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