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

“Here was my adviser, – here!” said she, pressing her hand firmly against her side. “My heart, bursting and indignant, – my slighted affection, – my rejected love! you ask me this, – you, who knew how I loved him.”

For some seconds her emotion overcame her, and, as she covered her face with her hands, she swayed and rocked from side to side, like one in acute bodily pain.

“I stooped to tell him all, – how I had thought and dreamed of him; how followed his footsteps; sought out the haunts that he frequented, and loved to linger in the places where he had been. I told him, too, of one night when I had even ventured to seek him in his own chamber, and was nearly detected by another who chanced to be there; my very dress was torn in my flight. There was no confession too humiliating for my lips to utter, nor my pen to trace; and what has been the return? But why do I speak of these things to one whose heart is sealed against affection, and whose nature rejects the very name of love? you will be a merciless judge, Eustace!”

“Go on; let me hear you out, Lola,” said the priest, gently.

“The tale is soon told,” rejoined she, hurriedly. “My letter reached him on the eve of a great battle. The army, it appears, had been marching for weeks, and suddenly came upon the enemy without expecting it. He told me so much in about as many words, and said that he was passing what might, perhaps, prove his last hours of life in replying to me. ‘Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, nothing remains but to sell our lives dearly, and even in our defeat make the name of Englishmen one of terror to our enemies.’ So he wrote, and so I could have read, with a swelling but not a breaking heart, had he not added that, for my warm affection, my whole soul’s devotion, he had nothing but his friendship to give in return; that his heart had long since been another’s, and that, although she never could be his, never in all likelihood know of his affection, he would die with her name upon his lips, her image in his heart. ‘It matters little,’ added he, ‘in what channel flow the feelings of one, where to-morrow, in all likelihood, the course will be dried up forever. Let me, however, with what may be the last lines I shall ever write, thank you – nay, bless you – for one passage of your letter, and the thought of which will nerve my heart in the conflict now so near, and make me meet my last hour with an unbroken spirit.’ The mystery of these words I never could penetrate, nor have I the slightest clew to their meaning. But why should I care for them? Enough that I am slighted, despised, and rejected! This letter came to my hands six weeks ago. I at once wrote to the Prince Midchekoff, telling him that the woman he was about to marry loved, and was loved, by another; that she entertained no feeling towards himself but of dread and terror. I told him, too, that her very beauty would not withstand the inroads of a sorrow that was corroding her heart He replied to me, and I wrote again. I was now his confidante, and he told me all, – how that he had addressed a formal demand to the Emperor for leave to marry, and how he had taken safe measures to have his prayer rejected. Then came the tidings of the Czar’s refusal to Madame de Heidendorf, and my triumph; for I told her, and to her face, that once more we were equals. It was then, stung by this taunt, that she refused to travel with me, refused to accept the splendid dowry to which her betrothal entitled her, and demanded to be restored to her family and friends, poor as she had left them. It was then that I resolved on this bold step. I had long been learning the falsehood of what are called friends, and how he who would achieve fortune must trust to himself alone. Midchekoff might not love me, but there was much in my power to secure his esteem. My head could be as fertile in schemes as his own. I had seen much and heard more. The petty plottings of the Heidendorf and the darker counsels of the Abbé D’Esmonde were all known to me – ”

“You did not dare to write my name?” asked the priest, in a slow, deliberate voice.

“And why should I not?” cried she, haughtily. “Is it fear, or is it gratitude should hold my hand?”

“You forget the past, Lola, or you had never said these words.”

“I remember it but as a troubled dream, which I will not suffer to darken my waking hours. At last I begin to live, and never till now have I known the sensation of being above fear.”

“You told the Prince, then, of our relations together? You showed him my letters and your own replies?” said D’Esmonde, as he fixed his dark eyes upon her.

“All, – all!” said she, with a haughty smile.

“You, perhaps, told him that I had engaged you to write to me of all you heard or saw at St Petersburg?”

“I said so, in a most unpolished phrase: I called myself a spy.”

“You were probably not less candid when designating your friends, Lola,” said D’Esmonde, with a faint smile. “How, pray, did you name me?”

“It was a better word, – one of cutting reproach, believe me,” said she. “I called you a ‘priest,’ sir; do you think there is another epithet that can contain as much?”

“In the overflowing of those frank impulses, Lola, of course you spoke of Norwood, – of Gerald Acton, I mean, as you may remember him better by that name. You told the Prince of your marriage to this Englishman, – a marriage solemnized by myself, and of which I retain the written evidence.”

“With the falsehood that for a brief moment imposed upon myself, I would not stoop to cheat another! No, Eustace, this may be priestcraft. To outlive a deception, and then employ it; to tremble at a fallacy first, and to terrorize by means of it after, is excellent Popery, but most sorry womanhood!”

“Unhappy, wretched creature!” cried D’Esmonde; “where have you learned these lessons? – who could have taught you this?”

“You, – and you alone, Eustace. In reading your nature I unread my own faith. In seeing your falsehood, I learned to believe there was no truth anywhere. I asked myself, what must be the religion if this man be its interpreter?”

“Hold, – hold!” cried D’Esmonde, passionately. “It is not to such as you I can render account of my actions, nor lay bare the secret workings of my heart. Know this much, however, woman, and ponder over it well; that if a man like me can make shipwreck of his whole nature, crush his hopes, and blast his budding affections, the cause that exacts the sacrifice must needs be holy. Bethink you that my goal is not like yours. I have not plotted for a life of inglorious ease. I have not schemed to win a pampered and voluptuous existence. It is not in a whirlwind of passionate enjoyment I have placed the haven of my hopes. you see me – as I have ever been – poor, meanly housed, and meanly fed; not repining at my lot either, not deeming my condition a hard one. Why am I thus, then? Are the prizes that worldly men contend for above my reach? Am I the inferior of those who are carrying away the great rewards of life? Where is the stain of falsehood in all this?”

“Were I to copy the picture and paint myself in the same colors,” said Lola, – “were I to show what I have stooped to, – a scoff and a shame! – how I neither faltered at a crime nor trembled before exposure – all that I might be – what I now am – ”

“The mistress of a Prince!” said D’Esmonde, with a contemptuous smile.

“Was it a prouder fortune when my lover was the serge-clad seminarist of Salamanca?” said she, laughing scornfully.

“I linked you with a higher destiny, Lola,” said D’Esmonde, deliberately.

“Again you refer to this pretended marriage. But I put no faith in your words; nor, were they even true, should they turn me from my path.”

“At least you should confirm your claim to his name and title,” said D’Esmonde. “The rank you will thus attain will but strengthen your position in the world; and they who would treat contemptuously the Toridor’s daughter will show every courtesy and deference to the English peeress.”

“I will hazard nothing on your advice, priest!” said she, proudly. “I know you as one who never counselled without a scheme of personal advantage. This Acton has injured you. You desire his ruin; or, perhaps, some deep intrigue awaits myself. It matters not; I will not aid you.”

“How you misjudge me, Lola!” said he, sorrowfully. “I meant by this act to have repaired many an unconscious wrong, and to have vindicated an affection which the troubled years of life have never been able to efface. Amidst all the cares of great events, when moments are precious as days of ordinary existence, I have come to offer you this last reparation. Think well ere you reject it.”

“Not for an instant!” cried she, passionately. “Make weaker minds the tools of your subtle artifices, and leave me to follow my own career.”

“I will obey you,” said D’Esmonde, with an air of deep humility. “I ask but one favor. As this meeting is unknown to all, never speak of it to Midchekoff. My name need never pass your lips, nor shall my presence again offend you. Adieu forever!”

Whether some passing pang of remorse shot through her heart, or that a sudden sense of dread came across her, Lola stood unable to reply; and it was only as he moved away towards the door that she found strength to say, “Goodbye.”

“Let me touch that hand for the last time, Lola,” said he, advancing towards her.

“No, no, – leave me!” cried she, with a sick shudder, and as though his very approach suggested peril.

D’Esmonde bowed submissively, and passed out. With slow and measured steps he traversed the alleys of the garden; but once outside the walls, he hastened his pace. Descending the mountain with rapid strides, he gained the road where the carriage waited in less than half an hour.

“To the city!” said he; and, throwing himself back in his seat, drew down the blinds, while, with folded arms and closed eyes, he tasted of what habit enabled him at any moment to command, – a refreshing sleep.

CHAPTER XXVII. VALEGGIO

The little village of Valeggio, near the Lago di Guarda, was fixed upon as the spot where the commissaries of both armies should meet to arrange on the exchange of prisoners. It stood at about an equal distance from their headquarters, and, although a poor and insignificant hamlet, was conveniently situated for the purpose in hand. Soon after daybreak, the stirring sounds of marching troops awoke the inhabitants, and a half-squadron of Piedmontese lancers were seen to ride up the narrow street, and, dismounting, to picket their horses in the little Piazza of the market. Shortly after these came an equal number of Hungarian hussars, “Radetzky’s Own,” who drew up in the square before the church; each party seeming carefully to avoid even a momentary contact with the other. Several country carts and wagons lined the street, for a number of prisoners had arrived the preceding evening, and taken up their quarters in the village, who might now be seen projecting their pale faces and bandaged heads from many a casement, and watching with eager curiosity all that was going forward. About an hour later, an Austrian General, with his staff, rode in from the Peschiera road, while, almost at the very instant, a calèche with four horses dashed up from the opposite direction, conveying the Piedmontese “Commissary.”

So accurately timed was the arrival, that they both drew up at the door of the little inn together, and as the one dismounted, the other alighted from his carriage.

The etiquette of precedence, so easily settled in the ordinary course of events, becomes a matter of some difficulty at certain moments, and so the two Generals seemed to feel it, as, while desirous of showing courtesy, each scrupled at what might seem a compromise of his country’s dignity.

The Austrian officer was a very old man, whose soldierlike air and dignified deportment recalled the warriors of a past century. The other, who was slighter and younger, exhibited an air of easy unconcern, rather smacking of courts than camps, and vouching for a greater familiarity with salons than with soldier life.

They uncovered and bowed respectfully to each other, and then stood, each waiting, as it were, for the initiative of the other.

“After you, General,” said the younger, at length, and with a manner which most courteously expressed the deference he felt for age.

“I must beg you to go first, sir,” replied the Austrian. “I stand here on the territory of my master, and I see in you all that demands the deference due to a guest.”

The other smiled slightly, but obeyed without a word; and, ascending the stairs, was followed by the old General into the little chamber destined for their conference. Slight and trivial as this incident was, it is worth mention, as indicating the whole tone of the interview, – one characterized by a proud insistence on one side, and a certain plastic deference on the other. The Austrian spoke like one who felt authorized to dictate his terms; while the Piedmontese seemed ready to acquiesce in and accept whatever was proffered. The letters which accredited them to each other lay open on the table; but as this preliminary conversation had not assumed the formal tone of business, neither seemed to know the name or title of the other. In fact, it appeared like a part of the necessary etiquette that they were simply to regard each other as representatives of two powers, neither caring to know or recognize any personal claims.

Lists of names were produced on both sides. Master-rolls of regiments, showing the precise ranks of individuals, and their standing in the service, all arranged with such care and accuracy as to show that the conference itself was little more than a formality. A case of brevet-rank, or the accident of a staff appointment, might now and then call for a remark or an explanation, but, except at these times, the matter went on in a mere routine fashion; a mark of a pencil sufficing to break a captivity, and change the whole fate of a fellow-man!

“Our task is soon ended, sir,” said the Austrian, rising at last. “It would seem that officers on both sides prefer death to captivity in this war.”

“The loss has been very great indeed,” said the other. “The peculiar uniform of your officers, so distinct from their men, has much exposed them.”

“They met their fate honorably, at least, sir; they wore the colors of their Emperor.”

“Very true, General,” replied the other, “and I will own to you our surprise at the fact that there have been no desertions, except from the ranks. The popular impression was, that many of the Hungarians would have joined the Italian cause. It was even said whole regiments would have gone over.”

“It was a base calumny upon a faithful people and a brave soldiery,” said the other. “I will not say that such a falsehood may not have blinded their eyes against their truth in their national struggle, – the love of country might easily have been used to a base and treacherous purpose, – but here, in this conflict, not a man will desert the cause of the Emperor!” The emotion in which he spoke these words was such that he was obliged to turn away his face to conceal it.

“Your words have found an illustration amongst the number of our wounded prisoners, General,” said the other – “a young fellow who, it was said, broke his arrest to join the struggle at Goito, but whose name or rank we never could find out, for, before being taken, he had torn every mark of his grade from cuff and collar!”

“You know his regiment, perhaps?”

“It is said to be Prince Paul of Würtemberg’s.”

“What is he like, – what may be his age?” asked the General, hastily.

“To pronounce from appearance, he is a mere boy, – brown-haired and blue-eyed, and wears no moustache.”

“Where is he, sir?” asked the old man, with a suppressed emotion.

“In this very village. He was forwarded here last night by a special order of the Duke of Savoy, who has taken a deep interest in his fate, and requested that I should take measures, while restoring him, without exchange, to mention the signal bravery of his conduct.”

“The Duke’s conduct is worthy of a soldier Prince!” said the General, with feeling, “and, in my master’s name, I beg to thank him.”

“The youth is at the temporary hospital, but knows nothing of these arrangements for his release. Perhaps the tidings will come more gratefully to his ears from his own countryman.”

“It is kindly spoken, sir. May I have the honor of knowing the name of one who has made this interview so agreeable by his courtesy?”

“My name at this side of the Alps, General, is Count de Valetta; but I have another and better known designation, before I pronounce which, I would gladly enlist in my favor whatever I might of yonr good opinion.”

“All this sounds like a riddle to me, Signor Conte,” said the General, “and I am but a plain man, little skilled at unravelling a difficulty.”

“I am addressing the General Count von Auersberg,” said the other. “Well, sir, it was hearing that you were the officer selected for this duty that induced me to ask I might be appointed also. I have been most anxious to meet you, and, in the accidents of a state of war, knew not how to compass my object.”

The old General bowed politely, and waited, with all patience, for further enlightenment.

“My desire for this meeting. General, proceeds from my wish to exculpate myself from what may seem to have been an unqualified wrong done to a member of your family. I am Prince Alexis Midchekoff.”

Auersberg started from his chair at the words, and bent a look of angry indignation at the speaker, – an expression which the Russian bore with the very calmest unconcern.

“If I am to resume this explanation,” said he, coldly, “it must be when you have reseated yourself, and will condescend to hear me suitably.”

“And who is to be my guarantee, sir, that I am not to listen to an insult?” cried the old General, passionately. “I see before me the man who has outraged the honor of my house. You know well, sir, the customs of your nation, and that you had no right to accept a lady’s hand in betrothal without the permission of your Emperor.”

“I was certain to obtain it,” was the calm answer.

“So certain that it has been refused, – peremptorily, flatly refused.”

“Very true, General. The refusal came at my own especial request. Nay, sir, I need not tell you these words convey no insulting meaning, – but hear me patiently, before you pronounce. The facts are briefly these. It came to my knowledge that this young lady’s acceptance of me proceeded entirely from considerations of fortune, – that she had been greatly influenced by others, and strongly urged to do that which might, at the sacrifice of herself, benefit her family. These considerations were not very flattering to me personally; but I should have overlooked them, trusting to time and fortune for the result, had I not also learnt that her affections were bestowed upon another, – a young Englishman, with whom she had been for some time domesticated, whose picture she possessed, and from whom she had received letters.”

“Am I to take this assertion on trust?” cried the General.

“By no means, sir. This is the picture, and here is one of the letters. I know not if there have been many others, nor can I say whether she has replied to them. It was enough for me that I discovered I had no claim on her affection, and that our marriage would bring only misery on both sides. To have disclosed these facts before the world would of course have exculpated me, but have injured her. I therefore took what I deemed a more delicate course, and, by providing for the Imperial refusal, I solved a difficulty that must otherwise have involved her in deep reproach.” The Prince waited some seconds for the General to speak; but the old man stood like one stunned and stupefied, unable to utter a word. At last Midchekoff resumed: “My master fixed a sum of eighty thousand roubles to which I at once assented, as a settlement on Mademoiselle de Dalton; but this, I grieve to say, she has peremptorily rejected.”

“Has she – has she done this?” cried the old Count. “Then, by St. Stephen! she is my own dear child forever; come what may, there is no disgrace can attach to her.”

“I had hoped, sir,” said Midchekoff, “that you might have seen this matter as I did, and that I might have counted on your advocating what is simply a measure of justice.”

“I know little of the extent to which money reparations can atone for injured feelings or wounded honor. My life has never supplied even a single lesson on that score. All I see here is, an injury on either side. Your fault, I think, has been properly expiated; and as for hers, I want no other justification than what you have told me. Now, where is she? When may I see her?”

“I had given orders for her return to Vienna, with the intention of placing her under your charge; but some mistake has occurred, and her departure has been delayed. A second courier has, however, been despatched, and ere this she will have left St. Petersburg.”

“You have acted well throughout, Prince,” said the old General, “and I shall owe you my gratitude for the remainder of my life; not for the delicacy of your reserve, still less for the generous character of your intentions, but because you have shown me that this girl has a highhearted sense of honor, and is a thorough Dalton.” The old man’s eyes filled up with tears, and he had to turn away to hide his emotion.

Midchekoff rose to withdraw, affecting to busy himself with the papers on the table, while Auersberg was recovering his self-possession. This did not, however, seem an easy task; for the old General, forgetting everything save Kate, leaned his head on his hands, and was lost in thought.

The Prince respected his emotion, and withdrew in silence.

So much was the old General von Auersberg absorbed in his interest for Kate, that he had not a thought to bestow upon the immediate affairs before him. It was scarcely a few weeks since he had received a few lines from herself, telling of the Emperor’s refusal, and asking for his advice. It needed all his long-pledged devotion to monarchy to enable him to read the lines without an outbreak of passion; and his first impulse was to seek out the man who had so grossly insulted his house, and challenge him to single combat. Later reflection showed him that this would be to arraign the conduct of the Emperor, and to call in question the judgment of a crowned head. While agitated by these opposite considerations, there came another and scarcely less sad epistle to his hand; and if the writer was wanting in those claims to station and rank which had such hold upon his heart, her touching words and simple style moved him to emotions that for many a year seemed to have slept within him.

It was Nelly’s account of her father’s death, told in her own unpretending words, and addressed to one whom she recognized as the head of her house. She dwelt with gratitude on the old Count’s kindness, and said how often her father had recurred to the thought of his protection and guidance to Frank, when the time should come that would leave him fatherless. It seemed as if up to this point she had written calmly and collectedly, expressing herself in respectful distance to one so much above her. No sooner, however, had she penned Frank’s name, than all this reserve gave way before the gushing torrent of her feelings, and she proceeded: —

“And oh! sir, is not the hour come when that protection is needed? Is not my poor brother a prisoner, charged with a terrible offence – no less than treason to his Emperor? You, who are yourself a great soldier, can say if such is like to be the crime of one well born, generous, and noble as Frank, whose heart ever overflowed to all who served him, and who, in all the reckless buoyancy of youth, never forgot his honor. Crafty and designing men – if such there may have been around him – might possibly have thrown their snares over him; but no persuasion nor seductions could have made him a traitor. ‘See what the Kaiser has made Count Stephen!’ were some of the last lines he ever wrote to me, ‘and, perhaps, one day, another Dalton will stand as high in the favor of his master.’ His whole heart and soul were in his soldier life. You, sir, were his guide-star, and, thinking of you, how could he have dreamed of disloyalty? They tell me that in troubled times like these, when many have faltered in their allegiance, such accusations are rarely well inquired into, and that courts-martial deal peremptorily with the prisoners; but you will not suffer mv brother to be thus tried and judged. You will remember that he is a stranger in that land, an orphan, a mere boy, too; friendless, – no, no, not friendless, forgive me the ungracious word; he who bears your name, and carries in his veins your blood, cannot be called friendless.. you will say, perhaps, how defend him? – how reply to charges which will be made with all the force of witness and circumstance? I answer, hear his own story of himself; he never told a lie – remember that, Count- from his infancy upwards! we, who lived with and about him, know that he never told a lie! If the accusation be just – and oh! may God avert this calamity – Frank will say so. He will tell how and when and why this poison of disaffection entered his heart; he will trace out his days of temptation and struggle and fall, without a shadow of concealment; and if this sad time is to come, even then do not desert him. Bethink you of his boyhood, his warm, ardent nature, burning for some field of glorious enterprise, and dazzled by visions of personal distinction. How could he judge the knotted questions which agitate the deepest minds of great thinkers? A mere pretence, a well-painted scene of oppression or sufferance, might easily enlist the sympathies of a boy whose impulses have more than once made him bestow on the passing beggar the little hoardings of weeks. And yet, with all these, he is not guilty, – I never can believe that he could be! Oh, sir, you know not, as I know, how treason in him would be like a living falsehood; how the act of disloyalty would be the utter denial of all those dreams of future greatness which, over our humble fireside, were his world! To serve the Kaiser, – the same gracious master who had rewarded and ennobled our great kinsman, – to win honors and distinctions that should rival his; to make our ancient name hold a high place in the catalogue of chivalrous soldiers, – these were Frank’s ambitions. If you but knew how we, his sisters, weak and timid girls, seeking the quiet paths of life, where our insignificance might easiest be shrouded, – if you knew how we grew to feel the ardor that glowed in his heart, and actually caught up the enthusiasm that swelled the young soldier’s bosom! you have seen the world well and long; and, I ask, is this the clay of which traitors are fashioned? Be a father to him, then, who has none; and may God let you feel all the happiness a child’s affection can bestow in return! “We are a sad heritage, Sir Count! for I now must plead for another, not less a prisoner than my poor brother. Kate is in a durance which, if more splendid, is sad as his. The ceremony of betrothal – which, if I am rightly told, is a mere ceremonial – has consigned her to a distant land and a life of dreary seclusion. There is no longer a reason for this. The sacrifice that she was willing to make can now confer no benefit on him who sleeps in the churchyard. The Prince has shown towards her a degree of indifference which will well warrant this breach. There was no affection on either side, and it would be but to ratify a falsehood to pledge fidelity. You alone have influence to effect this. She will hear your counsels, and follow them with respect, and the Prince will scarcely oppose what his conduct seems to favor. This done, Sir Count, let Kate be your daughter; and oh! in all the glory of your great successes, what have you gained to compare with this? She loves you already – she has told me of the affectionate gentleness of your manner, the charm of your chivalrous sentiments, and a nobility marked by every word and every gesture. Think, then, of the untaught devotion of such a child – your own by blood and adoption – loving, tending, and ministering to you. Think of the proud beating of your heart as she leans upon your arm, and think of the happiness, as she throws around your solitary fireside all the charm of a home! How seldom is it that generosity doubles itself in its reward, but here it will be so. You will be loved, and you will be happy. With two such children, guided by your influence and elevated by your example, what would be your happiness, and what their fortune?”