The Daltons Volume II Part 61

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

"I must own it is an honor for which I was scarcely prepared, my Lord,"

said the other.

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

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

"You said you were unprepared for my visit, sir, and I believe you, as you will be, doubtless, unprepared for the object of it Prince Midchekoff, I have come here to request your company across the Tuscan frontier; the matter is of sufficient importance to warrant the inconvenience. You will take any or as many of your household as you please, but you shall accompany me from this spot Come, sir, your air of easy indifference is for once mistimed. You see before you a man whose utmost effort can scarcely repress the pa.s.sion that stirs within him.

Neither your coolness nor your cowardice--for the quality goes by either name--can avail you here. I must and I will have reparation."

"Until I am aware of the injury,--until you tell me how or in what I have wronged you--"

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

"This is madness,----downright insanity, my Lord," said Midchekoff, rising and moving towards the bell.

"Not so, sir," said Norwood, interposing. "My pa.s.sion is now mastered.

You shall not escape on that pretence. There are my pistols; only one of them is loaded; take your choice, for I see that outside of this room I shall seek in vain for satisfaction."

"This would be a murder."

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

[Ill.u.s.tration: 419]

Midchekoff s.n.a.t.c.hed the pistol convulsively, and, placing the muzzle on Norwood's breast, fired. With a wild cry he staggered and fell dead upon the floor. The Prince flung open the door, and rang the bell violently.

In a moment the room was filled with servants. "Send Joca.s.se here,"

said Midchekoff; and his chief secretary entered in all haste and trepidation. "This is an affair for the police, Joca.s.se," said the Prince, coolly. "Send for the brigadier, and let him come to my room."

"Suicide shows a great _manque de savoir vivre_," said Haggerstone, as the news of the event was circulated through Florence. And the _mot_ survived the memory of its victim.

CHAPTER x.x.xI. THE SUMMONS.

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

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

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

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

The "Amba.s.sador Street," where formerly the armorial s.h.i.+elds of every reigning house of Europe were wont to be displayed, was now almost untenanted.

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

It was here, formerly, that the most brilliant society of the capital was to be found; here, every night, the carriages were seen to throng, and the whole street glow with the glare of light from brilliant _salons_, or the red flame of the torches borne by the running footmen.

The proud aristocracy of every land here met; and names that recalled the great achievements of generals and statesmen were heard in every announcement that resounded along those corridors. But a few of these palaces were now occupied; and for the most part were the quarters of the generals of the army. In front of one of the largest, at whose gate two sentinels stood, the street was littered with straw; while the closed shutters and drawn curtains showed that sickness and suffering were busy within. The frequent arrivals, and the pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing of messengers evinced the interest the sufferer's fate excited; and amongst those who dismounted at the corner of the street, and with cautious steps approached the door, more than one member of the Imperial house was to be seen. He whose fortune inspired all these tokens of regard was no great or ill.u.s.trious general, no proud and distinguished statesman; he was simply a young officer of hussars,--a gallant soldier, whose fidelity had been proved under the most trying circ.u.mstances,----our old acquaintance, Frank Dalton. Relapse after relapse had reduced his strength to the very verge of debility, and each day threatened to be his last Worn down by pain and suffering, the young soldier bore a look of calm and even happy meaning. His character for loyalty had been not only vindicated by his blood; but, through the aid of Walstein, it was shown that he could have known nothing of the conspiracy with which he was charged. Thus re-established in fair fame, he saw himself the object of every care that affection could bestow.

The old Count seldom quitted him; Kate never left his bedside. Every attention of kindness, every suggestion of love was bestowed upon him; and a sick-bed was made the scene of more touching happiness than he had ever known in the proudest hours of his health and vigor. Could he have seen his dear Nelly beside him, he had no more to wish for! To die without pressing her to his heart, without acknowledging all that he owed to her good counsels, was now his only sorrow; and if in the stillness of the sick-room tears would flow heavily along his cheek, and drop, one by one, on his pillow, this was their secret source.

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

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

To allay, so far as might be, these disordered terrors, they a.s.sumed the utmost frankness in all intercourse with him, and even took pains to exhibit an undisguised freedom on every occasion.

The letters which arrived by each morning's post were always opened in his presence, and his prying, eager glances showed that the precaution was not unneeded.

"What is that?" cried he, suddenly, as Kate, after reading the address of a letter, hastily threw it on the table, and covered it with others.

"Let me see that, Kate. Who is it for?"

"It bears your name," said she, anxiously, "and has an Irish postmark; but the hand is not known to me."

The youth took the letter in his hand, and sat gazing on it for some minutes together.

"No," said he, at length, "I do not remember to have seen the writing before. Read it, Kate."

She broke the seal, and at once exclaimed, "It is from Dr. Grounsell, Frank,--a very dear and kind friend."

She ran her eyes rapidly over the lines as she spoke, and twice her color came and went, and her hand trembled as it held the paper.

"You have bad news for me?" said the boy, with a slow, but firm utterance; "but so that it be not of Nelly, I can bear anything!"

"It is not of Nelly," said Kate, in a tremulous voice.

"Then let me hear it," said he, calmly.

She tried to read, but the effort was beyond her strength; and although her lips moved, no sound issued from them. At last she gained sufficient strength to say, "It would agitate you too much, my dear brother, to hear this now. Let us wait for a day or two, till you are stronger, and better able to think about it."

"I have told you already, that if it be not of Nelly, I can hear it with indifference. Read on, then, Kate."

"The meaning of it is this, Frank," cried she, hastily. "There was a fearful crime committed some years back in Ireland,--a relative of ours, named G.o.dfrey, was murdered."

"Yes--yes--I know it. Go on," said he, eagerly.

"The circ.u.mstances have never come to light, and now, it would appear, some efforts are being made to connect our name with this dreadful act; and--and--in fact, Frank, Dr. Grounsell wishes to learn from you where we were residing at the period in question; and if you be possessed of any letters or papers which could show the relations existing between our family and Mr. G.o.dfrey."

"You must let me read this for myself, Kate," said Frank, calmly, taking the letter from her hands; "and now leave me for a while."

With trembling steps and a sinking heart the young girl retired, to pa.s.s hours of intense anxiety in her chamber. At last came a servant to say that her brother desired to see her.

"I must set out for Ireland, Kate," said the sick youth, as he arose from his chair.

"For Ireland!" cried she, gazing with terror at his wasted and worn figure.

"A long journey, dearest, but I shall have strength for it, if you 'll be my companion!"