← catalogue

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

by Charles Lever · English · Gutenberg #32062 · 985,317 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II (of II)
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II (of II)

Author: Charles Lever

Illustrator: Hablot Knight Browne


        
Release date: April 19, 2010 [eBook #32062]
                Most recently updated: February 27, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32062

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. VOLUME II (OF II) ***




Produced by David Widger





THE DALTONS;

OR,

THREE ROADS IN LIFE.


By Charles Lever.

With Illustrations By Phiz.


In Two Volumes: Volume Two.

Boston:

Little, Brown, And Company.

1904.




THE DALTONS; or, THREE ROADS IN LIFE




CHAPTER I. A MORNING OF MISADVENTURES.

“Well, my Lord, are we to pass the day here,” said Count Trouville,
the second of the opposite party, as Norwood returned from a fruitless
search of George Onslow, “or are we to understand that this is the
English mode of settling such matters?”

“I am perfectly ready, Monsieur le Comte, to prove the contrary, so far
as my own poor abilities extend,” said Norwood, calmly.

“But your friend has disappeared, sir. You are left alone here.”

“Which is, perhaps, the reason of your having dared to insult me,”
 rejoined the other; “that being, perhaps, the French custom in such
affairs.”

“Come, come, gentlemen,” interposed an old cavalry officer, who acted
as second friend to Guilmard, “you must both see that all discussion of
this kind is irregular and unseemly. We have come here this morning for
one specific purpose,----to obtain reparation for a great injury. The
gentleman who should have offered us the amende has suddenly withdrawn
himself. I offer no opinion on the fact that he came out accompanied by
only one friend; we might, perhaps, have devised means to obviate this
difficulty. For his own absence we have no remedy. I would therefore ask
what you have to propose to us in this emergency?”

“A little patience,--nothing more. My friend must have lost his way;
some accident or other has detained him, and I expect to see him here
every instant.”

“Shall we say half an hour longer, my Lord?” rejoined the other, taking
out his watch. “That will bring us to eight o'clock.”

“Which, considering that our time was named 'sharp six,'” interposed
Trouville, “is a very reasonable 'grace.'”

“Your expression is an impertinence, Monsieur,” said Norwood, fiercely.

“And yet I don't intend to apologize for it,” said the other, smiling.

“I 'm glad of it, sir. It's the only thing you have said to-day with
either good sense or spirit.”

“Enough, quite enough, my Lord,” replied the Frenchman, gayly. “'Dans la
bonne société, on ne dit jamais de trop.' Where shall it be, and when?”

“Here, and now,” said Norwood, “if I can only find any one who will act
for me.”

“Pray, my Lord, don't go in search of him,” said Trouville, “or we shall
despair of seeing you here again.”

“I will give a bail for my reappearance, sir, that you cannot doubt of,”
 cried Norwood, advancing towards the other with his cane elevated.

A perfect burst of horror broke from the Frenchmen at this threat,
and three or four immediately threw themselves between the contending
parties.

“But for this, my Lord,” said the old officer, “I should have offered
you my services.”

“And I should have declined them, sir,” said Norwood, promptly. “The
first peasant I meet with will suffice;” and, so saying, he hurried
from the spot, his heart almost bursting with passion. With many a
malediction of George--with curses deep and cutting on every one whose
misconduct had served to place him in his present position--he took his
way towards the high-road.

“What could have happened?” muttered he; “what confounded fit of
poltroonery has seized him? a fellow that never wanted pluck in his
life! Is it possible that he can have failed now? And this to occur at
the very moment they are beggared! Had they been rich, as they were a
few months back, I'd have made the thing pay. Ay, by Jove! I 'd have
'coined my blood,' as the fellow says in the play, and written a
swingeing check with red ink! And now I have had a bad quarrel, and
nothing to come of it! And so to walk the high-roads in search of some
one who can load a pistol.”

A stray peasant or two, jogging along to Florence, a postilion with
return horses, a shabbily dressed curate, or a friar with a sack behind
him, were all that he saw for miles of distance, and he returned
once more to interrogate the calessino driver as to the stranger who
accompanied him from the city.

Any one whose misfortune it may have been to make inquiries from
an Italian vetturino of any fact, no matter how insignificant or
unimportant, will sympathize with Norwood's impatience at the evasive
and distrustful replies that now met his questions. Although the fact
could have no possible concern or interest for him, he prevaricated and
contradicted himself half-a-dozen times over, as to the stranger's age,
country, and appearance, so that, utterly baffled and provoked, the
Viscount turned away and entered the park.

“I, too, shall be reported missing, I suppose,” said he, bitterly, as he
walked along a little path that skirted a piece of ornamental water. “By
Jupiter! this is a pleasant morning's work, and must have its reparation
one day or other.”

A hearty sneeze suddenly startled him as he spoke; he turned hastily
about, but could see no one, and yet his hearing was not to be deceived!
He searched the spot eagerly; he examined the little boat-shed, the
copse, the underwood,--everything, in fact,--but not a trace of living
being was to be seen; at last a slight rustling sound seemed to issue
from a piece of rustic shell-work, representing a river god reclining
on his urn, and, on approaching, he distinctly detected the glitter of a
pair of eyes within the sockets of the figure.

“Here goes for a brace of balls into him,” cried Norwood, adjusting a
cap on his pistol. “A piece of stonework that sneezes is far too like a
man to be trusted.”

Scarcely was the threat uttered, when a tremulous scream issued from
within, and a voice, broken with terror, called out,----

“D-don't fire, my Lord. You'll m-m-murder me. I'm Purvis--Sc-Sc-Scroope
Purvis.”

“How did you come to be there, then?” asked Norwood, half angrily.

“I 'll tell you when I g-get out!” was the answer; and he disappeared
from the loophole at which he carried on the conversation for some
seconds. Norwood began to fancy that the whole was some mystification of
his brain, for no trace of him was to be had; when he emerged from
the boat-house with his hat stripped of the brim, and his clothes in
tatters, his scratched face and hands attesting that his transit had not
been of the easiest. “It's like a r-r-rat-hole,” cried he, puffing for
breath.

“And what the devil brought you there?” asked Norwood, rudely.

“I ca-came out to see the fight!” cried he; “and when you're inside
there you have a view of the whole park, and are quite safe, too.”

“Then it was you who drove out in the calessino meant for the doctor?”
 said Norwood, with the air of a man who would not brook an equivocation.

“Yes; that was a d-d-dodge of mine to get out here,” said he, chuckling.

“Well, Master Purvis,” said Norwood, drawing his arm within his own, “if
you can't be the 'doctor,' you shall at least be the 'second.' This is a
dodge of mine; so come along, and no more about it.”

“But I ca-can't; I never was--I never could be a se-se-second.”

“You shall begin to-day, then, or my name's not Norwood. You've been the
cause of a whole series of mishaps and misfortunes; and, by Jove! if the
penalty were a heavier one, you should pay it.”

“I tell you, I n-never saw a duel; I--I never f-fought one; I never will
fight one; I don't even know how they g-go about it.”

“You shall learn, sir, that 's all,” said Norwood, as he hastened along,
dragging the miserable Purvis at his side.

“But for you, sir,” continued he, in a voice thick with passion,--“but
for you, sir, and your inveterate taste for prying into what does not
concern you, we should have experienced no delay nor disappointment this
morning. The consequences are, that I shall have to stand where another
ought to have stood, and take to myself a quarrel in which I have had no
share.”

[Illustration: 022]

“H-how is that? Do----do----do tell me all about it!” cried Purvis,
eagerly.

“I 'll tell you nothing, sir, not a syllable. Your personal adventures
on this morning must be the subject of your revelations when you get
back to Florence, if ever you do get back.”

“Why, I--I'm----I'm not going to fight anybody,” exclaimed he, in
terror.

“No, sir, but _I_ am; and in the event of any disastrous incident,
_your_ position may be unpleasant. If Trouville falls, you 'll have to
make for Lombardy, and cross over into Switzerland; if he shoots me,
you can take my passport; it is _visé_ for the Tyrol. As they know me
at Innsprück, you 'd better keep to the southward,--some of the smaller
places about Botzen, or Brixen.”

“But I don't know Bo-Bo-Botzen on the map! and I don't see why I 'm to
sk-sk-skulk about the Continent like a refu-refu-refugee Pole!”

“Take your own time, then; and, perhaps, ten years in a fortress may
make you wiser. It's no affair of mine, you know; and I merely gave you
the advice, as I 'm a little more up to these things than you are.”

“But, supposing that I 'll have no-nothing to do with the matter, that I
'll not be present, that I refuse to see--”

“You shall and you must, sir; and if I hear another word of objection
out of your mouth, or if you expose me, by any show of your own
poltroonery, to the ribald insolence of these Frenchmen, by Heaven! I
'll hold your hand in my own when I fire at Count Trouville.”

“And I may be mu-mu-murdered!” screamed Purvis. “An innocent man's
bl-blood shed, all for nothing!”

“Bluebeard treated his wives to the same penalty for the same crime,
Master Purvis. And now listen to me, sir, and mark well my words. With
the causes which have led to this affair you have no concern whatever;
your only business here is in the capacity of my second. Be present when
the pistols are loaded; stand by as they step the ground; and, if you
can do no more, try, at least, to look as if you were not going to be
shot at.” Neither the counsel nor the tone it was delivered in were very
reassuring; and Purvis went along with his head down and his hands in
his pockets, reflecting on all the “accidents by firearms” he had read
of in the newspapers, together with the more terrible paragraphs about
fatal duels, and criminal proceedings against all concerned in them.

The Frenchmen were seated in the garden, at a table, and smoking their
cigars, as Norwood came up, and, in a few words, explained that a
countryman of his own, whom he had met by chance, would undertake the
duties of his friend.

“I have only to say, gentlemen,” he added, “that he has never even
witnessed an affair of this kind; and I have but to address myself to
the loyal good faith of Frenchmen to supply any deficiencies in his
knowledge. Mr. Purvis, Messieurs.”

The old Colonel, having courteously saluted him, took him to a short
distance aside, and spoke eagerly for a few minutes; while Norwood,
burning with anxiety and uneasiness, tried to smoke his cigar with every
semblance of unconcern.

“I 'm sure, if you think so,” cried Scroope, aloud, “I'm not the m-man
to gainsay the opinion. A miss is as g-g-good as a m-mile; and as he did
n't strike him--”

“Tonnerre de Dieu! sir--strike him!” screamed the old soldier. “Did you
say strike him?”

“No, I didn't--I couldn't have meant that,” broke in Purvis. “I meant to
remark that, as there was no mischief done--”

“And who will venture to say that, sir?” interposed the other. “Is it
nothing that a Frenchman should have been menaced?”

“That's a gr-great deal,----a tremendous deal. It's as much as beating
another man; I know that,” muttered poor Purvis, deprecatingly.

“Is this a sneer, sir?” asked the Colonel, drawing himself up to his
full height.

“No, no, it ain't; no, upon my soul, I 'm quite serious. I never was less
disposed for a jest in my life.”

“You could never have selected a less opportune moment for one, sir,”
 rejoined the other, gravely. “Am I to conclude, sir,” resumed he, after
a second's interval, “that we have no difference of opinion on this
affair?”

“None whatever. I agree with you in everything you have s-said, and
everything you in-intend to say.”

“Your friend will then apologize?” resumed the Colonel.

“He shall,--he must.”

“Simply expressing his regret that an unguarded action should have
occasioned a misconception, and that in lifting his arm he neither
intended the gesture as a menace nor an insult. Is n't that your
meaning?”

“Just so; and that if he _had_ struck he would n't have hurt him.”

“Feu d'enfer! sir, what _are_ you saying? or do you mean this for a
mockery of us?” screamed the Colonel, in a fit of passion.

“You terrify me so,” cried Purvis; “You are so impeimpe-impetuous,
I don't know what I 'm saying.”

The Frenchman measured him with a glance of strange meaning. It was
evident that such a character was somewhat new to him, and it required
all his skill and acuteness to comprehend it “Very well, sir,” said
he, at last, “I leave the details entirely to yourself; speak to your
friend, arrange the matter between you, and let us finish the affair as
speedily as may be.”

“What is all this delay about?” muttered Norwood, angrily, as the
other joined him; “is there any difficulty in stepping twelve or twenty
paces?”

“None; but we've hit upon a b-better plan, and you've only to say that
you 're sorry for it all, that you did n't m-mean anything, and that you
never did b-b-beat a Frenchman, nor will you ever do so in future.”

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Norwood, in astonishment.

“That we 'll all go back and lunch at the 'Luna;' for there's no-nothing
to fight about.”

Norwood pushed by him contemptuously, and with hurried steps walked up
to where the old Colonel stood. “You are a French officer, sir,” said
he, “and I rely upon your honor that, whether from the ignorance or
inaptitude of that gentleman, no blame may attach itself to me in this
business. I have no apology to offer, nor any amende save one.”

“Very well, sir, we are ready,” said the Colonel. “I will ask one of my
countrymen to act for you, for I see you are in very indifferent hands.”

And now, like men who were well accustomed to the task, they set about
the details of the duel; while Purvis, being at full liberty, slipped
from the spot, and retired into the wood.

“You 've won the first fire, my Lord,” said a young Frenchman to
Norwood. “The conditions are twelve paces--back to back--to torn at the
word, and fire.”

Norwood bowed, and, without speaking, followed the other to the spot
where he was to stand. As he waited thus, pistol in hand, he was
directly opposite to the place wherein Purvis had taken refuge, and who,
seeing Norwood in front of him, with a cocked pistol, and his finger on
the trigger, uttered a scream of terror, and fell flat on the ground.
Before the rest could discover the cause of the outcry, a shout from
outside of “The Police!” “The Gendarmes!” was heard, and Dr. Grounsell
rushed into the garden, followed by several dismounted dragoons. In
an instant all were away. Norwood sprang over a low balcony into a
vineyard; while in various directions the others scampered off, leaving
Purvis alone upon the field.

But too happy to have fallen into the safe keeping of the authorities,
Purvis accepted his captivity with a most placid contentment.

“Where's Captain Onslow? Have you seen him, sir?” whispered Grounsell to
him.

“I have seen everybody, but I don't re-remember anything. It's all a
dr-dr-dream to me.”

“There was no duel? They hadn't fought?” asked Grounsell.

“I--I--I think not; pro-pro-probably not,” said Purvis, whose faculties
were still very cloudy.

Grounsell turned away from him in disdain, and entered the house. To
all his inquiries from the waiters of the inn the answers were vague and
insufficient, nor could the doctor discover either what had occurred,
or the reasons of the long delay on the ground. Meanwhile the
_Carabinieri_, stimulated by liberal promises of reward, were searching
the park in every quarter, and scouring the country around to arrest the
fugitives; and the peasantry, enlisted in the pursuit, hastened hither
and thither to aid them. Whether really unable to come up with them,
or, as is more probable, concurring in the escape through bribery, the
dragoons returned to the inn after about an hour's absence, without the
capture of a single prisoner.

Grounsell cursed their Italian indolence, and reviled every institution
of their lazy land. How he raved about foreign falsehood and rascality,
and wished for a London detective and a magistrate of Bow Street! Never
did Lord Palmerston so thirst to implant British institutions in a
foreign soil, as did he to teach these “macaroni rascals what a good
police meant.” What honest indignation did he not vent upon English
residents abroad, who, for sake of a mild climate and lax morality,
could exchange their native country for the Continent; and at last,
fairly worn out with his denunciations, he sat down on a bench, tired
and exhausted.

“Will you t-t-tell them to let me go?” cried Purvis. “I've done
nothing. I never do anything. My name is Purvis,--Sc-Sc-Scroope
Purvis,--bro-brother to Mrs. Ricketts, of the Villino Zoe.”

“Matters which have no possible interest for _me_, sir,” growled out
Grounsell; “nor am I a corporal of gendarmes, to give orders for your
liberation.”

“But they 'll take me to--to prison!” cried Purvis.

“With all my heart, sir, so that I be not your fellow captive,” rejoined
the doctor, angrily, and left the spot; while the police, taking as many
precautions for securing Purvis as though he had been a murderer or a
house-breaker, assisted him into a calèche, and, seated one on either
side of him, with their carbines unslung, set out for Florence.

“They'll take me for Fr-Fr-Fra Diavolo, if I enter the city in this
fashion,” cried Purvis; but certainly his rueful expression might have
belied the imputation.

Grounsell sat down upon a grassy bench beside the road, overcome with
fatigue and disappointment. From the hour of his arrival in Florence, he
had not enjoyed one moment of rest. On leaving Lady Hester's chamber he
had betaken himself to Sir Stafford's apartment; and there, till nigh
daybreak, he sat, breaking the sad tidings of ruin to his old friend,
and recounting the terrible story of disasters which were to crush him
into poverty. Thence he hastened to George Onslow's room; but he was
already gone. A few minutes before he had started with Norwood for
Pratolino, and all that remained for Grounsell was to inform the police
of the intended meeting, while he himself, wisely suspecting that
nothing could go forward in Florence unknown to Jekyl, repaired to that
gentleman's residence at once.

Without the ceremony of announcement, Grounsell mounted the stairs, and
opened the door of Jekyl's apartment, just as its owner had commenced
the preparations for his breakfast. There was an almost Spartan
simplicity in the arrangements, which might have made less composed
spirits somewhat abashed and ill at ease. The little wooden platter of
macaroni, the small coffee-pot of discolored hue and dinged proportions,
the bread of Ethiopian complexion, and the bunch of shrivelled grapes
offered a meal irreproachable on the score of either costliness or
epicurism. But Jekyl, far from feeling disconcerted at their exposure to
a stranger's eyes, seemed to behold them with sincere satisfaction, and
with a most courteous smile welcomed the doctor to Florence, and thanked
him for the very polite attention of so early a visit.

“I believe I ought to apologize for the unseasonable hour, sir,”
 blundered out Grounsell, who was completely thrown off his balance by
this excessive urbanity; “but the cause must plead for me.”

“Any cause which has conferred the honor on me is sure of being
satisfactory. Pray come nearer the table. You 'll find that macaroni
eat better than it looks. The old Duke de Montmartre always recommended
macaroni to be served on wood. His maxim was, 'Keep the “plat d'argent”
 for a mayonnaise or a galantine.'”

“Excuse me if I cannot join you, sir. Nothing but a matter of extreme
importance could warrant my present intrusion. I only reached this city
a few hours back, and I find everything at the Mazzarini Palace in
a state of discord and confusion. Some are questions for time and
consideration; others are more immediately pressing. One of these is
this affair of George Onslow's. Who is he about to meet, and for what?”

“His antagonist is a very agreeable young man; quite a gentleman, I
assure you, attached to the French mission here, and related to the
'Morignys,' whom you must have met at 'Madame Parivaux's' formerly.”

“Never heard of one of them, sir. But what's the quarrel?”

“It originated, I believe, in some form of disputation,--an
altercation,” simpered Jekyl, as he sweetened and sipped his coffee.

“A play transaction,--a gambling affair, eh?”

“I fancy not; Count Guilmard does not play.”

“So far, so good,” said Grounsell. “Now, sir, how is it to be
arranged?--what settlement can be effected? I speak to you frankly,
perhaps bluntly, Mr. Jekyl, for my nature has few sympathies with
courteous ambiguities. Can this business be accommodated without a
meeting?”

Jekyl shook his head, and gave a soft, plaintive little sigh.

“Is friendly interference out of the question, sir?”

Another shake of the head, and a sigh.

“Is there any law in the country? Can the police do nothing?”

“The frontiers are always easily accessible,” simpered Jekyl, as he
stole a look at his watch.

“Ay, to be sure,” broke in Grounsell, indignantly; “the very geography
of the Continent assists this profligacy, and five paces over an
imaginary boundary gives immunity in a case of murder! Well, sir, come
along with me to the place of meeting. It is just possible that we may
be of some service even yet.”

“Nothing could be more agreeable to me than the opportunity of
cultivating your acquaintance, Dr. Grounsell; but I have already
sent off a few lines to Lord Norwood, to apologize for my absence,--a
previous engagement.”

“What! at this hour of the morning, sir!” burst out Grounsell.

“Even at this early hour, doctor, our cares commence,” said Jekyl,
blandly.

“Upon this occasion they must give way to duties, then,” said Grounsell,
sternly. “The word may sound strangely in your ears, sir, but I use it
advisedly you have been well received and hospitably entertained by
this family. They have shown you many marks of kindness and attention.
Now is the opportunity to make some sort of requital. Come, then, and
see if this young man cannot be rescued from peril.”

“You touch my feelings in the very tenderest spot,” said Jekyl, softly.
“When gratitude is mentioned, I am a child,--a mere child.”

“Be a man, then, for once, sir; put on your hat and accompany me,” cried
Grounsell.

“Would you have me break an appointment, doctor?”

“Ay, to be sure I would, sir,--at least, such an appointment as I
suspect yours to be. This may be a case of life or death.”

“How very dreadful!” said Jekyl, settling his curls at the glass.
“Pascal compares men to thin glass phials, with an explosive powder
within them, and really one sees the force of the similitude every day;
but Jean Paul improves upon it by saying that we are all burning-glasses
of various degrees of density, so that our passions ignite at different
grades of heat.”

“Mine are not very far from the focal distance at this moment,” said
Grounsell, with savage energy; “so fetch your hat, sir, at once, or--”

“Unless I prefer a cap, you were going to add,” interposed Jekyl, with a
sweet smile.

“We must use speed, sir, or we shall be too late,” rejoined the doctor.

“I flatter myself few men understand a rapid toilet better,” said Jekyl,
rising from the table; “so if you'll amuse yourself with 'Bell's Life,'
'Punch,' or Jules Janin, for five minutes, I 'm your man.”

“I can be company for myself for that space, sir,” said the other,
gruffly, and turned to the window; while Jekyl, disappearing behind the
drapery that filled the doorway, was heard humming an opera air from
within.

Grounsell was in no superlative mood of good temper with the world, nor
would he have extended to the section of it he best knew the well-known
eulogy on the “Bayards.” “Swindlers,” “Rakes,” and “Vagabonds” were
about the mildest terms of the vocabulary he kept muttering to himself,
while a grumbling thunder-growl of malediction followed each. The very
aspect of the little chamber seemed to offer food for his anger; the
pretentious style of its decoration jarred and irritated him, and he
felt a wish to smash bronzes and brackets and statues into one common
ruin.

The very visiting-cards which lay scattered over a Sèvres dish offended
him; the names of all that were most distinguished in rank and station,
with here and there some little civility inscribed on the corner,
----“Thanks,” “Come, if possible,” or “Of course we expect
you,”--showing the social request in which Jekyl stood.

“Ay,” muttered he to himself, “here is one that can neither give dinners
nor balls, get places nor pensions nor orders, lend money nor lose
it, and yet the world wants him, and cannot get on without him. The
indolence of profligacy seeks the aid of his stimulating activity, and
the palled appetite of sensualism has to borrow the relish from vice
that gives all its piquancy. Without him as the fly-wheel, the whole
machinery of mischief would stand still. His boast is, that, without a
sou, no millionnaire is richer than he, and that every boon of fortune
is at his beck. He might add, that in his comprehensive view of
wickedness he realizes within himself all the vice of this good capital.
I 'd send such a fellow to the treadmill; I 'd transport him for life;
I 'd sentence him to hunt kangaroos for the rest of his days; I'd--” He
stopped short in his violent tirade; for he suddenly bethought him how
he himself was at that very moment seeking aid and assistance at his
hands; and somewhat abashed by the recollection, he called out, “Mr.
Jekyl, are you ready yet?”

No answer was returned to this question, and Grounsell repeated it in a
louder voice. All was silent, and not even the dulcet sounds of the
air from “Lucia” broke the stillness; and now the doctor, losing all
patience, drew aside the curtain and looked in. The chamber was empty,
and Jekyl was gone! His little portmanteau, and his still
smaller carpet-bag, his hat-case, his canes--every article of his
_personnel_--were away; and while Grounsell stood cursing the “little
rascal,” he himself was pleasantly seated opposite Lady Hester and Kate
in the travelling-carriage, and convulsing them with laughter at his
admirable imitation of the poor doctor.

Great as was Grounsel's anger at this trickery, it was still greater
when he discovered that he had been locked in. He quite forgot the
course of time passed in his meditations, and could not believe it
possible that there was sufficient interval to have effected all these
arrangements so speedily.

Too indignant to brook delay, he dashed his foot through the door, and
passed out The noise at once summoned the people of the house to the
spot, and, to Grounsell's surprise, the police officer amongst them,
who, in all the pomp of office, now barred the passage with a drawn
sword.

[Illustration: 032]

“What is it?--what's this?” cried he, in astonishment.

“Effraction by force in case of debt is punishable by the 127th
section of the 'Code,'” said a dirty little man, who, with the air of a
shoeblack, was still a leading member of the Florence “Bar.”

“I owe nothing here,----not a farthing, sir; let me pass,” cried
Grounsell.

“'Fathers for sons of nonage or over that period, domiciliated in the
same house,'” began the Advocate, reading out of a volune in his hand,
“'are also responsible.'”

“What balderdash, sir! I have no son; I never was married in my life;
and as for this Mr. Jekyl, if you mean to father him on me, I'll resist
to the last drop of my blood.”

“'Denunciation and menace, with show of arms or without,'” began the
lawyer again, “'are punishable by fine and imprisonment.'”

Grounsell was now so worked up by fury that he attempted to force a
passage by main strength; but a general brandishing of knives by all
the family, from seven years of age upwards, warned him that the attempt
might be too serious, while a wild chorus of abusive language arose from
various sympathizers who poured in from the street to witness the scene.

A father who would not pay for his own son! an “assassin,” who had no
bowels for his kindred; a “Birbante,” a “Briccone,” and a dozen similar
epithets, rattled on him like hail, till Grounsell, supposing that the
“bite” might be in proportion to the “bark,” retreated into a small
chamber, and proposed terms of accommodation. Few men take pleasure
in acquitting their own debts, fewer still like to pay those of their
neighbors, and Grounsell set about the task in anything but a pleasant
manner. There was one redeeming feature, however, in the affair.
Jekyl's schedule could not have extracted a rebuke from the severest
Commissioner of Bankruptcy. His household charges were framed on the
most moderate scale of expenditure. A few crowns for his house-rent,
a few “Pauls” for his eatables, and a few “Grazie” for his washing,
comprised the whole charge of his establishment, and not even Hume would
have sought to cut down the “estimates.” Doubtless more than one half of
the demands were unjust and extortionate, and many were perhaps already
acquitted; but as all the rogueries were but homoeopathic iniquities
after all, their doses might be endured with patience. His haste to
conclude the arrangements had, however, a very opposite tendency. The
more yielding he became, the greater grew their exactions, and several
times the treaty threatened to open hostilities again; and at last it
was full an hour after Jekyl's departure that Grounsell escaped from
durance, and was free to follow George Onslow to Pratolino.

With his adventures in the interval the reader is sufficiently
acquainted; and we now come back to that moment where, bewildered and
lost, he sat down upon the bench beside the high-road.




CHAPTER II. A SAD HOUSEHOLD

It was already past noon when Grounsell reached Florence. He was delayed
at the gate by the authorities examining a peasant's cart in front of
him,--a process which appeared to take a most unusual degree of care
and scrutiny,--and thus gave the doctor another occasion for inveighing
against the “stupid ignorance of foreigners, who throw every possible
impediment in the way of traffic and intercourse.”

“What have they discovered now?” cried he, testily, as in a crowd of
vehicles, of all sorts and sizes, he was jammed up like a coal-vessel in
the river. “Is the peasant a revolutionary general in disguise? or has
he got Bibles or British cutlery under the straw of his baroccino?”

“No, Eccellenza.” (Every one in a passion in Italy is styled Eccellenza,
as an “anodyne.”) “It's a sick man, and they don't know what to do with
him.”

“Is there a duty on ague or nervous fever?” asked he, angrily.

“They suspect he's dead, Eccellenza; and if so, there's no use in
bringing him into the city, to bring him out again by and by.”

“And don't they know if a man be dead or alive?”

“Not when he's a foreigner, Illustrissimo; and such is the case here.”

“Ah, very true!” said Grounsell, dryly, as if acquiescing in the truth
of the remark. “Let me have a look at him; perhaps I can assist their
judgment.” And with this he descended, and made his way through the
crowd, who, in all the eagerness of curiosity, thronged around the cart
A peasant's great-coat was drawn over the figure and even the face
of the sick man, as he lay at full length on the mat flooring of the
baroccino; and on his chest some pious hand had deposited a rosary and a
wooden crucifix.

Grounsell hastily drew back the covering, and then clutching an arm of
those at either side of him, he uttered a faint cry, for the pale and
deathlike features before him were those of George Onslow. The instincts
of the doctor, however, soon rose above every other feeling, and his
hand seized the wrist and felt for the pulse. Its beatings were slow,
labored, and irregular, denoting the brain as the seat of injury.
Grounsell, therefore, proceeded to examine the head, which, covered with
clogged and matted blood, presented a terrific appearance; yet neither
there nor elsewhere was there any trace of injury by fire-arms. The
history of discovery was soon told. A shepherd had detected the body as
he passed the spot, and, hailing some peasants on their way to Florence,
advised their taking charge of it to the city, where they would be
surely recompensed. The natural suggestion of Grounsel's mind was that,
in making his escape from the gendarmes, Onslow had fallen over a cliff.
To convey him home, and get him to bed, if possible, before Sir Stafford
should hear of the misfortune, was his first care; and in this he
succeeded. It was the time when Sir Stafford usually slept; and
Grounsell was able to examine his patient, and satisfy himself that no
fatal injury was done, long before the old Baronet awoke.

“Sir Stafford wishes to see you, sir; he asked for you repeatedly
to-day,” said Proctor.

“Has he heard--does he know anything of this?” said Grounsell, with a
gesture to the bed where George lay.

“Not a word, sir. He was very cheerful all the morning, but wondering
where you could have gone, and what Mister George was doing.”

“Now for it, then,” muttered Grounsell to himself, as, with clasped
hands and knitted brows, he walked along; his mind suffering the very
same anxieties as had oftentimes beset him on the eve of some painful
operation in his art.

“Well, Grounsell,” said the old man, with a smile, as he entered, “is
it to give me a foretaste of my altered condition that you all desert me
to-day? You have never come near me, nor George either, so far as I can
learn.”

“We've had a busy morning of it, Stafford,” said the doctor, sitting
down on the bed, and laying his finger on the pulse. “You are
better--much better to-day. Your hand is like itself, and your eye is
free from fever.”

“I feel it, Gronnsell,--I feel as if, with some twenty years less upon
my back, I could like to begin my tussle with the world, and try issue
with the best.”

“You 're young enough, and active enough yet, for what is before you,
Stafford. Yesterday I told you of everything in colors perhaps gloomier
than reality. The papers of to-day are somewhat more cheery in their
tidings. The hurricane may pass over, and leave us still afloat; but
there is another trial for you, my old friend, and you must take heart
to bear it well and manfully.”

Sir Stafford sat up in his bed, and, grasping Grounsell by either
shoulder, cried out, “Go on--tell it quickly.”

“Be calm, Stafford; be yourself, my old friend,” said Grounsell,
terrified at the degree of emotion he had called up. “Your own
courageous spirit will not desert you now.”

“I know it,” said the old man, as, relaxing his grasp, he fell back upon
the pillow, and then, turning on his face, he uttered a deep groan. “I
know your tidings now,” cried he, in a burst of agony. “Oh, Grounsell,
what is all other disgrace compared to this?”

“I am speaking of George--of your son,” interposed Gronnsell, hastily,
and seizing with avidity the opportunity to reveal all at once. “He left
this for Pratolino this morning to fight a duel, but by some mischance
has fallen over a cliff, and is severely injured.”

“He's dead,--you would tell me he is dead!” said the old man, in a
faint, thrilling whisper.

“Far from it Alive, and like to live, but still sorely crushed and
wounded.”

“Oh, God!” cried the old man, in a burst of emotion, “what worldliness
is in my heart when I am thankful for such tidings as this! When it is a
relief to me to know that my child--my only son--lies maimed and broken
on a sick-bed, instead of--instead of--” A gush of tears here broke in
upon his utterance, and he wept bitterly.

Grounsell knew too well the relief such paroxysms afford to interfere
with their course; while, to avoid any recurrence, even in thought,
to the cause, he hurriedly told all that he knew of George's intended
meeting with the Frenchman, and his own share in disturbing the
rendezvous.

Sir Stafford never spoke during this recital. The terrible shock seemed
to have left its stunning influence on his faculties, and he appeared
scarcely able to take in with clearness the details into which the other
entered.

“She's gone to Como, then,” were the first words he uttered,----“to
this villa the Prince has lent her?”

“So I understand; and, from what Proctor says, the Russian is going to
marry the Dalton girl.”

“Miss Dalton is along with Lady Hester?”

“To be sure; they travel together, and George was to have followed
them.”

“Even scandal, Grounsell, can make nothing of this. What say you, man?”

“You may defy it on that score, Stafford. But let us talk of what is
more imminent,----of George.”

“I must see him, Grounsell; I must see my poor boy,” said he, rising,
and making an effort to get out of bed; but weakness and mental
excitement together overcame him, and he sank back again, fainting and
exhausted. To this a deep, heavy sleep succeeded, and Grounsell stole
away, relieved in mind by having acquitted himself of his painful task,
and free to address his thoughts to other cares.

“Lord Norwood wishes to see you, sir,” said a servant to the doctor, as
he at last seated himself for a moment's rest in his chamber; and before
Grounsell could reply, the noble Viscount entered.

“Excuse this abrupt visit, sir; but I have just heard of poor Onslow's
accident Is there any danger in his condition?”

“Great and imminent danger, my Lord.”

“By Jove!--sorry for it you don't happen to know how it occurred?”

“A fall, evidently, was the cause; but how incurred, I cannot even
guess.”

“In the event of his coming about again, when might we expect to see him
all right,--speaking loosely, of course?”

“Should he recover, it will take a month, or, perhaps, two, before he
convalesces.”

“The devil it will! These Frenchmen can't be made to understand the
thing at all; and as Guilmard received a gross personal outrage, he is
perfectly out of his mind at the delay in obtaining satisfaction. What
is to be done?”

“I am a poor adviser in such cases, my Lord; nor do I see that the
matter demands any attention from us whatever.”

“Not from _you_, perhaps,” said Norwood, insolently; “but I had the
misfortune to go out as his friend! My position is a most painful and
critical one.”

“I should suppose that no one will understand how to deal with such
embarrassments better than your Lordship.”

“Thanks for the good opinion; the speech I take to be a compliment,
however you meant it. I believe I am not altogether unskilled in such
affairs, and it is precisely because such is the case that I am here
now. Onslow, in other hands than mine, is a ruined man. The story, tell
it how you will, comes to this: that, having gone out to meet a man he
had grossly insulted, he wanders away from the rendezvous, and is found
some hours after at the foot of the cliff, insensible. He may have
fallen, he may have been waylaid,--though everything controverts this
notion; or, lastly, he may have done the act himself. There will be
advocates for each view of the case; but it is essential, for his honor
and reputation, that one story should be authenticated. Now, I am quite
ready to stand godfather to such a version, taking all the consequences,
however serious, on myself.”

“This is very kind, very generous, indeed, my Lord,” said Grounsell,
suddenly warming into an admiration of one he was always prejudiced
against.

“Oh, I'm a regular John Bull!” said the Viscount, at once assuming the
burden of that canticle, which helped him in all moments of hypocrisy.
“Always stand by the old stock,--nothing like them, sir. The Anglo-Saxon
blood will carry all before it yet; never suffer a rascally foreigner
to put his foot on one of your countrymen. Have him out, sir; parade the
fellow at once: that's my plan.”

“I like your spirit!” cried Grounsell, enthusiastically.

“To be sure you do, old cock!” exclaimed Norwood, clapping him
familiarly on the shoulder. “Depend upon it, _I_ 'll pull George through
this. _I_ 'll manage the matter cleverly. There must be no mistake about
it; no room for doubt or equivocation, you know. All straightforward,
open, and manly: John Bull every inch of It That's _my_ notion, at
least,----I hope it's yours?”

“Perfectly,--thoroughly so!”

“Well, then, just hand that note to Sir Stafford.” Here he placed a
sealed letter in Grounsell's hand. “Tell him what I've just told you.
Let him fairly understand the whole question, and let me have the
contents this evening at the _café_ in the Santa Trinita,--say about
nine o'clock; not later than that These fellows always gather about that
hour.”

“I'll take care of it,” said Grounsell.

“All right!” cried Norwood, gayly, as he arose and adjusted the curls
beneath his hat. “My compliments to the old gent, and tell George not to
make himself uneasy. He 's in safe hands. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, my Lord, good-bye,” said Grounsell, who, as he looked
after him, felt, as it were, unconsciously recurring to all his former
prejudices and dislikes of the noble Viscount “Those fellows,” muttered
he, “are as inexplicable to me as a new malady, of which I neither know
the stages nor the symptoms. The signs I take for those of health may
be precisely the indications of corruption; and what I deem unsound may
turn out to be exactly the opposite.” And so be fell into a musing fit,
in which certainly his estimate of Lord Norwood continued steadily
to fall lower and lower the longer he thought of him. “He must be
a rogue!--he must be a scoundrel! Nature makes all its blackguards
plausible, just as poison-berries are always brilliant to look at They
are both intended to be the correctives of rash impressions, and I
was only a fool ever to be deceived by him. Out of this, at all
hazards,--that's the first thing!” muttered Grounsell to himself, as
he walked hastily up and down the room. “The place is like a plague
district, and we must not carry an infected rag away from it! Glorious
Italy, forsooth! There's more true enlightenment, there's a higher
purpose, and a nobler view of life in the humblest English village, than
in the proudest halls of their Eternal City!”

In such pleasant reflections on national character he entered Sir
Stafford's room, and found his friend seated at a table covered with
newly arrived letters; the seals were all unbroken, and the sick man was
turning them over, and gazing at the different handwritings with a sad
and listless apathy.

“I 'm glad you 've come, Grounsell. I have not courage for this,” said
he, pointing to the mass of letters before him.

“Begging impostors, one half of them, I 'll be sworn!” said Grounsell,
seating himself to the work. “Was I not right? Here's a Cabinet Minister
suing for your vote on an Irish question, and entreating your speedy
return to England, 'where, he trusts, the object you are both interested
in may be satisfactorily arranged.' Evasive rascal! Could n't he say,
'you shall have the Peerage for your support'? Would n't it be more
frank and more intelligible to declare, 'We take you at your price'?
These,” said he, throwing half a dozen contemptuously from him, “are
all from your constituents. The 'independent borough' contains seventy
electors; and if you owned the patronage of the two services, with a
fair share of the public offices and India, you could n't content them.
I 'd tell them fairly, 'I have bought you already; the article is paid
for and sent home. Let us hear no more about it!' This is more cheering.
Shoenhals, of Riga, stands firm, and the Rotterdam house will weather
the gale. That's good news, Onslow!” said he, grasping the old man's
hand. “This is from Calcutta. Prospects are brightening a little in that
quarter, too. Come, come,--there's some blue in the sky. Who knows what
good weather 's in store for us?”

Onslow's lip trembled, and he passed his hand over his eyes without
speaking.

“This is from Como,” said Grounsell, half angrily, tossing away a highly
perfumed little three-cornered note.

“Give it to me,----let me see it,” said Onslow, eagerly; while with
trembling fingers he adjusted his spectacles to read. Grounsell handed
him the epistle, and walked to the window.

“She's quite well,” read Sir Stafford, aloud; “they had delightful
weather on the road, and found Como in full beauty on their arrival.”
 Grounsell grumbled some angry mutterings between his teeth, and shrugged
up his shoulders disdainfully. “She inquires most kindly after me, and
wishes me to join them there, for Kate Dalton's betrothal.”

“Yet she never took the trouble to visit you when living under the same
roof!” cried Grounsell, indignantly.

The old man laid down the letter, and seemed to ponder for some moments.

“What's the amount?--how much is the sum?” asked Grounsell, bluntly.

“The amount!--the sum!----of what?” inquired Sir Stafford.

“I ask, what demand is she making, that it is prefaced thus?”

“By Heaven! if you were not a friend of more than fifty years' standing,
you should never address me as such again,” cried Onslow, passionately.
“Has ill-nature so absorbed your faculties that you have not a good
thought or good feeling left you?”

“My stock of them decreases every day,----ay, every hour, Onslow,” said
he, with a deeper emotion than he had yet displayed. “It is, indeed,
a sorry compromise, that if age is to make us wiser, it should make us
less amiable, also!”

“You are not angry with me?--not offended, Grounsell?” said Onslow,
grasping his hand in both his own.

“Not a bit of it But, as to temperament, _I_ can no more help _my_
distrust, than _you_ can conquer _your_ credulity, which is a happier
philosophy, after all.”

“Then come, read that letter, Grounsell,” said Onslow, smiling
pleasantly. “Put your prejudices aside for once, and be just, if not
generous.”

Grounsell took the note, and walked to the window to read it. The
note was just what he expected,--a prettily turned inquiry after
her husband's health, interwoven with various little pleasantries of
travelling, incidents of the road, and so forth. The invitation was a
mere suggestion, and Grounsell was half angry at how little there was to
find fault with; for, even to the “Very sincerely yours, Hester Onslow,”
 all was as commonplace as need be. Accidentally turning over the page,
however, he found a small slip of silver paper,--a bank check for five
hundred pounds, only wanting Onslow's signature. Grounsell crushed it
convulsively in his palm, and handed the note back to Onslow, without a
word.

“Well, are you convinced?--are you satisfied now?” asked Onslow,
triumphantly.

“I am perfectly so!” said Grounsell, with a deep sigh. “You must write,
and tell her that business requires your immediate presence in England,
and that George's condition will necessitate a return by sea. Caution
her that the Daltons should be consulted about this marriage, which, so
far as I know, they have not been; and I would advise, also, seeing that
there may be some interval before you can write again, that you should
send her a check,--say for five hundred pounds.”

“So you _can_ be equitable,-Grounsell,” cried the other, joyously.

“And here is a letter from Lord Norwood,” said Grounsell, not heeding
the remark, and breaking the seal as he spoke. “Laconic, certainly.
'Let me have the enclosed by this evening.--N.' The enclosed are
five acceptances for two hundred each; the 'value received' being his
Lordship's services in upholding your son's honor. Now here, at least,
Onslow, I 'll have my own way.” And, with these words, he seated himself
at a table and wrote:----

     My Lord,--Living in a land where assassination is cheap, and
     even men of small fortune can keep a Bravo, I beg to return
     your Lordship's bills, without submitting them to my friend
     for endorsement, your price being considerably above the
     tariff of the country, and more calculated to your own
     exigencies than the occasion which it was meant to
     remunerate.   I am, yours,

     Paul Grounsell.

“What have you said there, Grounsell? you look so self-satisfied, it can
scarcely be over-civil.”

“There,----'To the Viscount Norwood'” said Grounsell, as he sealed and
addressed the note. “We are getting through our work rapidly. In a week,
or even less, if George's symptoms show nothing worse, we shall get
away from this; and even on the sea one feels half as though it were
England.”

We need not follow Grounsell through the busy days which ensued, nor
track him in his various negotiations with tradespeople,
bankers, house-agents, and that legionary class which are called
“commissionaires.” Enough if we say that, in arranging for the departure
of his friends, his impressions of Italian roguery received many an
additional confirmation; and that, when the last day of their sojourn
arrived, his firm conviction was that none but a millionnaire could
afford to live in this the very cheapest capital of Europe!

And now they are gone! steaming calmly away across the Gulf of Genoa.
They have closed the little episode of their life in Italy, and with
heavy hearts are turning homeward. The great Mazzarini Palace looks sad
and forlorn; nor do we mean to linger much longer on a scene whence the
actors have departed.




CHAPTER III. A LAST SCENE

One last glance at the Mazzarini Palace, and we leave it forever.

Seated in the drawing-room where Lady Hester once held sway, in the
very chair around which swarmed her devoted courtiers and admirers, Mrs.
Ricketts now reclined, pretty much on the same terms, and with probably
some of the same sentiments, as Louis Blanc or his friend Albert might
have experienced on finding themselves domesticated within the Palace of
the Luxembourg. They were, so to say, parallel circumstances. There
had been a great reverse of fortune, an abdication, and a flight. The
sycophants of the day before were the masters now, and none disputed
the pretensions of any bold enough to assume dictation. To be sure, Mrs.
Ricketts's rule, like Ledru Rollings, was but a provisional government;
for already the bills for an approaching sale of everything were
posted over the front of the palace, and Racca Morlache's people were
cataloguing every article with a searching accuracy, very tormenting to
the beholders.

From some confused impression that they were friends of Lady Hester, and
that Mrs. Ricketts's health was in a precarious condition, Sir Stafford
gave orders that they should not be molested in any way, but permitted
to prolong their stay to the latest period compatible with the
arrangement for sale. A sense of gratitude, too, mingled with these
feelings; for Mrs. Ricketts had never ceased to indite euphuistic
notes of inquiry after George himself,--send presents of impracticable
compounds of paste and preserves, together with bottles of mixtures,
lotions, embrocations, and liniments, one tithe of which would have
invalided a regiment Gronnsell, it is true, received these civilities in
a most unworthy spirit; called her “an old humbug,” with a very unpolite
expletive annexed to it; and all but hurled the pharmacopoeia at the
head of the messenger. Still, he had other cares too pressing to suffer
his mind to dwell on such trifles; and when Onslow expressed a wish
that the family should not be disturbed in their occupancy, he merely
muttered, “Let them stay and be d-----d;” and thought no more of them.

Now, although the palace was, so to speak, dismantled, the servants
discharged, the horses sent to livery for sale, the mere residence was
convenient for Mrs. Ricketts. It afforded a favorable opportunity for a
general “doing up of the Villino Zoe,”--a moment for which all her late
ingenuity had not been able to provide. It opened a convenient occasion,
too, for supplying her own garden with a very choice collection of
flowers from the Mazzarini,--fuchsias, geraniums, and orchidae, being
far beyond all the inventoriai science of Morlache's men; and lastly, it
conferred the pleasing honor of dating all her despatches to her hundred
correspondents from the Palazzo Mazzarini, where, to oblige her dear
Lady Hester, she was still lingering,----“_Se sacrificando_” as she
delighted to express it, “_Jai doveri dell' amicizia_.” To these cares
she had now vowed herself a martyr. The General believed in her sorrows;
Martha would have sworn to them; and not a whit the less sincerely that
she spent hours in secreting tulip roots and hyacinths, while a deeper
scheme was in perpetration,--no less than to substitute a copy of
a Gerard Dow for the original, and thus transmit the genius of the
Ricketts family to a late posterity. Poor Martha would have assisted in
a murder at her bidding, and not had a suspicion of its being a crime!

It was an evening “at home to her few most intimate friends,” when
Mrs. Ricketts, using the privilege of an invalid, descended to the
drawing-room in a costume which united an ingenious compromise between
the habit of waking and sleeping. A short tunic, a kind of female
monkey-jacket, of faded yellow satin edged with swansdown, and a cap
of the same material, whose shape was borrowed from that worn by the
beef-eaters, formed the upper portion of a dress to which wide
fur boots, with gold tassels, and a great hanging pocket, like a
sabretasche, gave a false air of a military costume. “It was singular,”
 she would remark, with a bland smile, “but very becoming!” Besides, it
suited every clime. She used to come down to breakfast in it at Windsor
Castle. “The Queen liked it;” the Bey of Tripoli loved it; and the
Hospodar of Wallachia had one made for himself exactly from the pattern.
Her guests were the same party we have already introduced to our reader
in the Villino Zoe,--Haggerstone, the Pole, and Foglass being the
privileged few admitted into her august presence, and who came to
make up her whist-table, and offer their respectful homage on her
convalescence.

The Carnival was just over, the dull season of Lent had begun, and the
Rickettses' tea-table was a resource when nothing else offered. Such was
the argument of Haggerstone as he took a cheap dinner with Foglass at
the Luna.

“She 's an infernal bore, sir,--that I know fully as well as you can
inform me; but please to tell me who is n't a bore.” Then he added, in a
lower voice, “Certainly it ain't _you!_”

“Yes, yes,----I agree with you,” said Foglass; “she has reason to be
sore about the Onslows' treatment.”

“I said a bore, sir,--not sore,” screamed out Haggerstone.

“Ha!” replied the other, not understanding the correction. “I remember
one day, when Townsend--”

“D----n Townsend!” said Haggerstone.

“No, not Dan,--Tom Townsend. That fellow who was always with Mathews.”

“Walk a little quicker, and you may talk as much balderdash as you
please,” said the other, buttoning up his coat, and resolving not to pay
the slightest attention to his companion's agreeability.

“Who is here?” asked Haggerstone, as he followed the servant up the
stairs.

“Nobody but Count Petrolaffsky, sir.”

“Un Comte à bon compte,” muttered Haggerstone to himself, always pleased
when he could be sarcastic, even in soliloquy. “They 'll find it no easy
matter to get a tenant for this house nowadays. Florence is going down,
sir, and will soon be little better than Boulogne-sur-Mer.”

“Very pleasant, indeed, for a month in summer,” responded Foglass, who
had only caught up the last word. “Do you think of going there?”

“Going there!” shouted out the other, in a voice that made misconception
impossible. “About as soon as I should take lodgings in Wapping for
country air!”

This speech brought them to the door of the drawing-room, into which
Haggerstone now entered, with that peculiar step which struck him as
combining the jaunty slide of a man of fashion with the martial tread of
an old soldier.

“Ha! my old adherents,----all my faithful ones!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts,
giving a hand to each to kiss; and then, in a voice of deep emotion,
she said, “Bless you both! May peace and happiness be beneath your
roof-trees! joy sit beside your hearth!”

Haggerstone reddened a little; for, however alive to the ludicrous in
his neighbors, he was marvellously sensitive as to having a part in the
piece himself.

“You are looking quite yourself again,” said he, bluntly.

“The soul, indeed, is unchanged; the spirit--”

“What's become of Purvis?” broke in Haggerstone, who never gave any
quarter to these poetic flights.

“You 'll see him presently. He has been so much fatigued and exhausted
by this horrid police investigation, that he never gets up till late. I
've put him on a course of dandelion and aconite, too; the first effect
of which is always unpleasant.”

Leaving Foglass in conclave with the hostess, Haggerstone now approached
the Count, who had for several times performed his toilet operation of
running his hands through his hair, in expectation of being addressed.

“How d'ye do,----any piquet lately?” asked the Colonel, half
cavalierly.

“As if I was tinking of piquet, wid my country in shains! How you can
aske me dat?”

“What did you do with Norwood t'other night?” resumed the other, in a
voice somewhat lower.

“Won four hundred and fifty,--but he no pay!”

“Nor ever will.”

“What you say?--not pay me what I wins!”

“Not a sou of it.”

“And dis you call English noblemans,--pair d'Angleterre!”

“Hush! Don't be carried away by your feelings. Some men Norwood won't
pay because he does n't know them. There are others he treats the same
way because he _does_ know them,--very equitable, eh?”

The observation seemed more intelligible to the Pole than polite, for he
bit his lip and was silent, while Haggerstone went on,----

“He 's gone, and that, at least, is a point gained; and now that these
Onslows have left this, and that cur Jekyl, we may expect a little
quietness, for a while, at least; but here comes Purvis.” And that
worthy individual was led in on Martha's arm, a large green shade over
his eyes, and his face plentifully sprinkled with flour.

“What's the matter with you, man? you 're 'got up' like a ghost in a
melodrama.”

“They 've taken all the cuti-cuti-cuti--”

“Call it skin, sir, and go on.”

“Sk-skin off my face with a lin-liniment,” cried he, “and I could
sc-scream out with pain whenever I speak!”

“Balm of marigolds, with the essential oil of crab-apple,” said Martha.
“I made it myself.”

“I wish to Hea-Heaven you had tr-tried it, too,” whispered he.

“Brother Scroope, you are ungrateful,” said Mrs. Ricketts, with the air
of a Judge, charging. “The vicissitudes of temperature, here, require
the use of astringents. The excessive heat of that police-court--”

“By the way, how has that affair ended?” asked Haggerstone.

“I'll tell you,” screamed out Purvis, in a burst of eagerness. “They 've
fi-fi-fiued me a hundred and f-f-fifty scadi for being w-where I never
was, and fighting somebody I n-never saw.”

“You got off cheaply, sir. I 've known' a man sentenced to the galleys
for less; and with a better character to boot,” muttered he to himself.

“Lord Norwood and the rest said that I was a pr-pr-principal, and he
swore that he found me hiding in a cave.”

“And did he so?”

“Yes; but it was only out of curi-curi-curi--”

“Curiosity, sir, like other luxuries, must be paid for; and, as you seem
a glutton, your appetite may be expensive to you.”

“The mystery remains unsolved as to young Onslow, Colonel?” said Mrs.
Ricketts, half in question.

“I believe not, madam. The explanation is very simple. The gallant
guardsman, having heard of Guilmard's skill, preferred being reported
'missing' to 'killed,' having previously arranged with Norwood to take
his place. The price was, I fancy, a smart one,--some say five thousand,
some call it ten. Whatever the amount, it has not been paid, and Norwood
is furious.”

“But the accident?”

“As for that, madam, nothing more natural than to crack your skull when
you lose your head.” And Haggerstone drew himself up with the proud
consciousness of his own smartness.

“Then of course the poor young man is ruined?” observed Martha.

“I should say so, madam,--utterly ruined. He may figure on the committee
of a Polish ball, but any other society would of course reject him.”
 This was said to obtain a sneer at Petrolaffsky, without his being able
to guess why. “I believe I may say, without much fear of contradiction,
that these Onslows were all humbugs! The old banker's wealth, my
lady's refinement, the guardsman's spirit, were all in the same
category,--downright humbugs!”

“How he hates us,--how he detests the aristocracy!” said Mrs. Ricketts,
in a whisper to the Pole.

“And de Dalton----what of her?----is she millionnaire?” asked
Petrolaffsky.

“The father a small shopkeeper in Baden, sir; children's toys,
nut-crackers, and paper-knives being the staple of his riches. Foglass
can tell you all about it. He wants to hear about those Daltons,”
 screamed he into the deaf man's ear.

“Poor as Job--has n't sixpence--lives 'three-pair back,' and dines for
a 'zwanziger.' Lame daughter makes something by cutting heads for canes
and umbrellas. He picks up a trifle about the hotels.”

“Ach Gott! and I was so near be in loaf wid de sister!” muttered the
Pole.

“She is likely to d-d-do better, Count,” cackled in Purvis. “She caught
her Tartar----ha, ha, ha!”

“Midchekoff doesn't mean marriage, sir, depend upon it,” said
Haggerstone.

“Martha, leave the room, my dear,” said Mrs. Ricketts, bridling. “He
could no more relish a pleasure without a vice than he could dine
without caviare.”

“But they are be-be-betrothed,” cried Purvis. “I saw a letter with an
account of the ceremony. Midchekoff fitted up a beautiful chapel at his
villa, and there was a Greek priest came sp-epecial from M-M-M-Moscow--”

“I thought you were going to say from the moon, sir; and it would be
almost as plausible,” croaked Haggerstone.

“I saw the letter. It was n't shown to me, but I saw it; and it was that
woman from Breslau gave her away.”

“What! old Madame Heidendorf? She has assisted at a great many similar
ceremonies before, sir.”

“It was the Emperor sent her on purpose,” cried Purvis, very angry at
the disparagement of his history.

“In this unbelieving age, sir, I must say that your fresh innocence
is charming; but permit me to tell you that I know old Caroline
Meersburg,--she was sister of the fellow that stole the Archduke
Michael's dress-sword at the Court ball given for his birthday. I
have known her five-and-thirty years. You must have met her, madam, at
Lubetskoy's, when he was minister at Naples, the year after the battle
of Marengo.”

“I was wearing trousers with frills to them, and hunting butterflies at
that time,” said Mrs. Ricketts, with a great effort at a smile.

“I have n't a doubt of it, madam.” And then muttered to himself, “And if
childishness mean youth, she will enjoy a perpetual spring!”

“The ceremony,” resumed Purvis, very eager to relate his story, “was
dr-droll enough; they cut off a----a----a lock of her hair and tied it
up with one of his.”

“A good wig spoiled!” croaked Haggerstone.

“They then brought a b-b-b----”

“A baby, sir?”

“No, not a b-baby, a b-basin--a silver basin--and they poured water over
both their hands.”

“A ceremony by no means in accordance with Russian prejudices,” chimed
in Haggerstone. “They know far more of train-oil and bears' fat than of
brown Windsor!”

“Not the higher nobility, Colonel,--not the people of rank,” objected
Mrs. Ricketts.

“There are none such, madam. I have lived in intimacy with them all,
from Alexander downwards. You may dress them how you please, but
the Cossack is in the blood. Raw beef and red breeches are more than
instincts with them; and, except the Poles, they are the dirtiest nation
of Europe.”

“What you say of Polen?” asked Petrolaffsky.

“That if oil could smooth down the acrimony of politics, you ought to be
a happy people yet, sir.”

“And we are a great people dis minet. Haven't we Urednfrskioctsch,
de best general in de world; and Krakouventkay, de greatest poet; and
Vladoritski, de most distinguish pianist?”

“Keep them, sir, with all their consonants; and Heaven give you luck
with them,” said Haggerstone, turning away.

“On Tuesday--no, We-Wednesday next, they are to set out for St.
P-P-Petersburg. And when the Emperor's leave is gr-granted, then
Midchekoff is to follow; but not before.”

“An de tyrant no grant de leave,” said the Pole, gnashing his teeth and
grasping an imaginary dagger in his wrath. “More like he send her to
work in shains, wid my beautiful sisters and my faders.”

“He'll have more important matters to think of soon, sir,” said
Haggerstone, authoritatively. “Europe is on the eve of a great
convulsion. Some kings and kaisers will accept the Chiltern Hundreds
before the year's out.”

“Shall we be safe, Colonel, here? Ought Martha and I--”

“Have no fears, madam; age commands respect, even from Huns and Croats.
And were it otherwise, madam, where would you fly to? France will have
her own troubles, England has the income-tax, and Germany will rake up
some old grievance of the Hohenstaufen, or the Emperor Conrad, and make
it a charge against Prince Metternich and the Diet! It's a very rascally
world altogether, and out of Tattersall's yard I never expect to hear of
honesty or good principles; and, _à propos_ to nothing, let us have some
piquet, Count.”

The table was soon got ready, and the players had just seated
themselves, when the sound of carriage-wheels in the court attracted
their attention.

“What can it mean, Scroope? Are you quite certain that you said I
wouldn't receive to-night?”

“Yes; I told them what you b-bade me; that if the Archduke called----”

“There, you need n't repeat it,” broke in Mrs. Ricketts, for certain
indications around Haggerstone's mouth showed the sense of ridicule that
was working within him.

“I suppose, madam, you feel somewhat like poor Pauline, when she said
that she was so beset with kings and kaisers she had never a moment left
for good society?”

“You must say positively, Scroope, that I admit no one this evening.”

“The Signor Morlache wishes to see you, madam,” said a servant. And
close behind him, as he spoke, followed that bland personage, bowing
gracefully to each as he entered.

“Sorry--most sorry--madam, to intrude upon your presence; but the Prince
Midchekoff desires to have a glance at the pictures and decorations
before he goes away from Florence.”

“Will you mention to him that to-morrow, in the afternoon, about five
or----”

“He leaves this to-morrow morning, madam; and if you could--”

[Illustration: 056]

But before the Jew could finish his request the door was flung wide, and
the great Midchekoff entered, with his hands in his coat-pockets, and
his glass in one eye. He sauntered into the room with a most profound
unconsciousness that there were people in it. Not a glance did he even
bestow on the living figures of the scene, nor did a trait of his manner
evince any knowledge of their presence. Ranging his eyes over the
walls and the ceilings, he neither noticed the martial attitude of
Haggerstone, nor the graceful undulations by which Mrs. Ricketts was, as
it were, rehearsing a courtesy before him.

“Originals, but all poor things, Morlache,” said the Prince. And really
the observation seemed as though uttered of the company rather than the
pictures.

“Mrs. Ricketts has been good enough, your Highness--” began the Jew.

“Give her a Napoleon,” said he, listlessly, and turned away.

“My sister, Mrs. Ricketts--Mrs. M-M-Montague Ricketts,” began Scroope,
whose habitual timidity gave way under the extremity of provocation.
And the Prince turned slowly round, and surveyed the speaker and the
imposing form that loomed behind him.

“Tell them that I don't mean to keep any establishment here, Morlache.”
 And with this he strolled on, and passed into another room, while, like
as in a tableau, the others stood speechless with rage and indignation.

“He took you for the housekeeper, ma'am,” said Haggerstone, standing up
with his back to the fire----“and a housekeeper out of place!”

“Martha, where's the General? Where is he, I say?” cried Mrs. Ricketts,
furious with passion.

“He went to bed at nine,” whispered Martha. “He thought, by rising early
to-morrow, to finish the attack on Utrecht before night.”

“You are as great a fool as himself. Scroope, come here. You must follow
that Russian. You must tell him the gross rudeness--”

“I'll be ha-ha-hanged if I do. I 've had enough of rows, for one winter
at least. I 'll not get into another sc-scrape, if I can help it.”

“I 'm sorry, madam, that I cannot offer you my services,” said
Haggerstone, “but I never meddle in a quarrel which can be made a
subject of ridicule. Mr. Foglass, I 'm certain, has no such scruple.”

“The Prince appears a very agreeable man,” said the ex-Consul, who, not
having the slightest notion of what was passing, merely followed his
instincts of praising the person of high rank.

“De shains of my enslaved country is on my hands. I 'm tied like one
galérien!” said Petrolaffsky, in a voice guttural with emotion.

“Your pardon once more, madam,” said Morlache, slipping into the
chamber, and noiselessly approaching Mrs. Ricketts's chair. “The Prince
will take everything,----pictures, plate, china, and books. I hope
to-morrow, at noon, will not inconvenience you to leave this--”

“To-morrow! Impossible, sir. Perfectly impossible.”

“In that case, madam, we must make some arrangement as to rent. His
Highness leaves all to me, and I will endeavor to meet your wishes
in every respect. Shall we say two thousand francs a month for the
present?” Without waiting for any reply, he turned to the Pole, and
whispered, “He 'll take you back again. He wants a chasseur, to send to
St. Petersburg. Come over to me in the morning, about ten. Mr. Foglass,”
 cried he, in a loud voice, “when you write to London, will you mention
that the varnish on the Prince's drosky doesn't stand the cold of
Russia, and that they must try some other plan with the barouche? Your
brother is an ingenious fellow, and he 'll hit upon something. Colonel
Haggerstone, the Prince did n't return your call. He says you will
guess the reason when he says that he was in Palermo in a certain year
you know of. I wish the honorable company good-night,” said he, bowing
with a deference almost submissive, and backing out of the room as he
spoke.

And with him we also take our leave of them. They were like the chance
passengers we meet on the road of a journey, with whom we converse when
near, and forget when we separate from. Were we not more interested for
the actors than the scenes on which they “strut their hour,” we might
yet linger a few moments on the spot so bound up with our memory of Kate
Dalton,----the terrace where she sat, the little orangery where she
loitered of a morning, the window where she read, and dreamed of that
bright future, so much nearer to her grasp than she knew of! There they
were all!--destined to feel new influences and know other footsteps, for
she had left them forever, and gone forth upon her “Path” in life.




CHAPTER IV. A PACKAGE OF LETTERS

It was a bright clear morning in May. A somewhat late spring had
retarded vegetation, and the blossoming fruit-trees now added their
gorgeous beauty to the warmer tints of coming summer. We are once more
in Baden; but how different is it from what we saw it last. The frozen
fountains now plash, and hiss, and sparkle in the sun. The trim alleys
are flanked by the yellow crocus and the daffodil; the spray-like
foliage of the ash is flecking the sunlight on the merry river, along
whose banks the cheering sound of pleasant voices mingles with the
carol of a thousand birds. The windows are open, and gay balconies are
spreading, and orange-trees unfolding their sweetness to the breezy
air. All is life and motion and joy, for the winter is past, and nothing
remains of it save the snow-peaks on some distant mountains, and even
they are glowing in brilliant contrast with the deep blue sky beyond
them.

Lovely as the valley is in summer or autumn, it is only in spring
its perfect beauty appears. The sudden burst of vegetation--the rapid
transition from the frost-bound durance of winter to the life and
lightness of the young season, have a most exciting and exhilarating
effect. This seemed conspicuous enough in the inhabitants as they
chatted merrily in the streets, or met each other with pleasant
greetings. It was the hour of the post arriving, and around the
little window of the office were gathered the chief celebrities of the
village,--the principal hotel-keepers, curious to learn what tidings
their correspondents gave of the prospects of the coming summer.
Everything appeared to smile on that happy moment, for as the various
letters were opened, each had some good news to tell his neighbors,--now
of some great English Lord, now of some Hungarian magnate or Russian
Prince that was to make Baden his residence for the summer. “The Cour de
Bade is all taken,” said one; “There will not be a room free in all
the Adler;” “The Swan must refuse the Queen of Naples,”--such were the
rumors that fell from lip to lip as in hearty congratulation they talked
over their good fortune.

One figure only of the assembled group seemed excepted from the general
Joy. He was a large elderly man, who, in a patched and threadbare
surtout, with a coarse scarlet muffler round his throat, appeared either
distrustful of the mild season or unprovided with any change of costume
to enjoy it. Seated on a stone bench in front of the window of the
post-office, with an arm on each knee, and his head bent heavily
forward, he never seemed to notice what went forward, nor hear one
syllable of the joyous recognitions about him.

The crowd at last dispersed, the happy recipients of good news were
turning homewards, and only one or two still lingered around the spot,
when the old man arose and approached the window. There was something
almost of shame in the way he slouched his hat over his eyes as he drew
nigh and knocked timidly at the closed pane.

His summons was unheard, and yet for some time he did not repeat
it,--perhaps he loved better to feed his hope even these short few
moments than again fall back into the dark gloom of his despair! At
last, and with a deep, hollow sigh, he tapped again.

“Have you anything for the name of Dalton,--Peter Dalton?” asked he,
in a voice wherein scarcely an accent revealed the once high-hearted
nature.

“Nothing,” was the curt rejoinder. And the window was slammed to with
impatience.

He grasped the iron railing with a convulsive grip, as though a sudden
pang had shot through him, and then, by a great effort, he drew himself
up to his full height; his pale and haggard face grew paler as he
turned it upwards, and his bloodless lips trembled as they muttered some
indistinct syllables; then turning about, he brushed abruptly past the
few who stood around, and walked away.

He had not gone many paces when a boy overtook him, saying, “Come back,
sir; the postmaster has two letters for you.”

Dalton looked stealthily at either side, to be sure that the speech was
addressed to him, and, with a fierceness that startled the boy, said,
“You're certain they're for me?”

“Yes, yes; all right,--here they are,” cried the postmaster from the
window. “One, a soldier's letter from Munich, and free. The other is a
heavier packet, and costs four florins and twelve kreutzers.”

“I must be satisfied with this one, then,” said Dalton, “till I go back
for money. I brought no change out with me.”

“No matter: you can send it,” said the other.

“Maybe it's not so easy as you think,” muttered Dalton to himself; while
he added, aloud, “Very well, I'll do so, and thank you.” And he clutched
the two letters, and pressed them to his bosom.

With hurried steps he now paced homewards, but, stopping at every
instant, he drew forth the packets to gaze at them, and be certain that
no self-deception was over him, and that his possession was real and
tangible. His gait grew more firm, as he went, and his tread, as he
mounted the stairs, sounded assured and steady.

“You have a letter, father dearest,” cried Nelly, as she flung wide the
door. “I saw you crossing the Platz, and I know, from your walk, that
you've got one.”

“No, but better, Nelly--I 've two. That's from Frank; and here's Kate's,
and a bulky one--four florins twelve--devil a less.”

“Oh, give it to me! Let me hear of her----let me feel beside her once
again!” cried Nelly. And with bursting eagerness she tore open the
envelope, from which two or three sealed notes fell out. “This is from
Lady 'Hester,” said she; “and this a hand I do not know, but addressed
to you; and here are bills or money-orders for a large sum. What can all
this mean?”

“Can't you read what she says?” said Dalton, reddening, and suddenly
remembering that Nelly was not aware of his having written to Kate.
“Give it to me; I 'll read it myself.” And he snatched the letter from
her fingers. “There's Frank's for you.”

“Oh, father, father!” cried Nelly, in a burst of grief, as she tore
open Lady Hester's letter; “it is as I feared. Kate is about to be
married--if she be not already married.”

“Without my leave--without asking my consent!” cried Dalton,
passionately. “Am I nobody at all? Am I the head of the family, or am
I not? Is this the way to treat her father? May I never see light, if
I won't have him 'out,' if he was a Prince of the Blood! Oh, the
ungrateful girl! Leave off crying there, and tell me all about it. Read
me her own letter, I say----if God will give me patience to listen to
it.”

With a bosom almost bursting, and a lip quivering with emotion, Ellen
began,--

     “La Rocca, Lake of Como.

     Dearest Father and Sister,--Oh that I could throw myself at
     your feet, and poor out all that my heart is full of----
     tell you what I feel and hope and fear, and ask your counsel
     and your blessing. I know not if the last few days be real;
     my poor head is turning amid the scenes I 've passed through
     and the emotions I have felt. I had no friend but Lady
     Hester--no adviser but she! She has been a mother to me--not
     as you would have been, Nelly--not to warn and restrain,
     when perhaps both were needed, but to encourage and feed my
     hopes.   I yielded to her counsels--”

“I don't understand one word of this,” cried Dalton, impatiently. “What
did she do?”

Nelly's eyes ran rapidly over the lines without speaking; and then, in a
low but distinct voice, she said,---

“It is as I said; she is betrothed to this great Russian Prince.”

“That fellow, they say, owns half Moscow. Fogles told us about him.”

“Prince Midchekoff.”

“That's the name. Well, it's a fine match,--there's no denying it.
How did it come about? and why didn't he come here and ask my consent?
What's the meaning of doing it all in this hurry?”

“The marriage can only take place in St. Petersburg, and in presence of
the Emperor; and she is merely betrothed, at present, to enable her to
accompany the lady, Madame de Heidendorf, to Russia, where the Prince
will follow in a few weeks.”

“That bangs Banagher! Why could n't they get a priest where they are? Be
gorra! they 've scruples about everything but _me!_ _I_ 'm the only one
that's not considered! What the devil is the Emperor to her,--sure _he_
is n't her father? Well, well, go on.”

“She would seem to have yielded to persuasion,” said Nelly, feelingly.
“The Prince, with all his greatness, appears not to have won her heart.
See how she dwells upon his immense wealth and the splendor of his
position.”

“Let us hear about that,” cried Dalton, eagerly.

     “My heart is nigh to bursting when I think of you and
     dearest Nelly living with me, in all the enjoyment that
     riches can bestow, nothing denied you that you can fancy,
     and free to indulge every taste and every wish. To know that
     I can at last repay, in some sort, all your affection--that
     poor worthless Kate can minister to your pleasure and your
     comfort--would make me dare a rasher destiny than this. And
     he is so generous, Nelly. The whole of yesterday is like a
     page from the 'Arabian Nights,' as I sat surrounded with
     gorgeous articles of gold and gems--diamonds such as a queen
     might wear, and rubies larger than the glass-drops I used to
     deck my hair with long ago! And yet they tell me I have seen
     nothing as yet, and that the treasures of Vladovitch Palace
     I hear of at every moment are greater than most royal
     houses. Lady Hester is kinder than ever, and the Heidendorf
     also; but she is cold and reserved--too stately for my
     taste--and I cannot overcome my awe of her. Is not this like
     a confession of my unfitness for the station I am to
     occupy?--are not these signs of inferiority? How little Hans
     would stare at the objects of taste and art by which I am
     surrounded and of which I never tire in admiring!

     “There have been great changes in this family since I wrote,
     and some mysterious circumstance is now hanging over them;
     but Lady Hester has not told me anything, nor do I care to
     repeat rumors which reach me through others. I only know
     that Sir Stafford is about to proceed to England as soon as
     Captain Onslow's health will permit; he, poor fellow, met
     with an accident on the day we left Florence, and my maid,
     who sat in the rumble, saw the mishap without knowing or
     suspecting the victim! I have done everything to obtain
     leave to visit you before I set out, or even to see you on
     my way; but Madame de Heidendorf is absolute, and she has
     so much important business in hand--such deep political
     affairs to transact at Vienna and Dresden--that I find it is
     impossible.

     “The Prince has promised to write at once about Frank. He
     says it will be better to obtain his promotion in the
     Austrian service before he enters the Russian, and that this
     shall take place immediately. I could see that on this point
     he was acutely alive to the fact of our humble position;
     but he knows from Lady Hester all about our family, and that
     the Daltons acknowledge nothing superior to them in birth.
     This, however, is always a difficulty to a foreigner; they
     have no idea of untitled nobility; and I saw his chagrin
     the other day when I told him to address papa as plain
     Monsieur. Since yesterday morning I am called Princess; and
     I cannot conceal from you the throb of delight the sound
     still gives me! I often stop to ask myself if this be all a
     dream, and shall I wake beside the fire and see dearest
     Nelly bending over some little group, and Hans with
     wondering eyes staring over her shoulders.

     “The Prince only intends to spend one winter in Russia.
     Madame de Heidendorf says that he will be named Ambassador
     at Paris; but I hope and trust not: I feel too acutely my
     inferiority for such a position. This she laughs at, and
     merely says, 'Nous verrons.' Of course, wherever I am, you
     will both be with me; meanwhile, what would you wish to do?
     I told Monsieur Rubion, the Prince's secretary, that I
     wanted money, and he gave me these bills, so he called them,
     on Baden and Carlsruhe, as easily negotiable in that
     neighborhood; pray, say if they be serviceable. The Prince
     intends to visit you at Baden; and I suppose you will like
     to see him. His manners are perfect, and except a degree of
     constraint in first acquaintance, he is generally thought
     very agreeable. Such preparations as they are making for my
     journey, you 'd fancy I was a queen at the very least All my
     _trousseau_ is to come from Paris direct; and up to this I
     have merely what Madame de H. calls the strictly
     'indispensable;' which, shall I own? contrives to fill two
     large fourgons and a heavy travelling-carriage. Nina is in a
     perfect ecstasy at everything, and is eternally 'draping' me
     in Brussels lace and Chantilly; so that, even while I
     write, these flimsy tissues are floating around me; while
     caskets of jewels and precious gems dazzle my eyes wherever
     I turn them.

     “The whole is like a gorgeous vision; would that it might
     remain ever thus, for I almost tremble to take a step
     further. Are these unworthy fears?   I hope they are.”

Nelly paused, and laid down the letter on her knee. “Well, may I never
see grace, if that letter isn't enough to confuse a bench of bishops!”
 cried Dalton. “She's marrying the first man in Europe,--be the other who
he will,--and she has as many crotchets and misgivings about it as if it
was little Hans, there, below! And he a Prince! a real Prince!--devil a
doubt of it--that scatters the money about like chaff! Here's an order
at sight for nine hundred gulden; and here's a bill at ten days--a nice
date--for fourteen hundred and eighty-six Prussian dollars; and this
is nearly as much more. Kate, my beauty, I knew you 'd do it! I never
looked at you in your old clogs and the worsted cloak that I did n't
think of the day I 'd see you in satin and velvet! Faix, it's the best
bottle of claret in the Adler I 'll drink your health in this day!
Nelly, who will we ask in to dinner?”

“Don't you think, papa, it were better we should not speak of this--”

“Why, better? Are we ashamed of it?”

“I mean, more prudent as regards ourselves, and more respectful to the
Prince.”

“Respectful--to my son-in-law!--that's 'more of it.' Upon my conscience,
I'll have to go to school again in my old days. I know nothing of life
at all, at all! Respect, indeed!”

“I would but suggest, papa, that for Kate's sake--”

“There--there----don't provoke me. I never set my heart on a thing
yet--big or little--that I was n't met with a caution about this, or
a warning about that, till at last I got so tutored and corrected and
trained that, as Billy Morris used to say at whist, 'I dread a good hand
more than a bad one.'”

“Far be it from me, dearest father,” said Nelly, smiling, “to throw a
shadow over a bright moment. If it will give you pleasure--”

“Sure I said it would,--sure I told you 't is what I 'd like. A fine
dinner at the 'Schwan;' four gulden a head, without wine; a dozen of
champagne in ice, hock for them that can drink it, and port and Lafitte
for Peter Dalton and men of his own sentiments. There's the programme,
Nelly, and you'll see if I can't fill up the details.”

“Well, but we have yet much to do; here are several letters,--here is
Frank's. Let us learn how the dear fellow fares.”

Dalton sat down without speaking; there was, indeed, more of resignation
than curiosity in his features, as he crossed his arms and listened.

     “Dearest Nelly,----I only heard a few days ago that my last
     two letters had been stopped; they were not, as they should
     have been, submitted to my captain to read, and hence they
     were arrested and suppressed. This goes by a private hand--a
     friend of mine--a pedler from Donaueschingen--”

“A what?--a pedler is it?” broke in Dalton, angrily.

“Yes, papa; remember that poor Frank is still in the ranks.”

“Well, God give me patience with you all!” burst out the old man, in
a torrent of passion. “Does he know that he's a Dalton?--does he feel
blood in his veins? Why the blazes must he seek out a thieving blaguard
with a pack full of damaged cambric to make a friend of? Is this the way
the family's getting up in the world?”

     “Adolf Brawer, by name,” read on Nelly, in a low and subdued
     voice. “You will be surprised when I tell you that I owe all
     his kindness and good-nature to you,--yes, to your own dear
     self. On his way through the Tyrol he had bought two wooden
     statuettes,--one a young soldier asleep beside a well; the
     other a girl leaning from a window to hear the bugles of a
     departing regiment Can you guess whose they were? And when
     he came to know that I was the brother of the little N. D.
     that was sculptured, half hid in a corner, and that I was
     the original of the tired, wayworn recruit on the roadside,
     I thought he would have cried with enthusiasm.”

“Didn't I often say it?” broke in Dalton, as, wringing his hands in
despair, he paced the room with hasty strides. “Did n't I warn you a
thousand times about them blasted images, and tell you that, sooner or
later, it would get about who made them? Didn't I caution you about the
disgrace you 'd bring on us? The fear of this was over me this many a
day. I had it like a dream on my mind, and I used to say to myself, 'It
will all come out yet.'” #

Nelly covered her face with her apron as these bitter words were spoken;
but not a syllable, nor a sigh, did she reply to them; still, the frail
garment shook with an emotion that showed how intensely she suffered.

“A Virgin sold here, an Angel Gabriel there; now it was Hamlet; another
time Gotz with the iron hand. All the balderdash that ever came into
your head scattered over the world to bring shame on us! And then to
think of Kate!”

“Yes, dearest father, do think of her,” cried Nelly, passionately. “She
is, indeed, an honor and a credit to you.”

“And so might you have been, too, Nelly,” rejoined he, half sorry for
his burst of anger. “I 'm sure I never made any difference between you.
I treated you all alike, God knows.” And truly, if an indiscriminating
selfishness could plead for him, the apology was admirable.

“Yes, papa, but Nature was less generous,” said Nelly, smiling through
her tears; and she again turned to the letter before her. As if fearful
to revive the unhappy discussion, she passed rapidly over Frank's
account of his friend's ecstasy; nor did she read aloud till she came to
the boy's narrative of his own fortunes.

     “You ask me about Count Stephen, and the answer is a short
     one. I have seen him only once. Our battalion, which was
     stationed at Laybach, only arrived in Vienna about three
     weeks ago, but feeling it a duty to wait on our relative, I
     obtained leave one evening to go and pay my respects. Adolf,
     who knew of my connection with the Field-Marshal, had lent
     me two hundred florins; and this, too, I was anxious to pay
     off,--another reason for this visit.

     “Well, I dressed myself in my best cadet cloth, and silk
     sword-knot,

     Nelly,--none of your 'commissaire' toggery, but all fine and
     smart-looking, as a gentleman-cadet ought to be,--and then
     calling a fiacre, I ordered the man to drive to the
     'Koertnor Thor,' to the Field-Marshal von Auersberg*s
     quarters. I 'm not sure if I did n*t say to my uncle's. Away
     we went gayly, and soon drew up in an old-fashioned
     courtyard, from which a great stair led up four stories
     high, at the top of which the 'Feld'--so they called him--
     resided. This was somewhat of a come-down to my high-flown
     expectations, but nothing to what I felt as the door was
     opened by an old Jager with one leg, instead of, as I looked
     for, a lackey in a grand livery.

     “'What is 't cadet?' said he, in a tone of the coolest
     familiarity.

     “'The Field-Marshal von Auersberg lives here?' said I.

     “He nodded.

     “'I wish to see him.'

     “He shook his head gravely, and scanning me from head to
     foot, said, 'Not at this hour, cadet,----not at this hour.'

     “'Let him see this card,' said I, giving one with my name.
     'I 'm certain he 'll receive me.'

     “I believe if I had presented a pistol at him, the old
     fellow would have been less startled, as he exclaimed, 'A
     cadet with a visiting-card! This would serve you little with
     the Feld, younker,' cried he, handing it back to me; 'he
     likes to see a soldier a soldier.'

     “'Tell him my name, then,' said I, angrily; 'say that his
     grand-nephew, Frank Dalton, has been standing at his door in
     full parley with a servant for ten minutes.'

     “The announcement created little of the astonishment I
     calculated on, and the old soldier merely replied, 'All
     under field-officer's rank come before eight of a morning.
     you cannot expect to have the privilege of an archduke.' He
     was about to close the door in my face as he spoke, but I
     placed my shoulder against it and forced it back, thus
     securing an entrance within the forbidden precincts.

     “'Right about, quick march!' cried he, pointing to the
     door, while his whole frame trembled with passion.

     “'Not till you have delivered my message,' said I, calmly.

     “'Then Bey'm Blitzen I will deliver it, and see how you 'll
     like it,' cried he, as he stumped away down a passage and
     entered a room at the end of it. I could soon hear the sound
     of voices, and for the moment I was almost determined to
     beat a retreat, when suddenly the old Jager came out and
     beckoned me forward. There was a grin of most diabolical
     delight on the old fellow's features as I passed into the
     room and closed the door behind me.

     “As well as I could see in the imperfect light, for it was
     after sunset, the apartment was large and low-ceilinged,
     with bookshelves round the walls, and stands for weapons and
     military equipments here and there through it. At the stove,
     and busily engaged in watching a coffee-pot, sat the Feld
     himself, a loose gray overcoat covering his figure, and
     concealing all of him but two immense jackboots that peeped
     out beneath. He wore a Mütze, a kind of Hungarian cap, and a
     long pipe depended from his mouth, the bowl resting on the
     carpet. The most conspicuous feature of all was, however,
     his enormous moustache, which, white as snow, touched his
     collar-bone at either side.

     “He never spoke a word as I entered, but stared at me
     steadfastly and sternly for full three or four minutes. Half
     abashed by this scrutiny, and indignant besides at the
     reception, I was about to--

[Illustration: 071]

     “'Franz Carl Infantry, third battalion,' said I, instantly
     saluting with my hand.

     “'Your name?'

     “'Frank Dalton.'

     “'Your business?'

     “'To visit my grand-uncle, the Field-Marshal von Auersberg.'

     “'And is it thus, younker,' cried he, rising, and drawing
     himself up to his full height, 'that you dare to present
     yourself before a

     Feldzeugmeister of the Imperial Army?   Have they not
     taught you even the commonest rules of discipline?   Have
     they left you in the native barbarism of your own savage
     country, that you dare, against my orders, present yourself
     before me?'     “'I thought the claim of kindred--' began
     I.

     “'What know I of kindred, sirrah? What have kith and kin
     availed _me?_ I have stood alone in the world. It was not to
     kindred I owed my life on the field of Rosbach; nor was it
     a relative stanched my bleeding wounds at Wagram!'

     “'The name of Dalton--'

     “'I have won a prouder one, sir, and would not be reminded
     by you from what I 've started.   Where 's your character-
     certificate?'

     “'I have not brought it with me, Herr General.    I scarcely
     thought it would be the first question my father's uncle would
     put to me.'

     '“There was prudence in the omission, too, sir,' said he,
     not heeding my remark. 'But I have it here.' And he drew
     from a portfolio on the table a small slip of paper, and
     read: '“Cadet Dalton, second company of the third
     battalion, Franz Carl Regiment.----Smart on service, and
     quick in discipline, but forward and petulant with those
     above him in rank. Disposed to pride himself on birth and
     fortune, and not sufficiently submissive to orders. Twice in
     arrest, once, Kurzgeschlossen.” A creditable character, sir!
     Twice in arrest and once in irons! And with this you claim
     kindred with a count of the empire, and an imperial field-
     marshal! On the fifth of last month you entertained a party
     at dinner at the Wilde Man,--most of them men of high rank
     and large fortune. On the eighteenth you drove through Maria
     Tell with a team of four horses, and passed the drawbridge
     and the moat in full gallop. So late as Wednesday last you
     hoisted a green flag on the steeple of the village church,
     on pretence of honoring your father's birthday. I know each
     incident of your career, sir, and have watched you with
     shame and regret. Tell your father, when you write to him,
     that all the favor of my august master would not endure the
     test of two such protégés.   And now, back to your
     quarters.'

     “He motioned me to retire with a gesture, and I fell back,
     almost glad at any cost to escape. I had just reached the
     stair, when the Jager called me back to his presence.

     “'Art an only son?' asked the Count, for the first time
     addressing me in the second person.

     “I bowed.

     “'And hast three sisters?'

     “'Two, Herr General.'

     “'Older or younger than thyself?'

     '“Both older, sir.'

     '“How have they been brought up? Have they learned thrift
     and housecraft, or are they wasteful and reckless, as their
     native country and their name would bespeak them?'

     “'Our humble fortune is the best answer to that question,
     sir.'

     '“It is not, sirrah!' cried he, angrily. 'The spendthrift
     habit survives every remnant of the state that gave it
     birth, and the beggar can be as improvident as the prince.
     Go; thou hast as much to learn of the world as of thy duty.
     Head erect, sir; shoulders back; the right thumb more
     forwards. If the rest of the battalion be like thee, I'll
     give them some work on the Prater ere long.'

     “A haughty wave of his hand now finished our interview, and,
     once outside the door, I descended the stairs, a whole
     flight at every bound, in terror lest anything should induce
     him to recall me.

     “And this is Uncle Stephen, Nelly,--this the great protector
     we used to build our hopes upon, and flatter ourselves would
     be a second father to us!

     “When I came out into the street, I knew not which way to
     turn. I dreaded the very sight of a comrade, lest he should
     ask me about our meeting, what pocket-money he had given me,
     and how soon I should be an officer. It was only when I saw
     Adolf coming towards me that I remembered all about my debt
     to him, of which I had not spoken one word to my uncle. I
     ought to have told him so, frankly. Yes, Nelly, I can hear
     the murmured displeasure with which you read my confession,
     'that I could n't do it.' I was unequal to the effort, and
     could not bring myself to destroy that whole fabric of
     fictitious interest in which I had wrapped myself. What
     would Adolf have thought of me when I said, I have neither
     wealth nor station nor prospect,--as humble a soldier as the
     sentry you see yonder? What would become of that romance of
     life in which we have so often spent hours revelling in a
     brilliant future, every incident of which grew up in our
     united fancies, and seemed to assume reality as we discussed
     it? Where----oh, Nelly! to you I must reveal all----every
     weakness, every littleness of my nature--where would be the
     homage of respect the poor Bursche was wont to show the
     nephew of a field-marshal? No, it was above my strength;
     and so I took his arm, and talked away heedlessly about our
     meeting, avoiding, where I could, all mention of my uncle,
     and but jocularly affecting to think him an original, whose
     strange, old-fashioned manners almost concealed the strong
     traits of family affection.

     “'What of thy promotion, Frank?' asked Adolf.

     “'It will come in its own good time/ said I, carelessly.
     'Nothing causes more dissatisfaction than the rapid
     advancement of cadets of noble family.'

     “'But they could make thee a corporal, at least?'

     “I laughed scornfully at the remark, and merely said, 'They
     may skip over the whole sous-officier grade, and only
     remember me when I'm to be made a lieutenant/

     “'Thou hast grown haughtier, Frank,' said he, half
     reproachfully, 'since thy meeting with the “Feld.” Mayhap in
     a day or two thou wilt not like to be seen in company with a
     “Wander-Bursche”?'

     “I was bursting to throw my arms round his neck, and say,
     'Never, whatever fortune have in store for me; thy
     friendship is like a brother's, and can never be forgotten;
     'but Pride--yes, Nelly, the cursed pride against which you
     used to warn me--sealed my lips; and when I spoke, it was
     something so cold, so meaningless, and so unworthy that he
     left me. I know not how! No sooner was I alone, Nelly, than
     I burst into tears. I cried for very shame; and if agony
     could expiate my fault, mine should have done so.    What
     humiliation before my friend could equal that I now felt
     before my own heart! I thought of all your teachings,
     dearest Nelly; of the lessons you gave me over and over
     against this besetting sin of my nature! I thought of our
     home, where poor Hanserl was treated by us as a friend! I
     thought of our last parting, and the words you spoke to me
     in warning against this very pride, ignoble and mean as it
     is; and, oh! what would I have given to have thrown myself
     into Adolfs arms, and told him everything! I have never seen
     him since; he wrote to me a few lines, saying that he
     should pass through Baden on his way to Frankfort, and
     offering to carry a letter for me; but not once did he
     allude to my debt, nor was there the slightest hint of its
     existence. On this I wrote an acknowledgment of the loan,
     and a pressing entreaty that he would come and see me; but
     he pretended one thing and another, affected engagements at
     the only hours I was free, and at last abruptly sent for my
     letter just when I was writing it. I had much more to tell
     you, Nelly, of myself, of the service, and of my daily life
     here; but my thoughts are now disturbed and scattered; and
     I feel, too, how your shame for my short-coming will take
     away interest from what I say. You, Nelly, will have courage
     to be just: tell him all that I have been weak enough to
     conceal; let him know what suffering my unworthy shame has
     cost me; and, above all, that I am not ungrateful.

     “It seems like a dream all that you tell me of Kate. Is she
     still in Italy, and where? Would she write to me? I am
     ashamed to ask the question of herself. They spoke of our
     brigade being sent to Lombardy; but even there I might be
     far away from her; and if near, in the very same city, our
     stations would separate us still more widely. Oh, Nelly! is
     it worth all the success ever ambition the most successful
     won, thus to tear up the ties of family, and make brothers
     and sisters strangers? Would that I were back again with
     you, and dearest Kate, too! I see no future here; the dull
     round of daily discipline, teaching nothing but obedience,
     shuts out speculation and hope! Where are the glorious
     enterprises, the splendid chances I often dreamed of? My
     happiest moments now are recalling the past; the long winter
     evenings beside the hearth, while Hans was reading out to
     us. There are rumors of great changes in the world of Europe;
     but to us they are only the thunderings of a distant
     storm, to break out in what quarter we know not. Oh, Nelly!
     if it should lead to war! if some glorious struggle were to
     break in upon this sluggish apathy!

     “Adolf has sent again for this letter, so I must close it He
     will not, he says, pass through Baden, but will post this in
     Munich--so good-bye, dearest sister. Tell poor papa all that
     you dare to tell of me, and farewell.

     “Frank Dalton.


“When you write it must be under cover to the 'Herr Hauptman von Gauss,
2ten Compagnie, 3 Linien Bataillon, Franz Carl Infanterie.' Don't forget
this long address, nor to add a line to the captain himself, who is a
good-looking fellow, but somewhat conceited.

“I have just heard old Auersberg is to have a command again. I 'm
heartily sorry for it. So much for family influence!”

If the reader's patience has lasted through this long letter of Frank's,
it was more than Peter Dalton's did. For what between his ecstasy at
Kate's good fortune, his own rambling speculations on all that should
follow from it, and, above all, what from the slurring monotonous tone
in which Nelly passed over such portions as she did not wish him to
hear, he grew gradually more abstracted and dreamy, and at last fell off
into a deep and most happy slumber. Not a syllable did he hear of the
old Feld's reception of Frank; nor did he even awake as little Hans
stumped into the room, with a staff in either hand,--aids that, since
his accident, he could never dispense with.

“I heard that you had letters, Fräulein,” said he. “Do they bring good
tidings?”

“Some would call them so, Hanserl,” said she, with a sigh. “Kate is
about to be married.”

Hanserl made no reply, but sat slowly down, and crossed his arms before
him.

“The great Russian Prince Midchekoff, of whom you may have heard.”

“I have seen him, Fräulein; he was here in Baden, three years ago.”

“Oh, then, tell me, Hanserl, what is he like? Is he young and
frank-looking? Seems he one that should have won a maiden's heart so
suddenly, that----that--”

“No, not that she could n't have written to her sister and asked for
counsel, Fräulein,” said Hans, continuing her sentence. “The Prince is
a cold, austere man, proud to his equals, I believe, but familiar enough
to such as me. I remember how he asked me of my life, where I came from,
and how I lived. He seemed curious to hear about the train of thoughts
suggested by living amid objects of such childish interest, and asked
me, 'If I did not often fancy that this mock world around me was the
real one?' 'You are right, Herr Prints,' said I; 'but, after all, here,
at least, we are equals.' 'How so?' said he. 'That _your_ real world
is as great a mockery as mine.' 'Thou are right, dwarf,' said he,
thoughtfully, and fell a-musing. He should not have called me dwarf, for
men know me as Hans Roëckle,--and this is your sister's husband!”

“Is he mild and gentle-mannered?” asked Nelly, eagerly.

“The great are always so, so far as I have seen; none but base
metal rings loudly, maiden. It is part of their pride to counterfeit
humility.”

“And his features, Hans?”

“Like one of those portraits in the gallery at Wurtzburg. One who had
passions and a temper for a feudal age, and was condemned to the slavery
of our civilization.”

“He is much older than Kate?” asked she again.

“I have seen too few like him even to guess at his age; besides, men
of his stamp begin life with old temperaments, and time wears them but
little.”

“Oh, Hanserl, this seems not to promise well. Kate's own nature is
frank, generous, and impulsive; how will it consort with the cold traits
of his?”

“She marries not for happiness, but for ambition, maiden. They who
ascend the mountain-top to look down upon the scene below them, must not
expect the sheltering softness of the valley at their feet. The Fräulein
Kate is beautiful, and she would have the homage that is paid to beauty.
She has chosen her road in life; let us at least hope she knows how to
tread it!”

There was a tone of almost sternness in Hanserl's manner that Nelly well
knew boded deep and intense feeling, and she forebore to question him
further for some time.

“You will leave this, then, Fräulein?” said he at last “You will quit
the humble valley for the great world?”

“I know not, Hanserl, what my father may decide. Kate speaks of our
joining her in Russia; but the long Journey in his infirm state, not
to speak of other reasons, may prevent this. Shall I tell you of Frank?
Here is a long letter from him.” And, almost without waiting for his
reply, she read out the greater portion of the epistle.

“I like the old Feld!” cried Hans, enthusiastically. “He would teach the
boy submission, and self-reliance, too,--lessons that, however wide
apart they seem, go ever hand in hand; an old warrior that has trained
his bold nature to habits of obedience in many a year of trial and
injustice, unfriended and alone, with nothing but his stout heart and
good sword to sustain him. I like that Feld, and would gladly pledge him
in a glass of Steinberger!”

“And you shall, my little man,” said Dalton, waking up, and catching the
last words of Hanserl's speech. “The old Count was kind to Frank, and
I 'll drink his health this night, with all the honors. Read him the
letter, Nelly. Show him how old Stephen received the boy. That's blood
for you!--a true Dalton!”

Hanserl stared from father to daughter, and back again, without
speaking; while Nelly, blushing deeply, held down her head, without a
word.

“His letter to us was dry enough. But what matter for that? He never
wrote a line,--maybe, did n't speak a word of English for upwards of
forty years. You can't expect a man to have the 'elegant correspondent'
at his fingers' ends after that space of time. But the heart!--that's
the main point, Hans. The heart is in the right place. Read that bit
over again, Nelly; I forget the words he said.”

“Oh, no, papa. Hans has Just beard it all, from beginning to end; and
you know we have so much to do. Here's Lady Hester's note, and here's
one from the Prince, still unopened.”

“Ay, to be sure. I 'm certain you 'll excuse me, Hans,” said Dalton,
putting on his spectacles, while he assumed a manner of condescending
urbanity very puzzling to the poor dwarf. “Why, Nelly dear, this is
French. Give me that note of Lady Hester's, and do you take this. Oh,
by my conscience, I 'm no better off now! The devil such writing as this
ever I seen! It's all 'm's' and 'w's' every bit of it You'll keep them
both for the evening, my dear. Hans will dine with us, and I 'll go out
to look for a bit of fish, and see if I can find another pleasant fellow
to round off the table with us. God be with old Kilmurray M'Mahon, where
I could have had twenty as easy as two, and each of them a good warrant
for four bottles, besides! Is n't it a droll world?” muttered he, as he
took down his hat and descended the stairs. “A good dinner, and only a
cripple for company! Faix! I 'm like the chap in the Bible, that had
to ask the beggars and the blaguards when he could n't get better.” And
with this very wise reflection, Peter Dalton hummed a Jig to himself as
he took his way to the fish-market.




CHAPTER V. A HAPPY DAY FOR PETER DALTON

A youthful heir never experienced a more glorious burst of delight on
the morning of his twenty-first birthday, than did Peter Dalton feel
as he sauntered down the principal street of Baden. It was with a
step almost elastic, and his head high, that he went along; not humbly
returning the “Good-day” of the bowing shopkeeper, but condescendingly
calling his worthy creditors--for such nearly all of them were--by their
Christian names, he gave them to believe that he was still, as ever,
their kind and generous patron.

There was scarcely a shop or a stall he did not linger beside for a
minute or two. Everywhere there was something not only which he liked,
but actually needed. Never did wants accumulate so rapidly! With
a comprehensive grasp they extended to every branch of trade and
merchandise,--ranging from jewelry to gin, and taking in all, from fur
slippers to sausages.

His first visit was to Abel Kraus, the banker and moneylender,--a little
den, which often before he had entered with a craven heart and a sinking
spirit; for Abel was a shrewd old Israelite, and seemed to read the very
schedule of a man's debts, in the wrinkles around his mouth. Dalton now
unbarred the half door and stalked in, as if he would carry the place by
storm.

The man of money was munching his breakfast of hard eggs and black
bread,--the regulation full diet of misers in all Germany,--when Peter
cavalierly touched his hat and sat down. Not a word did Abel speak.
No courtesies about the season or the weather, the funds or the
money-market, were worth bestowing on so poor a client; and so he ate
on, scarcely deigning even a glance towards him.

“When you 've done with the garlic, old boy, I 've some work for you,”
 said Dalton, crossing his arms pretentiously.

“But what if I do not accept your work? What if I tell you that we shall
have no more dealings together? The two last bills--”

“They'll be paid, Abel,--they'll be paid. Don't put yourself in a
passion. Times is improving,--Ireland 's looking up, man.”

“I think she is,” muttered the Jew, insolently; “she is looking up like
the beggar that asks for alms yonder.”

“Tear and ages!” cried Dalton, with a stroke of his fist upon the
table that made every wooden bowl of gold and silver coin jump and ring
again,--“tear and ages! take care what you say! By the soul in my body,
if you say a syllable against the old country, I 'll smash every stick
in the place, and your own bones, besides! Ye miserable ould heathen!
that has n't a thought above sweating a guinea,--how dare you do it?”

“Why do you come into my counting-house to insult me, saar? Why you come
where no one ask you?”

“Is it waiting for an invitation I'd be, Abel? Is it expecting a card
with ould Kraus's compliments?” said Dalton, laughing. “Sure, isn't the
place open like the fish-market, or the ball-room, or the chapel, or any
place of diversion? There, now; keep your temper, old boy. I tell ye,
there's luck before ye! What d'ye think of that?” And, as he spoke, he
drew forth one of the bills, and handed it across the counter; and then,
after gloating, as it were, over the changed expression of the Jew's
features, he handed a second, and a third.

“These are good papers, Herr von Dalton; no better! The exchange, too,
is in your favor; we are giving--let me see--ten and three-eighths
'Convenzions-Gelt'.”

“To the devil I fling your three-eighths!” cried Dalton. “I never forgot
the old song at school that says, 'Fractions drives me mad.'”

“Ah, always droll,----always merry!” cackled out Abel. “How will you
have these moneys?”

“In a bag,----a good strong canvas-bag!”

“Yes, to be sure, in a bag; but I was asking how you 'd have them. I
mean, in what coin,--in what for 'Gelt.'”

“Oh, that's it!” cried Dalton. “Well, give me a little of everything.
Let me have 'Louis' to spend, and 'Gros-chen' to give the beggars.
Bank-notes, too, I like; one feels no regretting parting with the dirty
paper that neither jingles nor shines: and a few crown pieces, Abel; the
ring of them on a table is like a brass band!”

“So you shall,--so you shall, Herr von Dalton. Ha, ha, ha! you are the
only man ever make me laugh!”

“By my conscience, then, it's more than you deserve, Abel; for you've
very often nearly made _me_ cry,” said Dalton, with a little sigh over
the past, as he recalled it to his memory.

The Jew did not either heed or hear the remark; for, having put away the
remnant of his frugal breakfast, he now began a very intricate series of
calculations respecting interest and exchange and commission, at which
poor Dalton gazed in a most complete mystification.

“Fourteen hundred and sixty-three, at ten three-eighths,--less cost of
commission; I will not charge you the one per cent--”

“Charge all that's fair, and no favor, old boy.”

“I mean that I will not treat the Herr von Dalton like a stranger----”

“I was going to say, treat me like a Christian,” said Dalton, laughing;
“but maybe that's the most expensive thing going.”

“Always droll,--always have his jest,” cackled Abel. “Now there's an
agio on gold, you pay five kreutzers for every Louis.”

“By George! I 'll take a ship-load of them at the same price.”

“Ha! U mean you pay that over the value,” said the Jew.

“Faix! I often promised to pay more,” said Dalton, sighing; “and what's
worse, on stamped paper too!”

As the Jew grew deeper in his figures, Dalton rambled on about Ireland
and her prospects, for he wished it to be supposed that his present
affluence was the long-expected remittance from his estates. “We 'll
get right yet,” muttered he, “if they 'll only give us time; but ye see,
this is the way it is: we're like an overloaded beast that can't pull
his cart through the mud, and then the English comes up, and thrashes
us. By course, we get weaker and weaker--licking and abusing never made
any one strong yet. At last down we come on our knees with a smash.
Well, ye 'd think, then, that anybody with a grain of sense would say,
'Take some of the load off the poor devil's back--ease him a bit tell he
gets strength.' Nothing of the kind. All they do is to tell us that we
ought to be ashamed of ourselves for falling--that every other people
was doing well but ourselves--that it's a way we have of lying down,
just to get somebody to pick us up, and such like. And the blaguard
newspapers raises the cry against us, and devil a thief or a
housebreaker or a highway robber they take, that they don't put him
down in the police reports as a 'hulking Irishman,' or a 'native of the
Emerald Isle.' 'Paddy Fitzsimons, or Peter O'Shea, was brought up this
mornin' for cutting off his wife's head with a trowel.' 'Molly Maguire
was indicted for scraping her baby to death with an oyster-shell.'
That's the best word they have for us! 'Ain't ye the plague of our
lives?' they're always saying. 'Do ye ever give us a moment's peace?'
And why the blazes don't ye send us adrift, then? Why don't ye let us
take our own road? We don't want your company--faix! we never found
it too agreeable. It's come to that now, that it would better be a
Hottentot or a Chinese than an Irishman! Oh dear, oh dear, but we 're
hardly treated!”

“Will you run your eye over that paper, Herr von Dalton, and see if it
be all correct?” said Abel, handing him a very complex-looking array of
figures.

“'T is little the wiser I 'll be when I do,” muttered Dalton to himself,
as he put on his spectacles and affected to consider the statement.
“Fourteen hundred and sixty-three----I wish they were pounds, but they
're only florins--and two thousand eight hundred and twenty-one--five
and two is seven and nine is fifteen. No, seven and nine is--I wish
Nelly was here. Bad luck to the multiplication-table. I used to be
licked for it every day when I was a boy, and it's been a curse to me
since I was a man. Seven and nine is fourteen, or thereabouts--a figure
would n't signify much, one way or f other. Interest at three-quarters
for twenty-one days--there I 'm done complete! Out of the four first
rules in Gough I'm a child, and indeed, to tell the truth, I 'm no great
things after subtraction.”

“You will perceive that I make the charges for postage, commission,
and other expenses in one sum. This little claim of fifty-eight florins
covers all.”

“Well, and reasonable it is, that I must say,” cried Dalton, who,
looking at the whole as a lucky windfall, was by no means indisposed to
see others share in the good fortune. “How much is coming to me, Abel?”

“Your total balance is four thousand two hundred and twenty-seven
florins eight kreutzers, Müntze,” said Abel, giving the sum a resonance
of voice highly imposing and impressive.

“How many pounds is that now?” asked Peter.

“Something over three hundred and fifty pounds sterling, sir.”

“Is it? Faith! a neat little sum. Not but I often got rid of as much of
an evening at blind-hookey, with old Carters, of the 'Queen's Bays.' Ye
don't know Carters? Faix! and ye 'd be the very man he would know, if
ye were in the same neighborhood. I wish he was here to-day; and that
reminds me that I must go over to the market and see what's to be had.
Ye don't happen to know if there's any fish to-day?”

Abel could not answer this important question, but offered to send his
servant to inquire; but Dalton, declining the attention, strolled out
into the street, jingling his Napoleons in his pocket as he went, and
feeling all the importance and self-respect that a well-filled purse
confers on him who has long known the penniless straits of poverty.
He owed something on every side of him; but he could bear to face his
creditors now; he was neither obliged to be occupied with a letter, nor
sunk in a fit of abstraction as he passed them; nay, he was even jocular
and familiar, and ventured to criticise the wares for which, once, he
was almost grateful.

“Send your boy down to the house for some money--ye need n't mind the
bill; but I 'll give you fifty florins. There's a trifle on account. Put
them ten Naps, to my credit; that will wipe off some of our scores; it's
good for forty crowns.” Such were the brief sentences that he addressed
to the amazed shopkeepers as he passed along; for Peter, like Louis
Philippe, couldn't bear the sight of an account, and always paid
something in liquidation. It was with great reluctance that he abstained
from inviting each of them to dinner; nothing but his fear of
displeasing Nelly could have restrained him. He would have asked the
whole village if he dared, ay, and made them drunk, too, if they 'd have
let him. “She's so high in her notions,” he kept muttering to himself:
“that confounded pride about family, and the like! Well, thank God! I
never had that failing. If I knew we were better than other people, it
never made me unneighborly; I was always free and affable; my worst
enemy could n't say other of me. I 'd like to have these poor devils to
dinner, and give them a skinful for once in their lives, just to drink
Kate's health, and Frank's; they 'd think of the Daltons for many a long
year to come--the good old Dalton blood, that never mixed with the
puddle! What a heavenly day it is! and an elegant fine market. There's a
bit of roasting beef would feed a dozen; and maybe that isn't a
fine trout! Well, well, but them's cauliflowers!. Chickens and
ducks--chickens and ducks--a whole street of them! And there's a wild
turkey--mighty good eating, too! and venison!--ah! but it has n't the
flavor, nor the fat! Faix! and not bad either, a neck of mutton with
onions, if one had a tumbler of whiskey-punch afterwards.”

Thus communing with himself, he passed along, totally inattentive to
the solicitations of those who usually supplied the humble wants of his
household, and who now sought to tempt him by morsels whose merits lay
rather in frugality than good cheer.

As Dalton drew near his own door, he heard the sounds of a stranger's
voice from within. Many a time a similar warning had apprised him that
some troublesome dun had gained admittance, and was torturing poor Nelly
with his importunities; and on these occasions Peter was wont, with more
cunning than kindness, to steal noiselessly downstairs again, and wait
till the enemy had evacuated the fortress. Now, however, a change had
come over his fortunes, and with his hat set jauntily on one side, and
his hands stuck carelessly in his pockets, he kicked open the door with
his foot, and entered.

Nelly was seated near the stove, in conversation with a man who, in
evident respect, had taken his place near the door, and from which
he rose to salute Dalton as he came in. The traveller--for such his
“blouse” or travelling-frock showed him to be, as well as the knapsack
and stick at his feet----was a hale, fresh-looking man of about thirty;
his appearance denoting an humble walk in life, but with nothing that
bordered on poverty.

“Herr Brawer, papa,--Adolf Brawer,” said Nelly, whispering the last
words, to remind him more quickly of the name.

“Servant, sir,” said Dalton, condescendingly; for the profound deference
of the stranger's manner at once suggested to him their relative
conditions.

“I kiss your hand,” said Adolf, with the respectful salutation of a
thorough Austrian, while he bowed again with even deeper humility.

“The worthy man who was so kind to Frank, papa,” said Nelly, in deep
confusion, as she saw the scrutinizing and almost depreciating look with
which Dalton regarded him.

“Oh, the pedler!” said Dalton, at last, as the remembrance flashed on
him. “This is the pedler, then?”

“Yes, papa. He came out of his way, from Durlach, Just to tell us about
Frank; to say how tall he had grown--taller than himself, he says--and
so good-looking, too. It was so kind in him.”

“Oh, very kind, no doubt of it,----very kind indeed!” said Dalton, with
a laugh of most dubious expression. “Did he say nothing of Frank's debt
to him? Has n't that 'I O U' You were talking to me about anything to say
to this visit?”

“He never spoke of it, never alluded to it,” cried she, eagerly.

“Maybe he won't be so delicate with me,” said Dalton. “Sit down, Mr.
Brawer; make no ceremony here. We 're stopping in this little place till
our house is got ready for us. So you saw Frank, and he's looking well?”

“The finest youth in the regiment. They know him through all Vienna as
the 'Handsome Cadet.'”

“And so gentle-mannered and unaffected,” cried Nelly.

“Kind and civil to his inferiors?” said Dalton; “I hope he's that?”

“He condescended to know _me_,” said Brawer, “and call me his friend.”

“Well, and maybe ye were,” said Peter, with a majestic wave of the hand.
“A real born gentleman, as Frank is, may take a beggar off the streets
and be intimate with him. Them's my sentiments. Mark what I say, Mr.
Brawer, and you 'll find, as you go through life, if it is n't true;
good blood may mix with the puddle every day of the year, and not be the
worse of it!”

“Frank is so grateful to you,” broke in Nelly, eagerly; “and we are so
grateful for all your kindness to him!”

“What an honor to _me!_ that he should so speak of me!” said the pedler,
feelingly,--“I, who had no claim upon his memory.”

“There was a trifle of money between you, I think,” said Dalton,
ostentatiously; “have you any notion of what it is?”

“I came not here to collect a debt, Herr von Dalton,” said Adolf,
rising, and assuming a look of almost fierceness in his pride.

“Very well, very well; just as you please,” said Dalton, carelessly; “it
will come with his other accounts in the half-year; for, no matter how
liberal a man is to his boys, he'll be pestered with bills after
all! There's blaguards will be lending them money, and teachin' them
extravagance, just out of devilment, I believe. I know well how it used
to be with myself when I was in old 'Trinity,' long ago. There was a
little chap of the name of Foley, and, by the same token, a pedler,
too----”

“Oh, papa, he's going away, and you have n't thanked him yet!” cried
Nelly, feelingly.

“What a hurry he's in!” said Dalton, as he watched the eager haste with
which the pedler was now arranging the straps of his knapsack.

“Would you not ask him to stay--to dine with us?” faltered Nelly, in a
low, faint whisper.

“The pedler--to dine?” asked Dalton, with a look of astonishment

“Frank's only friend!” sighed she, mournfully.

“By my conscience, sometimes I don't know if I 'm standing on my head
or my heels,” cried Dalton, as he wiped his brows, with a look of utter
bewilderment. “A pedler to dinner! There now--that's it--more haste
worse speed: he's broke that strap in his hurry!”

“Shall I sew it for you?” said Nelly, stooping down and taking out her
needle as she spoke.

“Oh, Fräulein, how good of you!” cried Adolf; and his whole face beamed
with an expression of delight. “How dearly shall I value this old pack
hereafter!”

These last words, scarcely muttered above his breath, were overheard by
Nelly, and a deep blush covered her cheeks as she bent over the work.

“Where's your own maid? Couldn't one of the women do it as well?” cried
Dalton, impatiently. “Ye'd not believe, Mr. Brawer, that we have
the house full of servants this minute; a set of devils feasting and
fattening at one's expense.”

“Thanks, Fräulein,” said the pedler, as she finished; “You little know
how I shall treasure this hereafter.”

“Ask him to stay, papa,” whispered Nelly once more.

“Sure he's a pedler!” muttered Dalton, indignantly.

“At least thank him. Tell him you are grateful to him.”

“He 'd rather I 'd buy ten yards of damaged calico,--that's the flattery
_he_ 'd understand best,” said Dalton, with a grin.

“Farewell, Herr von Dalton. Farewell, Fräulein!” said Adolf. And with a
bow of deep respect he slowly retired from the room, while Nelly turned
to the window to conceal her shame and sorrow together.

“It was this very morning,” muttered Dalton, angrily, “when I spoke of
giving a little dinner-party, you did nothing but turn up your nose at
this, that, and t' other. There was nobody good enough, forsooth! There
was Monsieur Ratteau, the 'croupier' of the tables there, a very nice
man, with elegant manners and the finest shirt-studs ever I seen, and
you would n't hear of him.”'

Nelly heard little of this reproachful speech, for, sunk in the recess
of the window, she was following with her eyes the retiring figure of
Adolf Brawer. He had just crossed the “Plate,” and ere he turned into
a side street he stopped, wheeled round, and made a gesture of farewell
towards the spot where, unseen by him, Nelly was still standing.

“He is gone!” muttered she, half aloud.

“Well, God speed him!” rejoined Dalton, testily. “I never could abide a
pedler.”




CHAPTER VI. MADAME DE HEIDENDORF

Kate Dalton's was a heavy heart as, seated beside her new friend, she
whirled along the road to Vienna. The scenery possessed every attraction
of historic interest and beauty. The season was the glorious one of an
Italian spring. There were ancient cities, whose very names were
like spells to memory. There were the spots of earth that Genius has
consecrated to immortality. There were the scenes where Poetry caught
its inspiration, and around which, even yet, the mind-created images of
fancy seem to linger, all to interest, charm, and amuse her, and yet she
passed them without pleasure, almost without notice.

The splendid equipage in which she travelled, the hundred appliances of
ease and luxury around her, the obsequious, almost servile devotion of
her attendants, recalled but one stern fact,--that she had sold
herself for all these things; that for them she had bartered her warm
affections,--her love of father and sister and brother,--the ties of
home and of kindred, even to the Faith at whose altar she had bent her
knees in infancy. She had given all for greatness.

In all her castle-buildings of a future, her own family bad formed
figures in the picture. To render her poor father happy; to surround his
old age with the comforts he pined after; to open to dear Nelly sources
of enjoyment in the pursuit she loved; to afford Frank the means of
associating with his comrades of rank, to mix in that society for which
he longed,--these were her objects, and for them she was willing to pay
dearly. But now she was not to witness the happiness of those she
loved. Already the hard conditions of her contract were to be imposed.
Banishment first, then Isolation; who could say what after?

Her travelling-companion was scarcely well calculated to smooth down the
difficulties of this conflict in her mind. Madame de Heidendorf was the
very reverse of Lady Hester. Without the slightest pretension to good
looks herself, she assumed to despise everything like beauty in
others, constantly associating its possession with the vanity of weak
intellects; she threw a kind of ridicule over these “poor, pretty
things,” as she loved to call them, which actually seemed to make beauty
and folly convertible terms. Political intrigue, or, to speak more
fairly, mischief-making in state affairs, was her great and only
passion. By dint of time, patience, considerable cunning, and a very
keen insight into character, she had succeeded in obtaining the intimacy
of many of the first statesmen of Europe. Many had trusted her with the
conduct of little matters which the dignity of diplomacy could not stoop
to. She had negotiated several little transactions, opened the way to
reconciliations, smoothed the road to briberies, and allayed the petty
qualms of struggling morality, where any other than a feminine influence
would have been coarse and indelicate.

As a good monarchist, she was always well received at the Austrian
Court, and in St. Petersburg was accustomed to be treated with peculiar
honor.

By what amount of compensation, or in what shape administered,
Midchekoff had secured her present services, this true history is unable
to record; but that Kate was eminently fortunate, drawing such a prize
in the lottery of life as to enter the world under _her_ auspices, were
facts that she dwelt upon without ceasing.

Frankness and candor are very charming things. They are the very soul of
true friendship, and the spirit of all affectionate interest; but they
can be made very disagreeable elements of mere acquaintanceship. Such
was Madame de Heidendorf s. She freely told Kate, that of all the great
Midchekoff's unaccountable freaks, his intended marriage with herself
was the very strangest; and that to unite his vast fortune and high
position with mere beauty was something almost incredible. There was a
landgravine of Hohenhôckingen, an Archduchess, a _main gauche_ of
the Austrian house itself; there was a granddaughter of the Empress
Catherine, with any of whom she could easily have opened negotiations
for him,--all of them alliances rich in political influences. Indeed,
there was another party,--she was not at liberty to mention the name;
and though, to be sure, she was “blind and almost idiotic,” a union with
her would eventually have made him a “Serene Highness.” “So you see,
my dear,” said she, in winding up, “what you have cost him! Not,” added
she, after a few seconds' pause,--“not but I have known such marriages
turn out remarkably well. There was that Prince Adalbert of Bohemia, who
married the singing woman,--what's her name?----that young creature that
made such a sensation at the 'Scala,'--' La Biondina' they called her.
Well, it is true, he only lived with her during the Carnival; but there
she is now, with her handsome house in the Bastey, and the prettiest
equipage in the Prater. I know several similar cases. The Archduke Max
and Prince Ravitzkay,--though, perhaps, not him; for I believe he sent
that poor thing away to the mines.”

“His wife----to the mines!” gasped Kate, in terror.

“Don't be frightened, my dear child,” said Madame, smiling; “be a good
girl, and you shall have everything you like. Meanwhile, try and unlearn
all those _gaucheries_ you picked up with that strange Lady Hester. It
was a shocking school of manners,--all those eccentric, out-of-the-way
people, who lounged in and lounged out, talking of nothing but each
other, utterly ignorant of the great interests that are at stake in
Europe at this moment Try, therefore, and forget that silly coterie
altogether. When we arrive at Vienna, you will be presented to the
Archduchess Louisa.”

“And I shall see dear--dear Frank!” burst out Kate, with an
irrepressible delight.

“And who is Frank, Madame?” said the other, proudly drawing herself up.

“My brother,--my only brother,--who is in the Austrian service.”

“Is he on the Emperor's staff?”

“I know nothing of his position, only that he is a cadet.”

“A cadet, child! Why, do you know that that means a common soldier,--a
creature that mounts with a musket, or carries a bread-bag over its
shoulder through the streets in a fatigue-jacket?”

“I care nothing for all that. He may be all you say, and twice as
humble, but he is my brother Frank still,--the playfellow with whom I
passed the day when--when I was happy--as I shall never be again!--the
fond, kind brother, whom we were all so proud of.”

An expression of scornful compassion on Madame de Heidendorf 's features
at once stopped Kate, and she covered her face with her hands to hide
her shame.

“Madame la Princesse,” began the Countess,--for whenever she peculiarly
desired to impress Kate with her duties, she always prefaced the lesson
by her new title,----“the past must be forgotten, or you will find
yourself totally unable to compete with the difficulties of your
station. There is but one way to make the Prince's _mésalliance_
pardonable, which is by as seldom as possible parading its details. If,
then, you insist upon seeing your brother during our stay at Vienna,
it must be in secret you said something, I think, of an old
field-marshal,--a connection?”

“My father's uncle, Madame.”

“Very true. Well, your brother can come with some letter or message from
him; or if Nina, your maid, has no objection, he might pass for a lover
of hers.”

“Madame!” cried Kate, indignantly.

“I said, if Nina made no objection,” said Madame de Heidendorf, as
though answering the indignant exclamation. “But these are matters of
_my_ consideration, Madame,--at least, if I understand the spirit of the
Prince's instructions.”

Some such scene as this, usually closing with a similar peroration,
formed the conversation of the road; and hour by hour Kate's courage
fell lower, as she contemplated all that her elevation had cost her. And
what a mockery was it, after all! It was true that she journeyed in a
carriage with all the emblazonry of royalty; that a group of uncovered
lackeys attended her as she descended; that she was ever addressed by a
proud title; a respectful, submissive devotion surrounding her at
every instant But, amid all this, there was not one look, one word of
kindness; nothing of interest or sympathy with her solitary grandeur. It
mattered little that the bars of her cell were of gold; it was a prison
still.

With what eagerness did she turn from the present, with all its
splendor, to think of her former life, when, wandering among the hills
of Baden she had listened to little Hans, or watched dear Nelly, as
the first gleams of her intentions began to manifest themselves on a
sculptured group. With what rapture had she heard passages that seemed
akin to something she had felt but could not express! How had she loved
the changeful effects of light and shade on a landscape where every
tree or rock or cliff was familiar to her! Oh, if she could but be back
again, hopeful, ardent, and trusting, as she once was! Oh, if the brief
past could be but a dream, and she were once more beside her father and
Nelly, knowing nothing of that world which, in so short a space, had
revealed so much before her! Even to those who so lately had supplied
the place of family to her, all were gone, and she was utterly alone.

She did not dare to think of George Onslow. It seemed to her like a
treason to recall his memory; and if his image did rise at times before
her fancy, a burning blush would cover her cheek, and a sense of shame
would send a throb like agony through her heart. The plans and projects
for her future life she heard of without interest; a vague and confused
impression of a long journey, halting here and there to be presented to
certain great and distinguished persons, and finally of her arrival at
St. Petersburg, were all that she knew. That the Prince was to join her
there, and then, with the Emperor's permission, return with her to
the south of Europe,--such were the outlines of a career over which a
sinking heart threw a gloomy shadow.

Madame de Heidendorf was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice
this despondency; besides that, she was incessantly teaching Kate some
one requisite or other of that rigid etiquette which prevailed in the
society she was about to enter; the precise titles by which she was to
address this or that personage; how many courtesies to give here, how
many reverences there,--little educational exercises that were always
accompanied by some warning admonition of their importance to one who,
like herself, had never seen anything like good society, and whose
breaches of good breeding would be certain of being severely commented
on.

“Think of the Prince, Madame,” she would say; “think of what he will
suffer when they repeat any of your transgressions. I am afraid there
are many humiliations in store for him. And what a step to take at
such a moment, with these horrible Socialist doctrines abroad,--these
levelling theories of equality, and so forth. I hope his Majesty the
Emperor will pardon him; I hope he will forgive you.”

This was a favorite speech of hers, and so often repeated that Kate at
last began to look on herself as a great criminal, and even speculated
on what destiny should befall her if the Emperor proved unmerciful.

These were sorry resources to shorten the weariness on a Journey, and
Kate felt a throb of pleasure--the first she had experienced--when the
towers of St. Stephen, in the far distance, announced the approach to
Vienna.




CHAPTER VII. AT VIENNA.

The gossiping world of Vienna had a new subject for speculation and
interest, as a guard of honor was seen standing at a large palace near
the “Hoff;” and the only information to explain the mystery was that
some great diplomatist had arrived the evening before, and Heaven
knew what wonderful events were in his charge and keeping. A gigantic
“Chasseur,” in green and gold, who lounged about the portal, followed by
a great dog,--a “fanghund,” whose silver collar was embossed with many
a quartering,--had engaged the attention of a very considerable crowd,
which opened from time to time to permit the passage of some royal
or princely equipage. As they thus fell back, a chance look would
be directed upwards to the windows of the first floor, and there,
passingly, they caught glimpses of one whose beauty soon formed the
theme of every tongue. This was Kate Dalton, who, now rested from the
fatigue of her journey, and dressed in the most becoming fashion, walked
up and down a splendid saloon, watching to catch every sound, or gazing
earnestly from the window to catch any sight that might betoken her
brother's coming. At Madame de Heidendorf's suggestion she had written
a few lines that morning early to the Field-Marshal von Dalton,
entreating, as a great favor, that he would procure leave for Frank to
come to her, and pass as much of his time as possible with her during
her stay in Vienna. The note, brief as it was, cost her some trouble;
she felt that much explanation might be necessary to state her present
position,--even who she was,--and yet this was a subject she had no
heart to enter into. Some expressions of affectionate interest towards
himself would also have been fitting, but she could not find time
for them. Frank, and Frank alone, was in her thoughts, and she left
everything to the old General's ingenuity, as she concluded her note by
subscribing herself, “Your affectionate niece, Kate Dal ton, Affianced
Princesse de Midchekoff.”

It was the first time that she had written the words,----the first time
that she had ever impressed that massive seal of many quarterings, so
royal-looking as it seemed. It was, also, the first time she had ever
given an order to one of her servants; and the obsequious bows of the
groom of the chamber, as he withdrew, were all separate and distinct
sensations,--low, but clear knockings of vanity at her heart, to which
every object around contributed its aid. The apartment was splendid;
not in that gorgeous taste of modern decoration of which she had seen so
much already, but in a more stately fashion, recalling the grandeur of
a past age, and exhibiting traces of a long line of princely occupants.
The very portraits along the walls had a proud and haughty bearing, and
the massive chairs glittered in all the blaze of heraldry. If she
looked out, it was the towers of the “Hoff Bourg”--the Home of the
Hapsburgs--met her eye. If she listened, it was the clank of a soldier's
salute broke the stillness; while the dull roll of wheels beneath
the arched gateway told of the tide of visitors who came to pay their
homage.

If Kate's heart had been less bound up with anxiety to see her brother,
the scene beneath her window would have afforded her some interest, as
equipage after equipage succeeded,--now the quiet splendor of a court
chariot, now the more glaring magnificence of a cardinal's carriage.
Here came the lumbering old vehicle of an archhishop, the reverential
salute of the crowd indicating the rank of its occupant Then the quick
“present arms” of the sentry told of some general officer; while, at
intervals, the “turn out” of the whole guard denoted the arrival of a
royal prince. Ambassadors and ministers, chamberlains and chancellors,
the dignitaries of the realm, the “Hautes Charges” of the Court,--all
came in crowds to present their respects to the Gräfin, for by this
brief designation was she known from one end of Europe to the other.

Madame de Heidendorf held a levée, and none would absent themselves from
so interesting an occasion.

It was the eve of a wonderful moment in Europe--it was the little lull
that preceded the most terrific storm that ever overturned thrones and
scattered dynasties--as these illustrious personages were met together,
to interchange compliments, to lisp soft phrases of flattery, and
discuss the high claims of some aspirant for a ribbon or a cross, a “Red
Eagle,” or a “Black” one. A few, more far-sighted than the rest, saw the
cloud, not bigger than a man's hand, in the distance. A few could hear
the low rumblings that denoted the brooding hurricane; but even they
thought “the thing would last their time.” And thus, with many a
pleasant jest, they chatted over the events of the hour, praised the
wisdom of kings, and laughed to scorn those vulgar teachers whose
democratic theories were just beginning to be whispered about. Some
were young, buoyant, and hopeful, ready to shed the last drop for
the principles they professed; others were old gray-headed men, tried
servants of Monarchy for half a century. But all were like-minded, and
self-gratulation and compliment was the order of the day. Leaving them
thus to such pleasant converse, where the clank of jewelled swords or
the tap of a diamond snuff-box formed the meet accompaniments of the
themes, we turn once more to her in whose fate we are more deeply
interested.

Twice had she rung the bell to ask if the messenger had not returned.
At last he came; but there was “no answer to her note.” Her impatience
became extreme. She ordered the servant who carried the note to appear
before her; questioned him closely as to whether he had taken it, and
the reply he had received. A soldier had said, “Gut!” and shut the door.
Poor Kate! It was her first lesson in “soldier laconics,” and to say
truly, she did not take it well. The “Princesse de Midchekoff” might
have been treated with more deference. She was passing a mirror as the
thought struck her, and her mien and air gave support to the belief; nor
could she restrain the sense of admiration, half tinged with shame, her
own beauty evoked.

“There is a soldier here, Madame,” said a servant, “who has a letter he
will not deliver except into your own hands.”

“Admit him--at once,” said she, impatiently; and as she spoke the
soldier stepped forward, and drawing himself up, carried his hand to the
salute, while, presenting a letter, he said, “From the Field-Marshal von
Auersberg.”

Kate scarcely looked at the bearer, but hastily tore open the
square-shaped epistle.

“You need not wait,” said she to the servant; and then turning to the
letter, read,----

     “'Madame la Princesse and beloved Niece,--It was with--to me
     of late years----a rare satisfaction that I read the not the
     less affectionate that they were polite lines you vouchsafed
     to inscribe to me, an old and useless but not forgotten
     servant of an Imperial master. Immediately on perusing the
     aforesaid so-called note, I despatched my adjutant to the
     head-quarters of the Franz Carl, to obtain----no service
     rules to the contrary forbidding, nor any default's punition
     in any wise preventing----a day's furlough for the Cadet von
     Dalton--”

“What regiment is yours?” said Kate, hastily, to the soldier.

“Franz Carl Infanterie, Highness,” said the youth, respectfully, using
the title he had heard assumed by the servant.

“Do you know many of your comrades,----among the cadets, I mean?”

“There are but seven in the battalion, Highness, and I know them all.”

“Is Von Dalton an acquaintance of yours?”

“I am Von Dalton, Highness,” said the youth, while a flush of surprise
and pleasure lighted up his handsome features.

“Frank! Frank!” cried she, springing towards him with open arms; and ere
he could recognize her, clasping him round the neck.

“Is this real? Is this a dream? Are you my own sister Kate?” cried the
boy, almost choked with emotion. “And how are you here? and how thus?”
 and he touched the robe of costly velvet as he spoke.

“You shall know all, dear, dear Frank. You shall hear everything when
the joy of this meeting will let me speak.”

[Illustration: 099]

“They call you Highness; and how handsome you've grown!”

“Have I, Frank?” said she, pressing him down to a seat beside her,
while, with hands interclasped, they sat gazing on each other.

“I am only beginning to remember you,” said he, slowly. “You never used
to wear your hair in long ringlets thus. Even your figure is changed;
you are taller, Kate.”

“It is the mere difference of dress, Frank,” said she, blushing with
conscious pride.

“No, no; you are quite changed. Even as I sit here beside you, I feel I
know not what of shame at my daring to be so near----”

“So great a lady, you would say, dear Frank,” said she, laughing. “Poor
boy, if you knew--” She stopped, and then, throwing her arms around his
neck, went on rapidly: “But, my own dear brother, tell me of yourself:
are you happy; do you like the service; are they kind to you; is Uncle
Stephen as we hoped he should be?”

“My story is soon told, Kate,” said he; “I am where I was the day I
entered the army. I should have been made a corporal--”

“A corporal!” cried Kate, laughing.

“A good thing it is, too,” said the youth. “No guards to mount, no
fatigue duty, neither night patrol nor watch, and four kreutzers extra
pay.”

“Poor dear boy!” cried she, kissing his forehead, while she gazed on him
with a compassionate affection that spoke a whole world of emotion.

“But tell me of yourself, Kate. Why do they call you the Princess?”

“Because I am married, Frank,----that is, I am betrothed, and will soon
be married.”

“And when did this occur? Tell me everything,” cried he, impatiently.

“You shall know all, dearest Frank. Yoo have heard how Lady Hester
Onslow carried me away with her to Italy. Nelly has told you how we
were living in Florence,--in what splendor and festivity; our palace
frequented by all the great and distinguished of every country,--French
and German, and Spanish and Russian.”

“I hate the Russians; but go on,” said the boy, hastily.

“But why hate the Russians, Frank?” asked she, reddening as she spoke.

“They are false-hearted and treacherous. See how they have driven the
Circassians into a war, to massacre them; look how they are goading on
the Poles to insurrection. Ay, they say that they have emissaries at
this moment in Hungary on the same errand. I detest them.”

“This may be their state policy, Frank; but individually----”

“They are no better; Walstein knows them well.”

“And who is Walstein, Frank?”

“The finest fellow in the service; the one I would have wished you
married to, Kate, above all the world. Think of a colonel of hussars at
eight-and-twenty, so handsome, so brave, and such a rider. You shall see
him, Kate!”

“But it's too late, Frank,” said she, laughing; “You forget it's too
late!”

“Ah! so it is,” sighed the boy, seriously. “I often feared this,”
 muttered he, after a pause. “Nelly's letters told me as much, and I said
to myself, 'It will be too late.'”

“Then Nelly has told you all, perhaps?” said she.

“Not everything, nor, indeed, anything at all very distinctly. I could
only make out what seemed to be her own impressions, for they appeared
mere surmises.”

“And of what sort were they?” asked Kate, curiously.

“Just what you would suspect from her. Everlasting fears about
temptations and trials, and so forth, continually praying that your
heart might resist all the flatteries about you. The old story about
humility. I thought to myself, 'If the lesson be not more needful to
Kate than to me, she runs no great risk, after all!' for I was also
warned about the seductions of the world! a poor cadet, with a few
kreutzers a day, told not to be a Sybarite! Returning wet through from
a five hours' patrol, to burnish accoutrements in a cold, damp barrack,
and then exhorted against the contamination of low society, when all
around me were cursing the hardships they lived in, and execrating the
slavery of the service!”

“Our dearest Nelly knows so little of the world,” said Kate, as she
threw a passing glance at herself in the mirror, and arranged the fall
of a deep fringe of gold lace which was fastened in her hair.

“She knows nothing of it,” said the boy, adjusting his sword-knot. “She
thought our hussars wore white dolmans, and carried straight swords like
the cuirassiers.”

“And the dear, simple creature asked me, in one of her letters, if I
ever wore wild-flowers in my hair now, as I used to do long ago,” said
Kate, stealing another glance at the glass. “Flowers are pretty things
in the head when rubies make the pinks, and the dewdrops are all
diamonds.”

Frank looked at her as she said this, and for the first time saw the
proud elation her features assumed when excited by a theme of vanity.

“You are greatly changed, dearest Kate,” said he, thoughtfully.

“Is it for the worse, Frank?” said she, half coquettishly.

“Oh! as to beauty, you are a thousand times handsomer,” cried the boy,
with enthusiasm. “I know not how, but every expression seems heightened,
every feature more elevated; your air and gesture, your very voice, that
once I thought was music itself, is far sweeter and softer.”

“What a flatterer!” said she, patting his cheek.

“But then, Kate,” said he, more gravely, “have these fascinations cost
nothing? Is your heart as simple? Are your affections as pure? Ah! you
sigh--and what a heavy sigh, too! Poor, poor Kate!”

And she laid her head upon his shoulder, while the heaving swell of her
bosom told what sorrow the moment was costing her.

“Nelly, then, told you of my betrothal?” whispered she, in a weak, faint
voice.

“No; I knew nothing of that. She told me all about the life you were
leading; the great people with whom you were intimate; and bit by bit,
a hint, some little allusion, would creep out as to the state of your
heart. Perhaps she never meant it, or did not know it; but I remarked,
in reading her letters over and over,--they were the solace of many a
weary hour,--that one name recurred so often in connection with yours,
you must have frequently referred to him yourself, for in each extract
from your letters I saw the name.”

“This was strange. It must have been through inadvertence,” said she,
musingly. “I thought I had scarcely spoken of him.”

“See how your hand told truth, even against your consciousness,” said
he, smiling.

Kate made no reply, but sat deep in thought.

“And is he here? When shall I see him?” asked Frank, impatiently.

“No, Frank. He is in Italy; he was detained there by business of
importance. Besides, it is not etiquette that we should travel together.
When the Emperor's permission has been obtained--”

“What Emperor?” asked Frank, in astonishment.

“Our Emperor----the Czar.”

“What have you, an English girl born, to do with the Czar?”

“The Prince, my future husband, is his subject.”

“Why, there is no end to this mystification,” cried the boy,
impatiently. “How can an English soldier be a Russian Prince?”

“I don't understand you, Frank. Prince Midchekoff is a Russian by
birth.”

“So that you are married to a Russian,” said he, in a voice of deep
emotion, “and all this time I have been fancying my brother-in-law an
Englishman. I thought it was this same George----George Onslow.”

A heavy, dull sound startled him as he said this. It was Kate, who had
fallen back, fainting, on the sofa. It was long before, with all Frank's
efforts at restoration, she came to herself; and even when consciousness
returned, tears flowed from her eyes and coursed down her cheeks
copiously, as she lay speechless and motionless.

“My own poor Kate, my poor, dear sister!” were all that Frank could say,
as he held her cold, clammy hand within his own; and, with an almost
breaking heart, gazed on her pale features. It was so like death! “And
might not death be better?” thought he, as he travelled over in his mind
the story, of whose secret he was now possessed. How differently did he
judge all Nelly's counsels _now!_ In what a changed spirit did he think
of that wisdom which, but a few minutes back, he had sneered at! “And
so it is,” muttered he. “If we who are born to humble fortunes would
cherish ambition, we must pay for it with our hearts' blood. Nelly was
right; she often said so. Over and over again did she tell me, 'goodness
is the only safe road to greatness.' Oh that one so beautiful as this
should have missed the path!” And, sobbing violently, he kissed her
hand, and watered it with his tears.

“Frank, you are with me,----you 'll not leave me,” said she, faintly, as
she opened her eyes and stared in bewilderment around her. “I remember
everything now--everything,” said she, with an emphasis on the last
word. “This is Vienna: I recollect all. Ring that bell, Frank: let Nina
come to me, but don't go away; be sure not to go.”

Nina soon made her appearance, and with a look of half surprise, half
admiration at the handsome soldier, assisted Kate to arise.

“I'll be back presently, Frank,” said she, with a faint smile, and left
the room. And the youth, overcome by emotion, sat down and buried his
face in his hands.




CHAPTER VIII. PRIESTLY COUNSELS

Frank was so full of his own reflections that he almost forgot his
sister's absence; nor did he notice how the time went oyer, when he
heard the sound of voices and the noise of a door closing; and, on
looking up, perceived a handsome man, something short of middle-aged,
who, dressed in the deep black of a priest, wore a species of blue
silk collar, the mark of a religious order. His features were perfectly
regular, and their expression the most bland and courteous it was
possible to imagine. There was a serene dignity, too, in his gait, as
he came forward, that showed how thoroughly at home he felt on the soft
carpet, and in the perfumed atmosphere of a drawing-room.

Bowing twice to Frank, he saluted him with a smile, so gentle and
so winning, that the boy almost felt as if they had been already
acquainted.

“I have come,” said the priest, “to pay my respects to the Princesse
de Midchekoff, and, if my eyesight is not playing me false, I have the
honor to recognize her brother.”

Frank blushed with pleasure as he bowed an assent.

“May I anticipate the kindness--which your sister would not refuse me,”
 continued he, “and introduce myself. You may, perhaps, have heard of the
Abbé D'Esmonde?”

“Repeatedly,” cried Frank, taking the proffered hand in his own. “Nelly
spoke of you in almost every letter. You were always so kind to Kate in
Italy.”

“How amply am I recompensed, were not the pleasure of knowing
Miss Dalton a sufficient reward in itself. It is rare to find that
combination of excellence which can command all the homage of fashion,
and yet win the approbation of a poor priest.”

There was a humility, deep enough to be almost painful, in the tone in
which these words were uttered; but Frank had little time to dwell on
them, for already the Abbé had taken a seat on the sofa beside him, and
was deep in the discussion of all Kate's attractions and merits.

There was a sincerity, an ardor of admiration, chastened only by the
temper of his sacred character, that delighted the boy. If allusion were
made to her beauty, it was only to heighten the praise he bestowed on
her for other gifts, and display the regulated action of a mind proof
against every access of vanity. Her correct judgment, her intuitive
refinement, the extreme delicacy of her sensibilities,--these were
the themes he dwelt upon, and Frank felt that they must be rare gifts
indeed, when the very description of them could be so pleasurable.

From what the Abbé said, so far from her marriage with the great Russian
being a piece of fortune, she had but to choose her position amid the
first houses of Europe.

“It was true,” he added, “that the 'Midchekoff's' wealth was like
royalty, and as he united to immense fortune great claims of personal
merit, the alliance had everything to recommend it.”

“And this is so?” cried Frank, eagerly. “The Prince is a fine fellow?”

“Generous and munificent to an extent almost fabulous,” said D'Esmonde,
who seemed rather to resume his own train of thought than reply to
Frank's question. “The splendor of his life has already canonized a
proverb.”

“But his temper--his manner--his disposition?”

“Like all his countrymen, he is reserved, almost cold to strangers; his
intimates, however, talk of him as frankness and candor itself. Even on
political themes, where Russians are usually most guarded, he gives his
opinions freely and manfully, and, strange enough too, with a liberality
which, though common enough in our country, must be very rare indeed in
his.”

“That is strange!” said Frank, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” said D' Esmonde, dropping into the tone of one who insensibly
poured out his inmost thoughts in soliloquizing,----“Yes, he feels,
what we all do, that this state of things cannot last,--disparity of
condition may become too palpable and too striking. The contrast between
affluence and misery may display itself too offensively! Men may one
day or other refuse to sign a renewal of the bond of servitude, and
then--and then----”

“A civil war, I suppose,” cried Frank, quietly; “but the troops will
always give them a lesson.”

“Do you think so, my dear young friend?” said the Abbé, affectionately;
“do you not rather think that soldiers will begin to learn that they are
citizens, and that, when forging fetters for others, the metal can be
fashioned into chains for themselves?”

“But they have an oath,” said the boy; “they 've sworn to their
allegiance.”

“Very true, so they have; but what is the oath?--the one half of the
compact which cannot be supposed binding when the other half be broken.
Let the social policy of a government fail in its great object,----the
happiness of a people; let a whole nation gradually cease to enjoy the
advantages for the sake of which they assumed the responsibilities
and ties of family; let them day-by-day fall lower in the scale of
civilization and comfort, and after surrendering this privilege to-day,
and that to-morrow, at last take their stand on the very verge of the
precipice, with nothing but abject slavery beneath,--what would you say
of the order to charge them with the bayonet, even though the formality
of a recruiting oath should seem to warrant the obedience?”

“I 'd do it; if I was ordered,” said Frank, sternly.

“I don't think you would,” said D'Esmonde, smiling. “I read your nature
differently. I can trace, even in the flashing of your eye this instant,
the ambition of a bold and energetic spirit, and that when the moment
came you would embrace the losing cause, with all its perils, rather
than stand by tyranny, in all its strength. Besides, remember, this is
not the compact under which you entered the service, although it might,
under certain peculiar circumstances, appeal to your sense of duty. An
army is not--at least it ought not to be--a 'gendarmerie.' Go forth
to battle against the enemies of your country, carry the flag of your
Vaterland into the plains of France, plant the double eagle once more
in the Place da Carrousel,--even aggressive war has its glorious
compensations in deeds of chivalry and heroism----But here is the
Princesse,” said the Abbé, rising, and advancing courteously towards
her.

“The Abbé D'Esmonde!” cried Kate, with an expression of delight, as she
held ont her hand, which the priest pressed to his lips with all the
gallantry of a courtier. “How pleasant to see the face of a friend in
this strange land!” said she. “Abbé, this is my brother Frank, of whom
you have heard me talk so often.”

“We are acquaintances already,” said D'Esmonde, passing his arm within
the soldier's; “and albeit our coats are not of the same color, I think
many of our principles are.”

A few moments saw him seated between the brother and sister on the sofa,
recounting the circumstances of his journey, and detailing, for Kate's
amusement, the latest news of Florence.

“Lady Hester is much better in health and spirits, too,” said the Abbé;
“the disastrous circumstances of fortune would seem to have taken a
better turn; at least, it is probable that Sir Stafford's losses will
be comparatively slight. I believe her satisfaction on this head arises
entirely from feeling that no imputation of altered position can now be
alleged as the reason for her change of religion.”

“And has she done this?” asked Kate, with a degree of anxiety; for she
well knew on what feeble grounds Lady Hester's convictions were usually
built..

“Not publicly; she waits for her arrival at Rome, to make her confession
at the shrine of St. John of Lateran. Her doubts, however, have all been
solved,--her reconciliation is perfect.”

“Is she happy? Has she found peace of mind at last?” asked Kate,
timidly.

“On this point I can speak with confidence,” said D'Esmonde, warmly;
and at once entered into a description of the pleasurable impulse a new
train of thoughts and impressions had given to the exhausted energies
of a “fine lady's” life. It was so far true, indeed, that for some
days back she had never known a moment of _ennui_. Surrounded by sacred
emblems and a hundred devices of religious association, she appeared to
herself as if acting a little poem of life, wherein a mass of amiable
qualities, of which she knew nothing before, were all developing
themselves before her. And what between meritorious charities, saintly
intercessions, visits to shrines, and decorations of altars, she had
not an instant unoccupied; it was one unceasing round of employment; and
with prayers, bouquets, lamps, confessions, candles, and penances, the
day was even too short for its duties.

The little villa of La Rocca was now a holy edifice. The drawing-room
had become an oratory; a hollow-cheeked “Seminariste,” from Como, had
taken the place of the Maestro di Casa. The pages wore a robe like
acolytes, and even Albert Jekyl began to fear that a costume was in
preparation for himself, from certain measurements that he had observed
taken with regard to his figure.

“My time is up,” said Frank, hastily, as he arose to go away.

“You are not about to leave me, Frank?” said Kate.

“Yes, I must; my leave was only till four o'clock, as the
Field-Marshal's note might have shown you; but I believe you threw it
into the fire before you finished it.”

“Did I, really? I remember nothing of that. But, stay, and I will write
to him. I 'll say that I have detained you.”

“But the service, Kate dearest! My sergeant--my over-lieutenant--my
captain--what will they say? I may have to pass three days in irons for
the disobedience.”

“Modern chivalry has a dash of the treadmill through it,” said
D'Esmonde, sarcastically; and the boy's cheek flushed as he heard it.
The priest, however, had already turned away, and, walking into the
recess of a window, left the brother and sister free to talk unmolested.

“I scarcely like him, Kate,” whispered Frank.

“You scarcely know him yet,” she said, with a smile. “But when can you
come again to me,--to-morrow^ early?”

“I fear not We have a parade and a field-inspection, and then 'rapport'
at noon.”

“Leave it to me, then, dear Frank,” said she, kissing him; “I must try
if I cannot succeed with the 'Field' better than you have done.”

“There's the recall-bugle,” cried the boy, in terror; and, snatching up
his cap, he bounded from the room at once.

“A severe service,--at least, one of rigid discipline,” said D'Esmonde,
with a compassionating expression of voice. “It is hard to say whether
it works for good or evil, repressing the development of every generous
impulse, as certainly as it restrains the impetuous passions of youth.”

“True,” said Kate, pointedly; “there would seem something of priestcraft
in their _régime_. The individual is nothing, the service everything.”

“Your simile lacks the great element,--force of resemblance, Madame,”
 said D'Esmonde, with a half smile. “The soldier has not, like the
priest, a grand sustaining hope, a glorious object before him. He
knows little or nothing of the cause in which his sword is drawn; his
sympathies may even be against his duty. The very boy who has just left
us,--noble-hearted fellow that he is,--what strange wild notions of
liberty has he imbibed! how opposite are all his speculations to the
stern calls of the duty he has sworn to discharge!”

“And does he dare--”

“Nay, Madame, there was no indiscretion on his part; my humble walk in
life has taught me that if I am excluded from all participation in the
emotions which sway my fellow-men, I may at least study them as they
arise, watch them in their infancy, and trace them to their fruit of
good or evil. Do not fancy, dear lady, that it is behind the grating of
the confessional only that we read men's secrets. As the physician gains
his knowledge of anatomy from the lifeless body, so do we learn the
complex structure of the human heart in the deathlike stillness of the
cell, with the penitent before us. But yet all the knowledge thus gained
is but a step to something further. It is while reading the tangled
story of the heart,--its struggles, its efforts, the striving after good
here, the inevitable fall back to evil there, the poor, weak attempt at
virtue, the vigorous energy of vice,--it is hearing this sad tale from
day to day, learning, in what are called the purest natures, how deep
the well of corruption lies, and that not one generous thought, one
noble aspiration, or one holy desire rises unalloyed by some base
admixture of worldly motive. It is thus armed we go forth into the
world, to fight against the wiles and seductions of life. How can we be
deceived by the blandishments that seduce others? What avail to us those
pretentious displays of self-devotion, those sacrifices of wealth, those
proud acts of munificence which astonish the world, but of whose secret
springs we are conversant? What wonder, then, if I have read the artless
nature of a boy like that, or see in him the springs of an ambition he
knows not of himself? Nay, it would be no rash boast to say that I have
deciphered more complicated inscriptions than those upon his heart I
have traced some upon his sister's!” The last three words he uttered
with a slow and deep enunciation, leaving a pause between each, and
bending on her a look of intense meaning.

Kate's cheek became scarlet, then pale, and a second time she flushed,
till neck and shoulders grew crimson together.

“You have no confidences to make me, my dear, dear child,” said
D'Esmonde, as, taking her hand, he pressed her down on a sofa
beside him. “Your faltering lips have nothing to articulate,----no
self-repinings, no sorrows to utter; for I know them all!” He paused for
a few seconds, and then resumed: “Nor have you to fear me as a stern or
a merciless judge. Where there is a sacrifice, there is a blessing!”

Kate held down her head, but her bosom heaved, and her frame trembled
with emotion.

“Your motives,” resumed he, “would dignify even a rasher course. I know
the price at which you have bartered happiness,--not your own only, but
another's with it!”

She sobbed violently, and pressed her hands over her face.

“Poor, poor fellow!” cried he, as if borne away by an impulse of candor
that would brook no concealment, “how I grieved to see him, separated,
as we were, by the wide and yawning gulf between us, giving himself
up to the very recklessness of despair, now cursing the heartless
dissipation in which his life was lost, now accusing himself of
golden opportunities neglected, bright moments squandered, petty
misunderstandings exaggerated into dislikes, the passing coldness of the
moment exalted into a studied disdain! We were almost strangers to each
other before,--nay, I half fancied that he kept aloof from me.
Probably,”--here D'Esmonde smiled with a bland dignity,--“probably he
called me a 'Jesuit,'--that name so full of terror to good Protestant
ears; but, on his sick-bed, as he lay suffering and in solitude, his
faculties threw off the deceptive influences of prejudice; he read me
then more justly; he saw that I was his friend. Hours upon hours have we
passed talking of you; the theme seemed to give a spring to an existence
from which, till then, all zest of life had been withdrawn. I never
before saw as much of passion, with a temper so just and so forgiving.
He needed no aid of mine to read your motives truly. 'It is not for
herself that she has done this,' were words that he never ceased to
utter. He knew well the claims that family would make on you, the
heartrending appeals from those you could not but listen to! 'Oh! if I
could but think that she will not forget me; that some memory of me will
still linger in her mind!'--this was his burning prayer, syllabled by
lips parched by the heat of fever; and when I told him to write to
you--”

“To write to me!” cried she, catching his arm, while her cheeks trembled
with intense agony; “You did not give such counsel?”

“Not alone that,” said D'Esmonde, calmly, “but promised that I would
myself deliver the letter into your hands. Is martyrdom less glorious
that a cry of agony escapes the victim, or that his limbs writhe as the
flame wraps round them? Is self-sacrifice to be denied the sorrowful
satisfaction to tell its woes? I bade him write because it would be good
for him and for you alike.”

She stared eagerly, as if to ask his meaning.

“Good for both,” repeated he, slowly. “Love will be, to him, a
guide-star through life, leading him by paths of high and honorable
ambition; to you it will be the consolation of hours that even splendor
will not enliven. Believe me,”----here he raised his voice to a tone
of command and authority,--“believe me that negation is the lot of
all. Happiest they who only suffer in their affections! And what is the
purest of all love? Is it not that the devotee feels for his protecting
saint,--that sense of ever-present care, that consciousness of a
watching, unceasing affection, that neither slumbers nor wearies,
following us in our joy, beside us in our afflictions? Some humble
effigy, some frail representation, is enough to embody this conception;
but its essence lies in the heart of hearts! Such a love as this--pure,
truthful, and enduring--may elevate the humblest life into heroism, and
throw a sun-gleam over the dreariest path of destiny. The holy bond that
unites the grovelling nature below with glory above, has its humble type
on earth in those who, separated by fate, are together in affection. I
bade him write to you a few lines; he was too weak for more; indeed, his
emotion almost made the last impossible. I pressed him, however, to do
it, and pledged myself to place them in your hands; my journey hither
had no other object.” As he spoke, he took forth a small sealed packet,
and gave it to Kate, whose hands trembled as she took it.

“I shall spend some days in Vienna,” said he, rising to take leave;
“pray let me have a part of each of them with you. I have much to say
to you, and of other matters than those we have now spoken.” And kissing
her hand with a respectful devotion, the Abbé withdrew, without ever
once raising his eyes towards her.

Sick with sorrow and humiliation,--for such she acutely felt,----Kate
Dalton rose and retired to her room. “Tell Madame de Heidendorf, Nina,”
 said she, “that I feel tired to-day, and beg she will excuse my not
appearing at dinner.”

Nina courtesied her obedience, but it was easy to see that the
explanation by no means satisfied her, and that she was determined to
know something more of the origin of her young mistress's indisposition.

“Madame knows that the Archduke is to dine here.”

“I know it,” said Kate, peevishly, and as if desirous of being left in
quiet.

Nina again courtesied, but in the brilliant flashing of her dark eyes it
was plain to mark the consciousness that some secret was withheld from
her. The _soubrette_ class are instinctive readers of motives; “their
only books are '_ladies_' looks,” but they con them to perfection. It
was, then, with a studied pertinacity that Nina proceeded to arrange
drawers and fold dresses, and fifty other similar duties, the discharge
of which she saw was torturing her mistress.

“I should wish to be alone, Nina, and undisturbed,” said Kate, at last,
her patience being entirely exhausted.

Nina made her very deepest reverence, and withdrew.

Kate waited for a few seconds, till all sound of her retiring steps had
died away, then arose, and locked the door.

She was alone; the packet which the Abbé had delivered lay on the table
before her; she bent down over it, and wept. The utter misery of sorrow
is only felt where self-reproach mingles with our regrets. All the pangs
of other misfortunes are light in comparison with this. The irrevocable
past was her own work; she knew it, and cried till her very heart seemed
bursting.




CHAPTER IX.  SECRETS OF HEAD AND HEART

I must ask of my reader to leave this chamber, where, overwhelmed by
her sorrows, poor Kate poured out her grief in tears, and follow me to a
small but brilliantly lighted apartment, in which a little party of four
persons was seated, discussing their wine, and enjoying the luxury of
their cigars. Be not surprised when we say that one of the number was a
lady. Madame de Heidendorf, however, puffed her weed with all the zest
of a smoker; the others were the Archduke Ernest, a plain, easy-tempered
looking man, in the gray undress of an Austrian General, the Foreign
Minister, Count Nõrinberg, and our old acquaintance, the Abbé D'Esmonde.

The table, besides the usual ornaments of a handsome dessert, was
covered with letters, journals, and pamphlets, with here and there a
colored print in caricature of some well-known political personage.
Nothing could be more easy and unconstrained than the air and bearing
of the guests. The Archduke sat with his uniform coat unbuttoned, and
resting one leg upon a chair before him. The Minister tossed over
the books, and brushed off the ashes of his cigar against the richly
damasked table-cloth; while even the Abbé seemed to have relaxed the
smooth urbanity of his face into a look of easy enjoyment Up to this
moment the conversation had been general, the principal topics being
the incidents of the world of fashion, the flaws and frivolities, the
mishaps and misadventures of those whose names were familiar to his
Imperial Highness, and in whose vicissitudes he took the most lively
interest. These, and a stray anecdote of the turf in England, were the
only subjects he cared for, hating politics and State affairs with a
most cordial detestation. His presence, however, was a compliment that
the Court always paid “the Countess,” and he submitted to his torn of
duty manfully.

Deeply involved in the clouds of his cigar-smoke, and even more
enveloped in the misty regions of his own reveries, he sipped his
wine in silence, and heard nothing of the conversation about him. The
Minister was then perfectly free to discuss the themes most interesting
to him, and learn whatever he could of the state of public opinion in
Italy.

“You are quite right, Abbé,” said he, with a sage shake of the head.
“Small concessions, petty glimpses of liberty, only give a zest for
more enlarged privileges. There is nothing like a good flood of popular
anarchy for creating a wholesome disgust to freedom. There must be
excesses!”

“Precisely so, sir,” said the Abbé. “There can be no question of an
antidote if there has been no poisoning.”

“Ay; but may not this system be pushed too far? Is not his Holiness
already doing so?”

“Some are disposed to think so, but I am not of the number,” said
D'Esmonde. “It is necessary that he should himself be convinced that the
system is a bad one; and there is no mode of conviction so palpable as
by a personal experience. Now, this he will soon have. As yet, he does
not see that every step in political freedom is an advance towards the
fatal heresy that never ceases its persecutions of the Church. Not that
our Revolutionists care for Protestantism or the Bible either; but, by
making common cause with those who do, see what a large party in England
becomes interested for their success. The right of judgment conceded in
religious matters, how can you withhold it in political ones? The men
who brave the Church will not tremble before a cabinet. Now the Pope
sees nothing of this; he even mistakes the flatteries offered to himself
for testimonies of attachment to the Faith, and all those kneeling
hypocrites who implore his blessing he fancies are faithful children of
Rome. He must be awakened from this delusion; but yet none save himself
can dispel it He is obstinate and honest.”

“If the penalty were to be his own alone, it were not so much matter,”
 said the Minister; “but it will cost a revolution.”

“Of course it will; but there is time enough to prepare for it.”

“The state of the Milanais is far from satisfactory,” said the Minister,
gravely.

“I know that; but a revolt of a prison always excuses double irons,”
 said D'Esmonde, sarcastically.

“Tell him of Sardinia, Abbé,” said Madame de Heidendorf.

“Your real danger is from that quarter,” said D'Esmonde. “There is
a growing spirit of independence there,--a serious desire for free
institutions, wide apart from the wild democracy of the rest of Italy.
This is a spirit you cannot crush; but you can do better,--you can
corrupt it Genoa is a hotbed of Socialist doctrine; the wildest
fanaticism of the 'Reds' is there triumphant, and our priests are
manfully aiding the spread of such opinions. They have received orders
to further these notions; and it is thus, and by the excesses consequent
on this, you will succeed in trampling down that moderated liberty which
is the curse that England is destined to disseminate amongst us. It is
easy enough to make an excited people commit an act of indiscretion, and
then, with public opinion on your side--”

“How I detest that phrase!” said Madame de Heidendorf; “it is the lowest
cant of the day.”

“The thing it represents is not to be despised, Madame,” said the Abbé.

“These are English notions,” said she, sneeringly.

“They will be Russian ones yet, depend upon it, Madame.”

“I 'd rather know what a few men of vast fortune, like Midchekoff, for
instance, think, than have the suffrages of half the greasy mobs of
Europe.”

“By the way,” said the Minister, “what is he doing? Is it true that he
is coquetting with Liberals and Fourierists, and all that?”

“For the moment he is,” said Madame de Heidendorf; “and two or three of
the popularity-seeking sovereigns have sent him their decorations, and
if he does not behave better he will be ordered home.”

“He is of great use in Italy,” said the Minister.

“True; but he must not abuse his position.”

“He is just vain enough to lend himself to a movement,” said D'Esmonde;
“but he shall be watched.”

These last words were very significantly uttered.

“You know the Princess, Abbé?” asked the Minister, with a smile; and
another smile, as full of meaning, replied to the question.

“She's pretty, ain't she?” asked the Archduke.

“Beautiful is the word, sir; but if your Imperial Highness would like
to pass judgment personally, I 'll beg of her to come down to the
drawing-room.”

“Of all things, most kind of you to make the offer,” said he, rising
and arranging his coat and sword-knot into some semblance of propriety,
while Madame de Heidendorf rang the bell, and despatched a messenger to
Kate with the request.

Nina was overjoyed at the commission intrusted to her. Since Kate's
peremptory order, she had not ventured to intrude herself upon her;
but now, armed with a message, she never hesitated about invading the
precincts of that silent chamber, at whose door she often stood in doubt
and speculation.

She tapped gently at the door; there was no answer. A second summons was
alike unreplied to, and Nina bent down her head to listen. There were
long-drawn breathings, like sleep; but a heavy sigh told that the
moments were those of waking sorrow. Cautiously turning the handle
of the door, without noise, she opened it and passed in. The room was
shrouded in a dim half-light, and it was not till after the lapse of
some seconds that Nina could distinguish the form of her young mistress,
as, with her head buried in her hands, she sat before a table on which
lay an open letter.

So absorbed was Kate in grief that she heard nothing, and Nina
approached her, slowly, till at last she stood directly behind her,
fixedly regarding the heaving figure, the dishevelled hair, and the
trembling hands that seemed to clutch with eagerness some object within
their grasp. Kate suddenly started, and pushing back her hair from
her eyes, seemed as if trying to collect her wandering thoughts. Then,
unclasping a case, she placed a miniature before her, and contemplated
it attentively. Nina bent over her till she almost touched her in her
eagerness. Had any one been there to have seen her features at the
moment, they would have perceived the traits of intense and varied
passion, surprise, rage, and jealousy, all struggling for the mastery.
Her dark skin grew almost livid, and her black eyes glowed with anger;
while, with a force like convulsion, she pressed her hands to her heart,
as if to calm its beatings. A sea of stormy passions was warring within
her, and in her changeful expression might be seen the conflict of her
resolves. At last, she appeared to have decided; for with noiseless
steps she gradually retreated toward the door, her eyes all the while
steadily fixed on her mistress.

It seemed to require no slight effort to repress the torrent of rage
within her; for even at the door she stood irresolute for a moment, and
then, softly opening it, withdrew. Once outside, her pent-up passions
found vent, and she sobbed violently. Her mood was, however, more of
anger than of sorrow, and there was an air of almost insolent pride in
the way she now knocked, and then, without waiting for reply, entered
the room.

“Madame de Heidendorf requests that the Princess will appear in the
drawing-room,” said she, abruptly, and confronting Kate's look of
confusion with a steadfast stare.

“Say that I am indisposed, Nina,----that I feel tired and unwell,” said
Kate, timidly.

“There is an Archduke, Madame.”

“What care I for an Archduke, Nina?” said Kate, trying to smile away the
awkwardness of her own disturbed manner.

“I have always believed that great folk liked each other,” said Nina,
sarcastically.

“Then I must lack one element of that condition, Nina,” said Kate,
good-humoredly; “but pray make my excuses,--say anything you like so
that I may be left in quiet.”

“How delightful Madame's reveries must be, when she attaches such value
to them!”

“Can you doubt it, Nina?” replied Kate, with a forced gayety. “A
betrothed bride ought to be happy; you are always telling me so. I hear
of nothing from morn till night but of rich caskets of gems and jewels;
you seem to think that diamonds would throw a lustre over any gloom.”

[Illustration: 120]

“And would they not?” cried Nina, passionately “Has not the brow nobler
and higher thoughts when encircled by a coronet like this? Does not
the heart beat with greater transport beneath gems like these?” And she
opened case after case of sparkling jewels as she spoke, and spread them
before Kate, on the table.

“And yet I have learned to look on them calmly,” said Kate, with an
expression of proud indifference.

“Does not that dazzle you?” said Nina, holding up a cross of rose
diamonds.

“No!” said Kate, shaking her head.

“Nor that?” cried Nina, displaying a gorgeous necklace.

“Nor even that, Nina.”

“Is Madame's heart so steeled against womanly vanities,” said Nina,
quickly, while she threw masses of costly articles before her, “that not
one throb, not one flush of pleasure, is called up at sight of these?”

“You see, Nina, that I can look on them calmly.”

“Then this, perchance, may move you!” cried Nina; and with a bound
she sprang to the table at which Kate was seated, and, dashing the
handkerchief away, seized the miniature, and held it up.

Kate uttered a shrill cry and fell back fainting. Nina gazed at her for
a second or so with a look of haughty disdain, and sprinkling the pale
features with a few drops of water, she turned away. With calm composure
she replaced each precious gem within its case, laid the miniature once
more beneath the handkerchief, and then left the room.

“Your Princess will not honor us, it seems, with her company,” said the
Archduke, half in pique, as the messenger returned with Kate's excuses;
“and yet I looked for her coming to get rid of all the farrago of
politics that you wise folk will insist upon talking.”

The Countess and the Minister exchanged most significant glances at
this speech, while D'Esmonde politely assented to the remark, by adding
something about the relaxation necessary to overwrought minds, and the
need that princes should enjoy some repose as well as those of lower
degree. “I can, however, assure your Imperial Highness,” said he, “that
this is no caprice of the young Princess. She is really far from well,
and was even unable to receive her own relative this afternoon, the
Count von Dalton.”

“What, is old Auersberg a relative of hers?”

“An uncle, or a grand-uncle,--I forget which, sir.”

“Then that wild youth in the Franz Carl must be a connection too?”

“The cadet is her brother, sir.”

“Indeed! What an extravagant fellow it is! They say that, counting on
being Auersberg's heir, he spends money in every possible fashion; and
as the tradespeople take the succession on trust, his debts are already
considerable. It was only yesterday his colonel spoke to me of sending
him to the Banat, or some such place. His family must be rich, I
suppose?”

“I believe quite the reverse, sir. Poor to indigence. Their entire hope
is on the Count von Auersberg.”

“He held a frontier command for many years, and must have saved money.
But will he like to see it in hands like these?”

“I believe--at least so the story goes,” said D'Esmonde, dropping his
voice to a whisper, “that the boy's arguments have scarcely assisted his
object in that respect. They say that he told the Count that in times
like these no man's fortune was worth a year's purchase; that when
monarchs were tottering and thrones rocking, it were better to spend
one's means freely than to tempt pillage by hoarding it.”

“Are these his notions?” cried the Archduke, in amazement

“Yes; the wildest doctrines of Socialism are his creed,--opinions,
I grieve to say, more widely spread than any one supposes.”

“How is this, then? I see the private regimental reports of every corps,
I read the conduct-rolls of almost every company, and yet no hint of
this disaffection has reached me.

“A priest could reveal more than an adjutant, sir,” said the Abbé,
smiling. “These youths who fancy themselves neglected,--who think their
claims disregarded,--who, in a word, imagine that some small pretension,
on the score of family, should be the spring of their promotion, are
easily seduced into extravagant ideas about freedom and so forth.”

“Austria is scarce the land for such fruit to ripen in,” said the
Archduke, laughing. “Let him try France, or the United States.”

“Very true, your Highness,” chimed in the Abbé; “but such boys ought to
be watched,--their conduct inquired strictly into.”

“Or better still, Monsieur l'Abbé,” said the Archduke, sternly,
“dismissed the service. I see no profit in retaining amongst us the
seeds of this French malady.”

“I believe your Highness takes the true view of the difficulty,” said
D'Esmonde, as though reflecting over it. “And yet you will be asked to
make an officer of him in a day or two.”

“An officer of this boy, and why, or by whom?”

“The Princess, his sister, will make the request; probably through Von
Auersberg.”

“But when I tell the Feld--”

“Ah, your Imperial Highness could not betray a confidence!” said
D'Esmonde. “I have ventured to disclose to you what has come to my
knowledge by means only accessible to myself; I therefore rely on your
Highness not to divulge, however you may use it.”

“He shall not continue to wear our cloth; that you may certainly rely
on, Monsieur l'Abbé,” said the Archduke, sternly.

“In any case, wait for his sister's departure, sir,” said D'Esmonde,
anxiously; “a few days or hours. As soon as this silly old lady has made
up that budget of gossip and scandal she fancies to be political news,
we 'll see her leave this, and then he can be dealt with as you think
proper.”

The Archduke made no reply,--not seeming either to assent to or reject
the counsel. “It would break the old Marshal's heart,” said he, at last;
“that gallant old soldier would never survive it.”

“A treason might, indeed, kill him,” said D'Esmonde. “But your Highness
will anticipate exposure by dismissal--dismissal, peremptory and
unexplained.”

Again the Archduke was silent, but his lowering brow and dark expression
told that the subject was giving him deep and serious thought. “I paid
no attention to your conversation this evening, Abbé,” said be, at last;
“but it struck me, from a chance word here and there, that you suspect
these same 'Liberal' notions are gaining ground.”

“Heresies against the Faith, sir, have begotten their natural offspring,
heresies against the State; and Governments do not yet awaken to the
fact that they who scorn the altar will not respect the throne. The
whole force of what are called Liberal institutions has been to weaken
the influence of the clergy; and yet it is precisely on that same
influence you will have to fall back. It is beneath the solemn shadow of
the Church you'll seek your refuge yet!”

“No, no, father,” said the Archduke, with a laugh; “we have another
remedy.”

“The mitre is stronger than the _mitraille_, after all,” said
D'Esmonde, boldly. “Believe me, sir, that the solemn knell that tolls
an excommunication will strike more terror through Christendom than all
your artillery.”

Either the remark or the tone in which it was uttered was unpleasing
to the Prince; indeed, all the Abbe's courtesy at times gave way to an
almost impetuous boldness, which royalty never brooks, for he turned
away haughtily, and joined the others at a distant part of the room.

There was something of scorn in the proud look which D'Esmonde gave
after him, and then slipped from the chamber with noiseless step and
disappeared. Inquiring the way to the Princess's apartment, the Abbé
slowly ascended the stairs, pondering deeply as he went. Nina was
passing the corridor at the moment, and, supposing that he had mistaken
the direction, politely asked if she could offer him any guidance.
Scarcely noticing the questioner, he replied,----

“I was looking for the Princesse de Midchekoff's apartments.”

“It is here, sir; but she is indisposed.”

“If you would say that the Abbé D'Esmonde--”

He had got thus far when, lifting his eyes, his glance fell upon her
features; and then, as if spell-bound, he stood silently gazing at her.
Nina's cheek grew crimson under the stare; but her eyes met his with
unshaken firmness.

“If I were to disbelieve all probabilities,” said he, slowly, “I should
say that I see an old friend before me. Are you not the daughter of
Huertos, the Toridor of Seville?”

“Fra Eustace!” said Nina, stepping back and staring steadily at him.

“No longer so, Lola; I am the Abbé D'Esmonde now,” said he, while a
faint flush tinged his pale features.

“And I am Nina, the 'Cameriera,'” replied she, scornfully. “See how
unequally fortune has dealt with us!”

D'Esmonde made a sign towards the door, which she at once understood and
answered,----

“Yes, in the service of the Princess.”

“This is indeed a strange meeting, Lola.”

“Call me Nina,” said the girl, flushing, “or I shall remember old times,
and my Spanish blood will little bear such memories.”

“Where can we talk together, Nina?”

“Come this way, holy father,” said she, with a half-sneering smile. “I
suppose a poor girl may receive her confessor in her chamber.”

D'Esmonde walked after her without speaking. While crossing a gallery,
she unlocked a door, and admitted him into a small but neatly furnished
room.

“Dear Lola,” said the priest, as, taking her hand, he looked
affectionately at her,--“I must needs call you by the old name,--what
turn of fortune has brought you here?”

“It is a question well becomes you,” said the girl, releasing her
hand from his grasp, and drawing herself proudly up. “You cut the bark
adrift, and you wonder that it has become a wreck!”

“How this old warmth of temper recalls the past, and how I love you for
it, as I grieve over it, Lola; but be calm, and tell me everything, just
as you used to tell me years ago.”

“Oh, if I had the same pure heart as then!” cried the girl,
passionately. “Oh, if I could but shed tears, as once I did, over each
slight transgression, and not have my spirit seared and hardened, as the
world has made it!”

“We cannot carry the genial freshness of youth into the ripe years of
judgment, Lola. Gifts decay, and others succeed them.”

“No more of this casuistry. _You_ are, I see, the same, whatever changes
time may have made in _me_; but I have outlived these trickeries. Tell
me, frankly, what do you want with me?”

“Must there needs be some motive of self-interest in renewing an old
but interrupted friendship, L

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/32062