As we draw near to the end of our voyage, we feel all the difficulty of collecting the scattered vessels of our convoy; and while signalizing the “clippers” to shorten sail, we are calling on the heavy sailers to crowd “all their canvas.”
The main interest of our story would keep us beside Frank Dalton, whose fate seemed daily to vacillate,——now threatening gloomily, now rallying into all the brightness of hope. By slow and cautious journeys the old Count proceeded to remove him to Vienna, where he expected soon to-be joined by Kate. Leaving them, then, to pursue their road by steps far too slow for our impatience, we hasten along with D'Esmonde, as, with all the speed he could accomplish, he made for Florence.
Occasionally he tried to amuse himself and divert his thoughts by conversing with Meekins, who accompanied him; but although the man's shrewdness was above the common, and his knowledge of the world very considerable, D'Esmonde quickly saw that a thick cloak of reserve covered the real man on all occasions, and that his true nature lay many a fathom deep below that smooth surface. The devout respect which he felt for the Abbé might, perhaps, have increased this reserve; for Meekins was an Irish peasant, and never forgot the deference due to a priest.
Accustomed to read men at sight, D'Esmonde would give himself no trouble in deciphering a page which promised little to reward the labor; and so, after a while, he left his companion to occupy the “box,” while he himself followed his own thoughts alone and undisturbed. Now and then he would be aroused from his deep reveries by remarking the reverential piety of the peasants as they passed some holy shrine or some consecrated altar. Then, indeed, Meekins displayed a fervor so unlike the careless indifference of the native, that D'Esmonde was led to reflect upon the difference of their natures, and speculate on how far this devotion of character was innate in the Irishman, or merely the result of circumstances.
There was an expression of eager, almost painful meaning, too, in the man's face as he muttered his prayers, that struck the keen eyes of the Abbé; and he could not avoid saying to himself, “That fellow has a load upon his heart. Fear, and not hope, is the mainspring of his devotions.” At another moment D'Esmonde might have studied the case as a philosopher studies a problem,—merely for the exercise it may give his faculties,—but his own cares were too pressing and too numerous for more than a passing notice.
The night was falling as they gained the crest of the mountain over Florence; D'Esmonde stopped the carriage on the hill above the “Moskova,” and gazed steadily for some moments on the spot. The villa, partly shrouded in trees, was brilliantly illuminated; the lights gleamed and sparkled through the foliage, and, as he listened, the sound of rich music came floating on the air.
“This looks little like seclusion,” thought he. “These are signs of some great festivity.” As he drew up to the gate, however, he found it closed and locked. Not a carriage was to be seen. Even the usual lamps were unlighted, and all appeared deserted and unoccupied. D'Esmonde stood for a few seconds buried in thought; his emotion was deep and heartfelt; for, as he grasped the iron bars of the gate, his strong frame shook and trembled. “True—true!” muttered he to himself in an accent of almost bursting agony,—“I could not have given thee this, Lola, and for this alone hadst thou any heart!” He leaned his face against the gate, and sobbed heavily. “What poison,” cried he, in a voice of bitterness,—“what poison there must be in unholy passion, when it can move a heart like mine, after years and years of time! To think that not all the glory of a great cause, all the pride of successful ambition, striving for rewards the very highest,—all that I possess of power and influence,—all, all should give way to the grief for a half-forgotten, unreturned love! How poor a thing the heart is, when we fancy its desires to be noblest and highest!”
This burst of passionate grief over, he slowly returned to the carriage and pursued his way to Florence; and, entering the city, he drove for the house of Racca Morlache. The Jew was not at home, but was to return by eleven o'clock, at which hour he had ordered supper for a guest and himself. D'Esmonde lay down on a sofa, and fell asleep. Wearied as he was, his watchfulness soon detected the approach of footsteps; and, as he listened, he heard the voice of a stranger in colloquy with the servant. The door opened at the same time, and Lord Norwood entered. D'Esmonde only waited for the servant to retire, when he sprang forward to salute him.
“Oh! I thought you were at the camp, or at Vienna, or somewhere to the north'ard,” said the Viscount, coolly.
“I was so, my Lord; and there I should have remained, if a pressing duty had not recalled me to Florence.”