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“He ain’t d-d-dead?” screamed Purvis.
“I’m very much afraid they insist on burying him tomorrow or next day, under that impression, sir,” said Haggerstone.
“What a terrible event! – how dreadful!” said Martha, feelingly; “and his poor daughter, who loved him so ardently!”
“That must be thought of,” interrupted Mrs. Ricketts, at once roused to activity by thoughts of self-interest. “Scroope, order the carriage at once. I must break it to her myself. Have you any particulars for me, Colonel?”
“None, Madame! If coroners were the fashion here, thay ‘d bring in a verdict of died from backing the wrong color, with a deodand against the rake!’”
“Yes, it is ver’ true, he always play bad,” muttered the Pole.
And now the room began to fill with people discussing the late incident in every possible mood and with every imaginable shade of sentiment. A few – a very few – dropped some expressions of pity and compassion. Many preferred to make a display of their own courage by a bantering, scornful tone, and some only saw in the event how unsuited certain natures were to contend with the changeful fortunes of high play. These were, for the most part, Dalton’s acquaintances, and who had often told him – at least, so they now took credit for – that “he had no head for play.” Interspersed with these were little discussions as to the immediate cause of death, as full of ignorance and as ingenious as such explanations usually are, all being contemptuously wound up by Haggerstone’s remark, “That death was like matrimony, – very difficult when wanted, but impossible to escape when you sought to avoid it!” As this remark had the benefit of causing a blush to poor Martha, he gave his arm to the ladies, with a sense of gratification that came as near happiness as anything he could imagine.
“Is Miss Dalton in the drawing-room?” said Mrs. Rick-etts, as with an air of deep importance she swept through the hall of the villa.
“She’s in her room, Madame,” said the maid.
“Ask if she will receive me, – if I may speak to her.”
The maid went out, and returned with the answer that Miss Dalton was sleeping.
“Oh, let her sleep!” cried Martha. “Who knows when she will taste such rest again?”
Mrs. Ricketts bestowed a glance of withering scorn on her sister, and pushed roughly past her, towards Nelly’s chamber. A few minutes after a wild, shrill shriek was heard through the house, and then all was still.
CHAPTER XXI. NELLY’S SORROWS
Stunned, but not overcome, by the terrible shock, Nelly Dalton sat beside the bed where the dead man lay in all that stern mockery of calm so dreadful to look upon. Some candles burned on either side, and threw a yellowish glare over the bold strong features on which her tears had fallen, as, with a cold hand clasped in his, she sat and watched him.
With all its frequency, Death never loses its terrors for us! Let a man be callous as a hard world and a gloomy road in it can make him; let him drug his mind with every anodyne of infidelity; let him be bereft of all affection, and walk alone on his life road; there is yet that which can thrill his heart in the aspect of the lips that are never to move more, and the eyes that are fixed forever. But what agony of suffering is it when the lost one has been the link that tied us to life, – the daily object of our care, the motive of every thought and every action! Such had been her father to poor Nelly. His wayward, capricious humors, all his infirmities of temper and body, had called forth those exertions which made the business of her life, and gave a purpose and direction to her existence; now repaid by some passing expression of thankfulness or affection, or, better still, by some transient gleam of hope that he was stronger in health or better in spirits than his wont; now rallied by that sense of duty which can ennoble the humblest as it can the greatest of human efforts, she watched over him as might a mother over an ailing child. Catching at his allusions to “home,” as he still called it, she used to feed her hopes with thinking that at some distant day they were to return to their own land again, and pass their last years in tranquil retirement together; and now hope and duty were alike extinguished. “The fount that fed the river of her thoughts” was dry, and she was alone – utterly alone – in the world!
Old Andy, recalled by some curious instinct to a momentary activity, shuffled about the room, snuffing the candles, or muttering a faint prayer at the bedside; but she did not notice him any more than the figure who, in an attitude of deep devotion, knelt at the foot of the bed. This was Hanserl, who, book in hand, recited the offices with all the fervent rapidity of a true Catholic. Twice he started and looked up from his task, disturbed by some noise without; but when it occurred a third time, he laid his book gently down and stole noiselessly from the room. Passing rapidly through the little chamber which used to be called Nelly’s drawing-room, he entered the larger dining-room, in which now three or four ill-dressed men were standing, in the midst of whom was Abel Kraus in active colloquy with Mr. Purvis. Hanserl made a gesture to enforce silence, and pointed to the room from whence he had just come.
“Ah!” cried Scroope, eagerly, “You ‘re a kind of co-co-connection, or friend, at least, of these people, ain’t you? Well, then, speak to this wo-worthy man, and tell him that he mustn’t detain our things here; we were merely on a visit.”
“I will suffer nothing to leave the house till I am paid to the last kreutzer,” said Kraus, sternly; “the law is with me, and I know it.”
“Be patient; but, above all, respect the dead,” said Hans, solemnly. “It is not here nor at this time these things should be discussed.”
“But we wa-want to go; we have ta-ta-taken our apartments at the ‘Russie.’ The sight of a funeral and a – a – a hearse, and all that, would kill my sister.”
“Let her pay these moneys, then, and go in peace,” said Kraus, holding forth a handful of papers.
“Not a gr-groschen, not a kreutzer will we pay. It’s an infamy, it’s a sh-sh-shameful attempt at robbery. It’s as bad as st-stopping a man on the highway.”
“Go on, sir, – go on. You never made a speech which cost you dearer,” said Kraus, as he took down the words in his pocket-book.
“I – I – I did n’t mean that; I did n’t say you were a housebreaker.”
“Speak lower,” said Hans, sternly. “And you, sir; what is this demand?”
“Two thousand francs, – rent of this house; which, with damage to the furniture and other charges, will make two thousand eight hundred.”
“I will pay it,” said Hans, stopping him.
“Your credit would be somewhat better, Master Hans, had you not given a certain bail bond that you know of,” said Kraus, sneeringly.
“I have wherewith to meet my debts,” said Hans, calmly.
“I will claim my bond within a week; I give you notice of it,” said Kraus.
“You shall be paid to-morrow. Let us be in peace to-night; bethink you what that room contains.”
“He ain’t black, is he? I – I would n’t look at him for a thousand pounds,” said Purvis, with a shudder.
“If she remain here after noon, to-morrow,” said Kraus, in a low voice, “a new month will have begun.”
“To-morrow afternoon; Lord! how close he r-ran it,” exclaimed Purvis.
“Once more, I say, be patient,” said Hans. “Let these good people go, you shall lose nothing; I pledge the word of a man who never told a falsehood. I will pay all. Have some pity, however, for this orphan, – one who has now neither a home nor a country.”
“Yes, yes, he ‘ll have p-pity; he ‘s an excellent man is Mr. Kraus. I shouldn’t wonder if we’d come to terms about this vi-villa for ourselves.”
Hans turned a look of anger towards him, and then said: “Go, sir, and take those that belong to you away also. This place no longer can suit you nor them. He who lies yonder can be flattered and fawned on no more; and, as for her, she is above your compassion, if it even lay in your heart to offer it.”
“He ain’t quite right here,” whispered Purvis to Kraus, as he tapped his forehead significantly. “They told me that in the town.” Kraus moved away without reply, and Purvis followed him. “He’s rich, too, they say,” added he, in a whisper.
“They’ll scarcely say as much this day week,” said Kraus, sneeringly; while, beckoning his people to follow him, he left the house.
No sooner did Mrs. Ricketts learn that her worldly possessions were safe, and that the harpy clutches of the law could make no seizure among those curious turbans and wonderful tunics which composed her wardrobe, than she immediately addressed herself to the active duties of the hour with a mind at ease, and, while packing her trunks, inadvertently stowed away such little stray articles as might not be immediately missed, and might serve hereafter to recall thoughts of “poor dear Miss Dalton,” for so she now preferred to name her.
“Those little box figures, Martha, don’t forget them. They of course don’t belong to the house; and Scroope suspects that the bracket for the hall lamp must have been her carving also.”
“I ‘ve p-put away two pencil drawings marked ‘N. D.,’ and a little sketch in oil of the Alten Schloss; and I ‘ve my pockets stuffed with the tulip roots.”
“Well thought of, Scroope; and there’s a beautiful paper-knife, – poor thing, she’s not likely to want it now. What a sad bereavement! And are his affairs really so bad?”
“Ov-over head and ears in debt There ain’t enough to bury him if the dwarf does not shell out, – but he will. They say he’s in love with Nelly, – he, he, he!”
“Shocking, quite shocking. Yes, Martha, that telescope is a very good one. What improvidence, what culpable improvidence!”
“And is she quite friendless?” asked Martha, feelingly.
“Not while she has our protection,” said Mrs. Rickett», grandly. “I ‘ve determined ‘to take her up.’”
Martha reddened slightly at the phrase, for she knew of some others who had been so “taken up,” and with what small profit to their prosperity.
“Her talents, when aided by our patronage, will always support her,” said Mrs. Ricketts; “and I mean, when the shock of this calamity is past, to employ her on a little group for a centrepiece for our dinner-table. She will, of course, be charmed to have her genius displayed to such advantage. It will afford us a suitable opportunity of introducing her name.”
“And we shall have the piece of carving for nothing,” said Martha, who innocently believed that she was supplying another argument of equal delicacy and force.
“You ‘re an idiot!” said Mrs. Ricketts, angrily; “and I begin to fear you will never be anything else.”
“I ‘m quite sure I shall not,” muttered the other, with a faint submissiveness, and continued the task of packing the trunks.
“Take care that you find out her sister’s address, Martha. I ‘m sadly in want of some furs; that tippet, I suppose, is only fit for you now, and my sable muff is like a dog in the mange. The opportunity is a most favorable one; for when the Princess, as they persist in calling her, knows that her sister is our dependant, we may make our own terms. It would be the very ruin of her in St Petersburg to publish such a fact.”
“But Miss Dalton will surely write to her herself.”
“She can be persuaded, I trust, to the contrary,” said Mrs. Ricketts, knowingly. “She can be shown that such an appeal would, in all likelihood, wreck her sister’s fortunes, that the confession of such a relationship would utterly destroy her position in that proud capital; and if she prove obstinate, the letter need not go; you understand that, at least,” added she, with a contemptuous glance that made poor Martha tremble.
Mrs. Ricketts was now silent, and sat revelling in the various thoughts that her active mind suggested. Upon the whole, although Dalton’s dying was an inconvenience, there were some compensating circumstances. She had gained a most useful protégée in Nelly, – one whose talents might be made of excellent use, and whose humble, unpretending nature would exact no requital. Again, the season at Baden was nearly over; a week or two more, at most, was all that remained. The “Villino,” which she had left for the summer to some confiding family, who believed that Florence was a paradise in July and August, would again be at her disposal; and, in fact, as she phrased it, “the conjunctures were all felicitous,” and her campaign had not been unfruitful. This latter fact attested itself in the aspect of her travelling-carriage, with its “spolia” on the roof, and its various acquired objects under the body. Pictures, china, plate, coins, brocades, old lace, books, prints, manuscripts, armor, stained glass, trinkets, and relics of all kinds, showed that travel with her was no unprofitable occupation, and that she had realized the grand desideratum of combining pleasure with solid advantage.
Meanwhile, so ingenious is thorough selfishness, she fancied herself a benefactor of the whole human race. All the cajoleries she used to practise, she thought were the amiable overflowings of a kindly nature; her coarse flatteries she deemed irresistible fascinations; her duperies even seemed only the triumphs of a mind transcendently rich in resources, and never for a moment suspected that the false coin she was uttering could be called in question, though the metal was too base for imposition. There is no supply without demand, and if the world did not like such characters there would be none of them. The Rickettses are, however, a large and an increasing class of society, and, to our national shame be it said, they are distinctively English in origin. And now we leave her, little regretting if it be forever; and if we turn to a darker page in our story, it is, at least, to one wherein our sympathies are more fairly enlisted.
That long night passed over like a dreary dream, and morning was now mingling its beams with the glare of the tapers, as Nelly sat beside the death-bed.
“Come with me, Fräulein! come away from this,” said Hanserl, as with a tearful eye and quivering lip he stood before her.
Nelly shook her head slowly, and for answer turned her gaze on the dead man.
“You shall come back again; I promise you, you shall come back again,” said he, softly.
She arose without a word and followed him. They passed through an outer room, and entered the garden, where Hans, taking her hand, led her to a seat.
“You will be better here, Fräulein,” said he, respectfully; “the air is fresh and balmy.”
“He sat beside me on this bench three nights ago,” said she, as if talking to herself, “and said how he wished I could be with Kate, but that he could not part with me; and see, – we are parted, and for a longer separation! Oh, Hanserl! what we would give to recall some of the past, when death has closed it forever against us!”
“Remember Wieland, Fräulein; he tells us that ‘the Impossible is a tree without fruit or flowers.’”
“And yet my mind will dwell on nothing else. The little thwartings of his will, the cold compliance which should have been yielded in a better spirit, the counsels that often only irritated, – how they rise up now, like stern accusers, before me, and tell me that I failed in my duty.”
“Not so, Fräulein, not so,” said Hans, reverently.
“But there is worse than that, Hanserl, far worse,” said she, trembling. “To smooth the rough path of life, I descended to deception. I told him the best when my heart felt the worst. Had he known of Kate’s real life, and had he sorrowed over her fortunes, might not such grief have been hallowed to him! To have wept over Frank – the poor boy in prison – might have raised his thoughts to other themes than the dissipation that surrounded him. All this was my fault I would have his love, and see the price it has cost me!” She hid her face between her hands, and never spoke for a long time. And at length she lifted up her eyes, red as they were with weeping, and with a heavy sigh said, “How far is it to Vienna, Hanserl?”
“To Vienna, Fräulein! It is a long journey, – more than four hundred miles. But why do you ask?”
“I was thinking that if I saw Count Stephen – if I could but tell him our sad story myself – he might intercede for poor Frank, and perhaps obtain his freedom. His crime can scarcely be beyond the reach of mercy, and his youth will plead for him. And is it so far away, Hanserl?”
“At the very least; and a costly journey, too.”
“But I would go on foot, Hans. Lame as I am, I can walk for miles without fatigue, and I feel as if the exertion would be a solace to me, and that my mind, bent upon a good object, could the more easily turn away from my own desolation. Oh, Hans, think me not selfish that I speak thus; but thoughts of my own loneliness are so linked with all I have lost, I cannot separate them. Even the humble duty that I filled gave a value to my life, without which my worthlessness would have crushed me; for what could poor lame Nelly be, – I, that had no buoyancy for the young, no ripe judgment for the old? And yet, in caring for him that is gone, I found a taste of love and happiness.”
“I will go with you, Fräulein; you shall not take this weary road alone. Heaven knows that, without you, this place would be too dreary for me.”
“But your house, Hanserl, – all that you possess, – the fruits of all your hard industry – ”
“Speak not of them,” said Hans, reddening. “They who deem me rich are mistaken. I have speculated ill, I have made bad ventures, and what I have will but pay my debts, and I will be glad to quit this spot.”
“And I,” said Nelly, with a voice of deep emotion, – “I cannot say that I can help you. I know nothing of what may remain to me in this world; my father never spoke to me latterly of his means, and I may be, for aught I know, a beggar. Will you see his banker and speak with him?”
“I have done so,” said Hans, slowly. “He claims some small sum as due to him.”
“And how am I to pay it?” said Nelly, growing pale. “It is true, I can labor – ”
“Have no care for this, Fräulein. It shall be looked to, and you shall repay it hereafter.”
“Oh, Hanserl, beware!” said she, solemnly; “we are an unfortunate race to those who help us; my poor father often said so, and even his superstitions are hallowed to me now.”
A gesture from some one within the house called Hans away, and Nelly was left alone. She sat with her eyes closed and her arms firmly clasped, deep in her own sad thoughts, when she heard a footstep close by. It was only Andy, who, with a piece of ragged crape fastened round his arm, was slowly tottering towards her. His face was flushed, and his eyes wild and excited, as he continued to mutter and reply to himself, —
“A Dalton; one of the ould stock, and maybe the last of them, too.”
“And what is it, Andy? – tell me, what is it?” said she, kindly.
“There’s no wake, – there is n’t as much as a tenant’s child would have!”
“We are almost friendless here, Andy. It is not our own country.”
“Ain’t they Christians, though? Could n’t they keep the corpse company? Is it four candles and a deal coffin ought to be at a Dalton’s burial?”
“And we are poor also,” said she, meekly.
“And has n’t the poorest respect for the dead?” said he, sternly. “Wouldn’t they sell the cow, or the last pig, out of honor to him that’s gone to glory? I ‘ll not stay longer in the place; I ‘ll have my discharge; I ‘ll go back to Ireland.”
“Poor fellow,” said Nelly, taking his hand kindly, and seating him beside her. “You loved him so! and he loved you, Andy. He loved to hear you sing your old songs, and tell over the names of his favorite hounds.”
“Bessy and Countess were the sweetest among them,” said the old man, wandering away to old memories of the past, “but Nora was truer than either.” And so he fell into a low mumbling to himself, endeavoring, as it seemed, to recall the forgotten line of some hunting chant, while Nelly returned to the house to take her last farewell ere the coffin lid was closed.
CHAPTER XXII. A LAST ADIEU
The pleasure-seekers of Baden were not likely to be diverted from their pursuits by such humble calamities as Nelly Dalton’s, and the gay world went on its gay road as merrily as though death or ruin could have no concern for them. Already the happy groups were gathering before the Cur-saal. The sounds of music filled the air. Wealth was displaying its gorgeous attractions, beauty her fascinations, and wit its brilliancy; and none had a thought for that sad episode which a few hours had half obliterated from every mind. Under a spreading chestnut-tree, and around a table sumptuously spread for breakfast, a large party was assembled, discussing the news of the morning and the plans of pleasure for the day. Some had but thoughts for the play-table, and could attune their ears to no other sounds than the clink of the gold and the rake of the croupier; others chatted of the world of politics and fashion; and a few, with that love of the picturesque the taste for painting engenders, were admiring the changeful effects of passing clouds on the landscape, and pointing out spots of peculiar beauty and sublimity.
“How well the Alten Schloss looks, with that mass of shadow on it,” remarked a young man to a fair and delicate-looking girl beside him; “and see how the weeping ash waves over the old walls, like a banner.”
“And look!” cried she, “mark that little procession that is slowly winding up the pathway, – what effect a few figures give to the scene, as they appear and disappear with each turning of the road. Some pilgrimage to a holy shrine, I fancy.”
“No; it is a funeral. I can mark what Shelley calls the step of the bearers ‘heavy and slow;’ and if you listen, you’ll catch the sound of the death-bell.”
“It’s quite a picture, I declare,” said she. “I wish I had brought my sketch-book.”
And so it is ever! The sorrows that are rending some hearts in twain are but as objects of picturesque effect to others. And even the young and the tender-minded learn to look on the calamities that touch them not, as things of mere artistic meaning.
Up that steep road, over rock and rugged stone, brushing between the tangled briers, or with difficulty being turned around some sharp angle, was now borne the corpse of him who had so often wended the same path on his homeward way. Four peasants carried the coffin, which was followed by Nelly and old Andy; Hans, from a sense of respect, walking behind them. It was a long and arduous ascent, and they were often obliged to halt and take breath; and at such times Nelly would kneel down beside the coffin and pray. The sufferings of the last two days had left deep traces on her features, which had lost every tinge of color. Her eyes, too, were deep-set and heavy; but in the elevated expression of her brow at moments, and the compression of her lips, might be seen the energy of one who had a firm purpose, and was resolved to carry it through.
“Sit down and rest yourself, Fräulein,” said Hans, as he saw that she faltered in her step. “We are yet far from the top.”
“I will rest at the fountain,” said she, faintly. “It was a favorite spot of his.” And they moved slowly on once more.
The fountain was a little well, carved in the native rock, around which some rude seats were also fashioned, the whole sheltered by a thick roof of foliage, which, even in noonday, cast a deep shadow around, and effectually screened it from the path that wound along beside it.
Scarcely had the bearers deposited the coffin beside the well, when the sound of voices was heard as a considerable number of persons descended the path. Words in French, German, and English showed that the party consisted of representatives of these nations; but one voice, if once heard not readily forgotten, towered high above all the rest.
“I cannot offer my arm, madam,” cried a sharp, ringing accent, “as the infernal road will not admit of two abreast; but I can go before and pilot you.”
“Oh, thanks, sir,” replied a mild, meek tone; “I can get on very well indeed. I am only uneasy about my sister.”
“I don’t suspect that she incurs either much risk or fatigue, madam,” rejoined the other, “seeing that she is seated in an armchair, and carried by two of the stoutest fellows in Baden.”
“But the exertion, in her weak state – ”
“She might make the ascent of Mont Blanc, madam, with the same appliances; and if you only told her that there were bargains to be had at the top, I verily believe she would do so.”
“You don’t think the things were cheap here, Colonel?” said Miss Martha, who thought by a diversion to draw Haggerstone away from so dangerous a discussion.
“I am no connoisseur in Dutch dolls, nor Noah’s arks, madam, although modern society presents us with something very like both; but I concluded that the prices were not exorbitant. I went there myself from a sense of equity. I once put a bullet into the little rascal’s skin, and I have bought a salad-fork and a nut-crackers in requital.”
“It was kindly thought of,” sighed Martha, gently.
“They only cost me nine kreutzers, madam,” rejoined Haggerstone, who was more afraid of being thought a dupe than ill-natured, “so that my sense of generosity did not make a fool of me, as it did with the dwarf himself.”
“How so?”
“Why, in going security for that old Irishman, Dalton. It is to pay this debt that he has been sold out to-day, and I fancy that Swiss cottages and barking poodles will realize a very small dividend.”
“Oh, Hanserl!” said Nelly, “what do I hear?”
“Hush, Fräulein!” said he, with a gesture to enforce silence. “I will tell you of these things hereafter.”
And now the others passed, and were soon out of hearing.
“Oh, Hanserl!” cried Nelly, bitterly, “how misfortunes crowd upon me! It was but a moment back I was feeding my mind with the sad consolation that my griefs were all my own, – that the gloom of my dreary fortune cast no shadow on another; and now I see that I was wrong. You must pay the dear penalty of having befriended us! – the fruits of all your hard years of industry!”
“And you would rob me of their best reward, – the glorious sense of a generous action?” broke in Hans. “They were years of toil and privation, and they might have been years of pleasure if avarice and greed had grown upon me; but I could not become a miser.”
“The home you had made your own, lost to you forever!” sighed Nelly.
“It was no longer a home when you left it.”
“The well-won provision for old age, Hanserl.”
“And has not this event made me young again, and able to brave the world, were it twice as adverse as ever I found it? Oh, Fräulein, you know not the heart-bounding ecstasy of him who, from the depths of an humble station, can rise to do a service to those he looks up to! And yet it is that thought which now warms my blood, and gives an energy to my nature that, even in youth, I never felt.”
Nelly was silent; and now neither spoke a word, but sat with bent-down heads, deep sunk in their own reveries. At last she arose, and once more the sad procession resumed its way. They toiled slowly along till they reached the little level table-land, where the church stood, – a little chapel, scarcely larger than a shrine, but long venerated as a holy spot. Poor Dalton had often spent hours here, gazing on the wide expanse of plain and mountain and forest that stretched away beneath; and it was in one of his evening rambles that he had fixed upon the spot where they should lay him, if he could not “rest his bones with his forefathers.”
“Sixty-eight!” muttered the old priest, as he read the inscription on the coffin-lid; “in the pride and vigor of manhood! Was he noble, that I see these quarterings painted here?”
“Hush! that is his daughter,” whispered Hanserl.
“If he were of noble blood, he should have lain in the chapel and on a catafalque,” muttered the priest.
“The family is noble, but poor,” said Hans, in a low whisper.
“A low Mass, without the choir, would not ruin the poorest,” said the priest, who sprinkled the coffin with half impatience, and, mumbling a few prayers, retired. And now the body was committed to the earth, and the grave was filled. The last sod was patted down with the shovel; and Nelly, unable to bear her grief any longer in silence, threw herself on the spot, and wept bitterly. Hans withdrew, and motioned to the others to follow him; and none remained but old Andy, who, on his knees and with clasped hands, seemed to think that he was praying, although all his attention was directed to a little group of children who stood near, and whom he awed into reverence by many a threatening gesture.
And thus the long day stole over; and it was only as evening drew nigh that Nelly could be induced to take her last farewell, and breathe her last prayer over the grave of her father.
