and then left the room without speaking.
If he had not been himself a debtor with the greater number of those who waited below, few could have acquitted themselves more adroitly in such a mission. He was an adept in that clever game by which duns are foiled and tradesmen mollified; he knew every little menace and every flattery to apply to them, when to soothe and when to snub them. All these arts he was both ready and willing to exercise, were it not for the unpleasant difficulty that his own embarrassments rendered him a somewhat dubious ambassador. In fact, as he himself phrased it, “it was playing advocate with one leg in the dock.”
He lingered a little, therefore, as he went; he stopped on the landing of the stairs to peep out on the tumultuous assemblage beneath, like a general surveying the enemy's line before the engagement; nor was he over-pleased to remark that little Purvis was bustling about among the crowd, note-book and pencil in hand, palpably taking evidence and storing up facts for future mention. As he was still looking, the great gate was thrown open with a crash, and a caleche, dirty and travel-stained, was whirled into the court by three steaming and panting posters. After a brief delay, a short, thick-set figure, enveloped in travelling-gear, descended, and putting, as it seemed, a few questions as to the meaning of the assembled throng, entered the house.
Curious to learn who, what, and whence the new arrival came, Norwood hurried downstairs; but all that he could learn from the postilion was that the stranger had posted from Genoa, using the greatest speed all the way, and never halting, save a few minutes for refreshment. The traveller was not accompanied by a servant, and his luggage bore neither name nor crest to give any clew as to his identity. That he was English, and that he had gone direct to Sir Stafford's apartments, was the whole sum of the Viscount's knowledge; but even this seemed so worthy of remark that he hastened back with the tidings to Lady Hester, instead of proceeding on his errand.
She treated the announcement with less interest. It might be Proctor, Sir Stafford's man. Was he tall and black-whiskered? No, he was short; and, so far as Norwood saw, he thought him fair-haired. “She knew of nobody to bear that description. It might be an English physician from Genoa, there was one there, or in Nice, she forgot exactly which, who was celebrated for treating gout, or sore eyes, she could not remember precisely, but it was certainly one or the other. On recollection, however, it was probably gout, because he had attended Lord Hugmore, who was blind.”
“In that case,” said Norwood, “Onslow would seem to be worse.”
“Yes, poor man, much worse. George sat up with him the night before last, and said he suffered terribly. His mind used to wander at intervals, too, and he spoke as if he was very unhappy.”
“Unhappy, a man with upwards of thirty thousand a year unhappy!” said Norwood, clasping his hands over his head as he spoke.
“You forget, my Lord, that there are other considerations than moneyed ones which weigh at least with some persons; and if Onslow's fortune be a princely one, he may still feel compunctious regrets for his detestable conduct to me!”
“Oh, I forgot that!” said Norwood, with a most laudable air of seriousness.
“It was very kind of you, my Lord, very considerate and very kind, indeed, to forget it. Yet I should have fancied it was the very sentiment uppermost in the mind of any one entering this chamber, witnessing the solitary seclusion of my daily life, beholding the resources by which the weary hours are beguiled, not to speak of the ravages which sorrow has left upon these features.”
“On that score, at least, I can contradict you, Hester,” said he, with a smile of flattering meaning. “It is now above eight years since first—”
“How can you be so tiresome?” said she, pettishly.
“Prince Midchekoff, my Lady, presents his compliments,” said a servant, “and wishes to know if your Ladyship will receive him at dinner to-day, and at what hour?”
“How provoking! Yes, say, 'Yes, at eight o'clock,'” said she, walking up and down the room with impatience. “You 'll stay and meet him, Norwood. I know you 're not great friends; but no matter, George is so uncertain. He left us t' other day to entertain the Prince alone, Kate and myself, only fancy; and as he takes half-hour fits of silence, and Kate occasionally won't speak for a whole evening together, my part was a pleasant one.”
“How Florence wrongs you both!” said Norwood. “They say that no one is more agreeable to your Ladyship than the Midchekoff,” said he, slowly and pointedly.
“As Miss Dalton's admirer, I hope rumor adds that,” said she, hastily.
“What? are you really serious? Has the Dalton pretensions?”
“Perhaps not; but the Prince has,” interrupted Lady Hester. “But you are forgetting these people all the while. Do pray do something anything with them; and don't forget us at eight o'clock.” And with this Lady Hester hurried from the room, as if admonished by her watch of the lateness of the hour, but really anxious to escape further interrogatory from the Viscount.
When Norwood reached the court, he was surprised to find it empty; not one of the eager creditors remained, but all was still and silent.
“What has become of these good people?” asked he of the porter.
“The stranger who arrived in the caleche awhile ago spoke a few words to them, and they went.”
This was all that he knew, and being a porter, one of that privileged caste whose prerogative it is never to reveal what takes place before their eyes, his present communication was remarkable.
“Would that the good genius had remembered me in his moment of generous abandonment!” muttered Norwood, as he took his road homeward to dress for dinner.
Little scrupulous about the means of getting out of a difficulty, provided it were only successful, Norwood scarcely bestowed another thought upon the whole matter, and lounged along the streets, as forgetful of the late scene as though it had passed twenty years before.
As the Viscount strolled along towards his lodgings, Kate Dalton, with trembling limbs and palpitating heart, threaded her way through the thronged streets, now wet and slippery from a thin rain that was falling. So long as her road lay through the less-frequented thoroughfares, her appearance excited little or no attention in the passers-by; but when she entered the Piazza Santa Trinita, all ablaze with gas-lamps and the reflected lights from brilliant shops, many stopped, turned, and gazed at the strange sight of a young and beautiful girl, attired in the very height of fashion, being alone and afoot at such an hour. Unaccountable even to mystery, as it seemed, there was something in her gait and carriage that at once repelled the possibility of a disparaging impression, and many touched or removed their hats respectfully as they made way for her to pass. To avoid the carriages, which whirled past in every direction and at tremendous speed, she passed close along by the houses; and, in doing so, came within that brilliant glare of light that poured from the glass doors of the great Cafe of the Piazza. It was exactly the hour when the idle loungers of Florence society that listless class who form the staple of our club life in England were swarming to talk of the plans of the evening, what resources of pleasure were available, and what receptions were open. The drizzling rain, and the cold, raw feeling of the air prevented their being seated, as their custom was, before the doors, where in every attitude of graceful languor they habitually smoked their cigars and discussed the passersby, in all the plenitude of recreative indolence. The group consisted of men of every age and country.
There were princes and blacklegs and adventurers; some with real rank and fortune, others as destitute of character as of means. Many owned names great and renowned in history; others bore designations only chronicled in the records of criminal jurisprudence. All were well dressed, and, so far as cursory notice could detect, possessed the ease and bearing of men familiar with the habits of good society. Although mixing in very distinct circles, here, at least, they met every day on terms of familiar equality, discussing the politics of the hour and the events of the world with seeming frankness and candor.
From a small chamber at the back of the cafe, a little tide of loungers seemed to ebb and flow; while the sharp rattling sound of a dice-box indicated the nature of the occupation that went forward there. The small apartment was thronged with spectators of the game; and even around the door several were standing, content to hear the tidings of a contest they could not witness.
“To sit upon the Ponte Carraja, and chuck rouleaux of gold into the Arno, would be to the full as amusing, and not a more costly pastime,” said a sharp, ringing voice, which, once heard, there was no difficulty in recognizing as Haggerstone's.
“But Onslow plays well,” said another.
“When he's in luck, sir,” said the Colonel. “Let him always have the winning horse to ride, and I don't say he 'll lose the saddle; but Maraffi would win on a donkey.”
“Is he a Russian?” asked one.
“No, sir, he 's worse; he 's a Greek. I know everything about him. His mother was a Finlander, and the father a Cephalonian. I don't think Satan himself would ask a better parentage.”
“What luck! By Jove! I never saw such luck!” said a voice from within the door. “Onslow has no chance with him.”
“Nor will you, sir, if you persist in expressing your opinion in English,” said Haggerstone. “Maraffi speaks every language, plays every game, and knows the use of every weapon, from a jereed to a Joe Manton.”
“I 'll not test his abilities at any of them,” said the other, laughing.
“Per Baccho!there goes something new,” said a young Italian, from the window that looked into the street. “Who's she?”
“Diantre!” said the old Duc de Parivaux. “That is something very exquisite, indeed. She was splashed by that carriage that passed, and I just saw her foot.”
“She's the prima donna from Milan.”
“She 's the Cipriani. I know her figure perfectly.”
“She 's very like the Princesse de Raoule.”
“Taller, and younger.”
“And fifty times handsomer. What eyes! By Jove! I wish the drosky would never move on! She is regularly imprisoned there.”
“You are very ungallant, gentlemen, I must say,” said the young Count de Guilmard, the French secretary of legation, who, having finished his coffee and liquor, coolly arranged his curls beneath his hat before the glass, “very ungallant, indeed, not to offer an arm to an unprotected princess. We Frenchmen understand our devoirs differently.” And, so saying, he passed out into the street, while the rest pressed up closer to the window to observe his proceedings.
“Cleverly done, Guilmard!” cried one. “See how he affects to have protected her from the pole of that carriage.”
“She 'll not notice him.” “She will.” “She has.” “She has n't.” “She is moving his way!” “Not at all.”
“She 's speaking!” “There, I told you he 'd succeed.”
“But he hasn't, though.” Amid all these phrases, which rattled on more rapidly than we can write them, Onslow joined the party, one heavy venture on a single card having involved him in a tremendous loss.
“Is that a countrywoman of yours, Onslow?” asked a young Russian noble. “If so, the entente cordiale with France seems scarcely so secure as statesmen tell us.”
Onslow gave one glance through the window, and dashed into the street with a bound like the spring of a wild animal. He threw himself between Guilmard and Kate. The Frenchman lifted his cane, and the same instant he fell backwards upon the pavement, rather hurled than struck down by the strong arm of the young Guardsman. Before the lookers-on could hasten out, George had hailed a carriage, and, assisting Kate in, took his seat beside her, and drove off.
So sudden was the whole incident, and so engrossing the terror of poor Kate's mind, that she saw nothing of what passed, and was merely conscious that by George's opportune coming she was rescued from the insolent attentions of the stranger.
“Did he speak to you? Did he dare to address you?” asked Onslow, in a voice which boiling passion rendered almost unintelligible.
“If he did, I know not,” said she, as she covered her face with shame, and struggled against the emotion that almost choked her.
“He took your arm; he certainly laid hold of your hand!”
“It was all so rapid that I can tell nothing,” said she, sobbing; “and although my courage never failed me till you came, then I thought I should have fainted.”
“But how came you alone, and on foot, and at such an hour, too? Where had you been?”
These questions he put with a sort of stern resolution that showed no evasive answer would rescue her.
“Did you leave home without a carriage, or even a servant?” asked he again, as no answer was returned to his former question.
“I did take a carriage in the morning; and and—”
“Sent it away again,” continued George, impetuously. “And where did you drive to, where pass the day?”
Kate hung her head in silence, while her heart felt as if it would burst from very agony.
“This is no idle curiosity of mine, Miss Dalton,” said he, speaking with a slow and measured utterance. “The society you have mixed with here is not above any reproach nor beneath any suspicion. I insist upon knowing where you have been, and with whom? So, then, you refuse to speak, you will not tell. If it be Lady Hester's secret—”
“No, no! The secret is mine, and mine only. I swear to you, by all we both believe in, that it has no concern with any one save myself.”