They who only knew Vienna in its days of splendor and magnificence could
scarcely have recognized that city as it appeared on the conclusion of
the great revolt which had just convulsed the Empire. The great walls
were riddled with shot and shell; vast breaches in them opened out a
view of even more dreadful ruin within; streets choked up with fallen
houses, and wide squares encumbered with blocks of masonry and blackened
timbers. The terrible traces of barricade struggles still remained; but
more significant than all these was the downcast, sorrow-struck look of
a population once known as the gayest and most light-hearted of Europe.
The air of suffering and poverty extended to everything. No signs of the
once luxury and wealth of that rich nobility. Not an equipage was to
be seen! The passing and repassing of troops gave the only movement
observable in the streets. Strong guards and patrols marched past, with
all the precaution and preparation of a state of war. The dragoons sat
in their saddles, carbine in hand, as if but waiting for a signal to
engage; while, in the half-defiant stare of the populace might be read
the spirit of men who had not yet resigned themselves to defeat.
Most of the shops were closed, and, even of those still open, the
display of wares was scanty and miserable; rather seeming as if the
effort were made to conciliate the favor of the Government than with
any hope of gain. The cafés were deserted, except by the military; and
they--far from indulging the jocund mirth and laughter which was their
wont--were now serious and anxious-looking, regarding the passers-by
with a distrustful glance, and seeming as though they felt that the
interval was less peace than an armistice.
Cannon were in position on the Stephan's Platz and the Graben, and the
gunners stood ready, as if on parade. Officers of the staff, too, and
orderlies rode hastily to and fro, showing that no rash reliance was
placed on the quietude of the capital, and that the hour of conflict, if
it were to come, should not find them unprepared. In vain the stranger
might have sought for that more than feudal splendor which once was the
type of this brilliant city! The gorgeous liveries of the Bohemian,
or the more tasteful grandeur of the Magyar noble were no longer to be
seen. The varied costumes of the Banat and the Wallach, which gave such
character to many a rude equipage, the barbaric finery, which recalled
the old struggles with the Crescent, which marked the rank of some
border chieftain, was gone. Vienna presented nothing but its troops of
soldiers, and its mournful, sad-looking population, moving listlessly
about, or standing in groups to gaze on the disastrous ruins of their
once proud city.
The “Ambassador Street,” where formerly the armorial shields of every
reigning house of Europe were wont to be displayed, was now almost
untenanted.
With some the Imperial Government was at open war; with others
estrangement and coldness prevailed; while some, again, were represented
by officials of inferior rank,--all signs of troubled and precarious
times, when kings no longer knew what future awaited them!
It was here, formerly, that the most brilliant society of the capital
was to be found; here, every night, the carriages were seen to throng,
and the whole street glow with the glare of light from brilliant
_salons_, or the red flame of the torches borne by the running footmen.
The proud aristocracy of every land here met; and names that recalled
the great achievements of generals and statesmen were heard in every
announcement that resounded along those corridors. But a few of these
palaces were now occupied; and for the most part were the quarters of
the generals of the army. In front of one of the largest, at whose
gate two sentinels stood, the street was littered with straw; while the
closed shutters and drawn curtains showed that sickness and suffering
were busy within. The frequent arrivals, and the passing and repassing
of messengers evinced the interest the sufferer's fate excited; and
amongst those who dismounted at the corner of the street, and with
cautious steps approached the door, more than one member of the Imperial
house was to be seen. He whose fortune inspired all these tokens of
regard was no great or illustrious general, no proud and distinguished
statesman; he was simply a young officer of hussars,--a gallant
soldier, whose fidelity had been proved under the most trying
circumstances,----our old acquaintance, Frank Dalton. Relapse after
relapse had reduced his strength to the very verge of debility, and each
day threatened to be his last Worn down by pain and suffering, the young
soldier bore a look of calm and even happy meaning. His character for
loyalty had been not only vindicated by his blood; but, through the
aid of Walstein, it was shown that he could have known nothing of the
conspiracy with which he was charged. Thus re-established in fair fame,
he saw himself the object of every care that affection could bestow.
The old Count seldom quitted him; Kate never left his bedside. Every
attention of kindness, every suggestion of love was bestowed upon him;
and a sick-bed was made the scene of more touching happiness than he had
ever known in the proudest hours of his health and vigor. Could he
have seen his dear Nelly beside him, he had no more to wish for! To die
without pressing her to his heart, without acknowledging all that
he owed to her good counsels, was now his only sorrow; and if in the
stillness of the sick-room tears would flow heavily along his cheek, and
drop, one by one, on his pillow, this was their secret source.
The Count had himself written to Nelly. Kate, too, had despatched a
letter, telling of Frank's dangerous condition, and entreating her
presence; but no reply had been returned, and they already began to fear
that some mishap had occurred, and were obliged to frame all manner
of excuses for her absence. Meanwhile, as his strength declined, his
impatience increased; and his first question, as day broke, and his last
at night, were, “What tidings of Nelly?” All his faults and errors lay
like a load upon his heart, till he could pour out the confession to
his dear sister. The post-hour of each morning was a moment of intense
anxiety to him; and the blank look which met his eager glance was the
signal for a depression that weighed down his heart during the day. From
long dwelling on this source of sorrow, his mind grew painfully acute
as to all that bore upon it; and sometimes he fancied that his uncle and
Kate knew some dreadful fact of poor Nelly, and feared to communicate
it. More than once had it occurred to him that she was dead,--that she
had sunk, broken-hearted and deserted. He did not dare to whisper this
suspicion, but he tried to insinuate his fears about her in a hundred
ways. To his sickly fancy their frankness seemed dissimulation, and
the very grief they displayed he read as the misery of an unrevealed
calamity.
Kate, with all a woman's quickness, saw what was passing in his mind,
and tried her utmost to combat it; but all in vain. To no purpose did
she open her whole heart before him, telling of her own sad history and
its disappointments. In vain did she point to a bright future, when,
strong and in spirits, Frank should accompany her in search of Nelly,
through every glen and valley of the Tyrol. The impression of some
concealment was more powerful than all these, and he but heard them as
tales invented to amuse a sick-bed. The morbid sensibility of illness
gave a significance to every trivial incident, and Kate dared not
whisper in his presence, nor even exchange a look with another, without
exciting a whole flood of doubt and suspicion in his mind.
To allay, so far as might be, these disordered terrors, they assumed
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 Godfrey, was murdered.”
“Yes--yes--I know it. Go on,” said he, eagerly.
“The circumstances 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. Godfrey.”
“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 pass
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!”
“Never to leave you, Frank,” cried she; and fell sobbing into his arms.