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

Near as they seemed to the end of their journey, it was night ere they gained the valley at the foot of the mountain. The cottages were closed, and, except in the town – still about a mile distant – not a light was to be seen. The Tyrolers are an early race, and retire to rest soon after dusk. Hanserl, however, wanted no guidance to the way, and trudged along in front of the cart, following each winding of the track as though he had gone it but the day before. Except a chance caution about the road, he never spoke, – his heart was full of “home.” The fatigue of a long day’s journey, and the cold of the night air, had made Andy querulous and discontented, and it was all Nelly could do to answer the fretful questions and soothe down the irritation of the old man; but Hans heard nothing of either. At last they reached a little open space formed by a bend in the river, and came in sight of the old tower, at the foot of which, and abutting against it, stood a small cottage. A light gleamed from a little window, and no sooner had Hans seen it than he exclaimed, —

“Gott sey dank! Fräulein, she is well. That is the Fräu Mutter.”

Poor Nelly’s lip quivered as she tried to speak, for, humble as it was, what would she have given to have had even such a “home”? And now, passing through a little garden, Hans halted, and assisted Andy from the cart.

“Where are we, at all? Sure this is n’t a place to stop the night in!” cried the old man, querulously.

“Hush, Andy, hush!” whispered Nelly.

“‘Tis thieves and vagabonds, maybe, lives here, Miss Nelly,” said he, in a low voice.

“No, Andy, no; it is a kind welcome that awaits us.”

“Ayeh!” exclaimed he, “I know betther than that!”

Hans by this time had approached the door and raised the latch, – for in the Tyrol the night rarely calls for other fastening. Nelly heard the sharp, clear sound of an old woman’s voice above the hum of a spinning-wheel, and then the glad burst of joy as the mother recognized her son. Unwilling to interrupt their happiness, Nelly moved away out of hearing, when Hanserl came running out, followed by the old woman.

“This is the Fräulein, mother,” cried he, with a burst of delight; and the old woman, taking Nelly’s hand, kissed it with deep respect.

With native courtesy she welcomed Nelly, and, as she entered her house, pointed with pride to a Madonna of Nelly’s own carving, which stood on a bracket against the wall.

“You see, Fräulein,” said she, “how I have known you for many a day back; and there is your Saint Christopher, and there the ‘Blessed Agnes at the Well.’” And so was it. The groups and figures which she believed to have been sold by Hanserl, were all stored up here and treasured like household gods. “Many a traveller has come here just to see these,” continued the old peasant-woman, “and many a tempting sum have they offered if I would sell them, but in all my poverty I did not stoop to this.”

“Frau Mutter, Fräu Mutter,” said Hans, rebukingly, and trying to cut short what he feared might offend Nelly.

“Nay, Hanserl, it is but the truth,” said she, firmly; “I will not say that I did not do more wisely too, for they who came left me always some little present. Even the poor gave me their blessing, and said that they were happier when they had prayed before the blessed Agnes.” While thus running on in all the garrulity of old age, she never neglected the care of receiving her guests with suitable hospitality. Old Andy was accommodated with a deep straw chair near the stove. The little chamber, which, for its view upon the Passayer Thai, had been specially devoted to receive travellers, was got ready for Nelly; and Hans, once more at home, busied himself in arranging the household and preparing supper.

“You are wondering at all the comforts you find here, Hanserl,” said the old woman, “but see here, this will tell you whence they came;” and, opening an old ebony cabinet, she took out a large square letter with a heavy seal. “That reached me on a Christmas-day, Hanserl; the paper was from the Imperial Chancellerie of Vienna, setting forth that, as the widow of Hans Roeckle, of Meran, born of Tyrol parents, and married to a Tyroler, had attained the age of eighty years, and never asked alms, nor sought for other aid than her own industry, she was now entitled to the Maria Teresa pension of twelve kreutzers a day for the rest of her life. I told them,” said the old woman, proudly, “that my son had always taken care to provide for me, and that there were others that might want it more than I, but the kreis-hauptman said that my refusal would be an offence to the Kaiser, who had heard of my name from one of the archduchesses who travelled this way, and who had seen these blessed images and wished to buy them; so that I was fain to yield, and take, in thankfulness, what was offered in generosity. You see, Hanserl, how true is it, the Fräulein has been our good angel; we have never had bad luck since the Madonna came here!”

Nelly slept soundly that night, and, for the first time since her calamities, her dreams were happy ones. Lulled by the ripple of the river beside her window, and the ceaseless murmuring of the old woman’s voice as she sat up talking with her son the whole night long, she tasted at length the sweets of deep and refreshing sleep. And what a gorgeous scene burst upon her waking eyes! Around, on every side of the little plain, rose the great mountains of the Tyrol; some green and tree-clad to their summits, others snow-capped or hid in the azure-colored clouds above them. Ancient castles crowned the crags, and foaming cataracts leaped from each fissured gorge; while below, in the valley, there lay a garden of rich profusion, – the vine, the olive, and the waving corn, – with villages and peasant-houses half hid in the luxuriant verdure. From the lowing cattle beside the river to the re-echoing horn upon the mountains, there seemed to come greeting and answer. All was grandeur and sublimity in the scene; but, more striking than these, was the perfect repose, the deep tranquillity of the picture. The sounds were all those of peasant labor, the song of the vine-dresser, the rustling noise of the loaded wagon as it moved through some narrow and leafy road, the hissing of the sickle through the ripe corn.

“And yet,” said Hanserl, as Nelly stood in silent enjoyment at the little porch, – “and yet, Fräulein, beyond those great mountains yonder, there is strife and carnage. Here all is peaceful and happy; but the whole world of Europe is tempest-torn. Italy is up, – all her people are in wild revolt; Hungary is in open insurrection. I speak not of other lands, whose fortunes affect us not, but the great empire of our Kaiser is convulsed to its very centre. I have just been at Meran, troops are marching in every hour, and every hour come new messengers to bid them hasten southward. Over the Stelvio, where you see that dark line yonder, near the summit of the mountains, on they pour! They say, too, that Upper Austria is in rebellion, and that the roads from Innspruck are unsafe to travel. We are safe here, Fräulein, but you must not venture further. We will try, from some of the officers who pass through, to glean tidings of the Count, your grand-uncle, and where a letter may reach him; but bear with this humble shelter for a while, and think it a home.”

If Nelly was disappointed and baffled by this impediment to her journey, she was not one to pass her time in vague regrets, but at once addressed herself to the call of new duties with a willing mind and a cheerful spirit.

Resuming her long-neglected tools, she set to work once more, stimulated by the new scenes and subjects around her. To the little children who often formed her “studies,” she became the schoolmistress. To the old who were stricken with sickness or the helplessness of age she used to read for hours together. Every little pathway led her to some office of charity or kindness, till the “good Fräulein” became a village byword, and her name was treasured and her footstep welcomed in every cottage around.

Her humble dress, her more humble manner, took nothing from the deference they yielded her. They felt too intensely the inborn superiority of her nature to think of any equality between them, and they venerated her with something like devotion. A physician to the sick, a nurse to the bedridden, a teacher to the ignorant, a blessing and an example to all, Nelly’s hours were but too short for the calls of her duties, and, in her care for others, she had no time to bestow on her own sorrows.

As for Hanserl, he worked from daylight to dusk. Already the little garden, weed-grown and uncared-for before, was as blooming as his former one at the Alten Schloss. Under Nelly’s guidance many a device was executed that seemed almost miraculous to the simple neighbors; and the lichen-clad rocks, the waving water-lilies or trellised creepers, which, in the wild wantonness of nature they had never noticed, now struck them as the very creations of genius. Even old Andy was not forgotten in their schemes of happiness; and the old huntsman used to spend hours in the effort to tame a young fox a peasant had brought him, – a labor not the less interesting that its progress suffered many a check, and that many a laugh arose at the backslidings of the pupil.

And now we leave them for a brief season, all occupied and all happy; nor do we like the fate that calls us away to other and very different associates.

CHAPTER XXIV. FLORENCE

It was of a calm but starless night in winter that Florence was illuminated in honor of a victory over the Austrian troops at Goito. Never was patriotic ardor higher, – never were stronger the hopes of Italian independence. From the hour of their retreat from Milan, the imperial forces had met with little but reverses, and, as day by day they fell back towards the Tyrol Alps, the hosts of their enemies swelled and increased around them; and from Genoa to the Adriatic all Italy was in march to battle. It is not to speculate on the passable current of events, nor yet to dwell on the causes of that memorable failure, by which dissentient councils and false faith – the weakness of good men and the ambition of bad ones – brought rain when there might have been victory, still less is it to gaze upon the brilliant spectacle of the rejoicing city, that we are now wending our way along the Arno, scarcely stopping to notice the thousand stars that glitter on the Duomo, nor the flickering lines of light which trace out the gigantic tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. Our theme is more humble than the former, and far too serious for such dalliance as the latter.

Leaving the crowded streets, resounding with the wild acclamations and wilder songs of the people, we pass over the Ponte Vecchio, and enter once again the dark abode of Racca Morlache. Whether from any suspicion of his unpopularity with the people, or from some secret necessity for precaution, the door is fastened by many an extra bolt, and more than one massive chain retains the iron shutters of the window. Perhaps there is something in this conscious security that has made him so sparing in his display of external joy, for two dim, discolored lamps were all that appeared above the door, and these were soon hurled down in contemptuous anger by the populace, leaving the little building in total darkness.

In easy indifference to such harmless insult, and not heeding the loud knock which, from stick or stone, the iron shutters resounded under, the Jew sat at his table in that little chamber beside the Arno, of which the reader already knows the secret. Several decanters of wine are before him, and as he sips his glass and smashes his filbert, his air is that of the very easiest unconcern.

Attempting, but with inferior success, an equal degree of calm, sits the Abbé D’Esmonde on the opposite side of the table. With all his training, his calm features betray at moments certain signs of anxiety, and, while he speaks, you can see that he is listening to the noises in the street without.

“How I detest that song!” said Morlache, as the full swell of a deep-voiced chorus filled the air. “I verily believe the Revolution has not inflicted us with anything more outraging to good taste than the air of ‘Viva Pio Nono.’”

“Always excepting Pio Nono himself,” said D’Esmonde, “who is far more the child than the father of this movement.”

“Not bad for a priest to renounce allegiance to his holy master!” said Racca, laughing.

“You mistake me, Signor Morlache,” said D’Esmonde, eagerly. “I spoke of Pio Nono, the politician, – the rash innovator of time-honored institutions, the foolish donor of concessions that must be won back at the price of blood, the man who has been weak enough to head a movement which he ought to have controlled in secret. How the people shout! I hear many a voice in accents of no Italian origin.”

“Yes, the city is full of Poles and Hungarians.”

“It will soon be time to drop the curtain on this act of the drama, Morlache; enough has been done to show the world the dangerous doctrines of these fanatics. They who cry ‘No property in France,’ shout ‘No King in Germany,’ ‘No Pope in Rome.’ The peaceful or well-ordered must be taught to see in us their safeguard against these men. They must learn to think the Church the sanctuary it was of old. From all these convulsions which shatter empires, we are the refuge!”

“But you yourself gave the first impulse to this very movement, Abbé?”

“And wisely and well we did it! Should we have stood passive to watch the gradual growth of that cursed spirit they miscall independent judgment, – that rankest heresy that ever corrupted the human heart? Should we have waited till Protestantism with its Bible had sowed the seeds of that right of judgment which they proclaim is inherent in all men? Would it have been safe policy to admit of discussing what was obligatory to obey, and look on while this enlightenment – as they blasphemously term it – was arraigning the dogma of the Church as unblushingly as they questioned the decree of a minister?”

“I perceive,” said the Jew, laughing, “You great politicians are not above taking a lesson from the ‘Bourse,’ and know the trick of puffing up a bad scheme to a high premium, prepared to sell out the day before ‘the fall.’”

“We had higher and nobler views,” said D’Esmonde, proudly. “The men who will not come to the altars of the Church must be taught her doctrines before the portals. Our task is to proclaim Rome – eternal Rome – to Europe!”

“Up to this your success has not been signal,” said Morlache, with a sneer. “This victory at Goito has given fresh vigor to the Republicans. The Austrians once driven beyond the Alps, Monarchy wilt be short-lived in Italy.”

“And who says that they will be so driven? Who ever dreams of such a result, save some wild fanatic of Genoa, or some half-informed minister at London? The King of Naples only waits for the excuse of a Calabrian disturbance to recall his contingent. The Pope has already issued an order to Durando not to pass the Po. The Piedmontese themselves are on the verge of an irreparable quarrel, – the men of Savoy and the north for Monarchy; the Genoese, wild with their own ancient ideas of a Ligurian Republic. Is it the Lombards, think you, will conquer Lombardy? or do you fancy that Florence and Pisa are the nurseries of heroes? No, Morlache, the game of revolt is played out in Italy; the last trump is Goito.”

“But if, flushed with conquest, the Piedmontese press on to greater successes?”

“They cannot, – they would not, even if they could,” broke in D’Esmonde. “Is it the Republicans will shed their blood to conquer a kingdom of Upper Italy for Carlo Alberto? Is it the interest of Rome or Naples to see such a power in the Peninsula? Will the troops of the Monarchy, on the other hand, fight for a cause that is to obliterate the throne? No; believe me, their mutual grudges have been well weighed and estimated. We never dared this bold policy without seeing clearly that their interests could never be reconciled. – I think I hear the sound of oars; yes, he must be coming at last!” D’Esmonde opened the window as he spoke, and looked out upon the river, which, reflecting along the sides the gorgeous pageantry of the illumination, was dark as ink in the middle of the stream. “Not a word of this, Morlache, when he joins us,” added D’Esmonde.

“He is not in your confidence, then?” asked the other.

“He? Of course he is not! If for no weightier reasons than that he is English and a Protestant, – two things which, however weak they may prove either in patriotism or religion, never fail in their hatred of the Church and her cause. Like one of the Condottieri of old, he has joined the quarrel because hard knocks are usually associated with booty. Whenever he finds that he has no stake on the table, he ‘ll throw down his cards.”

“And the other, – the Russian?”

“He is more difficult to understand; but I hope to know him yet Hush, the boat is close in; be cautious!” And, so saying, he filled his glass, and reseated himself in all the seeming ease of careless dalliance. In a few minutes after, the prow of a light skiff touched the terrace, and a man stepped out and knocked at the shutter.

“Welcome at last,” said D’Esmonde, shaking hands with him. “We had almost despaired of seeing you to-night you appear to have been favored with a long audience!”

“Yes, confound it!” cried the other, who, throwing off his travelling-cloak, showed the figure of Lord Norwood. “We were kept dangling in an antechamber for nigh an hour. Midchekoff’s fault, for he would not give his name, nor say anything more than that we were two officers with secret despatches from the camp. The people in waiting appeared to think the claim a poor one, and came and went, and looked at us, splashed and dirty as we were; but not, even out of curiosity, did one ask us what tidings we brought. We might have stayed till now, I believe, if I had not taken the resolution to follow an old priest – a bishop, I fancy – who seemed to have the entrée everywhere; and pushing vigorously after him, I passed through half a dozen ill-lighted rooms, and at last entered a small drawing-room, where the great man was seated at piquet with old Cassandroni, the minister. I must say that, considering the unauthorized style of my approach, nothing could be more well-bred and urbane than his reception of me. I was blundering out some kind of apology for my appearance, when he pointed to a chair, and begged me to be seated. Then, recognizing Midchekoff, who had just come in, he held out his hand to him. I gave him the despatches, which he pushed across the table to Cassandroni, as if it were more his ‘affair;’ and then turning to Midchekoff, conversed with him for some time in a low voice. As it would not have been etiquette to observe him too closely, I kept my eyes on the minister; and, faith, I must say that he could scarcely have looked more blank and out of sorts had the news reported a defeat. I suppose these fellows have a kind of official reserve which represses every show of feeling; but I own that he folded up the paper with a degree of composure that quite piqued me.

“‘Well, Cassandroni,’ said his master, ‘what’s your news?’

“‘Very good news, sir,’ said the other, calmly. ‘His Majesty has obtained a signal victory near Goito against a considerable force of the Imperial army, under the command of Radetzky. The action was long and fiercely contested; but a successful advance of artillery to the side of a river, and a most intrepid series of cavalry charges turned the flank of the enemy, and gained the day. The results do not, however, appear equal to the moral effect upon the army, for there were few prisoners, and no guns taken.’

“‘That may perhaps be explained,’ said I, interrupting; ‘for when the Austrians commenced their movement in retreat – ’ Just as I got thus far, I stopped; for I found that the distinguished personage I was addressing had once more turned to Midchekoff, and was in deep conversation with him, totally regardless of me and my explanation.

“‘You have been wounded, my Lord?’ said he, after a moment.

“‘A mere scratch, sir, – a poke of a lance,’ said I, smarting under the cool indifference of his manner.

“‘I hope you ‘re not too much fatigued to stop to supper,’ said he; but I arose at the instant, and pleading the excuse of exhaustion and want of rest, begged to be permitted to retire; and here I am, not having tasted anything since I left Padua, and not in the very blandest of tempers, either, at the graciousness of my reception. As for Midchekoff, he kept his seat as coolly as if he meant to pass his life there. I hesitated for a second or two, expecting that he would join me; but not a bit of it He smiled his little quiet smile, as much as to say, ‘Good-night,’ and so I left him.”

“He is probably detained to give some particulars of the engagement,” said D’Esmonde.

“How can he? – he was never in it; he was writing letters all day at headquarters, and never came up till seven in the evening, when he rode down with a smart groom after him, and gave the Duke of Savoy a sandwich out of a silver case. That will be the only memorable fact he can retail of the day’s fortune.”

“The cause looks well, however,” said D’Esmonde, endeavoring to divert his thoughts into a more agreeable direction.

“Tell me what is the cause, and I will answer you,” said Norwood, sternly. “So far as I see, we are dividing the spoils before we have hunted down the game.”

“You surely have no doubt of the result, my Lord?” replied the other, eagerly. “The Austrians must relinquish Italy.”

“Then who is to take it, – that’s the question? Is Lorn-bardy to become Piedmont, or a Red Republic? or are your brethren of the slouched hat to step in and portion out the land into snug nurseries for Franciscans and Ursulines? Egad, I ‘d as soon give it up to old Morlache yonder, and make it a New Jerusalem to educate a young race of moneylenders and usurers!”

“I wish we had even as much security for our loans,” said Morlache, smiling.

“I hear of nothing but money, – great loans here, immense sums raised there,” cried Norwood; “and yet what becomes of it? The army certainly has seen none of it. Large arrears of pay are due; and as for us who serve on the staff, we are actually supporting the very force we command.”

“We are told that large sums have found their way into Austria in shape of secret service,” said D’Esmonde, “and with good result too.”

“The very worst of bad policy,” broke in Norwood. “Pay your friends and thrash your enemies. Deserters are bad allies at the best, but are utterly worthless if they must be paid for desertion. Let them go over like those Hungarian fellows, – a whole regiment at a time, and bring both courage and discipline to our ranks! but your rabble of student sympathizers are good for nothing.”

“Success has not made you sanguine, my Lord,” said Morlache, smiling.

“I have little to be sanguine about,” replied he, roughly. “They have not spoiled me with good fortune; and even on this very mission that I have come now, you ‘ll see it is that Russian fellow will receive all the reward; and if there be a decoration conferred, it is he, not I, will obtain it.”

“And do you care for such baubles, my Lord?” asked D’Esmonde, in affected surprise.

“We soldiers like these vanities as women do a new shawl, or your priests admire a smart new vestment, in which I have seen a fellow strut as proudly as any coxcomb in the ballet when he had completed his pirouette. As for myself,” continued he, proudly, “I hold these stars and crosses cheaply enough. I ‘d mortgage my ‘San Giuseppe’ to-morrow if Morlache would give me twenty Naps, on it.”

“The day of richer rewards is not distant, my Lord,” said D’Esmonde. “Lombardy will be our own ere the autumn closes, and then – and then – ”

“And then we ‘ll cut each other’s throats for the booty, you were going to say,” burst in Norwood; “but I ‘m not one of those who think so, Abbé. My notion is that Austria is making a waiting race, and quietly leaving dissension to do amongst us what the snow did for the French at Moscow.”

D’Esmonde’s cheek grew pale at this shrewd surmise; but he quickly said, —

“You mistake them, my Lord. The interests at stake are too heavy for such a critical policy; Austria dare not risk so hazardous a game.”

“The wiseheads are beginning to suspect as much,” said Norwood; “and certainly amongst the prisoners we have taken there is not a trait of despondency nor even a doubt as to the result of the campaign. The invariable reply to every question is, the Kaiser will have his own again, – ay, and this even from the Hungarians. We captured a young fellow on the afternoon of Goito, who had escaped from prison, and actually broke his arrest to take his share in the battle. He was in what Austrians call Stockhaus arrest, and under sentence either of death or imprisonment for life, for treason. Well, he got out somehow, and followed his regiment on foot till such time as one of his comrades was knocked over; then he mounted, and I promise you he knew his work in the saddle. Twice he charged a half-battery of twelves, and sabred our gunners where they stood; and when at last we pushed the Austrian column across the bridge, instead of retreating, as he might, he trusted to saving himself by the river. It was then his horse was shot under him, as he descended the bank, and over they both rolled into the stream. I assure you it was no easy matter to capture him even then, and we took him under a shower of balls from his comrades, that showed how little his life was deemed, in comparison with the opportunity of damaging us. When he was brought in, he was a pitiable object; his forehead was laid open from a sabre cut, his collar-bone and left arm broken by the fall, and a gunshot wound in the thigh, which the surgeon affirmed had every appearance of being received early in the action. He would n’t tell us his name, or anything about his friends, for he wished to have written to them; the only words he ever uttered were a faint attempt at ‘Hurrah for the Emperor!’”