“I had given orders for her return to Vienna, with the intention of placing her under your charge; but some mistake has occurred, and her departure has been delayed. A second courier has, however, been despatched, and ere this she will have left St. Petersburg.”
“You have acted well throughout, Prince,” said the old General, “and I shall owe you my gratitude for the remainder of my life; not for the delicacy of your reserve, still less for the generous character of your intentions, but because you have shown me that this girl has a highhearted sense of honor, and is a thorough Dalton.” The old man's eyes filled up with tears, and he had to turn away to hide his emotion.
Midchekoff rose to withdraw, affecting to busy himself with the papers on the table, while Auersberg was recovering his self-possession. This did not, however, seem an easy task; for the old General, forgetting everything save Kate, leaned his head on his hands, and was lost in thought.
The Prince respected his emotion, and withdrew in silence.
So much was the old General von Auersberg absorbed in his interest for Kate, that he had not a thought to bestow upon the immediate affairs before him. It was scarcely a few weeks since he had received a few lines from herself, telling of the Emperor's refusal, and asking for his advice. It needed all his long-pledged devotion to monarchy to enable him to read the lines without an outbreak of passion; and his first impulse was to seek out the man who had so grossly insulted his house, and challenge him to single combat. Later reflection showed him that this would be to arraign the conduct of the Emperor, and to call in question the judgment of a crowned head. While agitated by these opposite considerations, there came another and scarcely less sad epistle to his hand; and if the writer was wanting in those claims to station and rank which had such hold upon his heart, her touching words and simple style moved him to emotions that for many a year seemed to have slept within him.
It was Nelly's account of her father's death, told in her own unpretending words, and addressed to one whom she recognized as the head of her house. She dwelt with gratitude on the old Count's kindness, and said how often her father had recurred to the thought of his protection and guidance to Frank, when the time should come that would leave him fatherless. It seemed as if up to this point she had written calmly and collectedly, expressing herself in respectful distance to one so much above her. No sooner, however, had she penned Frank's name, than all this reserve gave way before the gushing torrent of her feelings, and she proceeded:——
“And oh! sir, is not the hour come when that protection is
needed? Is not my poor brother a prisoner, charged with a
terrible offence—no less than treason to his Emperor? You,
who are yourself a great soldier, can say if such is like to
be the crime of one well born, generous, and noble as Frank,
whose heart ever overflowed to all who served him, and who,
in all the reckless buoyancy of youth, never forgot his
honor. Crafty and designing men—if such there may have been
around him—might possibly have thrown their snares over
him; but no persuasion nor seductions could have made him a
traitor. 'See what the Kaiser has made Count Stephen!' were
some of the last lines he ever wrote to me, 'and, perhaps,
one day, another Dalton will stand as high in the favor of
his master.' His whole heart and soul were in his soldier
life. You, sir, were his guide-star, and, thinking of you,
how could he have dreamed of disloyalty? They tell me that
in troubled times like these, when many have faltered in
their allegiance, such accusations are rarely well inquired
into, and that courts-martial deal peremptorily with the
prisoners; but you will not suffer mv brother to be thus
tried and judged. You will remember that he is a stranger
in that land, an orphan, a mere boy, too; friendless,—no,
no, not friendless, forgive me the ungracious word; he who
bears your name, and carries in his veins your blood, cannot
be called friendless.. you will say, perhaps, how defend
him?—how reply to charges which will be made with all the
force of witness and circumstance? I answer, hear his own
story of himself; he never told a lie—remember that, Count-
-from his infancy upwards! we, who lived with and about him,
know that he never told a lie! If the accusation be just—
and oh! may God avert this calamity—Frank will say so. He
will tell how and when and why this poison of disaffection
entered his heart; he will trace out his days of temptation
and struggle and fall, without a shadow of concealment; and
if this sad time is to come, even then do not desert him.
Bethink you of his boyhood, his warm, ardent nature, burning
for some field of glorious enterprise, and dazzled by
visions of personal distinction. How could he judge the
knotted questions which agitate the deepest minds of great
thinkers? A mere pretence, a well-painted scene of
oppression or sufferance, might easily enlist the sympathies
of a boy whose impulses have more than once made him bestow
on the passing beggar the little hoardings of weeks. And
yet, with all these, he is not guilty,—I never can believe
that he could be! Oh, sir, you know not, as I know, how
treason in him would be like a living falsehood; how the act
of disloyalty would be the utter denial of all those dreams
of future greatness which, over our humble fireside, were
his world! To serve the Kaiser,—the same gracious master
who had rewarded and ennobled our great kinsman,—to win
honors and distinctions that should rival his; to make our
ancient name hold a high place in the catalogue of
chivalrous soldiers,—these were Frank's ambitions. If you
but knew how we, his sisters, weak and timid girls, seeking
the quiet paths of life, where our insignificance might
easiest be shrouded,—if you knew how we grew to feel the
ardor that glowed in his heart, and actually caught up the
enthusiasm that swelled the young soldier's bosom! you have
seen the world well and long; and, I ask, is this the clay
of which traitors are fashioned? Be a father to him, then,
who has none; and may God let you feel all the happiness a
child's affection can bestow in return! “We are a sad
heritage, Sir Count! for I now must plead for another, not
less a prisoner than my poor brother. Kate is in a durance
which, if more splendid, is sad as his. The ceremony of
betrothal—which, if I am rightly told, is a mere
ceremonial—has consigned her to a distant land and a life
of dreary seclusion. There is no longer a reason for this.
The sacrifice that she was willing to make can now confer no
benefit on him who sleeps in the churchyard. The Prince has
shown towards her a degree of indifference which will well
warrant this breach. There was no affection on either
side, and it would be but to ratify a falsehood to pledge
fidelity. You alone have influence to effect this. She will
hear your counsels, and follow them with respect, and the
Prince will scarcely oppose what his conduct seems to favor.
This done, Sir Count, let Kate be your daughter; and oh! in
all the glory of your great successes, what have you gained
to compare with this? She loves you already—she has told me
of the affectionate gentleness of your manner, the charm of
your chivalrous sentiments, and a nobility marked by every
word and every gesture. Think, then, of the untaught
devotion of such a child—your own by blood and adoption—
loving, tending, and ministering to you. Think of the proud
beating of your heart as she leans upon your arm, and think
of the happiness, as she throws around your solitary
fireside all the charm of a home! How seldom is it that
generosity doubles itself in its reward, but here it will be
so. You will be loved, and you will be happy. With two such
children, guided by your influence and elevated by your
example, what would be your happiness, and what their
fortune?”
In all these pleadings for those she loved so dearly, no allusion ever was made by her to her own condition. A few lines at the very end of the letter were all that referred to herself. They were couched in words of much humility, excusing herself for the boldness of the appeal she had made, and apologizing for the hardihood with which it might be said she had urged her request.
“But you will forgive—you have already forgiven me, Sir
Count,” wrote she; “my unlettered style and my trembling
fingers have shown you that this task must have lain near to
my heart, or I had not dared to undertake it. My life has
been spent in a sphere of humble duties and humble
companionship. How easily, then, may I have transgressed the
limits of the deference that should separate us! I can but
answer for my own heart, within which there exists towards
you but the one feeling of devotion—deep and hopeful.
“If in your kindness you should ever bestow a thought upon
me, you will like to know that I am well and happy. Too
lowly in condition, too rude in manners, to share the
fortune of those I love so dearly, I would yet delight to
hear of and from them, to know that they still bear me in
their affection, and think with fondness on poor lame Nelly.
Even the blessing of their presence would not repay me for
the wrong I should do them by my companionship, for I am a
peasant girl as much from choice as nature. Still, the
sister's heart throbs strongly within the coarse bodice,
and, as I sit at my work, Frank and Kate will bear me
company and cheer my solitary hours.
“My humble skill is amply sufficient to supply all my wants,
were they far greater than habit has made them. I live in a
land dear to me by associations of thought and feeling,
surrounded by those of a condition like my own, and who love
and regard me. I am not without my share of duties, too,——
your kindness would not wish more for me. Farewell, then,
Sir Count. Your high-hearted nature has taught you to tread
a lofty path in life, and strive—and with great success—
for the great rewards of merit. It will be a pleasure to you
yet to know that in this country of your adoption there are
humble prizes for humble aspirants, and that one of these
has fallen to the lot of
“Nelly Dalton.
“Any letter addressed 'To the care of Andreas Brennen, Juden
Gasse, Innspruck,' will reach me safely. I need not say with
what gratitude I should receive it.”
Such were the lines which reached the old Count's hand on the very day he set out with his detachment for Vienna. Overcome by shame and sorrow at what he believed to be Frank Dalton's treason, he had demanded of the Minister of War his own act of retirement from the army, and for some months had passed a life of privacy in a little village on the Styrian frontier. The wide-spread disaffection of the Austrian provinces, the open revolt of Prague, the more than threatening aspect of Hungary, and the formidable struggle then going on in Lombardy, had called back into active life almost all the retired servants of the monarchy. To give way to private grief at such a moment seemed like an act of disloyalty, and, throwing off every mere personal consideration, the old soldier repaired to the capital, and presented himself at the levée of the Archduke Joseph. He was received with enthusiasm. Covered with years as he was, no man enjoyed more of the confidence and respect of the soldiery, who regarded him as one tried and proved by the great wars of the Empire,—a Colonel of Wagram was both a patriarch and a hero. It was of great consequence, too, at that precise conjuncture, to rally round the throne all that were distinguished for fealty and devotion. He was immediately appointed to the command of a division of the army, and ordered to set out for Italy.