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

“Kate, dearest,” said she, “I ‘m sure nothing would induce you to leave me, I mean, to desert and forsake me.”

Kate pressed the hand she held in her own to her lips with fervor, but could not speak for emotion.

“I say this,” said Lady Hester, rapidly, “because the moment has come to test your fidelity. Sir Stafford and I it is needless to state how and by what means have at last discovered, what I fancy the whole world has seen for many a day, that we were totally unsuited to each other, in taste, age, habit, feeling, mode of life, and thought; that we have nothing in common, neither liking nor detesting the same things, but actually at variance upon every possible subject and person. Of course-all attempt to cover such discrepancies must be a failure. We might trump up a hollow truce, child, but it never could be an alliance; and so we have thought, I ‘m sure it is well that we have hit upon even one topic for agreement, we have thought that the best, indeed the only, thing we could do, was to separate.”

An exclamation, almost like an accent of pain, escaped Kate at these words.

“Yes, dearest,” resumed Lady Hester, “it was his own proposal, made in the very coldest imaginable fashion; for men have constantly this habit, and always take the tone of dignity when they are about to do an injustice. All this, however, I was prepared for, and could suffer without complaint; but he desires to rob me of you, my dear child, to deprive me of the only friend, the only confidante I have in the world. I don’t wonder that you grow pale and look shocked at such cruelty, concealed, as it is, under the mask of care for your interests and regard for your welfare; and this to me, dearest, to me, who feel to you as to a sister, a dear, dear sister!” Here Lady Hester drew Kate towards her, and kissed her twice, affectionately. “There ‘s his letter, my sweet child. You can read it; or better, indeed, that you should not, if you would preserve any memory of your good opinion of him.”

“And he that was ever so kind, so thoughtful, and so generous!” cried Kate.

“You know nothing of these creatures, my dear,” broke in Lady Hester. “All those plausibilities that they play off in the world are little emanations of their own selfish natures. They are eternally craving admiration from us women, and that is the true reason of their mock kindness and mock generosity! I ‘m sure,” added she, sighing, “my experience has cost me pretty dearly! What a life of trial and privation has mine been!”

Lady Hester sighed heavily as her jewelled fingers pressed to her eyes a handkerchief worth a hundred guineas, and really believed herself a case for world-wide sympathy. She actually did shed a tear or two over her sorrows; for it is wonderful on what slight pretension we can compassionate ourselves. She thought over all the story of her life, and wept. She remembered how she had been obliged to refuse the husband of her choice; she forgot to be grateful for having escaped a heartless spendthrift, she remembered her acceptance of one inferior to her in rank, and many years her senior; but forgot his wealth, his generosity, his kindliness of nature, and his high character. She thought of herself as she was at eighteen, the flattered beauty, daughter of a Peer, courted, sought after, and admired; but she totally forgot what she was at thirty, with faded attractions, unthought of, and, worse still, unmarried. Of the credit side of her account with Fortune she omitted not an item; the debits she slurred over as unworthy of mention. That she should be able to deceive herself is nothing very new or strange, but that she should succeed in deceiving another is indeed singular; and such was the case. Kate listened to her, and believed everything; and when her reason failed to convince, her natural softness of disposition served to satisfy her that a more patient, long-suffering, unrepining being never existed than Lady Hester Onslow.

“And now,” said she, after a long peroration of woes, “can you leave me here, alone and friendless? will you desert me?”

“Oh, never, never!” cried Kate, kissing her hand and pressing her to her heart. “I would willingly lay down my life to avert this sad misfortune; but, if that cannot be, I will share your lot with the devotion of my whole heart.”

Lady Hester could scarcely avoid smiling at the poor girl’s simplicity, who really fancied that separation included a life of seclusion and sorrow, with restricted means and an obscure position; and it was with a kind of subdued drollery she assured Kate that even in her altered fortunes a great number of little pleasures and comforts would remain for them. In fact, by degrees the truth came slowly out, that the great change implied little else than unrestrained liberty of action, freedom to go anywhere, know any one, and be questioned by nobody; the equivocal character of the position adding a piquancy to the society, inexpressibly charming to all those who, like the Duchesse d’Abrantes, think it only necessary for a thing to be “wrong” to make it perfectly delightful.

Having made a convert of Kate, Lady Hester briefly replied to Sir Stafford, that his proposition was alike repugnant to Miss Dalton as to herself, that she regretted the want of consideration on his part, which could have led him to desire that she should be friendless at a time when the presence of a companion was more than ever needed. This done, she kissed Kate three or four times affectionately, and retired to her room, well satisfied with what the day had brought forth, and only wishing for the morrow, which should open her new path in life.

It often happens in life that we are never sufficiently struck with the force of our own opinions or their consequences, till, from some accident or other, we come to record them. Then it is that the sentiments we have expressed, and the lines of action adopted, suddenly come forth in all their unvarnished truth. Like the images which the painter, for the first time, commits to canvas, they stand out to challenge a criticism which, so long as they remained in mere imagination, they had escaped.

This was precisely Kate Dalton’s case now. Her natural warm-heartedness, and her fervent sense of gratitude, had led her to adopt Lady Hester’s cause as her own; generous impulses, carrying reason all before them, attached her to what she fancied to be the weaker side. “The divinity that doth hedge – ” “beauty – ” made her believe that so much loveliness could do no wrong; nor was it till she came to write of the event to her sister, that even a doubt crossed her mind on the subject. The difficulty of explaining a circumstance of which she knew but little, was enhanced by her knowledge of Ellen’s rigid and unbending sense of right. “Poor dear Nelly,” said she, “with her innocence of mind, will understand nothing of all this, or she will condemn Lady Hester at once. Submission to her husband would, in her opinion, have been the first of duties. She cannot appreciate motives which actuate society in a rank different from her own. In her ignorance of the world, too, she might deem my remaining here unadvisable; she might counsel my return to home; and thus I should be deserting, forsaking, the dear friend who has confided all her sorrows to my heart, and reposes all her trust in my fidelity. This would break Lady Hester’s heart and my own together; and yet nothing is more likely than such a course. Better a thousand times not expose her friend’s cause to such a casualty. A little time and a little patience may place matters in a position more intelligible and less objectionable; and, after all, the question is purely a family secret, the divulgence of which, even to a sister, is perhaps not warrantable.”

Such were among the plausibilities with which she glanced over her conduct; without, however, satisfying herself that she was in the right. She had only begun the descent of lax morality, and her head was addled by the new sensation. Happy are they who even from weak nerves relinquish the career!

Kate’s letter home, then, was full of gay revelations. Galleries, churches, gardens; objects of art or historic interest; new pictures of manners, sketches of society, abounded. There were descriptions of fetes, too, and brilliant assemblies, with great names of guests and gorgeous displays of splendor. Well and sweetly were they written; a quick observation and a keen insight into character in every line. The subtle analysis of people and their pretensions, which comes of mixture with the world, was preeminent in all she said; while a certain sharp wit pointed many of the remarks, and sparkled in many a brilliant passage.

It was altogether a lively and a pleasant letter. A stranger, reading ft, would have pronounced the writer clever and witty; a friend would have regretted the want of personal details, the hundred little traits of egoism that speak confidence and trust. But to a sister! and such a sister as Nelly! it was, indeed, barren! No outpouring of warm affection; no fond memory of home; no reference to that little fireside whence her own image had never departed, and where her presence was each night invoked.

Oh! Kate, has Hanserl’s dark prophecy thrown its shadow already to your feet? Can a young heart be so easily corrupted, and so soon?

CHAPTER XXVII. A SMALL DINNER AT THE VILLINO ZOE

AMONG the penalties great folk pay for their ascendancy, there is one most remarkable, and that is, the intense interest taken in all their affairs by hundreds of worthy people who are not of their acquaintance. This feeling, which transcends every other known description of sympathy, flourishes in small communities. In the capital of which we are now speaking, it was at its very highest pitch of development. The Onslows furnished all the table-talk of the city; but in no circle were their merits so frequently and ably discussed as in that little parliament of gossip which held its meetings at the “Villino Zoe.”

Mrs. Ricketts, who was no common diplomatist, had done her utmost to establish relations of amity with her great neighbor. She had expended all the arts of courtesy and all the devices of politeness to effect this entente cordiale; but all in vain. Her advances had been met with coldness, and “something more;” her perfumed little notes, written in a style of euphuism all her own, had been left unanswered; her presents of fruit and flowers unacknowledged, it is but fair to add, that they never proceeded further than the porter’s lodge, even her visiting-cards were only replied to by the stiff courtesy of cards, left by Lady Hester’s “Chasseur;” so that, in fact, failure had fallen on all her endeavors, and she had not even attained to the barren honor of a recognition as they passed in the promenade.

This was a very serious discomfiture, and might, when it got abroad, have sorely damaged the Ricketts’s ascendancy in that large circle, who were accustomed to regard her as the glass of fashion. Heaven knew what amount of insubordination might spring out of it! what rebellious notions might gain currency and credit! It was but the winter before when a Duchess, who passed through, on her way to Rome, asked “who Mrs. Ricketts was?” and the shock was felt during the whole season after. The Vandyk for whose authenticity Martha swore, was actually called in question. The “Sevres” cup she had herself painted was the subject of a heresy as astounding. We live in an age of movement and convulsion, no man’s landmarks are safe now, and Mrs. Ricketts knew this.

The Onslows, it was clear, would not know her; it only remained, then, to show why she would not know them. It was a rare thing to find a family settling down at Florence against whom a “true bill” might not easily be found of previous misconduct. Few left England without a reason that might readily become an allegation. Bankruptcy or divorce were the light offences; the higher ones we must not speak of. Now the Onslows, as it happened, were not in this category. Sir Stafford’s character was unimpeachable, her Ladyship’s had nothing more grave against it than the ordinary levities of her station. George “had gone the pace,” it was true, but nothing disreputable attached to him. There was no use, there fore, in “trying back” for a charge, and Mrs. Ricketts perceived that they must be arraigned on the very vaguest of evidence. Many a head has fallen beneath the guillotine for a suspicion, and many a heart been broken on a surmise!

A little dinner at the Villino opened the plan of proceedings. It was a small auto-da-fe of character at which the Onslows were to be the victims, while the grand inquisitors were worthily represented by the Polish Count, Haggerstone, Purvis, and a certain Mr. Foglass, then passing through Florence on his way to England. This gentleman, who was the reputed son of a supposed son of George the Fourth, was received as “very good royalty” in certain circles abroad, and, by virtue of a wig, a portly chest, and a most imposing pomposity of manner, taken to be exceedingly like his grandfather, just on the same principle as red currant jelly makes middling mutton resemble venison.

To get rid of his importunity, a Minister had made him Consul in some remote village of the East, but finding that there were neither fees nor perquisites, Foglass had left his post to besiege the doors of Downing Street once more, and if rejected as a suppliant, to become an admirable grievance for a Radical Member, and a “very cruel case of oppression” for the morning papers.

Foglass was essentially a “humbug;” but, unlike most, if not all other humbugs, without the smallest ingredient of any kind of ability. When men are said to live by their wits, their capital is, generally speaking, a very sufficient one; and that interesting class of persons known as adventurers numbers many clever talkers, shrewd observers, subtle tacticians, and admirable billiard-players; with a steady hand on a pistol, but ready to “pocket” either an “insult” or a “ball.” if the occasion require it. None of these gifts pertained to Foglass. He had not one of the qualities which either succeed in the world or in society, and yet, strange to say, this intolerable bore had a kind of popularity, that is to say, people gave him a vacant place at their dinners, and remembered him at picnics.

His whole strength lay in his wig, and a certain slow, measured intonation which he found often attracted attention to what he said, and gave his tiresome anecdotes of John Kemble, Munden, and Mathews the semblance of a point they never possessed. Latterly, however, he had grown deaf, and, like most who suffer under that infirmity, taken to speaking in a whisper so low as to be inaudible, a piece of politeness for which even our reader will be grateful, as it will spare him the misery of his twaddle.

Haggerstone and he were intimates were it not a profanation of the word, we should say friends. They were, however, always together; and Haggerstone took pains to speak of his companion as a “monstrous clever fellow, who required to be known to be appreciated.” Jekyl probably discovered the true secret of the alliance in the fact that they always talked to each other about the nobility, and never gave them their titles, an illusory familiarity with Dukes and Earls that appeared to render them supremely happy. Richmond, Beaufort, Cleveland, and Stanley were in their mouths as “household words.”

After all, it was a harmless sort of pastime; and if these “Imaginary Conversations” gave them pleasure, why need we grumble?

We have scruples about asking our reader even to a description of the Ricketts’s dinner. It was a true Barmecide feast. There was a very showy bouquet of flowers: there was a lavish display of what seemed silver; there was a good deal of queer china and impracticable glass; in short, much to look at, and very little to eat. Of this fact the Pole’s appreciation was like an instinct, and as the entrees were handed round, all who came after him became soon aware of. Neither the wine nor the dessert were temptations to a long sitting, and the party soon found themselves in the drawing-room.

“Son Excellence is going to England?” said the Pole, addressing Foglass, who had been announced as an Ambassador; “if you do see de Count Ojeffskoy, tell him I am living here, as well as a poor exile can, who have lost palaces, and horses, and diamonds, and all de rest.”

“Ah! the poor dear Count!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, while Martha prolonged the echo.

“You carry on the war tolerably well, notwithstanding,” said Haggerstone, who knew something of the other’s resources in piquet and ecarte.

“Carry on de war!” rejoined he, indignantly; “wid my fader, who work in de mines; and my beautiful sisters, who walk naked about de streets of Crakow!”

“What kind of climate have they in Crak-Crak-Crak – ” A fit of coughing finished a question which nobody thought of answering; and Purvis sat down, abashed, in a corner.

“Arthur, my love,” said Mrs. Ricketts, she was great at a diversion, whenever such a tactic was wanted, “do you hear what Colonel Haggerstone has been saying?”

“No, dearest,” muttered the old General, as he worked away with rule and compass.

“He tells me,” said the lady, still louder, “that the Onslows have separated. Not an open, formal separation, but that they occupy distinct apartments, and hold no intercourse whatever.”

“Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee” said Haggerstone, who, having already told the story seven times the same morning, was quite perfect in the recital, “Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee, with a small door into the garden. My Lady retains the entire first floor and the grand conservatory. George has a small garcon apartment off the terrace.”

“Ho! very distressing!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, whose woe-worn looks seemed to imply that she had never heard of a similar incident before; “and how unlike us, Arthur!” added she, with a smile of beaming affection. “He has ever been what you see him, since the day he stole my young, unsuspecting heart.”

The Colonel looked over at the object thus designated, and, by the grin of malice on his features, appeared to infer that the compliment was but a sorry one, after all.

“‘John Anderson my Jo, John,’” muttered he, half aloud.

“‘We’ve climbed the hill toge-ge-ge-ther,’” chimed in Purvis, with a cackle.

“Gather what, sir? Blackberries, was it?” cried Haggerstone.

“Don’t quote that low-lived creature,” said Mrs. Ricketts; “a poet only conversant with peasants and their habits. Let us talk of our own order. What of these poor Onslows?”

“Sir Stafford dines at two, madam. A cutlet, a vegetable, and a cherry tart; two glasses of Gordon’s sherry, and a cup of coffee.”

“Without milk. I had it from Proctor,” broke in Purvis, who was bursting with jealousy at the accuracy of the other’s narrative.

“You mean without sugar, sir,” snapped Haggerstone. “Nobody does take milk-coffee after dinner.”

“I always do,” rejoined Purvis, “when I can’t get mara-mara-mara – ”

“I hope you can get maraschino down easier than you pronounce it, sir.”

“Be quiet, Scroope,” said his sister; “you always interrupt.”

“He do make de devil of misverstandness wit his whatye-call-’em,” added the Pole, contemptuously.

And poor Purvis, rebuked on every side, was obliged to fall back beside Martha and her embroidery.

“My Lady,” resumed Haggerstone, “is served at eleven o’clock. The moment Granzini’s solo is over in the ballet, an express is sent off to order dinner. The table is far more costly than Midchekoff’s.”

“I do believe well,” said the Count, who always, for nationality’s sake, deemed it proper to abuse the Russian. “De Midchekoff cook tell me he have but ten paoli how you say par tete by the tete for his dinner; dat to include everyting, from the caviar to de sheeze.”

“That was not the style at the Pavilion formerly,” roared out Haggerstone, repeating the remark in Foglass’s ear.

And the ex-consul smiled blandly towards Mrs. Ricketts, and said he ‘d take anything to England for her “with pleasure.”

“He ‘s worse than ever,” remarked Haggerstone, irritably. “When people have a natural infirmity, they ought to confine themselves to their own room.”

“Particularly when it is one of the tem-tem-temper,” said Purvis, almost choked with passion.

“Better a hasty temper than an impracticable tongue, sir.” said Haggerstone.

“Be quiet, Scroope,” added Mrs. Ricketts; and he was still. Then, turning to the Colonel, she went on: “How thankful we ought to be that we never knew these people! They brought letters to us, some, indeed, from dear and valued friends. That sweet Diana Comerton, who married the Duke of Ellewater, wrote a most pressing entreaty that I should call upon them.”

“She did n’t marry the Duke; she married his chap-chaplain,” chimed in Purvis.

“Will you be quiet, Scroope?” remarked the lady.

“I ought to know,” rejoined he, grown courageous in the goodness of his cause. “He was Bob Nutty. Bitter Bob, we always called him at school. He had a kind of a poly-poly-poly – ”

“A polyanthus,” suggested Haggerstone.

“No. It was a poly-polypus a polypus, that made him snuffle in his speech.”

“Ach Gott!” sighed the Pole; but whether in sorrow for poor “Bob,” or in utter weariness at his historian, was hard to say.

“Lady Foxington, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts, “made a serious request that we should be intimate with her friend Lady Hester. She was candid enough to say that her Ladyship would not suit me. ‘She has no soul, Zoe,’ wrote she, ‘so I need n’t say more.’”

“Dat is ver bad,” said the Pole, gravely.

“Still, I should have made her acquaintance, for the sake of that young creature Miss Dalton, I think they call her and whom I rather suspect to be a distant cousin of ours.”

“Yes; there were Dawkinses at Exeter a very respectable solicitor, one was, Joe Dawkins,” came in Purvis; “and he used to say we were co-co-co-connections.”

“This family, sir, is called Dalton, and not even a stutter can make that Dawkins.”

“Couldn’t your friend Mr. Foglass find out something about these Daltons for us, as he goes through Germany?” asked Mrs. Ricketts of the Colonel.

“No one could execute such a commission better, madam, only you must give him his instructions in writing. Foglass,” added he, at the top of his voice, “let me have your note-book for a moment.”

“With pleasure,” said he, presenting his snuff-box.

“No; your memorandum-book,” screamed the other, louder.

“It’s gone down,” whispered the deaf man. “I lost the key on Tuesday last.”

“Not your watch, man. I want to write a line in your note-book;” and he made a pantomimic of writing.

“Yes, certainly; if Mrs. R. will permit, I’ll write to her with pleasure.”

“Confound him!” muttered Haggerstone; and, taking up a visiting-card, he wrote on the back of it, “Could you trace the Daltons as you go back by Baden?”

The deaf man at once brightened up; a look of shrewd intelligence lighted up his fishy eyes as he said,

“Yes, of course; say, what do you want?”

“Antecedents family fortune,” wrote Haggerstone.

“If dey have de tin,” chimed in the Pole.

“If they be moral and of irreproachable reputation,” said Mrs. Ricketts.

“Are they related to the other Dawkinses?” asked Purvis. “Let him ask if their mother was not godfather to no, I mean grandfather to the Reverend Jere-Jere-Jere – ”

“Be quiet, Scroope will you be quiet?”

“There, you have it all, now,” said Haggerstone, as he finished writing; “their ‘family, fortune, flaws, and frailties’ ‘what they did, and where they did it’ observing accuracy as to Christian names, and as many dates as possible.”

“I’ll do it,” said Foglass, as he read over the “instruction.”

“We want it soon, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Tell him we shall need the information at once.”

“This with speed,” wrote Haggerstone at the foot of the memorandum.

Foglass bowed a deep assent.

“How like his grandfather!” said Mrs. Ricketts, in ecstasy.

“I never knew he had one,” whispered Haggerstone to the Pole. “His father was a coachmaker in Long Acre.”

“Is he not thought very like them?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, with a sidelong glance of admiration at the auburn peruke.

“I’ve heard that the wig is authentic, madam.”

“He has so much of that regal urbanity in his manner.”

“If he is not the first gentleman of England,” muttered Haggerstone to himself, “he is the first one in his own family, at least.”