The Daltons Volume I Part 46

The door at last opened; at first, a very little, and slowly, then gradually more and more, till, by the mysterious half-light to which his eyes had grown accustomed, Norwood could see the flounces of a female dress, and the small, neat foot of a woman beneath it. The faint, uncertain flame of the fire showed him thus much, but left the remainder of the figure in deep shadow.

Whether from excess of caution, or that she was yet hesitating what course to take, she remained for some seconds motionless; and Norwood, who had subdued his breathing to the utmost, lay in the deep shadow, speculating on the upshot of an adventure from which he promised himself, at least, an amusing story. The deep black lace which fell over the arched instep indicated a degree of rank in the wearer that gave a piquancy to the incident, and imparted a zest to the curiosity of a man who probably knew no higher pleasure in life than in possessing the secrets of his acquaintance.

He had time to run over in his mind a dozen little speculations of who she was, ere she stirred; and at last, as if with change of purpose, he saw, or fancied that he saw, the door beginning slowly to close. Whether this was a mere trick of his excited imagination or not, a sudden gesture of impatience on his part threw down one of the cus.h.i.+ons of the sofa. A slight shriek so slight as to be barely heard broke from the female, and she banged the door to. Norwood reached it with a spring; but although, as he wrenched it open, he could yet hear the rustling of a woman's dress in the pa.s.sage, the sharp sound of a door hastily shut and locked defied all thought of pursuit, and he stood pondering over what had happened, and almost doubtful of its reality.

"At least, the fair visitor belongs to the family; that much I may rely upon," said he, as he lighted a candle to explore the locality a little closer. The corridor, however, abruptly stopped at a small door, which was locked on the inside; but to what portion of the house it led he could not even conjecture. He was not a very unlikely man to trace the clew of such an adventure as this seemed to be. It was one of those incidents with which his course of life had made him somewhat conversant; and few were better able to fill up from conjecture every blank of such a history. Nor was he one to shrink from any suspicion, no matter how repugnant to every thought of honor, nor how improbable to every mind less imbued with vice than his own.

For a moment or two, however, he almost doubted whether the whole might not have been a dream, so sudden, so brief, so trackless did it all appear. This doubt, was, however, quickly resolved, as his eyes fell upon the floor, where a small fragment of a lace dress lay, as it was caught and torn off in the closing door. Norwood took it up, and sat down to examine it with attention.

"Point d'Alencon," said he, "bespeaks no vulgar wearer; and such is this! Who could have thought of George Onslow playing Lothario! But this comes of Italy. And now to find her out." He ran over to himself half a dozen names, in which were nearly as many nationalities, but some doubt accompanied each. "No matter," thought he, "the secret will keep."

He suddenly remembered, at the instant, that he had promised an acquaintance to pa.s.s some days with him in the Maremma, shooting; and, not sorry to have so good a reason for a few days' absence, he arose and set out towards his hotel, having first carefully placed within his pocketbook the little fragment of lace, a clew to a mystery he was resolved to explore hereafter.

CHAPTER XXIX. FRANK'S JOURNEY.

Our readers may, ere this, have surmised that Frank Dalton's career as a soldier was neither very adventurous nor exciting, since otherwise we should scarcely have so nearly forgotten him. When he parted with Hanserl to pursue his journey, his heart was full of warring and conflicting emotions, love of home and hope of future distinction alternately swaying him; so that while his affections drew him ever backwards, his ambitious urged him to go on.

"I could have been so happy to have lived with them," thought he, "even as a peasant lives, a life of daily toil. I would have asked for no higher fortune than that peaceful home we had made for ourselves by our own affections, the happy fireside, that sufficed us for all the blandishments of wealth and riches. Still there would have been something ign.o.ble in this humility, something that would ill become my blood as a Dalton. It was not thus my ancestors understood their station, it was not with such lowly ambitions their hearts were stirred.

Count Stephen himself might at this hour have been in obscurity and poverty as great, perhaps, as our own had he been thus minded; and now he is a field-marshal, with a 'Maria Teresa' cross on his breast! and this without one friend to counsel or to aid him! What a n.o.ble service is that where merit can win its way self-sustained and independent, where, without the indignity of a patron, the path of honorable enterprise lies free and open to all! What generous promptings, what bold aspirations such a career engenders! He shall not be ashamed of me, he shall not have to blush for the Dalton blood," said the boy, enthusiastically; and he revelled in a dream of the old Count's ecstasy on finding a nephew so worthy of their name, and in his fancy he saw pictures of future scenes in which he figured. All of these had the same rose tint; for while in some he imagined himself winning the high rewards of great achievements, in others he was the caressed and flattered guest of rank and beauty. "To think that I should once have been thus!" cried he, laughing at the conceit, "trudging along the high-road with a knapsack on my shoulder, like a Bursch in his 'Wander-jahre;'" and then he vowed to himself that "he would have a picture taken of his humble guise as first he started in life, to hang up at some future day beside the decorated soldier he was yet to be."

Selfishness can wear many a mask. Sometimes it can array itself in features almost n.o.ble, more often its traits are of the very meanest.

Frank's egotism was of the former kind. He wanted to attain distinction by an honorable path, he would not have stooped to any other. He was ready to do or dare all for greatness. No peril could deter, no danger could daunt him; but yet was he totally deficient in that greatest element of success, that patient discipline of the mind which, made up of humility and confidence, can wait and bide its time, earning the prizes of life before it claim them. His pride of family, however, was his greatest blemish, since it suggested a false notion of distinction, a pretension so groundless that, like a forged banknote, it was sure to involve even the bearer in disgrace.

So full was he of himself and his own future, that he took but little note of the way as he went. Avoiding, from a sense of pride, to a.s.sociate with the "Travelling Youths," as they are called, he walked along from early morning to late evening, alone and companionless. It was mostly a dreary and uninteresting road, either leading through dark and gloomy pine forests or over great plains of swampy surface, where the stubble of the tall maize, or the stunted vines, were the only traces of vegetation. As he drew near the Tyrol, however, the great mountains came in sight, while the continual ascent told that he was gradually reaching the land of glaciers and snow-peaks. Day by day he found the road less and less frequented: these lonely districts were little resorted to by the wandering apprentices, so that frequently Frank did not meet a single traveller from day-dawn till night. Perhaps he felt little regret at this, leaving him, as it did, more time for those daydreams in which he loved to revel. Now and then some giant mountain glittering in the sun, or some dark gorge thousands of feet below him, would chase away his revery, and leave him for a time in a half-bewildered and wondering astonishment; but his thoughts soon resumed their old track, and he would plod along, staff in hand, as before.

Walking from before daybreak to a late hour of the evening, Frank frequently accomplished in his day's journey as many miles as the traveller who, by post, only spent the few hours of mid-day on the road; in fact, he might have thus measured his speed, had he been less wrapped up in his own fancies, since, for several days, a caleche, drawn by three post-horses, had regularly pa.s.sed him on the road, and always about the same hour.

Frank saw nothing of this; and when on a bright and frosty day he began the ascent of the Arlberg, he little knew that the carriage, about half a mile in front, had been his travelling companion for the past week.

Disdaining to follow the winding high-road, Frank ascended by those foot-tracks which gain upon the zig-zags, and thus soon was miles in advance of the caleche. At last he reached the half-way point of ascent, and was glad to rest himself for a few minutes on one of the benches which German thoughtfulness for the wayfarer never neglects to place in suitable spots. A low parapet of a couple of feet separated the road from a deep and almost perpendicular precipice, at the foot of which, above two thousand feet beneath, stood the village of Stuben. There was the little chapel in which he had his morning's ma.s.s, there the little Platz, where he had seen the post-horses getting ready for the travellers; there, too, the little fountain, covered with a shed of straw, and glistening with many an icicle in the bright sun. The very voices of the people reached him where he sat; and the sounds of a street-organ floated upwards through the still atmosphere. It was a scene of peaceful isolation such as would have pleased Nelly's fancy. It was like one of those "Dorf s" she herself had often carved to amuse a winter's evening, and Frank's eyes filled up as he thought of her and of home.

The sound of feet upon the snow suddenly roused him, and, on looking round, Frank saw a traveller slowly coming up the pa.s.s. His dress at once proclaimed that he was not a pedestrian, save from choice, and was merely sauntering along in advance of his carriage. In the mere cursory glance Frank bestowed upon him he could see that he was a young and handsome man, with a certain soldierlike bearing in his air that well suited his bold but somewhat stern features.

"You journey well, young fellow," said he, addressing Frank familiarly.

"This is the fifth day we have been fellow-travellers; and although I have post-horses, you have always kept up with me on your feet."

Frank touched his cap with a somewhat stiff courtesy at this unceremonious address; and, without deigning a reply, employed himself in arranging the straps of his knapsack.

"Are you a soldier?" asked the stranger.

"A cadet!" replied Frank as bluntly.

"In what regiment, may I ask?"

"The Franz Carl."

"Ah! my own old corps," said the other, gayly. "I served four years with them in the Banat. From what part of the Empire are you you have n't the accent of an Austrian?"

"I am an Irishman."

"Oh! that explains it. And your name?"

"Dalton. And now, sir, what may be yours, for I don't see why this curiosity is to be one-sided," said Frank, with an air even more insolent than the words.

"I am Count Ernest of Walstein," said the other, without a touch of irritation.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 356]

"What rank do you hold in the service?" asked Frank, boldly.

"That of lieutenant-colonel, boy."

"And your age may be about thirty?" said Frank, half in question and half in sarcasm.

"I was twenty-eight last August," was the calm reply.

"By Jove! that is a service!" exclaimed Frank, "where a man scarcely ten years my senior may command a regiment!"

The other laughed, and after a brief pause, said, "People are in the habit of calling me fortunate, so that you must not suppose my case to be the rule."

"Be it so: even as an exception, the example is a bright one. Another may do what you have done."

"If you mean that I have earned my rank by services, boy," said the Count, smiling, "you would make a grave mistake. My promotion had another source."

Frank looked as though he were curious to hear the explanation, but the other gave none.

"How do you call yourself?" asked he of Frank, after a pause.

"Dalton," replied the boy, more respectfully than before.

"We have a field-marshal of that name in the service, a most gallant old soldier, too."

"My grand-uncle!" cried Frank, with enthusiasm.

"Indeed! So you are a grand-nephew to the Graf von Auersberg," said the Count, taking a more deliberate view than he had yet bestowed upon him.

"Then how comes it you are travelling in this fas.h.i.+on, and on foot?"

"I have not asked you why you journey in a caleche with three horses,"

said Frank, insolently.

"It's my habit to do so."

"This, then, may be mine, sir," said Frank, throwing his knapsack on his shoulder, and preparing to depart.

"Is not the Franz Carl at Vienna?" said the Count, not seeming to notice the irritation of his manner.