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

“I’m sorry for it,” said she, peevishly, “for I shall have the more fatigue in going back again. There, you ‘re only making it worse. You never can learn that I don’t want to be propped up like an invalid. That will do; you may leave the room. Sir Stafford, would you be good enough to draw that blind a little lower? the sun is directly in my eyes. Dear me, how yellow you are! or is it the light in this horrid room? Am I so dreadfully bilious-looking?”

“On the contrary,” said he, smiling, “I should pronounce you in the most perfect enjoyment of health.”

“Oh, of course, I have no doubt of that. I only wonder you didn’t call it ‘rude health.’ I cannot conceive anything more thoroughly provoking than the habit of estimating one’s sufferings by the very efforts made to suppress them.”

“Sufferings, my dear? I really was not aware that you had sufferings.”

“I am quite sure of that; nor is it my habit to afflict others with complaint. I ‘m sure your friend, Mr. Grounsell, would be equally unable to acknowledge their existence. How I do hate that man! and I know, Stafford, he hates us. Oh, you smile, as if to say, ‘Only some of us; ‘but I tell you he detests us all, and his old school-fellow, as he vulgarly persists in calling you, as much as the others.”

“I sincerely hope you are mistaken.”

“Polite, certainly; you trust that his dislike is limited to myself. Not that, for my own part, I have the least objection to any amount of detestation with which he may honor me; it is the tribute the low and obscure invariably render the well-born, and I am quite ready to accept it; but I own it is a little hard that I must submit to the infliction beneath my own roof.”

“My dear Hester, how often have I assured you that you were mistaken; and that what you regard as disrespect to yourself is the roughness of an unpolished but sterling nature. The ties which have grown up between him and me since we were boys together ought not to be snapped for the sake of a mere misunderstanding; and if you cannot or will not estimate him for the good qualities he unquestionably possesses, at least bear with him for my sake.”

“So I should, so I strive to do; but the evil does not end there; he inspires everybody with the same habits of disrespect and indifference. Did you remark Clements, a few moments since, when I spoke to him about that cushion?”

“No, I can’t say that I did.”

“Why should you? nobody ever does trouble his head about anything that relates to my happiness! Well, I remarked it, and saw the supercilious smile he assumed when I told him that the pillow was wrong. He looked over at you, too, as though to say, ‘You see how impossible it is to please her’.”

“I certainly saw nothing of that.”

“Even Prichard, that formerly was the most diffident of men, is now so much at his ease, so very much at home in my presence, it is quite amusing. It was but yesterday he asked me to take wine with him at dinner. The anachronism was bad enough, but only fancy the liberty!”

“And what did you do?” asked Sir Stafford, with difficulty repressing a smile.

“I affected not to hear, hoping he would not expose himself before the servants by a repetition of the request. But he went on, ‘Will your Ladyship’ I assure you he said that ‘will your Ladyship do me the honor to drink wine with me?’ I merely stared at him, but never took any notice of his speech. Would you believe it? he returned to the charge again, and with his hand on his wine-glass, began, ‘I have taken the liberty’ I could n’t hear more; so I turned to George, and said, ‘George, will you tell that man not to do that?’”

Sir Stafford could not restrain himself any longer, but broke out into a burst of hearty laughter. “Poor Prichard,” said he, at last, “I almost think I see him before me!”

“You never think of saying, ‘Poor Hester, these are not the associates you have been accustomed to live with!’ But I could be indifferent to all these if my own family treated me with proper deference. As for Sydney and George, however, they have actually coventried me; and although I anticipated many sacrifices when I married, this I certainly never speculated upon. Lady Wallingcroft, indeed, warned me to a certain extent of what I should meet with; but I fondly hoped that disparity of years and certain differences, the fruits of early prejudices and habits, would be the only drawbacks on my happiness; but I have lived to see my error!”

“The event has, indeed, not fulfilled what was expected from it,” said Sir Stafford, with a slow and deliberate emphasis on each word.

“Oh, I comprehend you perfectly,” said she, coloring slightly, and for the first time displaying any trait of animation in her features. “You have been as much disappointed as I have. Just what my aunt Wallingcroft prophesied. ‘Remember,’ said she, and I ‘m sure I have had good cause to remember it, ‘their ideas are not our ideas; they have not the same hopes, ambitions, or objects that we have; their very morality is not our morality!’”

“Of what people or nation was her Ladyship speaking?” asked Sir Stafford, mildly.

“Of the City, generally,” replied Lady Hester, proudly.

“Not in ignorance, either,” rejoined Sir Stafford; “her own father was a merchant in Lombard Street.”

“But the family are of the best blood in Lancashire, Sir Stafford.”

“It may be so; but I remember Walter Crofts himself boasting that he had danced to warm his feet on the very steps of the door in Grosvenor Square which afterwards acknowledged him as the master; and as he owed his wealth and station to honest industry and successful enterprise, none heard the speech without thinking the better of him.”

“The anecdote is new to me,” said Lady Hester, superciliously; “and I have little doubt that the worthy man was merely embellishing an incident to suit the tastes of his company.”

“It was the company around his table, as Lord Mayor of London!”

“I could have sworn it,” said she, laughing; “but what has all this to do with what I wished to speak about if I could but remember what it was! These eternal digressions have made me forget everything.”

Although the appeal was palpably directed to Sir Stafford, he sat silent and motionless, patiently awaiting the moment when recollection might enable her to resume.

“Dear me! how tiresome it is! I cannot think of what I came about, and you will not assist me in the least.”

“Up to this moment you have given me no clew to it,” said Sir Stafford, with a smile. “It was not to speak of Grounsell?”

“Of course not. I hate even to think of him!”

“Of Prichard, perhaps?” he said, with a half-sly twinkle of the eye.

“Just as little!”

“Possibly your friend Colonel Haggerstone was in your thoughts?”

“Pray do not call him my friend. I know very little of the gentleman; I intend even to know less. I declined to receive him this morning, when he sent up his card.”

“An attention I fear he has not shown that poor creature he wounded, Grounsell tells me.”

“Oh, I have it!” said she, suddenly; the allusion to Hans at once recalling the Daltons, and bringing to mind the circumstances she desired to remember. “It was exactly of these poor people I came to speak. You must know, Sir Stafford, that I have made the acquaintance of a most interesting family here, a father and two daughters named Dalton.”

“Grounsell has already told me so,” interrupted Sir Stafford.

“Of course, then, every step I have taken in this intimacy has been represented in the most odious light. The amiable doctor will have, doubtless, imputed to me the least worthy motives for knowing persons in their station?”

“On the contrary, Hester. If he expressed any qualification to the circumstance, it was in the form of a fear lest the charms of your society and the graces of your manner might indispose them to return with patience to the dull round of their daily privations.”

“Indeed!” said she, superciliously. “A weak dose of his own acquaintance would be, then, the best antidote he could advise them! But, really, I must not speak of this man; any allusion to him is certain to jar my nerves, and irritate my feelings for the whole day after. I want to interest you about these Daltons.”

“Nothing more easy, my dear, since I already know something about them.”

“The doctor being your informant,” said she, snappishly.

“No, no, Hester; many, many years ago, certain relations existed between us, and I grieve to say that Mr. Dalton has reason to regard me in no favorable light; and it was but the very moment I received your message I was learning from Prichard the failure of an effort I had made to repair a wrong. I will not weary you with a long and a sad story, but briefly mention that Mr. Dalton’s late wife was a distant relative of my own.”

“Yes, yes; I see it all. There was a little love in the business, an old flame revived in after life; nothing serious, of course but jealousies and misconstructions to any extent. Dear me, and that was the reason she died of a broken heart!” It was hard to say if Sir Stafford was more amused at the absurdity of this imputation, or stung by the cool indifference with which she uttered it; nor was it easy to know how the struggle, within him would terminate, when she went on: “It does appear so silly to see a pair of elderly gentlemen raking up a difference out of an amourette of the past century. You are very fortunate to have so quiet a spot to exhibit in!”

“I am sorry to destroy an illusion so very full of amusement, Lady Hester; but I owe it to all parties to say that your pleasant fancy has not even the shadow of a color. I never even saw Mrs. Dalton; never have yet met her husband. The event to which I was about to allude, when you interrupted me, related to a bequest – ”

“Oh, I know the whole business, now! It was at your suit that dreadful mortgage was foreclosed, and these dear people were driven away from their ancient seat of Mount Dalton. I ‘m sure I ‘ve heard the story at least ten times over, but never suspected that your name was mixed up with it. I do assure you, Sir Stafford, that they have never dropped the most distant hint of you in connection with that sad episode.”

“They have been but just, Lady Hester,” said he, gravely. “I never did hold a mortgage over this property; still less exercised the severe right you speak of. But it is quite needless to pursue a narrative that taxes your patience so severely; enough to say, that through Prichard’s mediation I have endeavored to persuade Mr. Dalton that I was the trustee, under a will, of a small annuity on his life. He has peremptorily refused to accept it, although, as I am informed, living in circumstances of great poverty.”

“Poor they must be, certainly. The house is wretchedly furnished, and the girls wear such clothes as I never saw before; not that they are even the worn and faded finery of better days, but actually the coarse stuffs such as the peasants wear!”

“So I have heard.”

“Not even an edging of cheap lace round their collars; not a bow of ribbon; not an ornament of the humblest kind about them.”

“And both handsome, I am told?”

“The younger, beautiful! the deepest blue eyes in the world, with long fringed lashes, and the most perfect mouth you can imagine. The elder very pretty, too, but sad-looking, for she has a fearful lameness, poor thing! They say it came from a fall off a horse, but I suspect it must have begun in infancy; one of those dreadful things they call ‘spine.’ Like all persons in her condition, she is monstrously clever; carves the most beautiful little groups in boxwood, and models in clay and plaster. She is a dear, mild, gentle thing; but I suspect with all that infirmity of temper that comes of long illness at least, she is seldom in high spirits like her sister. Kate, the younger girl, is my favorite; a fine, generous, warm-hearted creature, full of life and animation, and so fond of me already.”

If Sir Stafford did not smile at the undue emphasis laid upon the last few words, it was not that he had not read their full significance.

“And Mr. Dalton himself, what is he like?”

“Like nothing I ever met before; the oddest mixture of right sentiments and wrong inferences; of benevolence, cruelty, roughness, gentleness; the most refined consideration, and the most utter disregard for other people and their feelings, that ever existed. You never can guess what will be his sentiments at any moment, or on any subject, except on the question of family, when his pride almost savors of insanity. I believe, in his own country, he would be nothing strange nor singular; but out of it, he is a figure unsuited to any landscape.”

“It is hard to say how much of this peculiarity may have come of adverse fortune,” said Sir Stafford, thoughtfully.

“I ‘m certain he was always the same; at least, it would be impossible to imagine him anything different. But I have not come to speak of him, but of his daughter Kate, in whom I am deeply interested. You must know, Sir Stafford, that I have formed a little plan, for which I want your aid and concurrence. It is to take this dear girl along with us to Italy.”

“Take her to Italy! In what position, Lady Hester? You surely never intended any menial station?”

“Of course not; a kind of humble friend what they call a ‘companion’ in the newspapers to have always with one. She is exactly the creature to dissipate low spirits and banish ennui, and, with the advantages of training and teaching, will become a most attractive girl. As it is, she has not been quite neglected. Her French accent is very pure; German, I conclude, she talks fluently, she plays prettily, at least, as well as one can judge on that vile tinkling old harpsichord, whose legs dance every time it is touched, and sings very pleasingly those little German ballads that are now getting into fashion. In fact, it is the tone of society that mannerism of the world she is deficient in more than anything else.”

“She certainly could not study in a better school than yours, Lady Hester; but I see some very great objections to the whole scheme, and without alluding to such as relate to ourselves, but simply those that regard the young lady herself. Would it be a kindness to withdraw her from the sphere wherein she is happy and contented, to mingle for a season or so in another and very different rank, contracting new habits of thought, new ideas, new associations, learning each day to look down upon that humble lot to which she must eventually return?”

“She need not return to it. She is certain to marry, and marry well. A girl with so many attractions as she will possess may aspire to a very high match indeed!”

“This is too hazardous a game of life to please my fancy,” said Sir Stafford, dubiously. “We ought to look every contingency in the face in such a matter as this.”

“I have given the subject the very deepest consideration,” replied Lady Hester, authoritatively. “I have turned the question over and over in my mind, and have not seen a single difficulty for which there is not an easy remedy.”

“Sydney certainly ought to be consulted.”

“I have done so already. She is charmed with the project. She sees, perhaps, how few companionable qualities she herself possesses, and anticipates that Miss Dalton will supply that place towards me that she is too indolent and too indifferent to fill.”

“How would the family receive such a proposition? They seem to be very proud. Is it likely that they would listen to a project of this nature?”

“There lies the only difficulty; nor need it be an insuperable one, if we manage cleverly. The affair will require delicate treatment, because if we merely invite her to accompany us, they will naturally enough decline an invitation, to comply with which would involve a costly outlay in dress and ornament, quite impossible in their circumstances. This must be a matter of diplomacy, of which the first step is, however, already taken.”

“The first step! How do you mean?”

“Simply, that I have already, but in the deepest confidence, hinted the possibility of the project to Kate Dalton, and she is wild with delight at the bare thought of it. The dear child! with what rapture she heard me speak of the balls, and fetes, and theatres of the great world! of the thousand fascinations society has in store for all who have a rightful claim to its homage, the tribute rendered to beauty, greater than that conceded to rank or genius itself! I told her of all these, and I showed her my diamonds!”

Sir Stafford made, involuntarily, a slight gesture with his hand, as though to say, “This last was the coup de grace.”

“So far, then, as Kate is concerned, she will be a willing ally; nor do I anticipate any opposition from her quiet, submissive sister, who seems to dote upon her. The papa, indeed, is like to prove refractory; but this must be our business to overcome.”

Lady Hester, who at the opening of the interview had spoken with all the listlessness of ennui, had gradually worked herself up to a species of ardor that made her words flow rapidly, a sign well known to Sir Stafford that her mind was bent upon an object that would not admit of gainsay. Some experience had taught him the impolicy of absolute resistance, and trained him to a tactic of waiting and watching for eventualities, which, whether the campaign be civil, military, or conjugal, is not without a certain degree of merit. In the present case there were several escape-valves. The Daltons were three in number, and should be unanimous. All the difficulties of the plan should be arranged, not alone to their perfect satisfaction, but without a wound to their delicacy. Grounsell was certain to be a determined opponent to the measure, and would, of course, be consulted upon it. And, lastly, if everything worked well and favorably, Lady Hester herself was by no means certain to wish for it the day after she had conquered all opposition.

These, and many similar reasons, showed Sir Stafford that he might safely concede a concurrence that need never become practical, and making a merit of his necessity, he affected to yield to arguments that had no value in his eyes.

“How do you propose to open the campaign, Hester?” asked he, after a pause.

“I have arranged it all,” said she, with animation. “We must visit the Daltons together, or better still you shall go alone. No, no; a letter will be the right thing, a very carefully written letter, that shall refute by anticipation every possible objection to the plan, and show the Daltons the enormous advantages they must derive from it.”

“As, for instance?” said Sir Stafford, with apparent anxiety to be instructed.

“Enormous they certainly will be!” exclaimed she. “First of all, Kate, as I have said, is certain to marry well, and will be thus in a position to benefit the others, who, poor things, can do nothing for themselves.”

“Very true, my dear, very true. You see all these things far more rapidly and more clearly than I do.”

“I have thought so long and so much about it, I suppose there are few contingencies of the case have escaped me; and now that I learn how you once knew and were attached to the poor girl’s mother – ”

“I am sorry to rob you of so harmless an illusion,” interrupted he, smiling; “but I have already said I never saw her.”

“Oh, you did say so! I forget all about it. Well, there was something or other that brought the families in relation, no matter what, and it must be a great satisfaction to you to see the breach restored, and through my intervention, too; for I must needs say, Sir Stafford, there are many women who would entertain a silly jealousy respecting one who once occupied the first place in their husband’s esteem.”

“Must I once more assure you that this whole assumption is groundless; that I never – ”

“Quite enough; more than I ask for, more than I have any right to ask for,” broke she in. “If you did not interrupt me, and pardon me if I say that this habit of yours is calculated to produce innumerable misconceptions, I say that, if I had not been interrupted, I would have told you that I regard such jealousies as most mean and unworthy. We cannot be the arbiters of our affections any more than of our fortunes; and if in early life we may have formed attachments imprudent attachments.” Here her Ladyship, who had unwittingly glided from the consideration of Sir Stafford’s case to that of her own, became confused and flurried, her cheek flushing and her chest heaving. She looked overwhelmed with embarrassment, and it was only after a long struggle to regain the lost clew to her discourse she could falteringly say, “Don’t you agree with me? I ‘m sure you agree with me.”

“I ‘m certain I should if I only understood you aright,” said he, good-naturedly, and by his voice and look at once reassuring her.

“Well, so far, all is settled,” said she, rising from her chair. “And now for this letter; I conclude the sooner it be done the better. When may we hope to get away from this dreary place?”

“Grounsell tells me, by Friday or Saturday next I shall be able for the journey.”

“If it had not been to provoke me, I ‘m certain he would have pronounced you quite well ten days ago.”

“You forget, Hester, my own sensations not to say sufferings could scarcely deceive me.”

“On the contrary, Dr. Clarus assured me there is nothing in the world so very deceptive; that pain is only referred to the diseased part by the brain, and has no existence whatever, and that there is no such thing as pain at all. He explained it perfectly, and I understood it all at the time. He is so clever, Dr. Clarus, and gives people such insight into the nature of their malady, that it really becomes quite interesting to be ill under his care. I remember when William, the footman, broke his arm, Clarus used to see him every day; and to show that no union, as it is called, could take place so long as motion continued, he would gently grate the fractured ends of the bone together.”

“And was William convinced of the no-pain doctrine?” cried Sir Stafford, his cheek flashing with momentary anger.

“The ignorant creature actually screamed out every time he was touched; but Clarus said it would take at least two centuries to conquer the prejudices of the common people.”

“Not improbable, either!” said Sir Stafford.

“Dear me, how very late it is,” cried she, suddenly; “and we dine at six!” And with a graceful motion of the hand, she said, “By-by!” and left the room.

CHAPTER XVI. THE “SAAL” OF THE “RUSSIE.”

HAS the observant reader ever remarked a couple of persons parading the deck of a ship at sea, walking step for step through half a day, turning with the same short jerk, to resume the same short path, and yet never interchanging a word, the rhythm of the footfall the only tie of companionship between them? They halt occasionally, too, to look over the bulwarks at some white sail far away, or some cloud-bank rising from the horizon; mayhap they linger to watch the rolling porpoises as they pass, or the swift nautilus as he glides along; but yet never a sound nor token of mutual intelligence escapes them. It is enough that they live surrounded by the same influences, breathe the same air, and step in the same time; they have their separate thoughts, wide, perhaps, as the poles asunder, and yet by some strange magnetism they feel there is a kind of sociality in their speechless intercourse.

From some such cause, perhaps, it was that Colonel Haggerstone and Jekyl took their accustomed walk in the dreary dining-room of the “Hotel de Russie.” The evening was cold and cheerless, as on that when first we met them there, a drifting rain, mingled with sleet, beat against the windows, and the wind, in mournful cadences, sighed along the dreary and deserted corridors. It was a comfortless scene within doors and without. A chance glance through the window, an occasional halt to listen when the thunder rolled louder and nearer, showed that, to a certain extent, the same emotions were common to each; but nothing else betrayed any community of sentiment between them, as they paced the room from end to end.

“English people come abroad for climate!” said Haggerstone, as he buttoned his collar tightly around his neck, and pressed his hat more firmly on his head. “But who ever saw the like of this in England?”

“In England you have weather, but no climate!” said Jekyl, with one of his little smiles of self-approval; for he caressed himself when he uttered a mot, and seemed to feel no slight access of self-satisfaction.