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

“Since when have you taken up the trade of moralist, Master Morlache?” said Norwood, with a sneer.

“I ‘ll answer that question,” broke in D’Esmonde. “Since the exchange on England has fallen to forty-three and a half, Morlache sees his clients diminish, and is consequently as angry with vice as he had been with its opposite, if the same result had come to pass.”

“I own,” said the Jew, with a sneer, “the present order of things is far more profitable to the confessional than to the comptoir.”

“That’s the truth, I’ve no doubt of it,” broke in Norwood, laughing. “A low tariff has given a great impulse to the trade of wickedness.”

“Taking your own illustration, my Lord, we are ‘Protectionists,’” said D’Esmonde; “whereas you Protestants are the ‘Free-traders’ in vice.”

“A plague on both your houses, say I,” cried Norwood, yawning. “So, then, Morlache, neither you nor I would find this a desirable residence?”

“I fear it will not repay either of us, my Lord,” said the Jew, with a sly look.

“The world is growing wonderfully wide awake,” said Norwood. “When I entered life, any fellow with a neat hand at billiards, a fair knowledge of écarté or short whist, good whiskers, and a well-cut waistcoat, might have eked out a pretty existence without any risk, and very little exertion. But see what the march of intelligence has done! There ‘s not an Eton boy, not an unfledged ‘sub’ in a marching regiment, not an unpaid attaché at a small court could n’t compete with you now in any of these high acquirements. I do not fret myself usually about what is to come after my time; but I really wonder how the next generation will get on at all.”

“Civilization moves like the pendulum, my Lord,” said D’Esmonde; “the next swing will be retrograde. And, by the way, that reminds me of Russia, and Russia of Prince Midchekoff. Is it true that he is recalled, Morlache?”

“Not that I know. That report is always circulated when there are no dinners at the villa. Just as Marshal Soult is said to have won or lost the battle of Toulouse according to the momentary estimation he is held in.”

“You’ll hear for certain, my Lord,” said D’Esmonde, addressing Norwood; “You are going up there to-night?”

Norwood muttered an assent, and waited to see how this sally was to end.

“Ah! you are going there to-night,” repeated Morlache, in some surprise. “Are you one of the privileged, then?”

“Of course he is,” interposed D’Esmonde, authoritatively.

“Will you do me a very great favor, then, my Lord?” said Morlache, – “which is to take charge of this small casket. I promised to take it myself; but it is so late now, and I am so wearied, that I shall feel much bound to you for the service.”

“You can easily acquit the debt of obligation, Morlache,” said D’Esmonde; “for my Lord was just asking me, before you came in, if he could take the liberty of begging the loan of your carriage to take him up to the Moskova. You are aware that it would not be quite proper to take a hired carriage, just now, up to the villa; that, as the Prince affects to be absent – ”

“To be sure,” broke in Morlache. “I am but too happy to accommodate your Lordship. Your precaution was both delicate and well thought of. Indeed, I greatly doubt that they would admit a fiacre at all.”

“I suppose I should have had to walk from the gate,” said Norwood, who now saw the gist of the Abbé's stratagem.

“Morlache’s old gray is a passport that requires no visa,” said D’Esmonde. “You ‘ll meet neither let nor hindrance with him in front of you. You may parody the great statesman’s peroration, and say, ‘Where the King cannot enter, he can.’ Such is it to be a banker’s horse!”

Norwood heard little or nothing of this remark. Deeply sunk in his own thoughts, he arose abruptly from the table.

“You are not going away, my Lord? You are surely not deserting that flask of Marcobrunner that we have only tasted?”

But Norwood never heard the words, and continued to follow his own train of reflection. Then, bending over D’Esmonde, he said, “In case we should require to cross the frontier at Lavenza, must we have passports?”

“Nothing of the kind. There is no police, no inquiry whatever.”

“Good-bye, then. If you should not hear from, you will hear of me, Abbé. There are a few things which, in the event of accident, I will jot down in writing. You ‘ll look to them for me. Good-evening, or good-morning, – I scarcely know which.” And, with all the habitual indolence of his lounging manner, he departed.

D’Esmonde stood for a few seconds silent, and then said, “Is the noble Viscount deep in your books?”

“Deeper than I wish him to be,” said the Jew.

“Have no fears on that account. He ‘ll soon acquit all his debts,” said the other. “Good-night, Morlache.” And with this abrupt leave-taking he withdrew.

CHAPTER XXX. A SAD EXIT

The French Secretary of Legation was just going to bed as his servant handed him a card from Lord Norwood, with a few words scribbled in pencil.

“Yes, by all means. Tell my Lord to come in,” said he; and Norwood entered.

“You remember an old pledge you once made me,” said the Viscount, smiling. “I have come to claim it.”

“Diantre! the case must be pressing that would not wait till daylight.”

“So it is; and so you will agree with me in thinking it when I tell you all,” said Norwood. “The first point is, may I reckon upon you?”

“Of course; my word is sacred.”

“Secondly, have you pistols that you can depend upon? Mine have been stopped at Milan by the police.”

“They are Jacquard’s best,” said the Frenchman; “and in your hand ought not to disgrace their maker.”

“Dress, then, and come along with me. This affair must be disposed of quickly.”

“I’m at your orders,” said the Frenchman, gayly. “I suppose you will be kind enough to tell me something more as we go along.”

Norwood nodded an assent, and sat down before the fire and crossed his arms on his breast.

“Was it a quarrel at play?” asked the Frenchman, after an interval of silence.

“No!” was the abrupt reply.

“All the better. It is the only affair of this kind I cannot endure. Is there a woman in it?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! I perceive,” said the other, with a laugh. “A married woman?”

“Yes.”

“And who is this happy husband, this time?” asked he, flippantly.

“I am,” replied Norwood, in a low and solemn voice.

“You! you! I never thought – never suspected you of being married, Norwood. Pray be a little more explicit. Let me hear the whole story.”

“Later on, not now. I want to think of something else at this moment Are your pistols fine in the trigger?”

“Excessively so; a fly would almost suffice to move them. Is he English?”

“No.”

“Not a countryman of my own, I hope?”

“No. It is Midchekoff, the Russian.”

“Diantre! what a mark to shoot at! But they tell me that he never does go out, – that he refuses this kind of thing.”

“He shall not do so this time,” said Norwood, with a vehement energy of manner.

“Well, I ‘m ready now; but I must say that I should like to hear something of what we are about.”

“There will be ample time for all as we go along. We shall drive to the villa. It is necessary to obtain an interview with himself. This done, I will give the provocation, showing that you are ready and in waiting; there can be no delay.”

“But he will need a friend?”

“He must take one of his secretaries, – his valet if he prefer it I ‘ll give no time for evasive negotiation.”

“I cannot be a party to an affair like this, Norwood. Whatever the wrong you seek to avenge, this is not the mode to do it.”

“Say so at once, then,” said Norwood, rising. “Tell me that you gave a rash promise, and are sorry for it Better the refusal now than when it be too late to retract.”

“You mistake me; I have no wish to unsay one single word I ever spoke to you. I only ask for such an explanation as I have a right to demand.”

“You shall know everything; pray spare me telling it twice over. There is no use in opening one’s wound till he comes to the surgeon. Enough now, that I tell you this man owes me a full and fair reparation for a great wrong; I am equally determined on exacting it. If this does not satisfy you, step into the carriage and you shall hear the whole story. I can tell it, perhaps, when we are rattling along over the stones in the dark.” And so saying, he sat down and leaned his head on the table, as though he would not be disturbed. The Frenchman went on with his dressing, rapidly; and at last, pronouncing himself ready, they descended the stairs together in silence, and entered the carriage.

As they drove on, Norwood never spoke; and his companion, respecting perhaps the occasion of his silence, did not utter a word. At last they arrived at the summit of the hill, and looked down upon the city, over which the gray tints of coming day were breaking. The great Duomo and the Palazzo Vecchio lay in massive shadow, and it was only at intervals along the Arno that a flickering gleam of cold light fell. The scene, in all its calm and stillness, was grand and solemn.

“How unlike the Florence of sun and bright sky, how unlike the brilliant city of dissipation and pleasure!” said Norwood; “and so it is with individuals: we are just what light and shadow make us! Now listen to me.” He then related the whole story of his first meeting with Lola, down to the moment of D’Esmonde’s revelation. “I know well,” said he, “there may be a dozen ways to look on the affair besides that which I have chosen. I might dispute the marriage; I might disavow the whole proceeding; I might, naturally enough, leave such a woman to her fate, – she never could be anything to me; but I cannot relinquish the opportunity of a reckoning with this Russian. The insolence of his wealth gives all the venom to this outrage, and I ‘ll shoot him! All the splendor of his riches can avail him but little now. And, except some more gold upon his coffin, and a richer pall to cover it, he has no advantage over me, ruined and beggared as I am. As to my scores with the world at large, I am about quits. They cheated me when I was a young, unsuspecting boy, trusting and believing every one. I repaid them, as my own time came. Men understand this thoroughly, but women never do. The moment you cease to be their dupe, they hate you. As to my debts, they gave me little trouble when living, they ‘re not likely to disturb my rest in the churchyard; and as for friends, there is not one alive to whom I could send a last word of affection; and yet – you’ll scarcely believe it – with all this I ‘d like to live; although if you ask me why, I couldn’t tell it Perhaps it is this,” cried he, after a pause; “the yelping pack that cried me down in my absence will do so now without fear or restraint The stories of me that once were whispered will now be told aloud. Slander and calumny can go abroad without a dread of consequences. But even that is a poor thing to live for!”

The Frenchman’s philosophy had taught him but few sympathies with such gloomy ideas, and he tried in every way to rally his friend; but Norwood’s mind was full of very different sorrows from those he had dwelt upon. It was the canker of a disappointed, abortive life was eating into his heart A fair fortune squandered, a noble name tarnished, a high position sacrificed, and now an ignominious quarrel to close his career, – these were the reflections which, far more embittering than all his words, now tortured and agonized him.

“Come,” said he, suddenly, “we had better move forward. It is getting nigh daybreak, and our Prince will soon be retiring to his room.”

They now drove rapidly on for some time, and at last reached the gate, where the porter, at once recognizing Mor-lache’s carriage and livery, admitted them without a word.

“You ‘ll have to wait for me here, Count,” said Norwood, when they stopped at the door. “I ‘ll contrive not to keep you long; but this part of the matter I must do alone.” The bell had scarcely done ringing when the door was opened. “The Prince is still at table?” said Norwood, half in assertion, half in inquiry; and then, with a gesture to the servant to show the way, he overawed all scruples about admitting him. “Is he alone?” said the Viscount, as they went along.

“No, sir. The Countess is with him.”

“Say that a person on most pressing business is here, and must speak with him at once.”

“The Prince always requires the name, sir. I dare not address him without it.”

“Say that I am come from Morlache’s, – that I have something to deliver into his own hands.”

Norwood placed the casket on the table as he spoke. The servant retired, and speedily returned, requesting Norwood to follow him. As the door was flung open, Norwood heard voices; he stopped and hesitated. Either an impulse of passion or some change of purpose worked within him; for, as he stood, he grasped the edge of the door, and swayed to and fro for some seconds.

“Let him come out, – let him come here,” cried he, in a loud voice.

A low murmur of persons speaking was heard within, and suddenly the rustling sound of a female dress was followed by the bang of a door; and then Norwood entered, and, closing the door, locked it behind him.

The grating sound of the key made the Russian turn his head suddenly around, and his eyes met Norwood’s.

“What! my Lord Norwood!” cried he, in amazement. “They never told me – ”

“If they had, in all likelihood I should not have been admitted,” was the stern reply.

“I must own it is an honor for which I was scarcely prepared, my Lord,” said the other.

“You never spoke more truly, sir,” said Norwood. “Men like yourself fancy that their solvency in matters of money implies as much in all the various relations of life, and that, as they know not what a dun means, they are to enjoy an equal immunity from every demand of honor.”

“As you are evidently speaking under some strange misapprehension, my Lord, I hesitate about accepting your words in any offensive sense.”

“You said you were unprepared for my visit, sir, and I believe you, as you will be, doubtless, unprepared for the object of it Prince Midchekoff, I have come here to request your company across the Tuscan frontier; the matter is of sufficient importance to warrant the inconvenience. You will take any or as many of your household as you please, but you shall accompany me from this spot Come, sir, your air of easy indifference is for once mistimed. You see before you a man whose utmost effort can scarcely repress the passion that stirs within him. Neither your coolness nor your cowardice – for the quality goes by either name – can avail you here. I must and I will have reparation.”

“Until I am aware of the injury, – until you tell me how or in what I have wronged you – ”

“How shall I teach you a lesson of honor; sir,” cried Norwood, boiling over with rage, “so that you may comprehend, even for a moment, the feeling of a gentleman? You cannot affect ignorance as to who and what is the woman that sat there. You need not drive me to the indignity of calling her my wife! You know it well, and you knew all the disgrace you were heaping on a class who rejected your intimacy. None of this mock surprise, sir! If you compel me to it, I ‘ll fling open that door, call all your household around you, and before them I ‘ll insult you, so that even your serf-blood will rebel against the outrage.”

“This is madness, – downright insanity, my Lord,” said Midchekoff, rising and moving towards the bell.

“Not so, sir,” said Norwood, interposing. “My passion is now mastered. You shall not escape on that pretence. There are my pistols; only one of them is loaded; take your choice, for I see that outside of this room I shall seek in vain for satisfaction.”

“This would be a murder.”

“It shall be, by Heaven, if you delay!” cried Norwood. “I have the right and the will to shoot you like a dog. If there be no honor, is there not even some manhood in your heart? Take your weapon; you hesitate still, – take that, then!” And he struck him with his open hand across the face.

Midchekoff snatched the pistol convulsively, and, placing the muzzle on Norwood’s breast, fired. With a wild cry he staggered and fell dead upon the floor. The Prince flung open the door, and rang the bell violently. In a moment the room was filled with servants. “Send Jocasse here,” said Midchekoff; and his chief secretary entered in all haste and trepidation. “This is an affair for the police, Jocasse,” said the Prince, coolly. “Send for the brigadier, and let him come to my room.”

“Suicide shows a great manque de savoir vivre,” said Haggerstone, as the news of the event was circulated through Florence. And the mot survived the memory of its victim.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE SUMMONS

They who only knew Vienna in its days of splendor and magnificence could scarcely have recognized that city as it appeared on the conclusion of the great revolt which had just convulsed the Empire. The great walls were riddled with shot and shell; vast breaches in them opened out a view of even more dreadful ruin within; streets choked up with fallen houses, and wide squares encumbered with blocks of masonry and blackened timbers. The terrible traces of barricade struggles still remained; but more significant than all these was the downcast, sorrow-struck look of a population once known as the gayest and most light-hearted of Europe.

The air of suffering and poverty extended to everything. No signs of the once luxury and wealth of that rich nobility. Not an equipage was to be seen! The passing and repassing of troops gave the only movement observable in the streets. Strong guards and patrols marched past, with all the precaution and preparation of a state of war. The dragoons sat in their saddles, carbine in hand, as if but waiting for a signal to engage; while, in the half-defiant stare of the populace might be read the spirit of men who had not yet resigned themselves to defeat.

Most of the shops were closed, and, even of those still open, the display of wares was scanty and miserable; rather seeming as if the effort were made to conciliate the favor of the Government than with any hope of gain. The cafés were deserted, except by the military; and they – far from indulging the jocund mirth and laughter which was their wont – were now serious and anxious-looking, regarding the passers-by with a distrustful glance, and seeming as though they felt that the interval was less peace than an armistice.

Cannon were in position on the Stephan’s Platz and the Graben, and the gunners stood ready, as if on parade. Officers of the staff, too, and orderlies rode hastily to and fro, showing that no rash reliance was placed on the quietude of the capital, and that the hour of conflict, if it were to come, should not find them unprepared. In vain the stranger might have sought for that more than feudal splendor which once was the type of this brilliant city! The gorgeous liveries of the Bohemian, or the more tasteful grandeur of the Magyar noble were no longer to be seen. The varied costumes of the Banat and the Wallach, which gave such character to many a rude equipage, the barbaric finery, which recalled the old struggles with the Crescent, which marked the rank of some border chieftain, was gone. Vienna presented nothing but its troops of soldiers, and its mournful, sad-looking population, moving listlessly about, or standing in groups to gaze on the disastrous ruins of their once proud city.

The “Ambassador Street,” where formerly the armorial shields of every reigning house of Europe were wont to be displayed, was now almost untenanted.

With some the Imperial Government was at open war; with others estrangement and coldness prevailed; while some, again, were represented by officials of inferior rank, – all signs of troubled and precarious times, when kings no longer knew what future awaited them!

It was here, formerly, that the most brilliant society of the capital was to be found; here, every night, the carriages were seen to throng, and the whole street glow with the glare of light from brilliant salons, or the red flame of the torches borne by the running footmen. The proud aristocracy of every land here met; and names that recalled the great achievements of generals and statesmen were heard in every announcement that resounded along those corridors. But a few of these palaces were now occupied; and for the most part were the quarters of the generals of the army. In front of one of the largest, at whose gate two sentinels stood, the street was littered with straw; while the closed shutters and drawn curtains showed that sickness and suffering were busy within. The frequent arrivals, and the passing and repassing of messengers evinced the interest the sufferer’s fate excited; and amongst those who dismounted at the corner of the street, and with cautious steps approached the door, more than one member of the Imperial house was to be seen. He whose fortune inspired all these tokens of regard was no great or illustrious general, no proud and distinguished statesman; he was simply a young officer of hussars, – a gallant soldier, whose fidelity had been proved under the most trying circumstances, – our old acquaintance, Frank Dalton. Relapse after relapse had reduced his strength to the very verge of debility, and each day threatened to be his last Worn down by pain and suffering, the young soldier bore a look of calm and even happy meaning. His character for loyalty had been not only vindicated by his blood; but, through the aid of Walstein, it was shown that he could have known nothing of the conspiracy with which he was charged. Thus re-established in fair fame, he saw himself the object of every care that affection could bestow. The old Count seldom quitted him; Kate never left his bedside. Every attention of kindness, every suggestion of love was bestowed upon him; and a sick-bed was made the scene of more touching happiness than he had ever known in the proudest hours of his health and vigor. Could he have seen his dear Nelly beside him, he had no more to wish for! To die without pressing her to his heart, without acknowledging all that he owed to her good counsels, was now his only sorrow; and if in the stillness of the sick-room tears would flow heavily along his cheek, and drop, one by one, on his pillow, this was their secret source.

The Count had himself written to Nelly. Kate, too, had despatched a letter, telling of Frank’s dangerous condition, and entreating her presence; but no reply had been returned, and they already began to fear that some mishap had occurred, and were obliged to frame all manner of excuses for her absence. Meanwhile, as his strength declined, his impatience increased; and his first question, as day broke, and his last at night, were, “What tidings of Nelly?” All his faults and errors lay like a load upon his heart, till he could pour out the confession to his dear sister. The post-hour of each morning was a moment of intense anxiety to him; and the blank look which met his eager glance was the signal for a depression that weighed down his heart during the day. From long dwelling on this source of sorrow, his mind grew painfully acute as to all that bore upon it; and sometimes he fancied that his uncle and Kate knew some dreadful fact of poor Nelly, and feared to communicate it. More than once had it occurred to him that she was dead, – that she had sunk, broken-hearted and deserted. He did not dare to whisper this suspicion, but he tried to insinuate his fears about her in a hundred ways. To his sickly fancy their frankness seemed dissimulation, and the very grief they displayed he read as the misery of an unrevealed calamity.

Kate, with all a woman’s quickness, saw what was passing in his mind, and tried her utmost to combat it; but all in vain. To no purpose did she open her whole heart before him, telling of her own sad history and its disappointments. In vain did she point to a bright future, when, strong and in spirits, Frank should accompany her in search of Nelly, through every glen and valley of the Tyrol. The impression of some concealment was more powerful than all these, and he but heard them as tales invented to amuse a sick-bed. The morbid sensibility of illness gave a significance to every trivial incident, and Kate dared not whisper in his presence, nor even exchange a look with another, without exciting a whole flood of doubt and suspicion in his mind.