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

“What of that?” said a dark-complexioned fellow, whose high cheek-bones and sharp under-jaw bespoke a Pole. “I am a second lieutenant in the regiment that my grandfather raised and equipped at his own cost; and if I were to lose a thousand florins at lansquenet to-morrow, I ‘d be broke, like the meanest ‘bursch’ in the corps.”

“It’s better to be a rich Englander,” cried one.

“And with a field-marshal for a grand-uncle!” chimed in another.

“And a ‘Maria Teresa’ to ask for thy grade as officer,” said a third.

“It’s a jolly service to all of us,” said a young Bohemian, who, although but a cadet, was a prince, with a princely fortune. “I ask for nothing but a war to make it the best life going.”

“A war with whom?” cried several together.

“What care I with whom or where? With Prussia, if you will, to fight out our old scores about Frauconia; with Russia, if you like better, for the Danubian provinces, and her Servian supremacy; with France she ‘s always ready, with a cause or without one; with Italy to round off our frontier, and push our limits to the Apennines; I’d say with England, only Dalton might n’t like it.”

“And where would you pick your quarrel with England?” said Frank, laughing.

“Easily enough, through our ambassador at the Porte, or some outlying station, where Russia is her rival.”

“Hang your politics!” broke in a Hungarian. “Let us fight when the time comes, but not bother our heads about the cause. I ‘d rather take my chance of a sabre-cut any day than addle my brains with too much thought. Here ‘s to you, Dalton, mayst soon be a Rittmeister of Hussars, lad; a prouder thing thou needst not ask for.”

“Thou shalt give us a jolly supper at the ‘Schwan,’ Dalton, when we meet at Vienna,” said another.

“And we’ll pledge those fair sisters of thine and they ‘re both handsome, I ‘ll be sworn in the best Tokay Palfi’s vineyard can yield.”

“My regiment will be in garrison, in the Leopoldstadt, next month, and I’ll remind thee of this pledge.”

“And we shall be at Lintz,” broke in another; “and thou mayst reckon on me, if I have to suffer an arrest for it afterwards.”

“So it is agreed, Dalton, we are thy guests. For what day shall it be?”

“Ay, let us name the day,” cried several together.

“When he is named an officer,” said Walstein, “that will be time enough.”

“Nay, nay the day month after he arrives at Vienna,” cried the Bohemian. “I have given three breakfasts and five suppers on the occasion of my promotion, and the promotion has never come yet.”

“The day month after I arrive, then, be it,” said Dalton. “We meet at where is it?”

“The ‘Schwan,’ lad, the first restaurant of Europe. Let men talk as they will of the Cadran Bleu and the Trois Freres, I’d back Hetziuger’s cook against the world; and as for wine, he has Steinkammer at thirty florins the flask! And we’ll drink it, too, eh, Dalton? and we’ll give a ‘Hoch Lebe’ to that old grandfather or grand-uncle of thine. We’ll add ten years to his life.”

“A poor service to Dalton,” said another; “but here comes Walstein’s horses, and now for the last glass together before we part.”

The parting seemed, indeed, to be “sweet sorrow,” for each leave-taking led to one flask more, friendship itself appearing to make wondrous progress as the bottle went round. The third call of the postilion’s bugle a summons that even German loyalty could scarcely have courage to resist at last cut short the festivities, and Frank once more found himself in the caleche, where at least a dozen hands contested for the last shake of his, and a shower of good wishes mingled with the sounds of the crashing wheels.

“Glorious fellows!” cried Dalton, in an ecstasy of delight; “such comrades are like brothers.”

Walstein smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm, and lighted his meerschaum in silence; and thus they journeyed, each too full of his own thoughts to care for converse. It was not at such a moment that Dalton could give way to dark or serious reflections; the blandishments and caresses of his new friends were too powerful to admit of any rivalry in his mind; and even when he did revert to thoughts of home, it was to picture to himself his father’s pride at seeing him in the society of these high-born youths; of Kate’s delight at the degree of notice he attracted; and even Nelly poor Nelly! he fancied yielding a gentle, half-reluctant assent to a companionship which, if costly and expensive, was sure to be honorable and high-minded.

“What would Hanserl say, too,” thought he, “if he saw me seated at the table with those whose high-sounding names are the pride of Austrian chivalry, the Thuns, the Lichtensteins, the Schwartenschilds, and the Walsteins, families old as the Hapsburgs themselves? Little Hanserl, to whom these glorious families were the great lights of history, oh, if he could have set eyes on me this last evening! when, with arms around my neck, they called me comrade!” From this he wandered on to thoughts of his uncle, investing the old field-marshal with every noble and soldierlike attribute, and, above all, fancying him as overflowing with affection and kindness. What hosts of questions did he ask about his father and his sisters; how often had he to repeat their names and paint their resemblances, going over the most minute details of family history, and recounting the simplest incidents of their daily life, for “Uncle Stephen would know all.”

In such pleasant fancies he fell fast asleep, even in his dreams to carry out those imaginings that, waking, had no control of reason.

Frank Dalton was awaked from a sound sleep and a pleasant dream of home by the hoarse voice of a mounted dragoon, ordering the postilion to halt; and, on looking out, he saw that they were drawn up close beside the angle of the great wooden bridge that crosses the Danube, under the walls of Vienna. The whole scene was one of wonderment and surprise to him. At his feet, as it were, rolled the stream of the rapid Danube; its impetuous flood splashing and foaming amid the fragments of ice floated down from the mountain regions, and which every moment were shivered against the stone breakwaters with the crash of thunder. Beyond the river rose the fortified walls of the city, covered with a dense multitude of people, eager spectators of a grand military display, which, with all the pomp of war, poured forth beneath the dark archway of the entrance-gate, and, winding over the “glacis,” crossed the bridge, and held on its course towards the Prater.

It was a clear, bright day of winter; the blue sky almost cloudless, and the sharp outline of every object stood out, crisp and well defined, in the thin atmosphere. Nothing could be more favorable for the effect of such a spectacle. The bright weapons glanced and glittered like silver, the gay trappings and brilliant uniforms showed in all their splendor, the scarlet Lancers, the blue-clad Hussars, the Cuirassiers, with their towering helmets, vied with each other in soldierlike bearing; while the dense mass of infantry moved along with a surging, waving motion, like a vast sea heaving with a ground-swell. It was an army complete in every detail; for, even to the “ambulances” for the wounded, everything was there.

“A review by the Emperor!” said Walstein; “and see, there comes his staff.” And he pointed to a group of horsemen, whose waving plumes and floating dolmans were seen at a little distance off in the plain.

“Oh, let us follow them!” cried Frank, enthusiastically. “Such a glorious sight as this I never even imagined.”

“You ‘ll see enough, perhaps too many such,” said the Count, languidly. “It’s a favorite pastime of our old General’s to drag us out of quarters in the very depth of winter, and spend a day in the snow of the Prater.”

“Who could have a thought for weather or hardship when engaged in such a scene?” said Frank.

“So, evidently, think those worthy field-marshals and generals of division, who, well mounted, and swathed in furs, canter down to the ground, an hour after we have reached it, and ride back again when they have ‘taken the salute,’ leaving us to plod wearily home, through wet roads and sloppy streets, to our cold barracks. But just the reverse is the opinion of those poor fellows yonder, with blue faces and frostbitten knuckles, and who have neither pride in this display, nor sympathy with the success of what is called ‘a fine manoeuvre.’”

Frank shook his head distrustfully. He wished not to credit the opinion, but knew not how to refute it, and was silent.

“That is the ‘Franz Carl,’ Dalton,” said Walstein, pointing to a column of infantry, who, in their dark gray overcoats, seemed a sad-looking, gloomy mass. “They’ve got the best band and the most savage colonel in the service.”

Frank gazed at the regiment with a strange sensation of awe and fear.

“There lies my destiny!” thought he. “Who knows what friendships or enmities await me yonder? What hearts in that dark mass will beat responsively with my own; what sources of sorrow or affliction may I meet with amongst them!”

“I wish thou hadst a better regiment, Dalton,” said Walstein.

“How a better? Is it not a brave and distinguished corps?”

“Brave enough,” said the other, laughing; “and as for distinction, an Archduke owns and commands it. But that is not what I mean. The regiment is a poor one; the officers are from Upper Austria, with little or no fortune, fellows who dine for a zwanziger, play dominos for two kreutzers, waltz at the wine-gardens, and fight duels with sabres.”

Frank laughed at the description; but his laugh had more of gloom than mirth about it, for he felt at every moment the false position be occupied, and how inextricably complicated his circumstances were becoming. Every allusion to others showed him in what light he was himself regarded. “Was his deception honorable? was it possible to continue it?” were the questions that would obtrude upon him, and for which no ingenuity could find answer.

“There ‘s the corps for you, Dalton,” said Walstein, drawing his attention to the “Hungarian Guard,” all glittering with gold embroidery, and mounted upon the most beautiful white chargers, at once the most perfect riders and the best mounted cavalry in Europe. “In that regiment you are certain of being quartered either here or in Prague. Those laced jackets are too costly wear to send down to the Banat, or among the wilds of Wallachia. Besides, the Empress likes to see these gaudy fellows on their ‘schimmels’ beneath the Palace windows. Your uncle will, of course, grumble a little about the cost. Perhaps your father, too, will look a little grave when he hears of six thousand florins for a ‘dolman,’ and four for a ‘schabrach;’ while ten or twelve horses the very least you could keep would scarcely sound like a moderate stable. Still, depend upon it, the corps is as good for service as it is costly, and Creptowitz, their Colonel, is a true hussar.”

For a moment Dalton hesitated whether he should not make the honest avowal of his narrow fortune, and tell that he had no pretension to such habits of cost and expense; but shame was too powerful to permit the acknowledgment. He had already gone too far to retract, and he felt that any candor now would be the confession of a cheat. If these were harassing and torturing reflections, one flickering ray of hope still glimmered through the gloom; and this was, what he might expect from his uncle. “If he be really rich, as they say,” thought Frank, “if his favor be so great with the Emperor, even such a career as this may not be above my prospects.” As he revolved these thoughts, he sat with his head buried between his hands, forgetful of where he was and all around him.

“You ‘re losing everything, Dalton,” said Walstein. “See, there go the ‘Kaiser Jagers,’ with their bugles, the finest in the service; and yonder are the Lichtenstein ‘Light Horse,’ mounted on thorough-bred cattle; and there, to the left, those savage-looking fellows with long beards, they are the ‘Croat Grenadiers.’ But here comes the Emperor!” And, as he spoke, one deafening cheer burst forth along the line, and was echoed back from the walls of Vienna; while every band struck up the national hymn of Austria, and the proud notes of “God preserve the Emperor!” floated through the air.

A brilliant staff of generals of every arm of the service accompanied “the Kaiser;” and Walstein ran quickly over the names of these, many of whom were among the first nobility of the Empire. Some were the war-worn veterans of the great campaigns; some the young hopes of Austrian chivalry; but, conspicuous above all, was a figure whose stature, as well as the singularity of his uniform, attracted Frank’s notice. He was a very tall old man, dressed in a uniform of purple velvet slashed with gold, and actually covered with the crosses and decorations of various orders. His cap was a tall chako of red-brown fur, from which a long, straight scarlet plume floated, and beneath which his gray hair was fastened in a queue, that hung half-way down his back. Yellow buskins ornamented with massive gold spurs completed a costume which seemed almost a compromise between the present and some bygone age.

The figure of the wearer, too, suited well this impression. There was a stern rigidity of look as he sat still and motionless in his saddle, which relaxed into the polished urbanity of an old courtier as often as the Emperor addressed him. When bowing to the mane of his charger, he seemed the very type of courtesy; while, as he retired his horse, there was all the address and ease of a practised rider.

“There, to the left of Walmoden, on the powerful black horse, do you see that handsome old man in the purple tunic?” said Waldstein.

“I have been watching him for several minutes back,” replied Frank. “What a singular uniform!”

“Yes. It was the dress of the Artillery of the Imperial Guard in the days of Wagram and Lobau; and he is permitted to retain it, by a special leave of the Emperor, a favor he only avails himself of on occasions like the present.”

“What a mass of orders he wears!”

“He has all that the Empire can bestow, from the ‘Iron Cross’ to the ‘Maria Teresa.’ He has the ‘Legion of Honor,’ too, sent him by Napoleon himself! It was that officer who at Elchingen rode up to the head of a French column, and told them that the wagons they were pursuing were the ‘ammunition of the rear-guard!’ ‘If you advance,’ said he, ‘we ‘ll fire them, and blow you and ourselves to atoms!’ The coolness and heroism of the daring were well acknowledged by a brave enemy. The French halted, and our train proceeded on its way. Mayhap you have heard the anecdote before?”

“Never,” said Frank, still gazing with admiration at the old soldier.

“Then I may as well tell you that he is the Count Dalton von Auersberg,” said Walstein, lying back to enjoy the youth’s amazement.

“What! Uncle Stephen? Is that our uncle?” burst out Frank, in delight.

“I wish I could call him ‘ours,’ with all my heart,” said Walstein, laughing. “Any man might well be proud of such a relative.”

But Frank never heard or heeded the remark; his whole soul was wrapped up in the contemplation of the old field marshal, on whom he gazed as a devotee might have done upon his saint.

“He ‘s like my father,” muttered Frank, half aloud; “but haughtier-looking, and older. A true Dalton in every feature! How I long to speak to him, to tell him who I am.”

“Not here, though, not here!” said Walstein, laying his hand on the youth’s arm; for he almost feared lest he should give way to the sudden impulse. “Were you even the Colonel of your regiment, you could not approach him now.”

Frank stared with some surprise at a remark which seemed to treat so slightingly the ties of blood and kindred; while Walstein, by no means easy on the score of his companion’s prudence, gave the word to the postilion to drive on; and they entered the city of Vienna.

CHAPTER XXX. THE THREAT OP “A SLIGHT EMBARRASSMENT.”

The Mazzarini Palace was now a proverb for all that was dissipated and extravagant throughout Florence, and in proportion as the society which frequented it was select and few in number, the more absurd were the rumors that went abroad of its dissipations and excesses. In default of a real, good, tangible scandal the world invented a thousand shadowy little slanders, that, if not as deadly to reputation at once, were just as certain to kill character in the long run.

Sir Stafford’s gout, of which he was confined to his bed or a sofa, was pronounced the lingering agonies of a broken heart. “My Lady’s” late dinners were orgies where every licentiousness held sway. George was a reckless gambler, who had already jeopardized all the wealth of his family; and, as for Kate, she was at the mercy of that amiable temperament of the human mind which always believes the worst, and as constantly draws the darkest inference from its belief.

Now, Sir Stafford was very gouty, very irritable, and very unhappy to boot, about a number of matters, which, however deeply interesting to himself, should have had no concern for the world. My Lady did dine at eleven o’clock at night, and the company was assuredly not that from which a discriminating public would have selected archbishops, or even minor canons, consisting for the most part of that class of which we have already made mention in a former chapter, with now and then some passer-through of rank, or some stray diplomate on his way to or from his post. George Onslow was a large loser at play, but without having recourse to those stratagems for payment which were so generally ascribed to him. While Kate poor Kate was neither better nor worse than the reader has hitherto known her.

We do not in this admission seek to conceal the fact that she was very different from what first we saw her. Society had taught her tact, grace, and elegance of deportment. Admiration had rendered her yes, – we say it advisedly admiration had rendered her very attractive, drawing forth a thousand resources of fascination, and a thousand arts of pleasing, that often wither and die in the cold chill of neglect. The most fastidious critic could not have detected a fault in her manner; an ill-natured one might have objected to what seemed an excess of gracefulness; but even this was relieved by a youthful freshness and buoyancy of temperament, the last the very last remnant of her former self.

She was the belle of Florence. Her sovereignty admitted of nothing like a rival. Whether she drove, or rode, or danced, or walked, the same admiring throng surrounded her; some sincere in all their admiration, others but following the lead which fashion took, and others, again, watchful observers of a manner in which they fancied they could trace the settled plan of a daring and ambitious character. Vanity had been the foible of her childish years; it was now the vice of her womanhood. Lady Hester ministered to this failing in a hundred ways. Liking Kate as well as it was possible for her to like anything, she took an intense pleasure in all the admiration she met with.

As an actor is said to “create the part” which is written for him, when he impresses the personation with traits peculiarly his own, so did she fancy that Kate was but a reflected image of all her own graces and fascinations; and probably the proudest days of her own triumphs never yielded more enjoyment than she now felt in the flattering praises bestowed upon Kate Dalton.

There were good-natured people who said that Lady Hester’s admiration had another source, and that, as a somewhat passee beauty, she knew the full value of a younger and handsomer woman in attracting to her circle and society all that was distinguished by rank or station. We are not prepared to deny some force to this argument, but, assuredly, it had less weight than other reasons. Lady Hester’s own claims, besides, were higher than these detractors admitted. She was, although not very young, still very handsome, her rank and wealth both considerable, and her manner the perfection of that school to which she belonged. If her affection for Kate was only another form of selfishness, it was not the less strong on that account. She was the confidante of her sorrows, by no means a sinecure office; the chief counsellor in all her plans; she was the lay-figure on which she experimented a hundred devices in costume and toilet; and lastly, greatest charm of all, she was a dependant. Not, indeed, that Kate herself so understood her position; pride of family, the Dalton heritage, was too powerful in her to admit of this. Deeply, sincerely grateful she was for all Lady Hester’s kindness; her affection she returned tenfold, but no sense of inferiority mingled with this feeling, save that which arose from her own devoted admiration of her friend.

The homage amid which she passed her life, the unceasing flow of flatteries around her, were not very likely to undeceive her on this point. A more respectful devotion could not have waited on a princess of the royal house. The great Midchekoff gave balls in her honor. The Arab horses of Treviliani were all placed at her disposal. The various visits to objects of curiosity or taste were arranged for her pleasure, and nothing omitted that could tend to stimulate her vanity and heighten her self-esteem.

The utmost we can say for her all this while is, that if she was carried away by the excitement of this adulation, yet, in her heart, she was as little corrupted as was well possible. She could not be other than enamored of a life so unchanging in its happiness, nor could she disconnect the enjoyments around her from the possession of great wealth. She thought of what she had been a few months back: the “same Kate Dalton,” braving the snows of a dark German winter, with threadbare cloak and peasant “sabots,” an object of admiration to none except poor Hanserl, perhaps! And yet now, unchanged, unaltered, save in what gold can change, how different was her position! It had been well if her love of splendor had stopped here. It went further, however, and inspired a perfect dread of humble fortune.

Over and over again did she hear disparaging remarks bestowed upon the striving efforts of “respectable poverty,” its contrivances derided, its little straits held up to ridicule. In dress, equipage, or household, whatever it did was certain to be absurd; and yet all of these people, so laughed at and scorned, were in the enjoyment of means far above her own father’s!

What a false position was this! How full of deceit must she become to sustain it! She invoked all her sophistry to assure herself that their condition was a mere passing state; that at some future perhaps not even a remote one they should have “their own again;” and that as in family and descent they were the equals of any, so they were not inferior in all the just claims to consideration and respect. She tried to think of her father and Nelly moving in the circles she now lived in; but, even alone, and in the secrecy of her own thoughts, her cheek became scarlet with shame, and she actually shuddered at the very notion. And even Frank, her once ideal of all that was graceful and noble-looking, how would he pass muster beside these essenced “fashionables” who now surrounded her! She endeavored to console herself by thinking that her father would have despised the lounging, unmanly lives they led, that Ellen would have retired in bashful modesty from a society whose tone of freedom and license would have shocked her, and that Frank would have found no companionship in a class whose pleasures lay only in dissipation; and yet all her casuistry could not reassure her. The fascinations amid which she lived were stronger than her reason.

She became first aware of the great change in herself on recognizing how differently a letter from home affected her to what it had done some months before. At first she would have hastened to her room, and locked the door, in an ecstasy of delight to be alone with dearest Nelly, to commune with her own sweet sister in secret, to hang on every line, every word, with delight, fancying herself once more with arms clasped around her, or bending down beside her cheek as she leaned over her work-table. How every little detail would move her; how every allusion would bring up home before her, the snug little chamber of an evening, as the bright fire glowed on the hearth, and Nelly brought out her tools for modelling, while Hanserl was searching for some passage, a line, or a description that Nelly wanted; and then the little discussions that would ensue as to the shape of some weapon, or the fashion of some costume of a past age, so often broken in upon by her father, whose drolleries would set them laughing!