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

As he spoke, George Onslow appeared, and recognizing the party with much cordiality, conducted them to the breakfast-room, where Sir Stafford, Lady Hester, and Miss Onslow were seated. If Sydney’s reception of the two sisters was less enthusiastic than Lady Hester’s, it was not less kind. Nelly was won almost instantaneously by the unaffected ease and simplicity of her manner. As for Dalton himself, her Ladyship had determined to carry him by storm. She suffered him to declaim about his ancestors and their wealth; heard him with assumed interest in all his interminable stories of Dal tons for six generations; and artfully opposed to his regrets at the approaching departure of his daughter the ingenious consolation that she was not about to sojourn with mere strangers, but with those united to her by the ties of kindred. George had, meanwhile, made two or three efforts to engage Kate in conversation; but, whether from the preoccupation of her mind, agitated as it well might be at such a moment, or that his topics were so utterly new and strange to her, his attempt was not attended with any signal success. A sense of shame, too, at the disparity of her own and her sister’s appearance, in contrast with the quiet elegance of Lady Hester and Miss Onslow’s dress, oppressed her. Strange was it that this feeling should have agitated her now, she who always hitherto had never wasted a thought on such matters, and yet she felt it acutely; and as she glanced from the rustling robe of silk to the folds of her own homely costume, her heart beat painfully, and her breathing came short. Was she already changed, that thoughts tike these could impress her so strongly? Had Adam’s first shame descended to his daughter? “How unlike I am to them!” was the bitter thought that rose to her mind, and ate like a cancer into her heart.

The sense of inferiority, galling and torturing as it is, becomes infinitely more unendurable when connected with matters of trivial importance. There is a sense of indignant anger in the feeling that we are surpassed by what seem the mere conventionalities and tricks of society, and although Kate knew not the source of her unhappiness, some of it lay in this fact. Every little gesture, every motion, the merest peculiarities of voice or accent, now struck her as distinctive of a class, a class to which no imitation would ever give her a resemblance. If it were not for very shame, she would have drawn back now at the eleventh hour. More than once was she on the verge of confessing what was passing within her mind; but fears of various kinds, of her father’s anger, of ridicule, of the charge of frivolity, all conspired to keep her silent, and she sat and listened to descriptions of pleasure and scenes wherein she had already lost every interest, and which somehow came associated with a sense of her own inferiority.

Never did home seem so regrettable as in that moment: the humble fireside in winter; the happy evenings with little Hanserl; the summer’s day rambles in the forest; their little feasts beside the waterfall, under the ivy-clad walls of Eberstein, all rose before her. They were pleasures which had no alloy in her own humble lot, and why desert them? She had almost gained courage to say that she would not, when a chance word caught her ear one word how little to hang a destiny upon! It was Lady Hester, who, conversing in a half-whisper with Mr. Dalton, said,

“She will be perfectly beautiful when dressed becomingly.”

Was this, then, all that was needed to give her the stamp and semblance of the others? Oh, if she could believe it! If she could but fancy that, at some future time, such graceful elegance should be her own, that gentle languor, that chastened quietude of Sydney, or that sparkling lightness of Lady Hester herself!

“What time de horses, saar?” said the courier, popping his head into the room.

“I scarcely know what do you say, Lady Hester?”

“I ‘m quite ready this instant if you like indeed, I ‘m always the first,” said she, gayly; “nobody travels with less preparation than I do. There, see all I want!” and she pointed to a fan, and a book, and a smelling-bottle, as if all her worldly effects and requirements went no further, and that four great imperials and a dozen capacious boxes were not packed with her wardrobe. “I do detest the worry and fuss some people make about a journey for a week, or even a month beforehand; they unsettle themselves and every one around them; putting under lock and key half the things of every-day utility, and making a kind of ‘jail-delivery’ of all the imprisoned old cloaks and dresses of the toilet. As for me, I take the road as I ‘d go to the Opera, or drive out in the Park I ask for my bonnet, that’s all.”

There was some truth in this. Her Ladyship did, in fact, give herself not a whit more thought or consideration for preparation of any kind, than if the excursion had been a promenade.

“It is now two o’clock,” said Sir Stafford, “and if we mean to reach Offenburg to-night we must not lose more time. Isn’t it Offenburg you advise as our halt, Mr. Jekyl?”

“Yes, Sir Stafford,” simpered out that bland personage. “It is a most comfortable little inn, and a very praiseworthy cook.”

“By the bye, has any one thought of ordering luncheon here?” cried George.

Jekyl gave a nod, to intimate that he had taken that precaution.

“And, Mr. Jekyl,” said Lady Hester, “what of those bullfinches, for I must have them?”

“They are safely caged and packed in our britzska, madam. You ‘ll also find that your sketch-book and the water-colors are available at any moment, Miss Onslow,” said he, with a respectful gesture. She smiled, and bowed her thanks in silence.

“And de horses, saar?” asked the courier once more, for during this colloquy he had been standing in expectation of his orders.

“Do tell him, Mr. Jekyl,” said Lady Hester, with that tone of languor that bespoke her dislike to the trouble of even a trifling degree of resolution.

“I think we shall say in one hour, Gregoire,” said Jekyl, mildly. “And, perhaps, it would be better that you should see – ” What this matter was that the courier should bestow his special attention upon is not on record in this history, inasmuch as that when the speaker had reached thus far, he passed out of the door, talking as he went, in a low and confidential voice.

“Capital fellow Jekyl!” exclaimed George; “he forgets nothing.”

“He appears to be a most accomplished traveller,” said Sir Stafford.

“And such a linguist!” said Sydney.

“And so amusing!” added my Lady.

“And such a rogue!” muttered Dalton to himself, who, although so open to any imposition that took the form of flattery, could at once detect the knavery that was practised upon others, and who, at a glance, read the character of the new acquaintance.

“Don’t you like the stir and excitement of the road, my dear child?” said Lady Hester to Kate, who, with very red eyes and very pale cheeks, stood in a window to avoid being observed. “There is something so adventurous about a journey always. One may be robbed, you know, or the carriage upset, as happened to ourselves t’ other day; or mistaken for somebody else, and carried off to prison. It gives such a flurry to the spirits to think of these things, and a life of monotony is so very detestable.”

Kate tried to smile an assent, and Lady Hester ran on in the same strain, extolling the delights of anything and everything that promised an excitement. “You know, my dear child, that this little place has almost been the death of me,” added she. “I never was so bored in all my life; and I vow I shall detest a mill and a pine-forest to the last day I live. If it had not been for you and your sweet sister, I do not know what we should have clone; but it ‘s all over now. The dreary interval is passed, and when we turn the foot of that hill yonder, we shall have seen the last of it.”

Kate’s heart was almost bursting as she heard these words. To speak thus of the little valley would have been a profanation at any time, but to do so now, when she was about to leave it, when she was about to tear herself away from all the ties of love and affection, seemed an actual cruelty.

“Small places are my aversion,” continued Lady Hester, who, when satisfied with her own talk, never cared much what effect it was producing upon others. “One grows down insensibly to the measure of a petty locality, with its little interests, its little people, and its little gossip don’t you think so, dear?”

“We were so happy here!” murmured Kate, in a voice that a choking fulness of her throat almost stifled.

“Of course you were, child, very happy; and it was very good of you to be so. Yes, very good and very right.” Here Lady Hester assumed a peculiar tone, which she always put on whenever she fancied that she was moralizing. “Natural amiability of disposition, and all that sort of thing, is very nice indeed; but there ‘s luncheon, I see, and now, my dear, let us take our places without loss of time. George, will you give your arm to Miss Dalton? Mr. Dalton but where ‘s Mr. Dalton?”

“Papa has taken him with him to his dressing-room,” answered Sydney, “but begged you’d not wait; they’ll be back presently.”

“No lady does wait at luncheon,” said Lady Hester, snappishly, while, drawing Kate’s arm within her own, she led her into the adjoining room.

The party had scarcely seated themselves at table when they were joined by Jekyl. Indeed, Lady Hester had only time to complain of his absence when he appeared; for it was a trick of that gentleman’s tact merely to make himself sufficiently regretted not to be blamed. And now he came to say that everything was ready, the postilions in the saddle, the carriages drawn up before the door, the relays all been ordered along the road, the supper bespoken for the end of the journey. These pleasant facts he contrived to season with a running fire of little gossip and mimicry, in which the landlord, and Gregoire, and Mademoiselle Celestine were the individuals personated.

Never were Mr. Jekyl’s peculiar abilities more in request; for the moment was an awkward and embarrassing one for all, and none, save himself, were able to relieve its seriousness. Even Nelly smiled at the witty sallies and playful conceits of this clever talker, and felt almost grateful to him for the momentary distraction he afforded her from gloomier thoughts. With such success did he exert himself, that all the graver sentiments of the occasion were swallowed up in the pleasant current of his small-talk, and no time given for a thought of that parting which was but a few minutes distant. Sir Stafford and Mr. Dalton were not sorry to discover the party in this pleasant humor, and readily chimed in with the gayety around them.

The bugle of the postilions at length announced that “time was up,” and the half-hour, which German politeness accords to leave-taking, expired. A dead silence succeeded the sound, and, as if moved by the same instinctive feeling, the two sisters arose and withdrew into a window. Close locked in each other’s arms, neither could speak. Kate’s thick sobs came fast and full, and her heart beat against her sister’s side as though it were bursting. As for Nelly, all that she had meant to say, the many things she had kept for the last moment, were forgotten, and she could but press the wet cheek to her own, and murmur a tremulous blessing.

“Oh, if I could but remain with you, Nelly dearest,” sobbed Kate; “I feel even already my isolation. Is it too late, sister dear, is it too late to go back?”

“Not if this be not a sudden impulse of sorrow for parting, Kate; not if you think you would be happier here.”

“But papa! how will he – what will he – ”

She had not time for more, when her father joined them. A certain flurry of his manner showed that he was excited by talking and wine together. There was that in the expression of his features, too, that betokened a mind ill at ease with itself a restless alternating between two courses.

“‘Tis you are the lucky girl, Kate,” said he, drawing his arm around her, and pressing her to him. “This day’s good luck pays me off for many a hard blow of fortune. They ‘re kind people you are going with, real gentry, and our own blood into the bargain.”

A thick heavy sob was all the answer she could make.

“To be sure you’re sorry; why would n’t you be sorry, leaving your own home and going away among strangers? and ‘t is I am sorry to let you go.”

“Are you so, dearest papa? Are you really sorry to part with me? Would you rather I ‘d stay behind with you and Nelly?” cried she, looking up at him with eyes swimming in tears.

“Would it, is it?” said he, eagerly, as he kissed her forehead twice; then, suddenly checking himself, he said, in an altered voice, “but that would be selfish, Kate, nothing else than downright selfish. Ask Nelly, there, if that’s my nature? Not that Nelly will ever give me too good a character!” added he, bitterly. But poor Ellen neither heard the question nor the taunt; her mind was travelling many a long mile away in realms of dreary speculation.

“I ‘m sorry to interrupt a moment like this,” said Sir Stafford, “but I believe I must take you away, Miss Dalton; our time is now of the shortest.”

One fond and long embrace the sisters took, and Kate was led away between Sir Stafford and her father, while Nelly went through a round of leave-takings with the others in a state of semi-consciousness that resembled a dream. The courteous flatteries of Lady Hester fell as powerless on her ear as the rougher good wishes of Grounsell. George Onslow’s respectful manner was as unnoticed as the flippant smartness of Albert Jekyl’s. Even Sydney’s gentle attempt at consolation was heard without heeding; and when one by one they had gone and left her alone in that dreary room, she was not more aware of her solitude than when they stood around her.

Couriers and waiters passed in and out to see that nothing had been forgotten. Doors were slammed on every side, loud voices were calling, all the turmoil of a departure was there; but she knew nothing of it. Even when the loud cracking of the postilions’ whips echoed in the courtyard, and the quick clatter of horses’ feet and heavy wheels resounded through the arched doorway, she was still unmoved; nor did she recover full liberty of thought till her father stood beside her, and said, “Come, Nelly, let us go home.”

Then she arose, and took his arm without a word. She would have given her life to have been able to speak even a few words of comfort to the poor old man, whose cheeks were wet with tears, but she could not utter a syllable.

“Ay, indeed,” muttered he, “it will be a dreary home now.”

Not another word was spoken by either as they trod their way along the silent streets, over which the coming gloom of evening threw a mournful shadow. They walked, with bent-down heads, as if actually fearing to recognize the objects that they had so often looked upon with her, and, slowly traversing the little Platz, they gained their own door. There they halted, and, from habit, pulled the bell. Its little tinkle, heard in the stillness, seemed suddenly to recall them both to thought; for Dalton, with a melancholy smile, said,

“‘T is old Andy is coming now! ‘T is n’t her foot I hear! Oh, Nelly, Nelly, how did you ever persuade me to this! Sure, I know I ‘ll never be happy again!”

Nelly made no answer. The injustice of the speech was well atoned for in her mind by the thought that, in shifting the blame from himself to her, her father might find some sort of consolation; well satisfied to become the subject of his reproach if the sacrifice could alleviate his sorrow.

“Take that chair away; throw it out of the window,” cried he, angrily. “It breaks my heart to look at it.” And with this he leaned his head upon the table, and sobbed like a child.

CHAPTER XX. A VERY SMALL “INTERIOR.”

IN one of the most favored spots of that pleasant quay which goes by the name of the Lungo l’Arno, at Florence, there stood a small, miserable-looking, rickety old building, of two stories high, wedged in between two massive and imposing palaces, as though a buffer to deaden the force of collision. In all probability it owed its origin to some petty usurpation, and had gradually grown up, from the unobtrusive humility of a cobbler’s bulk, to the more permanent nuisance of stone and mortar. The space occupied was so small as barely to permit of a door and a little window beside it, within which hung a variety of bridles, halters, and such-like gear, with here and there the brass-mounted harnessing of a Calasina, or the gay worsted tassels and fringed finery of a peasant’s Barroccino. The little spot was so completely crammed with wares, that for all purposes of traffic it was useless; hence, everything that pertained to sale was carried on in the street, thus contributing by another ingredient to the annoyance of this misplaced residence. Threats, tyranny, bribery, seductions of twenty kinds, intimidation in as many shapes, had all failed in inducing its owner to remove to another part of the town. Gigi every one in Florence is known by his Christian name, and we never heard him called by any other resisted oppressions as manfully as he was proof against softer influences, and held his ground, hammering away at his old “demi-piques,” burnishing bits and scouring housings, in utter indifference to the jarred nerves and chafed susceptibilities of his fine neighbors. It was not that the man was indifferent to money. It was not that the place was associated with any family reminiscences. It was not from its being very favorable to the nature of his dealings, since his chief customers were usually the frequenters of the less fashionable localities. It was the simple fact that Gigi was a Florentine, and, like a Florentine, he saw no reason why he should n’t have the sun and the Arno as well as the Guiciardoni, who lived at his right, or the Rinuncini, who dwelt on his left hand.

Small and contracted as that miserable frontage was, the sun did shine upon it just as pleasantly as on its proud neighbors, and the bright Arno glided by with its laughing ripples; while, from the little window above stairs, the eye ranged over the cypress-clad hill of San Miniato and the fair gardens of the Boboli. On one side lay the quaint old structure of the Ponte Vecchio, with its glittering stores of jewelry, and on the other the graceful elliptic arches of St. Trinita spanned the stream. The quay before the door was the chosen rallying-point of all Florence; the promenade where lounged all its fashionables of an evening, as they descended from their carriages after the accustomed drive in the Cascini. The Guardie Nobili passed daily, in all their scarlet bravery, to and from the Pitti Palace; the Grand Ducal equipage never took any other road. A continual flow of travellers to the great hotels on the quay contributed its share of bustle and animation to the scene; so that here might be said to meet, as in a focus, all that made up the life, the stir, and the movement of the capital.

Full of amusement and interest as that morning panorama often is, our object is less to linger beside it, than, having squeezed our way between the chaotic wares of Gigi’s shop, to ascend the little, dark, and creaking stairs which lead to the first story, and into which we now beg to introduce our reader. There are but two rooms, each of them of the dimensions of closets, but furnished with a degree of pretension that cannot fail to cause amazement as you enter. Silk draperies, carved cabinets, bronzes, china, chairs of ebony, tables of buhl, a Persian rug on the floor, an alabaster lamp suspended from the ceiling, miniatures in handsome frames, and armor, cover the walls; while, scattered about, are richly bound books, and prints, and drawings in water-color. Through the half-drawn curtain that covers the doorway for there is no door you can peep into the back room, where a lighter and more modern taste prevails; the gold-sprigged curtains of a French bed, and the Bohemian glass that glitters everywhere, bespeaking another era of decorative luxury.

It is not with any invidious pleasure for depreciation, but purely in the interests of truth, that we must now tell our reader that, of all this seeming elegance and splendor, nothing absolutely nothing is real. The brocaded silks have been old petticoats; the ebony is lacquer; the ivory is bone; the statuettes are plaster, glazed so as to look like marble; the armor is papier mache, even to the owner himself, all is imposition, for he is no other than Albert Jekyl.

Now, my dear reader, you and I see these things precisely in the same light. The illusion of a first glance stripped off, we smile as we examine, one by one, the ingenious devices meant to counterfeit ancient art or modern elegance. It is possible, too, that we derive as much amusement from the ingenuity exercised, as we should have had pleasure in contemplating the realities so typified. Still, there is one individual to whom this consciousness brings no alloy of enjoyment; Jekyl has persuaded himself to accept all as fact. Like the Indian, who first carves and then worships his god, he has gone through the old process of fabrication, and now gazes on his handiwork with the eyes of a true believer. Gracefully reclined upon an ottoman, the mock amber mouthpiece of a gilt hooka between his lips, he dreams, with half-closed eyes, of Oriental luxury! A Sybarite in every taste, he has invented a little philosophy of his own. He has seen enough of life to know that thousands might live in enjoyment out of the superfluities of rich men, and yet make them nothing the poorer. What banquet would not admit of a guest the more? What fete to which another might not be added? What four-in-hand prances by without some vacant seat, be it even in the rumble? What gilded gondola has not a place to spare? To be this “complement” to the world’s want is then his mission.

No man invents a metier without a strong element of success. The very creative power is an earnest of victory. It is true that there had been great men before Agamemnon. So had there been a race of “diners-out” before Jekyl; but he first reduced the practice to system, showing that all the triumphs of cookery, all the splendor of equipage, all the blandishments of beauty, all the fascinations of high society, may be enjoyed by one who actually does not hold a “share in the company,” and, without the qualification of scrip, takes his place among the directors.

Had he brought to this new profession commonplace abilities and inferior acquirements, he would have been lost amid that vulgar herd of indistinguishables which infest every city, and whose names are not even “writ in water.” Jekyl, however, possessed many and varied gifts. He might have made a popular preacher in a watering-place; a very successful doctor for nervous invalids; a clever practitioner at the bar; an admirable member of the newspaper press. He might have been very good as an actor; he would have been glorious as an auctioneer. With qualities of this order, a most plastic wit, and an india-rubber conscience, what bound need there be to his success! Nor was there. He was, in all the society of the capital, not alone an admitted and accepted, but a welcome guest. He might have failed to strike this man as being clever, or that as being agreeable. Some might be disappointed in his smartness; some might think his social claims overrated; none were ever offended by anything that fell from him. His great secret seemed to lie in the fact that, if generally easy to be found when required, he was never in the way when not wanted. Had he possessed the gift of invisibility, he could scarcely have been more successful in this latter good quality. He never interrupted a confidence; never marred a tete-a-tete. A kind of instinct would arrest his steps as he approached a boudoir where his presence would be undesirable; and he has been known to retire from a door on which he had already placed his hand, with a sudden burst of intelligence suggesting “to come another day.”

These, however, seem mere negative qualities; his positive ones were, however, not less remarkable. The faculties which some men might have devoted to abstract science or metaphysical inquiry, he, with a keen perception of his own fitness, resolved to exercise upon the world around him. His botany was a human classification, all his chemistry an analysis of men’s motives. It is true, perhaps, that the poet’s line may have been received by him with a peculiar limitation, and that, if “the proper study of mankind is man,” his investigations took a shape scarcely contemplated by the writer. It was not man in his freedom of thought and action, not man in all the consciousness of power, and in the high hope of a great destiny that attracted him; no! it was for small humanity that he cared, for all the struggles and wiles and plots and schemings of this wicked world; for man amid its pomps and vanities, its balls, its festivals, its intrigues, and its calamities.