How far were the Daltons from suspecting that they were the subject
of so much and such varied solicitude, and that, while Lady Hester was
fancying to herself all the fashionable beauties whom Kate would eclipse
in loveliness, and what an effect charms like hers would produce on
society, Sir Stafford was busily concerting with his lawyer the means
of effectually benefiting them; and George Onslow for want of better
speculated, as he smoked, on “the kind of people” they would prove, and
wondered whether the scheme were worth the light trouble it was to cost
him. Little did they know of all this, little imagine that outside
of their humble roof there lived one save “dear Frank” whose thoughts
included them. “The purple and fine linen” category of this world cannot
appreciate the force of this want of sympathy! They, whose slightest
griefs and least afflictions in life are always certain of the
consolations of friends, and the even more bland solace of a fashionable
physician whose woes are re-echoed by the “Morning Post,” and whose
sorrows are mourned in Court Journals cannot frame to themselves the
sense of isolation which narrow fortune impresses. “Poverty,” says
a classical authority, “has no heavier evil than that it makes men
ridiculous.” But this wound to self-love, deep and poignant though it
be, is light in comparison with the crushing sense of isolation, that
abstraction from sympathy in which poor men live!
The Daltons were seated around Hanserl's bed, silently ministering to
the sick man, and watching with deep and anxious interest the labored
respiration and convulsive twitches of his fever. The wild and rapid
utterance of his lips, and the strange fancies they syllabled,
often exciting him to laughter, only deepened the gravity of their
countenances, and cast over the glances they interchanged a tinge of
sadder meaning.
“He could n't have better luck,” muttered Dalton, sorrowfully; “just
from being a friend to us! If he had never seen nor heard of us, maybe
't is happy and healthy he 'd be to-day!”
“Nay, nay, papa,” said Nelly, gently; “this is to speak too gloomily;
nor is it good for us to throw on fortune the burden that we each should
bear patiently.”
“Don't tell me that there is not such a thing as luck!” replied Dalton,
in a tone of irritation. “I know well whether there is or no! For
five-and-thirty years whatever I put my hand to in life turned out
badly. It was the same whether I did anything on the spur of the moment,
or thought over it for weeks. If I wished a thing, that was reason
enough for it to come out wrong!”
“And even were it all as you fancy, papa dearest,” said Nelly, as she
fondly drew her arm round him, “is it nothing that these reverses have
found you strong of heart and high of courage to bear them? Over and
over again have you told me that the great charm of field sports lay in
the sense of fatigue bravely endured, and peril boldly confronted;
that, devoid of these, they were unworthy of men. Is there not a greater
glory, then, in stemming the tide of adverse fortune; and is it not a
higher victory that carries you triumphant over the real trials of
life, kind of heart, trustful, and generous, as in the best days of your
prosperity, and with a more gentle and forbearing spirit than prosperity
ever taught?”
“That 's nothing against what I was saying,” said Dalton, but with a
more subdued face. “There 's poor little Hans, and till a couple
of clays ago he never knew what it was to be unlucky. As he told us
himself, his life was a fairy tale.”
“True,” interposed Nelly; “and happy as it was, and blameless and
guileless he who led it, mark how many a gloomy thought, what dark
distressing fancies, hover round his brain, and shadow his sick-bed! No,
no! the sorrows of this world are more equally distributed than we
think for, and he who seems to have fewest is oftentimes but he who best
conceals them!”
Her voice shook, and became weaker as she spoke; and the last few words
were barely audible. Dalton did not notice her emotion; but Kate's looks
were bent upon her with an expression of fond and affectionate meaning.
“There's somebody at the door,” whispered Daltou; “see who it is, Kate.”
Kate arose, and opening the door softly, beheld old Andy; his shrivelled
features and lustreless eyes appearing in a state of unusual excitement.
“What's the matter, Andy? what is it you want?” said she.
“Is the master here? Where 's the master?”
“He 's here; what do you want with him?” rejoined she.
“I want himself,” said he, as with his palsied hand he motioned to
Dalton to come out.
“What is it, you old fool?” said Dalton, impatiently, as he arose and
followed him outside of the room.
“There's one of them again!” said Andy, putting his mouth to Dalton's
ear, and whispering in deep confidence.
“One of what? one of whom?”
“He's upstairs,” muttered Andy.
“Who's upstairs, who is he?” cried Dalton, angrily.
“Didn't I know him the minit I seen him! Ayeh! Ould as I am, my eyes
isn't that dim yet.”
“God give me patience with you!” said Dalton; and, to judge from his
face, he was not entreating a vain blessing. “Tell me, I say, what do
you mean, or who is it is upstairs?”
Andy put his lips once more to the other's ear, and whispered, “An
attorney!”
“An attorney!” echoed Dalton.
“Iss!” said Andy, with a significant nod.
“And how do you know he 's an attorney?”
“I seen him!” replied the other, with a grin; “and I locked the door on
him.”
“What for?”
“What for! what for, is it? Oh, murther, murther!” whined the old
creature, who in this unhappy question thought he read the evidence of
his poor master's wreck of intellect. It was indeed no slight shock to
him to hear that Peter Dalton had grown callous to danger, and could
listen to the terrible word he had uttered without a sign of emotion.
“I seen the papers with a red string round 'em,” said Andy, as though
by this incidental trait he might be able to realize all the menaced
danger.
“Sirrah, ye 're an old fool!” said Dalton, angrily; and, jerking the key
from his trembling fingers, he pushed past him, and ascended the stairs.
If Dalton's impatience had been excited by the old man's absurd terrors
and foolish warnings, his own heart was not devoid of a certain vague
dread, as he slowly wended his way upwards. It was true he did not
partake of old Andy's fear of the dread official of the law. Andy, who,
forgetting time and place, not knowing that they were in another land,
where the King's writ never ran, saw in the terrible apparition the
shadows of coming misfortune. Every calamity of his master's house had
been heralded by such a visit, and he could as soon have disconnected
the banshee with a sudden death, as the sight of an attorney with an
approaching disaster.
It is true, Dalton did not go this far; but still old impressions were
not so easily effaced. And as the liberated captive is said to tremble
at the clanking of a chain, so his heart responded to the fear that
memory called up of past troubles and misfortunes.
“What can he want with me now?” muttered he, as he stopped to take
breath. “They 've left me nothing but life, and they can't take that. It
's not that I 'd care a great deal if they did! Maybe it's more bother
about them titles; but I'll not trouble my head about them. I sold the
land, and I spent the money; ay, and what 's more, I spent it at home
among my own people, like a gentleman! and if I 'm an absentee it 's
not my fault. I suppose he couldn't arrest me,” said he, after a pause;
“but, God knows, they 're making new laws every day, and it 's hard to
say if they 'll let a man have peace or ease in any quarter of the world
before long. Well, well! there's no use guessing. I have nothing to sell
nothing to lose; I suppose they don't make it a hanging matter even
for an Irishman to live a trifle too fast.” And with this piece of
reassuring comfort, he pulled up his cravat, threw back the breast of
his coat, and prepared to confront the enemy bravely.
Although Dalton made some noise in unlocking the door, and not less in
crossing the little passage that led to the sitting-room, his entrance
was unperceived by the stranger, who was busily engaged in examining a
half-finished group by Nelly. It represented an old soldier, whose
eyes were covered by a bandage, seated beside a well, while a little
drummer-boy read to him the bulletin of a great victory. She had
destined the work for a present to Frank, and had put forth all her
genius in its composition. The glowing enthusiasm of the blind veteran,
his half-opened lips,' his attitude of eagerness as he drank in the
words, were finely contrasted with the childlike simplicity of the boy,
more intent, as it seemed, in spelling out the lines than following the
signification.
If the stranger was not a finished connoisseur, he was certainly not
ignorant of art, and was deep in its contemplation when Dalton accosted
him.
“I beg pardon, Mr. Dalton, I presume; really this clever composition
has made me forget myself totally. May I ask, is it the work of a native
artist?”
“It was done in this place, sir,” replied Dalton, whose pride in his
daughter's skill was overlaid by a less worthy feeling, shame that a
Dalton should condescend to such an occupation.
“I have seen very inferior productions highly prized and praised; and if
I am not indiscreet--”
“To prevent any risk of that kind,” observed Dalton, interrupting him,
“I 'll take the liberty of asking your name, and the object of this
visit.”
“Prichard, sir; of the firm of Prichard and Harding, solicitors,
Lincoln's Inn Fields,” replied the other, whose voice and manner at once
assumed a business-like tone.
“I never heard the names before,” said Dalton, motioning to a chair. The
stranger seated himself, and, placing a large roll of papers before him
on the table, proceeded to untie and arrange them most methodically, and
with the air of a man too deeply impressed with the importance of his
occupation to waste a thought upon the astonishment of a bystander.
“Prichard and Harding are mighty cool kind of gentlemen,” thought
Dalton, as he took his seat at the opposite side of the table, trying,
but not with any remarkable success, to look as much at ease as his
visitor.
“Copy of deed draft of instructions bill of sale of stock no, here it
is! This is what we want,” muttered Prichard, half aloud. “I believe
that letter, sir, is in your handwriting?”
Dalton put on his spectacles and looked at the document for a few
seconds, during which his countenance gradually appeared to light up
with an expression of joyful meaning; for his eye glistened, and a red
flush suffused his cheek.
“It is, sir, that's mine, every word of it; and what's more, I 'm as
ready to stand to it to-day as the hour I wrote it.”
Mr. Prichard, scarcely noticing the reply, was again deep in his
researches; but the object of them must be reserved for another chapter.