It was with a burst of joy that Lady Hester heard the Daltons had
arrived. In the wearisome monotony of her daily life, anything to do,
anywhere to go, any one to see, would have been esteemed boons of great
price; what delight, then, was it to meet those with whom she could
converse of “bygone times” and other lands!--“that dear Kate,” whom she
really liked as well as it was in her nature to love anything, from whom
she now anticipated so much of that gossip, technically called “news,”
and into whose confiding heart she longed to pour out her own private
woes!
The meeting was indeed affectionate on both sides; and, as Lady Hester
was in her most gracious of moods, Frank thought her the very type of
amiability, and the old Count pronounced her manners fit for the high
ordeal of Vienna itself. Perhaps our reader will be grateful if we leave
to his imagination all the changeful moods of grief and joy, surprise,
regret, and ecstasy, with which her Ladyship questioned and listened
to Kate Dalton's stories; throwing out, from time to time, little
reflections of her own, as though incidentally, to show how much wiser
years had made her. There are people who ever regard the misfortunes of
others as mere key-notes to elicit their own sufferings; and thus, when
Kate spoke of Russia, Lady Hester quoted Ireland. Frank's sufferings
reminded her of her own “nerves;” and poor Nelly's unknown fate was
precisely “the condition of obscurity to which Sir Stafford's cruel will
had consigned herself.”
Kate's mind was very far from being at ease, and yet it was with no mean
pleasure she found herself seated beside Lady Hester, talking over the
past with all that varying emotion which themes of pleasure and sadness
call up. Who has not enjoyed the delight of such moments, when, living
again bygone days, we laugh or sigh over incidents wherein once as
actors we had moved and felt? If time has dimmed our perceptions of
pleasure, it has also softened down resentments and allayed asperities.
We can afford to forgive so much, and we feel, also, so confident of
others' forgiveness, and if regrets do steal over us that these things
have passed away forever, there yet lurks the flattering thought that we
have grown wiser than we then were. So is it the autobiographies of the
fireside are pleasant histories, whose vanities are all pardonable, and
whose trifling is never ungraceful! Memory throws such a softened light
on the picture, that even bores become sufferable, and we extract a
passing laugh from the most tiresome of our quondam “afflictives.”
Had her Ladyship been less occupied with herself and her own emotions,
she could not have failed to notice the agitation under which Kate
suffered at many of her chance remarks. The levity, too, with which she
discussed her betrothal to Midchekoff almost offended her. The truth
was, Kate had half forgotten the reckless, unthinking style of her
friend's conversation, and it required a little practice and training to
grow accustomed to it again.
“Yes, my dear,” she went on, “I have had such trouble to persuade people
that it was no marriage at all, but a kind of engagement; and when that
horrid Emperor would n't give his consent, of course there was an end
of it you may be sure, my sweet child, I never believed one syllable of
that vile creature's story about George's picture; but somehow it
has got abroad, and that odious Heidendorf goes about repeating it
everywhere. I knew well that you never cared for poor dear George!
Indeed, I told him as much when he was quite full of admiration for you.
It is so stupid in men! their vanity makes them always believe that,
if they persist--just persevere--in their attachment, the woman will
at last succumb. Now, _we_ have a better sense of these things, and
actually adore the man that shows indifference to us,--at least, I am
sure that I do. Such letters as the poor boy keeps writing about you!
And about five months ago, when he was so badly wounded, and did not
expect to recover, he actually made his will, and left you all he had
in the world. Oh dear!” said she, with a heavy sigh, “they have generous
moments, these men, but they never last; and, by the way, I must ask
your advice--though I already guess what it will be--about a
certain friend of ours, who has had what I really must call the
presumption--for, after all, Kate, I think you 'll agree with me it is a
very great presumption,----is it not, dear?”
“Until you tell me a little more,” replied Kate, with a sigh, “I can
scarcely answer.”
“Well, it's Mr. Jekyl--you remember, that little man that used to be so
useful at Florence; not but he has very pretty manners, and a great deal
of tact in society. His letters, too, are inimitably droll. I'll show
you some of them.”
“Oh! then you are in correspondence with him?” said Kate, slyly.
“Yes; that is, he writes _to me_--and I--I sometimes send _him_ a short
note. In fact, it was the Abbé D'Esmonde induced me to think of it at
all; and I was bored here, and so unhappy, and so lonely.”
“I perceive,” said Kate; “but I trust that there is nothing
positive,----nothing like an engagement?”
“And why, dear?--whence these cautious scruples?” said Lady Hester,
almost peevishly.
“Simply because he is very unworthy of you,” said Kate, bluntly, and
blushing deep at her own hardihood.
“Oh, I'm quite sure of that,” said Lady Hester, casting down her eyes.
“I know--I feel that I am mistaken and misunderstood. The world has
always judged me unfairly! you alone, dearest, ever comprehended me; and
even you could not guess of what I am capable! If you were to read my
journal--if you were just to see what sufferings I have gone through!
And then that terrible shock! though, I must say, D'Esmonde's mode of
communicating it was delicacy itself. A very strange man that Abbé
is, Kate. He now and then talks in a way that makes one suspect his
affections are or have been engaged.”
“I always believed him too deeply immersed in other cares.”
“Oh, what a short-sighted judgment, child! These are the minds that
always feel most! I know this by myself--daring the last two years
especially! When I think what I have gone through! The fate, not
alone of Italy, but of Europe, of the world, I may say, discussed
and determined at our fireside! Yes, Kate, I assure you, so it was.
D'Esmonde referred many points to me, saying 'that the keener perception
of a female mind must be our pilot here.' Of course, I felt all the
responsibility, but never, never was I agitated. How often have I
held the destiny of the Imperial House in my hands! How little do they
suspect what they owe to my forbearance! But these are not themes to
interest you, dearest, and, of course, your prejudices are all Austrian.
I must say, Kate, 'the uncle' is charming! Just that kind of dear old
creature so graceful for a young woman to lean upon; and I love his
long white moustache! His French, too, is admirable,----that Madame
de Sévigné turn of expression, so unlike modern flippancy, and so
respectful to women!”
“I hope you like Frank!” said Kate, with artless eagerness in her look.
“He 's wonderfully good-looking without seeming to know it; but, of
course, one cannot expect that to last, Kate.”
“Oh! you cannot think how handsome he was before this illness; and then
he is so gentle and affectionate.”
“There--there, child, you must not make me fall in love with him, for
you know all my sympathies are Italian; and, having embroidered that
beautiful banner for the 'Legion of Hope'--pretty name, is it not?--I
never could tolerate the 'Barbari.'”
“Pray do not call them such to my uncle,” said Kate, smiling.
“Never fear, dearest. I 'm in the habit of meeting all kinds of horrid
people without ever offending a prejudice; and, besides, I am bent on
making a conquest of 'Mon Oncle;' he is precisely the species of adorer
I like best. I hope he does not take snuff.”
Kate laughed, as she shook her head in sign of negative.
From this Lady Hester diverged to all manner of reflections about the
future,--as to whether she ought or ought not to know Midchekoff when
she met him; if the villa of La Rocca were really Kate's, or hers, or
the property of somebody else; who was Jekyl's father, or if he ever had
such an appendage; in what part of the Tyrol Nelly was then sojourning;
was it possible she was married to the dwarf, and ashamed to confess
it?--and a vast variety of similar speculations, equally marked by
a bold indifference as to probability, and a total disregard to the
feelings of her companion. Kate was, then, far from displeased when a
messenger came to say that the General was alone in the drawing-room,
and would esteem it a favor if the ladies would join him.
“How do you mean, alone?” asked Lady Hester. “Where is Mr. Dalton?”
“Dr. Grounsell came for him, my Lady, and took him away in a carriage.”
“Poor Frank, he is quite unequal to such fatigue,” exclaimed Kate.
“It is like that horrid doctor. His cruelties to me have been something
incredible; at the same time, there's not a creature on my estate he
does not sympathize with! you 'll see how it will be, dearest; he'll
take your dear brother somewhere where there's a fever, or perhaps the
plague--for I believe they have it here; and in his delicate state
he's sure to catch it and die! Mark my words, dearest Kate, and see if
they'll not come true.” And with this reassuring speech she slipped her
arm within her companion's and moved out of the room.
It may be conjectured that it was not without weighty reasons Grounsell
induced Frank, weary and exhausted as he was, to leave his home and
accompany him on a cold and dreary night to the city jail. Although
declining to enter upon the question before a third party, no sooner
were they alone together than the doctor proceeded to an explanation.
Meekins, who it appeared showed the greatest indifference at first, had,
as the day wore on, grown restless and impatient. This irritability was
increased by the want of his accustomed stimulant of drink, in which,
latterly, he had indulged freely, and it was in such a mood he asked for
pen and paper, and wrote a few lines to request that young Mr. Dalton
would visit him. Grounsell, who made a point to watch the prisoner from
hour to hour, no sooner heard this, than he hastened off to the inn with
the intelligence.
“There is not a moment to be lost,” said he. “This fellow, from all that
I can learn, is but the tool of others, who are bent on bringing before
the world the whole story of this terrible crime. A priest, named
Cahill, and who for some time back has been loitering about the
neighborhood, was at the jail this morning before daybreak. Later on, he
posted a letter for Dublin, the address of which I was enabled to see.
It was to the eminent lawyer in criminal cases, Mr. Wallace.
“That some great attack is in preparation, I have, then, no doubt; the
only question is, whether the object be to extort money by threats of
publicity, or is there some deep feeling of revenge against your name
and family?
“The jailer, who is in my interest, gives me the most accurate detail
of the prisoner's conduct, and, although I am fully prepared to expect
every species of duplicity and deceit from a fellow of this stamp, yet
it is not impossible that, seeing himself to a certain extent in our
power, he may be disposed to desert to our ranks.
“He asks you to come alone, and of course you must comply. Whatever be
the subject of his revelations, be most guarded in the way you receive
them. Avow utter ignorance of everything, and give him reasons to
suppose that your great object here is to prevent the exposure and
disgrace of a public trial. This may make him demand higher terms; but
at the same time he will be thrown upon fuller explanations to warrant
them. In fact, you must temper your manner between a conscious power
over the fellow, and an amicable desire to treat with him.
“He has heard, within the last half-hour, that he has been recognized
here by a former acquaintance, whose account of him includes many
circumstances of deep suspicion. It may have been this fact has induced
him to write to you. This you will easily discover in his manner. But
here we are at the gates, and once more, I say, be cautions and guarded
in everything.
“Well, Mr. Gray,” said Grounsell to the jailer, “You see we have
not delayed very long. Ill as he is, Mr. Dalton has accepted this
invitation.”
“And he has done well, sir,” replied the Jailer. “The man's bearing
is greatly changed since morning; some panic has evidently seized him.
There's no saying how long this temper may last; but you are quite right
to profit by it while there is yet time.”
“Is he low and depressed, then?”
“Terribly so, sir. He asked a while ago if any one had called to see
him. Of course we guessed whom he meant, and said that a priest had been
at the jail that morning, but only to learn the charge under which he
was apprehended. He was much mortified on being told that the priest
neither expressed a wish to see nor speak with him.”
Grounsell gave a significant glance towards Frank, who now followed the
jailer to the prisoner's cell.
“He's crying, sir; don't you hear him?” whispered the jailer to Frank,
as they stood outside the door. “You could n't have a more favorable
moment.” And, thus saying, he rattled the heavy bunch of keys, in order
to give the prisoner token of his approach; and then, throwing open the
door, called out, “Here's the gentleman you asked for, Meekins; see that
you don't keep him long in this cold place, for he is not very well.”
Frank had but time to reach the little settle on which he sat down, when
the door was closed, and he was alone with the prisoner.