WHEN Dalton parted from his companions at the “Russie,” it was to
proceed by many an intricate and narrow passage to a remote part of the
upper town, where close to the garden wall of the Ducal Palace stood,
and still stands, a little solitary two-storied house, framed in wood,
and the partitions displaying some very faded traces of fresco painting.
Here was the well-known shop of a toy-maker; and although now closely
barred and shuttered, in summer many a gay and merry troop of children
devoured with eager eyes the treasures of Hans Roeckle.
Entering a dark and narrow passage beside the shop, Dalton ascended the
little creaking stairs which led to the second story. The landing place
was covered with firewood, great branches of newly-hewn beech and oak,
in the midst of which stood a youth, hatchet in hand, busily engaged
in chopping and splitting the heavy masses around him. The flush of
exercise upon his cheek suited well the character of a figure which,
clothed only in shirt and trousers, presented a perfect picture of
youthful health and symmetry.
“Tired, Frank?” asked the old man, as he came up.
“Tired, father! not a bit of it. I only wish I had as much more to split
for you, since the winter will be a cold one.”
“Come in and sit down, boy, now,” said the father, with a slight
tremor as he spoke. “We cannot have many more opportunities of talking
together. To-morrow is the 28th of November.”
“Yes; and I must be in Vienna by the fourth, so Uncle Stephen writes.”
“You must not call him uncle, Frank, he forbids it himself; besides, he
is my uncle, and not yours. My father and he were brothers, but never
saw each other after fifteen years of age, when the Count that 's what
we always called him entered the Austrian service, so that we are all
strangers to each other.”
“His letter does n't show any lively desire for a closer intimacy,” said
the boy, laughing. “A droll composition it is, spelling and all.”
“He left Ireland when he was a child, and lucky he was to do so,” sighed
Dalton, heavily. “I wish I had done the same.”
The chamber into which they entered was, although scrupulously clean and
neat, marked by every sign of poverty. The furniture was scanty and of
the humblest kind; the table linen, such as used by the peasantry, while
the great jug of water that stood on the board seemed the very climax of
narrow fortune in a land where the very poorest are wine-drinkers.
A small knapsack with a light travelling-cap on it, and a staff beside
it, seemed to attract Dalton's eyes as he sat down. “It is but a poor
equipment, that yonder. Frank,” said he at last, with a forced smile.
“The easier carried,” replied the lad, gayly.
“Very true,” sighed the other. “You must make the journey on foot.”
“And why not, father? Of what use all this good blood, of which I have
been told so often and so much, if it will not enable a man to compete
with the low-born peasant. And see how well this knapsack sits,” cried
he, as he threw it on his shoulder. “I doubt if the Emperor's pack will
be as pleasant to carry.”
“So long as you haven't to carry a heavy heart, boy,” said Dalton, with
deep emotion, “I believe no load is too much.”
“If it were not for leaving you and the girls, I never could be happier,
never more full of hope, father. Why should not _I_ win my way upward as
Count Stephen has done? Loyalty and courage are not the birthright of
only one of our name!”
“Bad luck was all the birthright ever I inherited,” said the old man,
passionately; “bad luck in everything I touched through life! Where
others grew rich, I became a beggar; where they found happiness, _I_ met
misery and ruin! But it's not of this I ought to be thinking now,” cried
he, changing his tone. “Let us see, where are the girls?” And so saying,
he entered a little kitchen which adjoined the room, and where, engaged
in the task of preparing the dinner, was a girl, who, though several
years older, bore a striking resemblance to the boy. Over features that
must once have been the very type of buoyant gayety, years of sorrow and
suffering had left their deep traces, and the dark circles around the
eyes betrayed how deeply she had known affliction. Ellen Dalton's figure
was faulty for want of height in proportion to her size, but had another
and more grievous defect in a lameness, which made her walk with the
greatest difficulty. This was the consequence of an accident when
riding, a horse having fallen upon her and fractured the hip-bone. It
was said, too, that she had been engaged to be married at the time, but
that her lover, shocked by the disfigurement, had broken off the match,
and thus made this calamity the sorrow of a life long.
“Where's Kate?” said the father, as he cast a glance around the chamber.
Ellen drew near, and whispered a few words in his ear.
“Not in this dreadful weather; surely, Ellen, you didn't let her go out
in such a night as this?”
“Hush!” murmured she, “Frank will hear you; and remember, father, it is
his last night with us.”
“Could n't old Andy have found the place?” asked Daiton; and as he
spoke, he turned his eyes to a corner of the kitchen, where a little
old man sat in a straw chair peeling turnips, while he croned a ditty to
himself in a low singsong tone; his thin, wizened features, browned
by years and smoke, his small scratch wig, and the remains of an old
scarlet hunting-coat that he wore, giving him the strongest resemblance
to one of the monkeys one sees in a street exhibition.
“Poor Andy!” cried Ellen, “he'd have lost his way twenty times before he
got to the bridge.”
“Faith, then, he must be greatly altered,” said Dalton, “for I 've seen
him track a fox for twenty miles of ground, when not a dog of the pack
could come on the trace. Eh, Andy!” cried he, aloud, and stooping
down so as to be heard by the old man, “do you remember the cover at
Corralin?”
“Don't ask him, father,” said Ellen, eagerly; “he cannot sleep for the
whole night after his old memories have been awakened.”
The spell, however, had begun to work; and the old man, letting fall
both knife and turnip, placed his hands on his knees, and in a weak,
reedy treble began a strange, monotonous kind of air, as if to remind
himself of the words, which, after a minute or two, he remembered thus.
“There was old Tom Whaley,
And Anthony Baillie,
And Fitzgerald, the Knight of Glynn,
And Father Clare,
On his big brown mare,
That moruin' at Corralin!”
“Well done, Andy! well done!” exclaimed Dalton. “You 're as fresh as a
four-year-old.”
“Iss!” said Andy, and went on with his song.
“And Miles O'Shea,
On his cropped tail bay,
Was soon seen ridin' in.
He was vexed and crossed
At the light hoar frost,
That mornin' at Corralin.”
“Go on, Andy! go on, my boy!” exclaimed Dalton, in a rapture at the
words that reminded him of many a day in the field and many a night's
carouse. “What comes next?”
“Ay!” cried Andy.
“Says he, 'When the wind
Laves no scent behind,
To keep the dogs out 's a sin;
I 'll be d--d if I stay,
To lose my day,
This mornin' at Corralin.'”
But ye see he was out in his reck'nin'!” cried Andy; “for, as if
“To give him the lie,
There rose a cry,
As the hounds came yelpin' in;
And from every throat
There swelled one note,
That moruin' at Corralin.”
A fit of coughing, brought on by a vigorous attempt to imitate the cry
of a pack, here closed Andy's minstrelsy; and Ellen, who seemed to have
anticipated some such catastrophe, now induced her father to return
to the sitting-room, while she proceeded to use those principles of
domestic medicine clapping on the back and cold water usually deemed of
efficacy in like cases.
“There now, no more singing, but take up your knife and do what I bade
you,” said she, affecting an air of rebuke; while the old man, whose
perceptions did not rise above those of a spaniel, hung down his head
in silence. At the same moment the outer door of the kitchen opened, and
Kate Dalton entered. Taller and several years younger than her sister,
she was in the full pride of that beauty of which blue eyes and dark
hair are the chief characteristics, and is deemed by many as peculiarly
Irish. Delicately fair, and with features regular as a Grecian model,
there was a look of brilliant, almost of haughty, defiance about her, to
which her gait and carriage seemed to contribute; nor could the humble
character of her dress, where strictest poverty declared itself,
disguise the sentiment.
“How soon you're back, dearest!” said Ellen, as she took off the
dripping cloak from her sister's shoulders.
“And only think, Ellen, I was obliged to go to Lichtenthal, where little
Hans spends all his evenings in the winter season, at the 'Hahn!' And
just fancy his gallantry! He would see me home, and would hold up
the umbrella, too, over my head, although it kept his own arm at full
stretch; while, by the pace we walked, I did as much for his legs. It is
very ungrateful to laugh at him, for he said a hundred pretty things to
me, about my courage to venture out in such weather, about my accent as
I spoke German, and lastly, in praise of my skill as a sculptor. Only
fancy, Ellen, what a humiliation for me to confess that these pretty
devices were yours, and not mine; and that my craft went no further than
seeking for the material which your genius was to fashion.”
“Genius, Kate!” exclaimed Ellen, laughing. “Has Master Hans been giving
you a lesson in flattery; but tell me of your success which has he
taken?”
“All everything!” cried Kate; “for although at the beginning the little
fellow would select one figure and then change it for another, it was
easy to see that he could not bring himself to part with any of them:
now sitting down in rapture before the 'Travelling Student,' now gazing
delightedly at the 'Charcoal-Burners,' but all his warmest enthusiasm
bursting forth as I produced the 'Forest Maiden at the Well.' He did,
indeed, think the 'Pedler' too handsome, but he found no such fault
with the Maiden: and here, dearest, here are the proceeds, for I told
him that we must have ducats in shining gold for Frank's new crimson
purse; and here they are;” and she held up a purse of gay colors,
through whose meshes the bright metal glittered.
“Poor Hans!” said Ellen, feelingly. “It is seldom that so humble an
artist meets so generous a patron.”
“He's coming to-night,” said Kate, as she smoothed down the braids of
her glossy hair before a little glass, “he's coming to say good-bye to
Frank.”
“He is so fond of Frank.”
“And of Frank's sister Nelly; nay, no blushing, dearest; for myself,
I am free to own admiration never comes amiss, even when offered by as
humble a creature as the dwarf, Hans Roeckle.”
“For shame, Kate, for shame! It is this idle vanity that stifles honest
pride, as rank weeds destroy the soil for wholesome plants to live in.”
“It is very well for you, Nelly, to talk of pride, but poor things like
myself are fain to content themselves with the baser metal, and even put
up with vanity! There, now, no sermons, no seriousness; I'll listen
to nothing to-day that savors of sadness, and, as I hear pa and Frank
laughing, I'll be of the party.”
The glance of affection and admiration which Ellen bestowed upon her
sister was not unmixed with an expression of painful anxiety, and the
sigh that escaped her told with what tender interest she watched over
her.
The little dinner, prepared with more than usual care, at length
appeared, and the family sat around the humble board with a sense of
happiness dashed by one only reflection, that on the morrow Frank's
place would be vacant.
Still each exerted himself to overcome the sadness of that thought, or
even to dally with it, as one suggestive of pleasure; and when Ellen
placed unexpectedly a great flask of Margraer before them to drink the
young soldier's health, the zest and merriment rose to the highest. Nor
was old Andy forgotten in the general joy. A large bumper of wine was
put before him, and the door of the sitting-room left open, as if to let
him participate in the merry noises that prevailed there. How naturally,
and instinctively, too, their hopes gave color to all they said, as they
told each other that the occasion was a happy one! that dear Frank would
soon be an officer, and of course distinguished by the favor of some
one high in power; and lastly, they dwelt with such complacency on
the affectionate regard and influence of “Count Stephen” as certain
to secure the youth's advancement. They had often heard of the Count's
great military fame, and the esteem in which he was held by the Court of
Vienna; and now they speculated on the delight it would afford the old
warrior who had never been married himself to have one like Frank, to
assist by his patronage, and promote by his influence, and with such
enthusiasm did they discuss the point, that at last they actually
persuaded themselves that Frank's entering the service was a species of
devotion to his relative's interest, by affording him an object worthy
of his regard and affection.
While Ellen loved to dwell upon the great advantages of one who should
be like a father to the boy, aiding him by wise counsel, and guiding him
in every difficulty, Kate preferred to fancy the Count introducing Frank
into all the brilliant society of the splendid capital, presenting him
to those whose acquaintance was distinction, and at once launching him
into the world of fashion and enjoyment. The promptitude with which he
acceded to their father's application on Frank's behalf, was constantly
referred to as the evidence of his affectionate feeling for the family;
and if his one solitary letter was of the very briefest and driest of
all epistolary essays, they accounted for this very naturally by the
length of time which had elapsed since he had either spoken or written
his native language.
In the midst of these self-gratulations and pleasant fancies the door
opened, and Hans Roeckle appeared, covered from head to foot by a light
hoar-frost, that made him look like the figure with which an ingenious
confectioner sometimes decorates a cake. The dwarf stood staring at the
signs of a conviviality so new and unexpected.
“Is this Christmas time, or Holy Monday, or the Three Kings' festival,
or what is it, that I see you all feasting?” cried Hans, shaking the
snow off his hat, and proceeding to remove a cloak which he had draped
over his shoulder in most artistic folds.
“We were drinking Frank's health, Master Hans,” said Dalton, “before he
leaves us. Come over and pledge him too, and wish him all success, and
that he may live to be a good and valued soldier of the Emperor.”
Hans had by this time taken off his cloak, which, by mounting on a
chair, he contrived to hang up, and now approached the table with great
solemnity, a pair of immense boots of Russian leather, that reached to
his hips, giving him a peculiarly cumbrous and heavy gait; but these,
as well as a long vest of rabbit skins that buttoned close to the neck,
made his invariable costume in the winter.
“I drink,” said the dwarf, as, filling a bumper, he turned to each of
the company severally “I drink to the venerable father and the fair
maidens, and the promising youth of this good family, and I wish them
every blessing good Christians ought to ask for; but as for killing and
slaying, for burning villages and laying waste cities, I 've no sympathy
with these.”
“But you are speaking of barbarous times, Master Hans,” said Kate, whose
cheek mantled into scarlet as she spoke, “when to be strong was to be
cruel, and when ill-disciplined hordes tyrannized over good citizens.”
[Illustration: 040]
“I am talking of soldiers, such as the world has ever seen them,” cried
Hans, passionately; but of whose military experiences, it is but fair
to say, his own little toyshop supplied all the source. “What are they?”
cried he, “but toys that never last, whether he who plays with them be
child or kaiser! always getting smashed, heads knocked off here, arms
and legs astray there; ay, and strangest of all, thought most of when
most disabled! and then at last packed up in a box or a barrack, it
matters not which, to be forgotten and seen no more! Hadst thou thought
of something useful, boy some good craft, a Jager with a corkscrew
inside of him, a tailor that turns into a pair of snuffers, a Dutch lady
that makes a pin-cushion, these are toys people don't weary of but a
soldier! to stand ever thus” and Hans shouldered the fire-shovel, and
stood “at the present.” “To wheel about so walk ten steps here ten back
there never so much as a glance at the pretty girl who is passing
close beside you.” Here he gave a look of such indescribable tenderness
towards Kate, that the whole party burst into a fit of laughter. “They
would have drawn me for the conscription,” said Hans, proudly, “but I
was the only son of a widow, and they could not.”
“And are you never grieved to think what glorious opportunities of
distinction have been thus lost to you?” said Kate, who, notwithstanding
Ellen's imploring looks, could not resist the temptation of amusing
herself with the dwarf's vanity.
“I have never suffered that thought to weigh upon me,” cried Hans, with
the most unsuspecting simplicity. “It is true, I might have risen to
rank and honors; but how would they have suited me, or I them? Or
how should I have made those dearest to me sharers in a fortune so
unbecoming to us? Think of poor Hans's old mother, if her son were to
ask her blessing with a coat all glittering with stars and crosses; and
then think of her as I have seen her, when I go, as I do every year, to
visit her in the Bregentzer Wald, when she comes out to meet me with our
whole village, proud of her son, and yet not ashamed of herself. That is
glory that is distinction enough for Hans Roeckle.”
The earnestness of his voice, and the honest manliness of his
sentiments, were more than enough to cover the venial errors of a vanity
that was all simplicity. It is true that Hans saw the world only through
the medium of his own calling, and that not a very exalted one; but
still there went through all the narrowness of his views a tone of
kindliness a hearty spirit of benevolence, that made his simplicity at
times rise into something almost akin to wisdom. He had known the Dal
tons as his tenants, and soon perceived that they were not like those
rich English, from whom his countrymen derive such abundant gains. He
saw them arrive at a season when all others were taking their departure,
and detected in all their efforts at economy, not alone that they were
poor, but, sadder still, that they were of those who seem never to
accustom themselves to the privations of narrow fortune; for, while some
submit in patience to their humble lot, with others life is one long and
hard-fought struggle, wherein health, hope, and temper are expended in
vain. That the Daltons maintained a distance and reserve towards others
of like fortune did, indeed, puzzle honest Hans, perhaps it displeased
him, too, for he thought it might be pride; but then their treatment
of himself disarmed that suspicion, for they not only received him ever
cordially, but with every sign of real affection; and what was he to
expect such? Nor were these the only traits that fascinated him; for all
the rugged shell the kernel was a heart as tender, as warm, and as
full of generous emotions as ever beat within an ampler breast. The two
sisters, in Hans's eyes, were alike beautiful; each had some grace
or charm that he had never met with before, nor could he ever satisfy
himself whether his fancy was more taken by Kate's wit or by Ellen's
gentleness.
If anything were needed to complete the measure of his admiration, their
skill in carving those wooden figures, which he sold, would have been
sufficient. These were in his eyes nor was he a mean connoisseur high
efforts of genius; and Hans saw in them a poetry and a truthfulness to
nature that such productions rarely, if ever, possess. To sell, such
things as mere toys, he regarded as little short of a sacrilege, while
even to part with them at all cost him a pang like that the gold-worker
of Florence experienced when he saw some treasure of Benvenuto's chisel
leave his possession. Not, indeed, that honest Hans had to struggle
against that criminal passion which prompted the jeweller, even by deeds
of assassination, to repossess himself of the coveted objects; nay, on
the contrary, he felt a kindness and a degree of interest towards those
in whose keeping they were, as if some secret sympathy united them to
each other.
Is it any wonder if poor Hans forgot himself in such pleasant company,
and sat a full hour and a half longer than he ought? To him the little
intervals of silence that were occasionally suffered to intervene were
but moments of dreamy and delicious revery, wherein his fancy wandered
away in a thousand pleasant paths; and when at last the watchman for
remember, good reader, they were in that primitive Germany where customs
change not too abruptly announced two o'clock, little Hans did not
vouchsafe a grateful response to the quaint old rhyme that was chanted
beneath the window.
“That little chap would sit to the day of judgment, and never ask to wet
his lips,” said Dal ton, as Frank accompanied the dwarf downstairs to
the street door.
“I believe he not only forgot the hour, but where he was, and everything
else,” said Kate.
“And poor Frank! who should have been in bed some hours ago,” sighed
Nelly.
“Gone at last, girls!” exclaimed Frank, as he entered, laughing. “If it
hadn't been a gust of wind that caught him at the door, and carried
him clean away, our leave-taking might have lasted till morning. Poor
fellow! he had so many cautions to give me, such mountains of good
counsel; and see, here is a holy medal he made me accept. He told me the
'Swedes' would never harm me so long as I wore it; he still fancies
that we are in the Thirty Years' War.”
In a hearty laugh over Hans Roeckle's political knowledge, they wished
each other an affectionate good-night, and separated. Frank was to have
his breakfast by daybreak, and each sister affected to leave the care of
that meal to the other, secretly resolving to be up and stirring first.
Save old Andy, there was not one disposed to sleep that night. All were
too full of their own cares. Even Dalton himself, blunted as were
his feelings by a long life of suffering, his mind was tortured by
anxieties; and one sad question arose again and again before him,
without an answer ever occurring: “What is to become of the girls when
I am gone? Without a home, they will soon be without a protector!”
The bright fancies, the hopeful visions in which the evening had been
passed, made the revulsion to these gloomy thoughts the darker. He lay
with his hands pressed upon his face, while the hot tears gushed from
eyes that never before knew weeping.
At moments he half resolved not to let Frank depart, but an instant's
thought showed him how futile would be the change. It would be but
leaving him to share the poverty, to depend upon the scanty pittance
already too little for themselves. “Would Count Stephen befriend the
poor girls?” he asked himself over and over; and in his difficulty he
turned to the strange epistle in which the old general announced Frank's
appointment as a cadet.
The paper, the square folding, the straight, stiff letters, well suited
a style which plainly proclaimed how many years his English had lain at
rest. The note ran thus:
GRABEN-WIEN, Octobre 9, 18--
WORTHY SIR AND NEPHEW, Your kindly greeting, but long-time
on-the-road-coming letter is in my hands. It is to me
pleasure that I announce the appointment of your son as a
Cadet in the seventh battalion of the Carl-Franz Infanterie.
So with, let him in all speed of time report himself here at
Wien, before the War's Minister, bringing his Tauf schein
Baptism's sign as proof of Individualism.
I am yours, well to command, and much-loving kinsman,
GRAF DALTON VON AUERSBERG, Lieut.-General and
Feldzeugmeister, K.K.A.
To the high and well-born, the Freiherr v. Dalton, in Baden Baden.