The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume I

“Come, George, let’s have something,” whispered Norwood, eagerly; for the vacant and unoccupied stare of Onslow continued to cause the Viscount the most intense anxiety. “These fellows are affecting to be devilish cool. Let us not be behindhand.” And, rather by force than mere persuasion, he dragged Onslow along, and entered the little parlor of the inn.

A large table, covered with the remains of an ample breakfast, stood in the middle of the room, and a dish of cutlets was placed to keep hot before the stove. Several loose sheets of paper lay scattered about the table, on which were scrawled absurd and ill-drawn caricatures of duels, in which attitudes of extravagant fear and terror predominated. Norwood glanced at them for a moment, and then contemptuously threw them into the fire.

“Sit down, George,” said he, placing a chair for the other; “and, if you cannot eat, at least take a ‘nip’ of brandy. Jekyl will be up, I suppose, in a few minutes. I told him to come with the doctor.”

“I never felt an appetite at this early hour,” said Onslow; “and perhaps the present is not the time to suggest one.”

“Did you remark Guilmard?” said Norwood, as he helped himself to a cutlet, and prepared his plate most artistically for a savory meal. “Did you observe him, George?”

“No; I never looked that way.”

“By Jove! he has got a tremendous scar on his cheek; the whole length, from the eye to the corner of his mouth. English knuckles do not certainly improve French physiognomy. A left-hander, eh?”

“I remember nothing about it,” said Onslow, carelessly.

“Well, you ‘ve left him a memorandum of the transaction, any way,” said the Viscount, as he ate on. “And you were talking about an apology awhile ago?”

“I was wishing that the case admitted of one,” said Onslow, calmly.

Norwood gave a sidelong glance at the speaker, and, although he said nothing, a gesture of angry impatience revealed what was passing within him.

“Do try that brandy. Well, then, take a glass of curacoa,” said he, pushing the bottle towards him.

“Something! anything, in fact, you would say, Norwood, that might serve to make my courage ‘carry the bead;’ but you are altogether mistaken in inc. It is not of myself I am thinking; my anxieties are. But what could you care, or even understand, about my motives? Finish your breakfast, and let us make an end of this affair.”

“In one minute more I’m your man; but if I have a weakness, it is for a plain roast truffle, with butter. It was a first love of mine, and, as the adage says, ‘only revient toujours.’ Were I in your shoes this morning, George, I ‘d not leave one on the dish.”

“On what principle, pray?” asked Onslow, smiling.

“On that of the old Cardinal, who, when his doctors pronounced his case hopeless, immediately ordered a supper of ortolans with olives. It was a grand opportunity to indulge without the terror of an indigestion; and a propos to such themes, where can our worthy doctor be all this time? The calessino was close up with us all the way.”

Leaving Norwood to continue his meal, George strolled out in quest of the surgeon, but none had seen nor knew anything of him. An empty calessino was standing on the roadside, but the driver only knew that the gentleman who came with him had got out there, and entered the park.

“Then we shall find him near the little lake,” said Norwood, coolly, as George returned, disappointed. “But it’s strange, too, that he should be alone. Jekyl was to have been with him. These foreigners ever insist upon two seconds on either side. Like the gambler that always is calling for fresh cards, it looks very like a suspicion of foul play. Go back, George, and see if the fellow knows nothing of Jekyl. You ‘ve only to name him, for every cab, cad, and barcaruolo of Florence is acquainted with Master Albert.”

George returned to the spot, but without any success. The man stated that he took his stand, as he was desired, at the gate of the palace, and that a little man, apparently somewhat elderly, came out and asked which way the others had gone, and how long before they had started. “See that you pick them up then,” said he, “but don’t pass them. He talked incessantly,” added the man, “the whole way, but in such bad Italian that I could make nothing of it, and so I answered at random. If I were tired of him, I fancy he was sick of me; and when he got out yonder, and passed into the park, it was a relief to us both.”

George was just turning away, when his eye caught a glimpse of the glorious landscape beneath, on which a freshly risen sun was shedding all its splendor. There are few scenes, even in Italy, more striking than the Val d’Arno around Florence. The beautiful city itself, capped with many a dome and tower, the gigantic castle of the Bargello, the graceful arch of the Baptistery, the massive facade of the Pitti, all, even to the lone tower on the hill where Galileo watched, rich in their storied memories; while on the gentle slope of the mountain stood hundreds of beauteous villas, whose very names are like spells to the imagination, and the Dante, the Alfieri, the Boccaccio, vie in interest with the sterner realities of the Medici, the Pazzi, the Salviati, and the Strozzi. What a flood of memory pours over the mind, to think how every orange-grove and terrace, how each clump of olives, or each alley of cedars, have witnessed the most intense passions, or the most glorious triumphs of man’s intellect or ambition, and that every spot we see has its own claim to immortality!

Not in such mood as this, however, did Onslow survey the scene. It was in the rapt admiration of its picturesque beauty. The glittering river, now seen and lost again, the waving tree-tops, the parterres of bright flowers, the stately palaces, whose terraces were shadowed by the magnolia, the oleander, and the fig, all made up a picture of rich and beautiful effect, and he longed to throw himself on the deep grass and gaze on it for hours. As he stood thus, unable to tear himself away, he heard the sharp cracking of a postilion’s whip immediately beneath him, and, on looking down, saw two heavily laden travelling-carriages, which all the power of eight horses to each could barely drag along against the steep ascent. A mounted courier in advance proclaimed that the travellers were persons of condition, and everything about the equipages themselves indicated wealth and station. As Onslow knew all who moved in a certain class in society, he was curious to see who was journeying northward so early in the year, and, stepping into a little copse beside the road, he waited for the carriages to pass.

They came slowly forward, now halting to “breathe” the weary horses, now struggling for a brief space against the hill, and at last, turning a sharp angle of the way, the first carriage drew short up, directly in front of where he stood. The panels bore the flaunting and pretentious arms of Prince Midchekoff, with many an armorial emblem, which, however tolerated in the rest of Europe, the Czar would not suffer within his own dominions. As George glanced at these, he started, for a well-known voice caught his ear, and, forgetting his desire of concealment, he leaned forward to listen. It was Kate was speaking; he could not hear the words, but the accents were her own. “Oh for one look at her, for the last time!” thought he; and dashed headlong through the copse towards where, by another bend, the road made a rapid turn upwards.

Already the horses had regained their wind, and were away at a brisk trot, as George tore onward through the closely interwoven branches and thick underwood of the grove. There was no path, nor, once out of sight or sound of the road, anything to guide him; but he dashed on, in the direction he supposed the carriage must take. At every step the way grew more intricate and difficult; the pits the peasants dig for chestnut leaves, the little heaps collected for firewood, intercepted him at each moment. With torn clothes and bleeding hands he still rushed madly, resolutely bent upon his object; and, with many a bruise and many a scar, at last gained the open country just in time to see the second carriage crowning the peak of the mountain above his head, while he could hear the sharp, clanking sound of the drag as they fastened it to the leading carriage. Any attempt to overtake them on the hill must now be hopeless. He well knew the pace at which a continental postilion descends a mountain, and how the steepest galleries of Alps and Apennines are often galloped down at speed. For miles below him he could see the winding zigzags of the road, and at each turning he fancied how he might catch sight of her. The mountain itself was terraced with vineyards from base to summit; but, from the steepness of its side, these terraces were but narrow strips of ground, barely sufficient for the vine-dresser to pass when tending his plants, or gathering in their produce. To look down on this giant stair, for such it seemed, was a giddy sensation, and few could have surveyed the precipitous descent without a sense of danger. Onslow’s thoughts, however, had but one object, to see Kate once, and for the last time. By a straight descent of the mountain, leaping from terrace to terrace, it was possible for him to reach the bottom before the carriages could traverse the winding course of the road; and no sooner was the thought conceived than he proceeded to execute it. It is difficult to convey to those who have never seen these terraced flights of earth a true notion of the peril of such an undertaking; but they who have beheld them will acknowledge that little short of utter recklessness could dare it. Less leaping than dropping from height to height, the slightest impulse will carry the footsteps beyond the edge of the terrace, and then all self-control is lost, and destruction, to every appearance, inevitable.

The youth whose nerves have been trained by the sports of fox-hunting and deer-stalking, however, is seldom unprepared for sudden danger; and George never hesitated when once the undertaking seemed practicable. By sidelong leaps he descended the first three or four terraces well and safely. Impressed with the risk of the exploit, he never turned his eyes from the spot whereon he meant to alight, and measured every bound with accuracy. Suddenly, however, his attention was caught by the postilion’s bugle sounding, several hundred feet below him, and, in a bend of the road, he saw the dust left by the fast-descending carriage. Forgetful of safety, of everything, save his object, he leaped at random, and with a tremendous bound cleared one terrace completely, and alighted on the one beneath it. The impulse drove him forwards, and ere he could recover, he was on the very verge of the cliff. Even yet his presence of mind might have rescued him, when the loose masonry gave way, and carried him down with it. He fell forwards, and headlong; the force of the descent carried him on, and now, half falling, half-struggling, he bounded from height to height, till, shattered, maimed, and bleeding, he rolled, an unconscious heap of clay, in the long grass of the valley.

Not fifty yards from where he lay, the carriages passed, and Kate even leaned from the window to gaze upon the winding glen, little thinking how terrible an interest that quiet scene was filled with. And so the equipages held their speed, and pressed onward; while, with a faint breathing, poor George lay, sleeping that dreamless slumber that seems a counterfeit of death.

END OF VOL. I.