The complicated nature of the politics of the period, the mixture of just demand and armed menace, the blending up of fair and reasonable expectations with impracticable or impossible concessions, had so disturbed the minds of men that few were able, by their own unaided judgment, to distinguish on which side lay right and justice; nor was it easy, from the changeful councils of the monarch, to know whether the loyalty of to-day might not be pronounced treason to-morrow. Many of the minor movements of the time—even the great struggle of the Hungarians—originated in a spontaneous burst of devotion to the Emperor,—to be afterwards converted by the dark and wily policy of an unscrupulous leader into open rebellion. No wonder, then, if in such difficult and embarrassing circumstances, many strayed unconsciously from the paths of duty,—some misled by specious dreams of nationality, others from sympathy with what they thought the weaker party; and others, again, by the force of mere companionship or contact. In this way few families were to be found where one or more had not joined the patriotic party, and all the ties of affection were weak in comparison with the headlong force of popular enthusiasm. The old General von Auersberg knew nothing of these great changes; no news of them had reached his retirement; so that when he rejoined the army he was shocked to see how many had fallen away and deserted from the ancient standard of the Kaiser. Many a high name and many an ancient title were more than suspected amongst the Hungarian nobility; while in Italy they who most largely enjoyed the confidence of the Government were to be found in the ranks of the insurgents.
It might be supposed that these things would have in some degree reconciled the old Count to the imputed treason of his nephew, and that he would have found some consolation at least in the generality of the misfortune. Not so, however. His mind viewed the matter in a different light. He was willing to concede much to mistaken feelings of nationality, and to associations with a time of former independence; but these motives could have no relation to one who came into the service as he himself and Frank did,—soldiers by the grace and favor of the Emperor.
The blot this treason left upon his name was then a sore affliction to one whose whole aim in life had been to transmit an honorable reputation and an unshaken fidelity behind him. His reasoning was thus: “We have no claims of ancient services to the monarchy to adduce,——our ancestors never proved their devotion to the House of Hapsburg in times past,—we must be taken for what our own deeds stamp us.” With this decisive judgment he was ready to see Frank delivered before a court, tried and sentenced, without offering one word in his behalf. “This done,” thought he, “it remains but for me to show that I have made the only expiation in my power, and paid with my heart's blood for another's fault.”
Such was the resolve with which he crossed the Alps,—a resolve defeated for the moment by discovering that Frank was no longer a prisoner, but had made his escape in some unexplained manner on the eventful day of Goito.
This disappointment, and the still sadder tidings of the Emperor's withheld permission to Kate's marriage, came to his ears the same day,—the most sorrowful, perhaps, of his whole life. His honorable fame as a soldier tarnished, his high ambition for a great alliance dashed by disappointment, he fell back for consolation upon poor Nelly's letter. The weak point of his character had ever been a dread of what he called his Irish cousins; the notion that his successes and supposed wealth would draw upon him a host of hungry and importunate relatives, eager to profit by the hard-won honors of his unaided career. And although year after year rolled on, and no sign was made, nor any token given, that he was remembered in the land of his forefathers, the terror was still fresh in his mind; and when at last Peter Dalton's letter reached him, he read the lines in a torrent of anger,—the accumulation of long years of anticipation. Nelly's epistle was a complete enigma to him. She was evidently unprotected, and yet not selfish; she was in the very humblest circumstances, and never asked for assistance; she was feelingly alive to every sorrow of her brother and sister, and had not one thought for her own calamities. What could all this mean?—was it any new phase or form of supplication, or was it really that there did exist one in the world whose poverty was above wealth, and whose simple nature was more exalted than rank or station?
With all these conflicting thoughts, and all the emotions which succeeded to the various tidings he had heard, the old Count sat overwhelmed by the cares that pressed upon him; nor was it for some hours after Midchekoff's departure that he could rally his faculties to be “up and doing.”
The buzz and murmur of voices in an outer room first recalled him to active thought, and he learned that several officers, recently exchanged, had come to offer their thanks for his kind intervention. The duty, which was a mere ceremony, passed over rapidly, and he was once more alone, when he heard the slow and heavy tread of a foot ascending the stairs, one by one, stopping at intervals, too, as though the effort was one of great labor. Like the loud ticking of a clock to the watchful ears of sickness, there was something in the measured monotony of the sounds that grated and jarred his irritated nerves, and he called out harshly:
“Who comes there?”
No answer was returned; and, after a pause of a few seconds, the same sound recurred.
“Who's there?” cried the old man, louder; and a faint, inaudible attempt at reply followed.