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

From the window, which still remained open, a stream of light now issued, and Kate’s quick hearing could detect the rustling sound of papers on the table.

“There they are,” said a voice, the first accents of which she knew to belong to the Abbe D’Esmonde. “There they are, Signor Morlache. We have no concealments nor reserve with you. Examine them for yourself. You will find reports from nearly every part of the kingdom; some more, some less favorable in their bearings, but all agreeing in the main fact, that the cause is a great one, and the success all but certain.”

“I have told you before,” said the Jew, speaking in a thick, guttural utterance, “that my sympathies never lead me into expense. Every solvent cause is good, every bankrupt one the reverse, in my estimation.”

“Even upon that ground I am ready to meet you. The committee – ”

“Ay, who are the committee?” interrupted the Jew, hastily.

“The committee contains some of the first Catholic names of Ireland, men of landed fortune and great territorial influence, together with several of the higher clergy.”

“The bishops?”

“The bishops, almost to a man, are with us in heart; but their peculiar position requires the most careful and delicate conduct. No turn of fortune must implicate them, or our cause is lost forever.”

“If your cause be all you say it is, if the nationality be so strong, and the energies so powerful as you describe, why not try the issue, as the Italians and the Hungarians are about to do?” said Morlache. “I can understand a loan for a defined and real object, the purchase of military stores and equipment, to provide arms and ammunition, and I can understand how the lender, too, could calculate his risk of profit or loss on the issue of the struggle; but here you want half a million sterling, and for what?”

“To win a kingdom!” cried D’Esmonde, enthusiastically. “To bring back to the fold of the Church the long-lost sheep; and make Ireland, as she once was, the centre of holy zeal and piety!”

“I am not a pope, nor a cardinal, not even a monsignore,” said Morlache, with a bitter laugh. “You must try other arguments with me; and once more I say, why not join that party who already are willing to risk their lives in the venture?”

“Have I not told you what and who they are who form this party?” said D’Esmonde, passionately. “Read those papers before you. Study the secret reports sent from nearly every parish in the kingdom. In some you will find the sworn depositions of men on their death-beds, the last words their lips have uttered on earth, all concurring to show that Ireland has no hope save in the Church. The men who now stir up the land to revolt are not devoid of courage or capacity. They are bold, and they are able, but they are infidel. They would call upon their countrymen in the name of past associations, the wrongs of bygone centuries; they would move the heart by appeals, touching enough, Heaven knows, to the galling sores of serfdom, but they will not light one fire upon the altar; they will not carry the only banner that should float in the van of an Irish army. Their bold denouncings may warn some; their poetry will, perhaps, move others; but their prose and verse, like themselves, will be forgotten in a few years, and, save a few grassy mounds in a village churchyard, or a prisoner’s plaint sent over the sea from a land of banishment, nothing will remain of Ireland’s patriots.”

“England is too powerful for such assailants,” said the Jew.

“Very true; but remember that the stout three-decker that never struck to an enemy has crumbled to ruin beneath the dry rot,” said D’Esmonde, with a savage energy of manner. “Such is the case now. All is rot and corruption within her; pauperism at home, rebellion abroad. The nobles, more tolerant as the commonalty grows more ambitious; resources diminishing as taxation increases; disaffection everywhere, in the towns where they read, in the rural districts where they brood over their poverty; and lastly, but greatest of all, schism in the Church, a mutiny in that disorderly mass that was never yet disciplined to obedience. Are these the evidences of strength, or are they sure signs of coming ruin? Mark me,” said he, hurriedly, “I do not mean from all this that such puny revolt as we are now to see can shake powers like that of England. These men will have the same fate as Tone and Emmet, without the sympathy that followed them. They will fail, and fail egregiously; but it is exactly upon this failure that our hopes of success are based. Not a priest will join them. On the contrary, their scheme will be denounced from our altars; our flocks warned to stand aloof from their evil influence. Our bishops will be in close communication with the heads of the Government; all the little coquetries of confidence and frankness will be played off; and our loyalty, that’s the phrase, our loyalty stand high in public esteem. The very jeers and insults of our enemies will give fresh lustre to our bright example, and our calm and dignified demeanor form the contrast to that rampant intolerance that assails us.”

“But for all this classic dignity,” said Morlache, sneeringly, “you need no money; such nobility of soul is, after all, the cheapest of luxuries.”

“You are mistaken, mistaken egregiously,” broke in D’Esmonde. “It is precisely at that moment that we shall require a strong friend behind us. The ‘Press’ is all-powerful in England. If it does not actually guide, it is the embodiment of public opinion, without which men would never clothe their sentiments in fitting phrase, or invest them with those short and pithy apothegms that form the watchwords of party. Happily, if it be great, it is venal; and although the price be a princely ransom, the bargain is worth the money. Fifty or a hundred thousand pounds, at that nick, would gain our cause. We shall need many advocates; some, in assumed self-gratulation over their own prescience, in supporting our claims in time past, and reiterating the worn assertion of our attachment to the throne and the constitution; others, to contrast our bearing with the obtrusive loyalty of Orangeism; and others, again, going further than either, to proclaim that, but for us, Ireland would have been lost to England; and had not our allegiance stood in the breach, the cause of rebellion would have triumphed.”

“And is this character for loyalty worth so much money?” said the Jew, slowly.

“Not as a mere empty name, not as a vain boast,” replied D’Esmonde, quickly; “but if the tree be stunted, its fruits are above price. Our martyrdom will not go unrewarded. The moment of peril over, the season of concessions will begin. How I once hated the word! how I used to despise those who were satisfied with these crumbs from the table of the rich man, not knowing that the time would come when we should sit at the board ourselves. Concession! the vocabulary has no one word I ‘d change for it; it is conquest, dominion, sovereignty, all together. By concession, we may be all we strive for, but never could wrest by force. Now, my good Signor Morlache, these slow and sententious English are a most impulsive people, and are often betrayed into the strangest excesses of forgiveness and forgetfulness; insomuch that I feel assured that nothing will be refused us, if we but play our game prudently.”

“And what is the game?” said the Jew, with impatience; “for it seems to me that you are not about to strike for freedom, like the Hungarians or the Lombards. What, then, is the prize you strive for?”

“The Catholicism of Ireland, and then of England, the subjugation of the haughtiest rebel to the Faith, the only one whose disaffection menaces our Holy Church; for the Lutheranism of the German is scarce worth the name of enemy. England once Catholic, the world is our own!”

The enthusiasm of his manner, and the excited tones of his round, full voice seemed to check the Jew, whose cold, sarcastic features were turned towards the priest with an expression of wonderment.

“Let us come back from all this speculation to matter of plain fact,” said Morlache, after a long pause. “What securities are offered for the repayment of this sum? for, although the theme be full of interest to you, to me it has but the character of a commercial enterprise.”

“But it ought not,” said D’Esmonde, passionately. “The downfall of the tyranny of England is your cause as much as ours. What Genoa and Venice were in times past, they may become again. The supremacy of the seas once wrested from that haughty power, the long-slumbering energies of Southern Europe will awaken, the great trading communities of the Levant will resume their ancient place, and the rich argosies of the East once more will float over the waters of the tideless sea.”

“Not in our time, Abbe, not in our time,” said the Jew, smiling.

“But are we only to build for ourselves?” said D’Esmonde. “Was it thus your own great forefathers raised the glorious Temple?”

The allusion called up but a cold sneer on the Israelite’s dark countenance, and D’Esmonde knew better than to repeat a blow which showed itself to be powerless.

A tap at the door here broke in upon the colloquy, and Jekyl’s voice was heard on the outside.

“Say you are engaged, that you cannot admit him,” whispered D’Esmonde. “I do not wish that he should see me here.”

“A thousand pardons, Morlache,” said Jekyl, from without; “but when I followed you to the ‘Pitti,’ I left a young lady here, has she gone away, or is she still here?”

“I never saw her,” said Morlache. “She must have left before I returned.”

“Thanks, good-bye,” said Jekyl; and his quick foot was heard ascending the stairs again.

“The night air grows chilly,” said the Abbe, as he arose and shut the window; and the boatmen, mistaking the sound for a summons to approach, pulled up to the spot.

With a sudden spring Kate bounded into the boat, while yet some distance off, and hurriedly said, “To the stairs beside the Santa Trinita.”

The clink of money, as she took out her purse, made the brief command intelligible, and they shot down the stream with speed.

“Do not speak of me,” said she, covering her face with her kerchief as she stepped from the boat; and a gold Napoleon enforced the caution.

It was now night, the lamps were all lighted, and the streets crowded by that bustling throng of population whose hours of business or pleasure commence when day has closed. A thin drizzling rain was falling, and the footway was wet and muddy. Dressed in the height of fashion, all her attire suited to a carriage, Kate set out to walk homeward, with a heart sinking from terror. Many a time in her condition of poverty, with patched and threadbare cloak, had she travelled the dark road from Lichtenthal to Baden after nightfall, fearless and undismayed, no dread of danger nor of insult occurring to her happy spirit, the “Gute nacht” of some homeward-bound peasant the only sound that saluted her. But now, she was no longer in the secluded valley of the great Vaterland; her way led through the crowded thoroughfares of a great city, with all its crash and noise and movement.

If, in her wild confusion, she had no thought for each incident of the morning, her mind was full of “self-accusings.” How explain to Lady Hester her long absence, and her return alone and on foot? Her very maid, Nina, might arraign her conduct, and regard her with distrust and suspicion. How should she appear in Jekyl’s eyes, who already knew her secret? and, lastly, what answer return to her poor father’s letter, that letter which was the cause of all her misfortunes?

“I will tell him everything,” said she to herself, as she went along. “I will detail the whole events of this morning, and he shall see that my failure has not come of lukewarmness. I will also strive to show him the nature of my position, and let him know the full extent of the sacrifice he would exact from me. If he persist, what then? Is it better to go back and share the poverty I cannot alleviate?

“But what alternative have I? Jekyl’s flatteries are but fictions. Would I wish them to be otherwise? Alas, I cannot tell; I do not even know my own heart now. Oh for one true-hearted friend to guide and counsel me!” She thought of George Onslow, rash, impetuous, and ardent; she thought of the priest, D’Esmonde, but the last scene in which he figured made her shrink with terror from the man of dark intrigues and secret wiles. She even thought of poor Hanserl, who, in all the simplicity of his nature, she wished to have that moment beside her. “But he would say, ‘Go back; return to the humble home you quitted; put away all the glittering gauds that are clinging to and clasping your very heart. Take, once more, your lowly place at hearth and board, and forget the bright dream of pleasure you have passed through.’ But how forget it? Has it not become my hope, my very existence? How easy for those who have not tasted the intoxicating cup, to say, ‘Be cool of heart and head!’ Nor am I what I was. How then go back to be that which I have ceased to be? Would that I had never left it! Would that I could live again in the dreamland of the poets that we loved so well, and wander with dearest Nelly through those forest glades, peopled with the creations of Uhland, Tieck, and Chammisso! What a glorious world is theirs, and how unlike the real one!”

Thus, lost in thoughts conflicting and jarring with each other, mingling the long past with the distant future, hoping and fearing, now seeking self-persuasion here, now controverting her own opinions there, she walked hurriedly on, unconscious of the time, the place, and even the rude glances bestowed upon her by many who gazed at her with an insolent admiration. What an armor is innocence! how proof against the venomed dart of malice? Kate never knew the ordeal through which she was passing. She neither saw the looks nor heard the comments of those that passed. If her mind ever turned from the throng of thoughts that oppressed it, it was when some momentary difficulty of the way recalled her to herself; for, as she escaped from the smaller streets, the crowd and crash increased, and she found herself borne along as in a strong current.

“Does this lead to the Piazza Annunziata?” asked she of a woman at a fruit-stall.

“Tell her, Giacomo,” said the woman to a youth, who, with a water-melon in his hand, lay at full length on the pavement.

“Per Baccho! but she ‘s handsome!” said he, holding up the paper lantern to gaze at her. And Kate hurried on in terror.

CHAPTER XXXVI. A STREET RENCONTRE

LADY HESTER ONSLOW had passed a day of martyrdom. There was scarcely a single contrariety in the long catalogue of annoyances which had not fallen to her share. Her servants, habitually disciplined to perfection, had admitted every bore of her acquaintance, while, to the few she really wished to see, admittance had been denied. The rumor of an approaching departure had got wind through the servants, and the hall and the courtyard were crowded with creditors, duns, and begging impostors of every age and class and country. It seemed as if every one with a petition or a bill, an unsatisfied complaint or an unsettled balance, had given each other a general rendezvous that morning at the Mazzarini Palace.

It is well known how the most obsequious tradespeople grow peremptory when passports are signed and posthorses are harnessed. The bland courteousness with which they receive “your Ladyship’s orders” undergoes a terrible change. Departure is the next thing to death. Another country sounds like another world. The deferential bashfulness that could not hint at the mention of money, now talks boldly of his debt. The solvent creditor, who said always “at your convenience,” has suddenly a most pressing call “to make up a large sum by Saturday.”

All the little cajoleries and coquetries, all the little seductions and temptations of trade, are given up. The invitations to buy are converted into suggestions for “cash payment.” It is very provoking and very disenchanting! From a liberal and generous patron, you suddenly discover yourself transformed into a dubious debtor. All the halo that has surrounded your taste is changed for a chill atmosphere of suspicion and distrust. The tradesfolk, whose respectful voices never rose above a whisper in the hall, now grew clamorous in the antechamber; and more than once did they actually obtrude themselves in person within those charmed precincts inhabited by Lady Hester.

What had become of Miss Dalton? where could she be all this while? Had not Mr. Jekyl called? what was he about that he had not “arranged” with all these “tiresome creatures”? Was there no one who knew what to do? Was not Captain Onslow, even, to be found? It was quite impossible that these people could be telling the truth; the greater number, if not all of them, must have been paid already, for she had spent a world of money latterly “somehow.” Ce’lestine was charged with a message to this effect, which had a result the very opposite to what it was intended; and now the noisy tongues and angry accents grew bolder and louder. Still none came to her rescue; and she was left alone to listen to the rebellious threatenings that murmured in the courtyard, or to read the ill-spelled impertinences of such as preferred to epistolize their complaints.

The visitors who found their way to the drawing-room had to pass through this motley and clamorous host; and, at each opening of the door, the sounds swelled loudly out.

More than once she bethought her of Sir Stafford; but shame opposed the resolution. His liberality, indeed, was boundless; and therein lay the whole difficulty. Were the matter one for discussion or angry remonstrance, she could have adventured it without a dread. She could easily have brought herself to confront a struggle, but was quite unequal to an act of submission. Among the numerous visitors who now thronged the salons, Lord Norwood, who had just returned from his shooting excursion in the Maremma, was the only one with whom she had anything like intimacy.