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

As the Abbé finished this letter, he turned to look at a short note, which, having opened and scanned over, he had thrown on the table beside him. It was from Albert Jekyl, who wrote to inform him that Lord Norwood had just arrived in Florence from Ireland, where he had left Lady Hester; that so far as he, Jekyl, could make out, the Viscount had made an offer of marriage, and been accepted.

“It will be for you, my dear Abbé,” added he, “to ascertain this fact positively, as, independently of the long journey at this inclement season, it would be a very serious injury to me were it known that I advanced pretensions that were not responded to. He who has never failed must not risk a defeat. Pray lose no time in investigating this affair, for Florence is filling fast, and my future plans will depend on your reply.”

The priest bestowed little attention on the small gossipry that filled up the page. His eye, however, caught the name of Midchekoff, and he read, —

“The Prince returned last Tuesday to the Moskova, but no one has seen him, nor has any one been admitted within the gates. Of course there are a hundred rumors as to the why and the wherefore, – some alleging that he has received orders of ‘réclusion,’ as they call it, from home, the Emperor not being quite satisfied with his political campaign; some, that he has taken up a grudge against the court here, and shows his spleen in this fashion. But what shallow reason would this be for a hermit life? and what legitimate ground of complaint have not we, who, so to say, possess a vested interest in his truffles and ortolans and dry champagne? I assure you that such conduct rouses all the democracy of my nature, and I write these lines with a red silk cap on my head. After all, the real good he effected was a kind of reflected light. He crushed little people, and ground down all their puny efforts at balls, dinners, and déjeuners. He shamed into modest insignificance such a world of snobbery, and threw an air of ridicule over ‘small early partyism’ and ‘family dinners.’ What a world of dyspepsia has he thus averted, – what heartburns and heartburnings! Oh, little people! little people! ye are a very dreadful generation, for ye muddy the waters of society, so that no man can drink thereof. “Politically, we are calm and reactionary; and whether it be thrashing has done it, I know not, but some of the Tuscans are ‘Black and Yellow’ already. Not that the dear Austrians promise to make Florence better or pleasanter. They mix badly with our population. It is as if you threw a spoonful of ‘sauerkraut’ into your ‘potage à la reine!’ Besides, the Italians are like the Chinese, – unchanged and unchangeable, – and they detest the advent of all strangers who would interfere with their own little, soft, sleepy, and enervating code of wickedness. “Pray send me three lines, just to say – Is it to be or not to be? Rose, the tailor, is persecuting me about a mocha-brown, for a wedding garment, which certainly would harmonize well with the prevailing tints of my hair and eyebrows, but I am too prudent a diplomatist to incur ‘extraordinaires’ till I be sure of ‘my mission.’ Therefore write at once, for such is my confidence in your skill and ability that I only wait your mandate to launch into kid gloves and lacquered leather, quite regardless of expense. “Yours, most devotedly, “Albert JEKYL.

“I open this to say that Morlache was seen going to the Moskora last night with two caskets of jewels. Will this fact throw any light on the mysterious seclusion?”

These last two lines D’Esmonde read over several times; and then, crashing the note in his hand, he threw it into the fire. Within an hour after he was on his way to Florence.

CHAPTER XXIX. A SECRET AND A SNARE

As we draw near to the end of our voyage, we feel all the difficulty of collecting the scattered vessels of our convoy; and while signalizing the “clippers” to shorten sail, we are calling on the heavy sailers to crowd “all their canvas.”

The main interest of our story would keep us beside Frank Dalton, whose fate seemed daily to vacillate, – now threatening gloomily, now rallying into all the brightness of hope. By slow and cautious journeys the old Count proceeded to remove him to Vienna, where he expected soon to-be joined by Kate. Leaving them, then, to pursue their road by steps far too slow for our impatience, we hasten along with D’Esmonde, as, with all the speed he could accomplish, he made for Florence.

Occasionally he tried to amuse himself and divert his thoughts by conversing with Meekins, who accompanied him; but although the man’s shrewdness was above the common, and his knowledge of the world very considerable, D’Esmonde quickly saw that a thick cloak of reserve covered the real man on all occasions, and that his true nature lay many a fathom deep below that smooth surface. The devout respect which he felt for the Abbé might, perhaps, have increased this reserve; for Meekins was an Irish peasant, and never forgot the deference due to a priest.

Accustomed to read men at sight, D’Esmonde would give himself no trouble in deciphering a page which promised little to reward the labor; and so, after a while, he left his companion to occupy the “box,” while he himself followed his own thoughts alone and undisturbed. Now and then he would be aroused from his deep reveries by remarking the reverential piety of the peasants as they passed some holy shrine or some consecrated altar. Then, indeed, Meekins displayed a fervor so unlike the careless indifference of the native, that D’Esmonde was led to reflect upon the difference of their natures, and speculate on how far this devotion of character was innate in the Irishman, or merely the result of circumstances.

There was an expression of eager, almost painful meaning, too, in the man’s face as he muttered his prayers, that struck the keen eyes of the Abbé; and he could not avoid saying to himself, “That fellow has a load upon his heart. Fear, and not hope, is the mainspring of his devotions.” At another moment D’Esmonde might have studied the case as a philosopher studies a problem, – merely for the exercise it may give his faculties, – but his own cares were too pressing and too numerous for more than a passing notice.

The night was falling as they gained the crest of the mountain over Florence; D’Esmonde stopped the carriage on the hill above the “Moskova,” and gazed steadily for some moments on the spot. The villa, partly shrouded in trees, was brilliantly illuminated; the lights gleamed and sparkled through the foliage, and, as he listened, the sound of rich music came floating on the air.

“This looks little like seclusion,” thought he. “These are signs of some great festivity.” As he drew up to the gate, however, he found it closed and locked. Not a carriage was to be seen. Even the usual lamps were unlighted, and all appeared deserted and unoccupied. D’Esmonde stood for a few seconds buried in thought; his emotion was deep and heartfelt; for, as he grasped the iron bars of the gate, his strong frame shook and trembled. “True – true!” muttered he to himself in an accent of almost bursting agony, – “I could not have given thee this, Lola, and for this alone hadst thou any heart!” He leaned his face against the gate, and sobbed heavily. “What poison,” cried he, in a voice of bitterness, – “what poison there must be in unholy passion, when it can move a heart like mine, after years and years of time! To think that not all the glory of a great cause, all the pride of successful ambition, striving for rewards the very highest, – all that I possess of power and influence, – all, all should give way to the grief for a half-forgotten, unreturned love! How poor a thing the heart is, when we fancy its desires to be noblest and highest!”

This burst of passionate grief over, he slowly returned to the carriage and pursued his way to Florence; and, entering the city, he drove for the house of Racca Morlache. The Jew was not at home, but was to return by eleven o’clock, at which hour he had ordered supper for a guest and himself. D’Esmonde lay down on a sofa, and fell asleep. Wearied as he was, his watchfulness soon detected the approach of footsteps; and, as he listened, he heard the voice of a stranger in colloquy with the servant. The door opened at the same time, and Lord Norwood entered. D’Esmonde only waited for the servant to retire, when he sprang forward to salute him.

“Oh! I thought you were at the camp, or at Vienna, or somewhere to the north’ard,” said the Viscount, coolly.

“I was so, my Lord; and there I should have remained, if a pressing duty had not recalled me to Florence.”

“You have always so many irons in the fire, Abbé, that it requires some skill to keep them all hot.”

“You are right, my Lord; some skill, and some practice too.”

“And do you never burn your fingers?” said the other, sarcastically.

“Very rarely, my Lord; for when I meddle with fire, I generally make use of my friends’ hands.”

“By Jove, it’s not a bad plan!” cried the Viscount, laughing; for, as the priest well knew, he had a most lively appreciation for every species of knavery, and entertained real respect for all who practised it. “You are a very downy cove, Master D’Esmonde,” said he, gazing at him; “and you ‘d have made a very shining figure on the Turf, had your fortune thrown you in that direction.”

“Perhaps so, my Lord,” said the Abbé, carelessly. “My own notion is, that fair natural gifts are equal to any exigencies ever demanded of us; and that the man of average talent, if he have only energy and a strong will, has no superior to dread.”

“That may do well enough,” said Norwood, rising and pacing the room, – “that may do well enough in the common occurrences of life, but it won’t do on the Turf, Abbé. The fellows are too artful for you there. There are too many dodges and tricks and windings. No, no, believe me; nothing has a chance in racing matters, without perfect and safe ‘information;’ you know what that means.”

“It is precisely the same thing in the world at large,” said D’Esmonde. “The very cleverest men rush into embarrassments and involve themselves in difficulties for which there is no issue, simply for want of what you call ‘information.’ Even yourself, my Lord,” said he, dropping his voice to a low and distinct whisper, – “even yourself may discover that you owe safety to a Popish priest.”

“How do you mean? What do you allude to?” cried Norwood, eagerly.

“Sit down here, my Lord. Give me a patient hearing for a few minutes. We have fortunately a moment of unbroken confidence now; let us profit by it.”

Norwood seated himself beside the priest, without speaking, and, folding his arms, prepared to hear him calmly.

“My Lord Norwood,” said the Abbé, “I will not torture you by any prolixity, nor will I waste your time by any appeal to your forgiveness. If my own conduct in the affair I am about to relate should not meet your approval, it is enough that I have satisfied my own conscience.”

“Go on – go on,” said Norwood, in a tone of almost sarcasm; “I see that you have injured me, let me hear how and where.”

“You shall hear both, my Lord, and briefly too. I have only to invoke your memory, and the story is told. You remember being at Salamanca, in the year 18 – ? you remember, too, a certain ballerina of the Grand Opera? You had seen her first at Seville – ”

“Yes – ; yes,” broke in Norwood, reddening deeply; “I know what you mean – the girl was my mistress.”

“Stay, my Lord. Do not dishonor yourself; she was your wife, – legally and formally married to you, – the registry of the act is in existence, and the priest who performed the ceremony now stands before you.”

“By Heaven!” said Norwood, springing to his feet,

“You are a bold fellow to dare this game with me! and to try it in such a place as this!”

“Ay, my Lord, the river rolls dark and silently beside us,” said D’Esmonde, calmly; “and the Arno has covered up many a more dreadful deed; but I have no fears, – not one. I am unarmed, in strength I am certainly not your equal, and yet, I repeat it, my heart assures me that I stand in no peril.”

For an instant Norwood seemed to hesitate how to act. The great veins of his face and forehead became swollen and knotted, and he breathed with the rushing sound of severe, restrained passion. At last, as if to guard himself against any sudden impulse of anger, he walked round and seated himself at the opposite side of the table.

D’Esmonde resumed as calmly as before: “Yes, my Lord, Lola took care that everything should be regular and in form; and the names of Gerald Acton and Lola de Seviglia are inscribed on the records of the Collegiate Chapel. Two of the witnesses are still living; one of them, then a poor boy carrying messages for the convent, is now captain in the Pope’s Guard.”

“Come, come, – enough of this,” cried Norwood, impatiently. “I see the drift of it all. When the Church interposes her kind offices, the question resolves itself always into money. How much – how much?”

“You mistake greatly, my Lord; but your error does not offend me. I know too well how men of your form of belief regard men of mine! I am not here either to combat a prejudice, or assert a right. I tell you, therefore, calmly and dispassionately, that no demand is made upon you. There is no siege laid against you, in person or in purse.”

“Then how does the matter concern me, if this girl be alive? – and even of that I have my doubts – ”

“You need have none,” said D’Esmonde, interruptingly. “Lady Norwood – ”

“Stop! By Heaven! if you dare to give her that name, I’ll not answer for myself.”

“I call her as she styles herself, – as she is called by all around her. Yes, my Lord, the shame is as open as gossip and malevolence can make it. The foreigner is but too glad when he can involve an English name and title in a reproach that we are prone to cast upon him. A peeress is a high mark for scandal! Who stoops to ask how or when or where she became this? Who interposes a charitable word of explanation or of incredulity? From what you know of life, on what side, think you, will lie the ingenuity and craft? Whether will the evidence preponderate to prove her your wife or to exonerate you? At all events, how will the matter read in England? I speak not of your ruined hopes of an alliance befitting your high station. This is beyond repairing! But are you ready to meet the shame and ignominy of the story? Nothing is too base, nothing too infamous, for an imputation. Will any one, I ask of you – will any one assert that you are ignorant of all this? Would any one believe who heard it? Will not the tale be rather circulated with all its notes and comments? Will not men fill up every blank by the devices of their own bad ingenuity? Will not some assert that you are a partner in your own infamy, and that your fingers have touched the price of your shame?”

“Stop!” cried Norwood. “Another word – one syllable more like this – and, by the Heaven above us, your lips will never move again!”

“It would be a sorry recompense for my devotion to you, my Lord,” said the Abbé, with a profound sigh.

“Devotion!” repeated Norwood, in a voice of insulting sarcasm; “as if I were to be tricked by this! Keep these artifices for some trembling devotee, some bedridden or palsied worshipper of saintly relics and holy legerdemain; I ‘m not the stuff for such deceptions!”

“And yet, my Lord, what possible benefit can accrue to myself from this ungracious task? With all your ingenuity, what personal gain can result to me?”

“What care I for your motives, sir?” responded Norwood, fiercely. “I only know that you had never incurred so critical a hazard without an object. You either seek to exert a menace over me, or to be revenged on her.”

“Alas, my Lord, I see how little hope I should have of vindicating myself before you. Your estimate of the Papists suggests nothing above craft and dishonesty. You will not believe that human affections, love of country, and all the other associations of a home, are strong in hearts that beat beneath the serge frock of the priest. Still less do you know the great working principle of our Faith, – the law which binds us, for every unjust act we have done in life, to make an expiation in this world. For many a year has my conscience been burdened with this offence. But for my weak compliance with your request, I should never have performed this ceremony. Had I been firm, you had been saved. Nay, in my eagerness to serve you, I only worked your ruin; for, on confessing to my Superior what I had done, he at once took measures to ratify the act of marriage, and my rank as a deacon took date from the day before the ceremony.” D’Esmonde seemed not to notice the gesture of indignation with which Norwood heard these words, but he went on: “It is, then, to make some requital for this wrong, that I now risk all that your anger may inflict upon me.”

“Where is this woman?” cried Norwood, savagely, and as if impatient at a vindication for which he felt no interest. “Where is she?”

“She is here, my Lord,” said the other, meekly.

“Here? How do you mean? Not in this house?”

“I mean that she is now in Florence.”

“What, living openly here? – calling herself by my name?”

“She lives in all the splendor of immense wealth, and as openly as the protection of Prince Midchekoff – ”

“Midchekoff – Midchekoff, did you say?” cried Norwood, in a burst of passion.

“Yes, my Lord. The haughty Russian exults in the insult that this offers to the proudest aristocracy of Europe. This is the vengeance he exacts for the cold disdain he experienced in London, and all that reserve that met his attempts in English society.”

“How came she here? – who sent for her? – who devised this scheme? Tell me the whole truth, for, by Heaven, if I see you equivocate, you’ll never quit this chamber living!”

“I’ ll tell you everything, truthfully and fairly,” said the Abbé, with calm dignity; and now in a few words he traced Nina’s life, from the time of her residence under Lady Hester’s roof, to the moment of her return to Florence. He omitted nothing; neither her intimacy with Jekyl nor her passion for George Onslow. Even to the incident of the torn dress on the night of the flight, he told all.

Norwood listened with the stern collectedness of one who had nerved himself for a great effort. Although the blood spurted from his compressed lips, and the nails of his fingers were buried in his hands, he uttered never a word. At last, when D’Esmonde paused, he said, —

“And you knew all this?”

“Nothing whatever of it I never chanced to see her at Florence, nor had I the slightest suspicion of her presence there.”

“Lady Hester knew it? Miss Dalton knew it?”

“I suspect not at that time.”

“They know it now, then?”

“Who does not? Is not Florence ringing with the story? When has scandal fallen upon such material for its malevolence? Such dramatis personæ as a prince, an English peer, and his peeress, are not of every day’s good fortune!”

“Be cautious how you harp on this theme, priest. In your good zeal to hammer the metal soft you may chance to crush your own finger.”

“I must be frank with you, my Lord, whatever the hazard. He would be a sorry surgeon who, after giving his patient all the agony of the knife, stopped short, and left the malady unextirpated.”

“Come now, D’Esmonde,” said Norwood, as with a strong grasp he drew the other down on the sofa beside him, “You have your debt to acquit in this matter as well as myself. I do not seek to know how or why or upon whom. Your priestly craft need not be called into exercise. I want nothing of your secrets; I only ask your counsel. That much in our common cause you cannot refuse me. What shall I do in this affair? No cant, no hypocritical affectation of Christian forgiveness, none of that hackneyed advice that you dole out to your devotees; speak freely, and like a man of the world. What is to be done here?”

“If the marriage admitted of dispute or denial, I should say disavow it,” said the priest “It is too late for this.”

“Go on. What next?”

“Then comes the difficulty. To assert your own honor, you must begin by a recognition of her as your wife. This looks rash, but I see no other course. You cannot call Midchekoff to a reckoning on any other grounds. Then comes the question, is such a woman worth fighting for? or must the only consideration be the fact that she bears your name, and that she is the Viscountess Norwood in every society she can enter? How is this to be borne? The stricter code of England rejects such claimants altogether from its circle; but on the Continent they are everywhere. Will it be possible for you to live under this open shame?”

“Your advice is, then, – shoot him!” said Norwood; and he bent his eyes fixedly on the priest as he spoke. “It is my own notion, also. If the choice were open to me, D’Esmonde, I ‘d rather have exacted the payment of this debt from Onslow; I hated the fellow from my very heart. Not that I owe this Russian any good will. We have more than once been on the verge of a quarrel. It was not my fault if it went no further. They say, too, that he has no taste for these things. If so, one must stimulate his appetite, that’s all! – eh, D’Esmonde? Your countrymen seldom need such provocations?”

“We have our faults, my Lord; but this is scarcely amongst their number.”

“You’re right, D’Esmonde,” said the other, pursuing his former line of thought. “It’s no petty penalty to exact from a fellow with fifty thousand a year! I almost fancy I should have been a coward myself at such a price!”

“You ‘ll have some difficulty in obtaining access to him, my Lord,” remarked the Abbé. “He lives in strict privacy, and refuses admission to every one.”

“But a letter will reach him?”

“It may, or it may not; besides, it may come to hand, and yet never be acknowledged.”

“What is to be done, then?”

“I ‘ll think over it, before we separate. I ‘ll try and suggest something. But here comes Morlache; and now be cautious. Not a word to show that you are ill at ease.” The warning was scarcely spoken, when the Jew entered.

Morlache knew D’Esmonde too well to be surprised at seeing him anywhere or at any moment He saluted him, therefore, as though they had met the very day before, and the party sat down to supper, in all the seeming ease of unburdened minds.

They chatted over the politics of Italy, and the change that had come over Florence since the last time they had sat together in that chamber.

“It was a noisy scene, that night,” said Morlache; “but the streets are quiet enough now.”

“Quiet as a corpse,” said Norwood, sternly. “You had no other nostrum for tranquillity but to extinguish life.”

“What you regard as death, my Lord,” said the Abbé, “is only a trance. Italy will rise grander and more powerful than ever. One element alone has survived through all the convulsive throes, and all the changing fortunes of this land, – the Papacy. The terrible wars of rival cities and states, the more bloody conquests of ambitious houses, leave not a trace behind them; but Rome holds on her proud way, and, like the great river of the poet, ‘Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis oevum. ‘”

“To which I beg, in a less classical quotation, to rejoin, ‘Confound your politics,’” cried Norwood, laughing. “Come, Morlache, let us turn to a humbler theme. Who have you got here; who are coming for the winter?”

“Say, rather, my Lord, who are going away; for there is a general flight from Florence. All what hotel folk call good families are hastening off to Rome and Naples.”

“What’s the meaning of this, then?”

“It is not very difficult, perhaps, to explain,” said the Jew; “luxuries are only the creations of mere circumstance. The rarity of one land may be the very satiety of another; and the iced-punch that tastes so exquisite at Calcutta would be but sorry tipple at Coppermine River. Hence you will see, my Lord, that the English who come here for wickedness find the place too bad for them. There is no zest to their vice; they shock nobody, they outrage nothing, – in fact, they are only as bad as their neighbors.”

“I suppose it’s neither better nor worse than I remember it these dozen years and more?” said Norwood.

“Probably not, my Lord, in fact; but, in outward appearance, it has assuredly degenerated. People behave badly everywhere, but this is the only city in Europe where it is deemed right to do so.”