IF the arrival of a great family at an hotel be a scene of unusual
bustle and excitement, with teeming speculations as to the rank and the
wealth of the new-comers, the departure has also its interests, and
even of a higher nature. In the former case all is vague, shadowy, and
uncertain. The eye of the spectator wanders from the muffled figures
as they descend, to scrutinize the lackeys, and even the luggage, as
indicative of the strangers' habits and condition; and even to the
shrewd perceptions of that dread functionary, the head waiter, the
identity of the traveller assumes no higher form nor any more tangible
shape than that they are No. 42 or 57.
When the hour of leave-taking has come, however, their characters have
become known, their tastes and habits understood, and no mean insight
obtained into their prejudices, their passions, and their pursuits. The
imposing old gentleman, whose rubicund nose and white waistcoat are the
guarantees for a taste in port, has already inspired the landlord with
a sincere regard. “My Lady's” half-invalid caprices about diet, and air,
and sunshine, have all written themselves legibly in “the bill.” The
tall son's champagne score incurred of a night, and uncounted of a
morning, are not unrecorded virtues; while even the pale young ladies,
whose sketching propensities involved donkeys, and ponies, and picnics,
go not unremembered.
Their hours of rising and retiring, their habits of society or
seclusion, their preferences for the “Post” or the “Times,” have all
silently been ministering to the estimate formed of them; so that in the
commonest items of the hotel ledger are the materials for their history.
And with what true charity are their characters weighed! How readily
does mine host forgive the transgressions which took their origin in
his own Burgundy! how blandly smile at the follies begotten of his
Johannisberg! With what angelic temper does the hostess pardon the
little liberties “young gentlemen from college will take!” Oh, if our
dear, dear friends would but read us with half the charity, or even
bestow upon our peccadilloes a tithe of this forgiveness! And why should
it not be so? What are these same friends and acquaintances but guests
in the same great inn which we call “the world”? and who, as they never
take upon them to settle our score, need surely not trouble themselves
about the “items.”
While the Daltons were still occupied in the manner our last chapter has
described, the “Hotel de Russie” was a scene of considerable bustle, the
preparations for departure engaging every department of the household
within doors and without. There were carriage-springs to be lashed with
new cordage, drag-chains new tipped with steel, axles to smear, hinges
to oil, imperials to buckle on, cap-cases to be secured; and then what a
deluge of small articles to be stowed away in most minute recesses,
and yet be always at hand when called for! cushions and cordials,
and chauffe-pieds and “Quarterlies,” smelling-boxes and slippers, and
spectacles and cigar-cases, journals and “John Murrays,” to be disposed
of in the most convenient places. Every corridor and landing was blocked
up with baggage, and the courier wiped his forehead, and “sacre'd” in
half desperation at the mountain of trunks and portmanteaus that lay
before him.
“This is not ours,” said he, as he came to a very smart valise of
lacquered leather, with the initials A. J. in brass on the top.
“No, that 's Mr. Jekyl's,” said Mr. George's man, Twig. “He ain't
a-goin' with you; he travels in our britzska.”
“I'm more like de conducteur of a diligenz than a family courier,”
muttered the other, sulkily. “I know noting of de baggage, since we take
up strangers at every stage! and always some Teufeln poor devils that
have not a sou en poche!”
“What's the matter now, Mister Greg'ry?” said Twig, who very imperfectly
understood the other's jargon.
“The matter is, I will resign my 'fonction' je m'en vais dat 's all!
This is noting besser than an 'Eil wagen' mil passengers! Fust of all
we have de doctor, as dey call him, wid his stuff birds and beasts, his
dried blumen and sticks, till de roof is like de Jardin des Plantes
at Paris, and he himself like de bear in de middle. Den we have das
verfluchte parroquet of milady, and Flounce, de lapdog, dat must drink
every post-station, and run up all de hills for exercise. Dam! Ich bin
kein Hund, and need n't run up de hills too! Mademoiselle Celestine have
a what d' ye call 'Affe' a ape; and though he be little, a reg'lar
teufelchen to hide de keys and de money, when he find 'em. And den
dere is de yong lady collectin' all de stones off de road, lauter
paving-stones, which she smash wid a leetle hammer! Ach Gott, what is de
world grow when a Fraulein fall in love wid Felsen and Steine!”
“Monsieur Gregoire! Monsieur Gregoire!” screamed out a sharp voice from
a window overhead.
“Mademoiselle,” replied he, politely touching his cap to the
femme-de-chambre.
“Be good enough, Monsieur Gregoire, to have my trunks taken down; there
are two in the fourgon, and a cap-case on the large carriage.”
“Hagel and Sturm! dey are under everything. How am I--”
“I can't possibly say,” broke she in; “but it must be done.”
“Can't you wait, Mademoiselle, till we reach Basle?”
“I'm going away, Monsieur Gregoire. I'm off to Paris,” was the reply, as
the speaker closed the sash and disappeared.
“What does she say?” inquired Twig, who, as this dialogue was carried on
in French, was in total ignorance of its meaning.
“She has given her demission,” said the courier, pompously. “Resign her
portefeuille, and she have made a very bad affair; dat's all. Your gros
milor is very often bien bete; he is very often rude, savage, forget
his manners, and all dat but” and here his voice swelled into the full
soundness of a perfect connection “but he is alway rich. Ja ja, immer
reich!” said he over to himself. “Allons! now to get at her verdammte
baggage, de two trunks, and de leetle box, and de ape, and de sac, and
de four or five baskets. Diable d'affaire! Monsieur Tig, do me de grace
to mount on high dere, and give me dat box.”
“I 've nothing to say to your carriage, Mister Greg'ry. I 'm the
captain's gentleman, and never do take any but a single-handed
situation;” and with this very haughty speech Mr. Twig lighted a fresh
cigar and strolled away.
“Alle bose Teufeln holen de good for nichts,” sputtered Gregoire, who
now waddled into the house to seek for assistance.
Whatever apathy and indifference he might have met with from the English
servants, the people of the hotel were like his bond-slaves. Old and
young, men and women, the waiter, and the ostler, and the chambermaid,
and that strange species of grande utilite, which in German households
goes by the name of “Haus-knecht,” a compound of boots, scullion,
porter, pimp, and drudge, were all at his command. Nor was he an
over-mild monarch; a running fire of abuse and indignity accompanied
every order he gave, and he stimulated their alacrity by the most
insulting allusions to their personal defects and deficiencies.
Seated upon a capacious cap-case, with his courier's cap set jauntily on
one side, his meerschaum like a sceptre in his hand, Gregoire gave out
his edicts right royally, and soon the courtyard was strewn with trunks,
boxes, and bags of every shape, size, and color. The scene, indeed, was
not devoid of tumult; for, while each of the helpers screamed away at
the top of his throat, and Gregoire rejoined in shouts that would have
done credit to a bull, the parrot gave vent to the most terrific cries
and yells as the ape poked him through the bars of his cage with the
handle of a parasol.
“There, that's one of them,” cried out Monsieur Gregoire; “that round
box beside you; down with it here.”
“Monsieur Gregoire! Monsieur Gre'goire!” cried Mademoiselle from the
window once more.
The courier looked up, and touched his cap.
“I'm not going, Monsieur Gregoire; the affair is arranged.”
“Ah! I am charmed to hear it, Mademoiselle,” said he, smiling in seeming
ecstasy, while he muttered a malediction between his teeth.
“Miladi has made submission, and I forgive everything. You must pardon
all the trouble I 've given you.”
“These happy tidings have made me forget it,” said he, with a smile
that verged upon a grin. “Peste!” growled he, under his breath, “we 'd
unpacked the whole fourgon.”
“Ah, que vous etes aimable!” said she, sighing.
“Belle tigresse!” exclaimed he, returning the leer she bestowed; and the
window was once more closed upon her exit. “I submitted to the labor,
in the hope we had done with you forever,” said he, wiping his forehead;
“and la voila there you are back again. Throw that ape down; away wid
him, cursed beast!” cried he, venting his spite upon the minion, since
he dare not attack the mistress. “But what have we here?”
This latter exclamation was caused by the sudden entrance into the
courtyard of two porters carrying an enormous trunk, whose iron
fastenings and massive padlock gave it the resemblance of an emigrant's
sea-chest. A few paces behind walked Mr. Dalton, followed again by Old
Andy, who, with a huge oil-silk umbrella under one arm, and a bundle
of cloaks, shawls, and hoods on the other, made his way with no small
difficulty.
Gregoire surveyed the procession with cool amazement, and then, with a
kind of mock civility, he touched his cap, and said, “You have mistak de
road, saar; de diligenz-office is over de way.”
“And who told you I wanted it?” said Dalton, sternly. “Maybe I'm just
where I ought to be! Isn't this Sir Stafford Onslow's coach?”
“Yes, saar; but you please to remember it is not de 'Eil wagen. '”
“Just hold your prate, my little chap, and it will be pleasanter, and
safer, ay, safer, too, d'ye mind? You see that trunk there; it 's to
go up with the luggage and be kept dry, for there 's valuable effects
inside.”
“Datis not a trunk; it is a sentry-house, a watch-box. No gentleman's
carriage ever support a ting of dat dimension!”
“It 's a trunk, and belongs to me, and my name is Peter Dalton, as the
letters there will show you; and so no more about it, but put it up at
once.”
“I have de orders about a young lady's luggage, but none about a great
coffin with iron hoops,” said Gregoire, tartly.
“Be quiet, now, and do as I tell you, my little chap. Put these trifles,
too, somewhere inside, and this umbrella in a safe spot; and here 's a
little basket, with a cold pie and a bottle of wine in it.”
“Himmel und Erde! how you tink milady travel mit dass schweinerei?”
“It 's not pork; 't is mutton, and a pigeon in the middle,” said Dalton,
mistaking his meaning. “I brought a taste of cheese, too; but it 's a
trifle high, and maybe it 's as well not to send it.”
“Is the leetle old man to go too?” asked Gregoire, with an insolent
grin, and not touching the profanation of either cheese or basket.
“That 's my own servant, and he 's not going,” said Dalton; “and now
that you know my orders, just stir yourself a little, my chap, for I 'm
not going to spend my time here with you.”
A very deliberate stare, without uttering a word, was all the reply
Gregoire returned to this speech; and then, addressing himself to the
helpers, he gave some orders in German about the other trunks. Dalton
waited patiently for some minutes, but no marks of attention showed that
the courier even remembered his presence; and at last he said,
“I 'm waiting to see that trunk put up; d' ye hear me?”
“I hear ver well, but I mind noting at all,” said Gregoire, with a grin.
“Oh, that 's it,” said Dalton, smiling, but with a twinkle in his
gray eyes that, had the other known him better, he would scarcely have
fancied, “that's it, then!” And taking the umbrella from beneath Andy's
arm, he walked deliberately across the yard to where a large tank stood,
and which, fed from a small jet d'eau, served as a watering-place for
the post-horses. Some taper rods of ice now stood up in the midst, and a
tolerably thick coating covered the surface of the basin.
Gregoire could not help watching the proceedings of the stranger, as
with the iron-shod umbrella he smashed the ice in one or two places,
piercing the mass till the water spouted up through the apertures.
“Have you any friend who live dere?” said the courier, sneeringly, as
the sound of the blows resembled the noise of a door-knocker.
“Not exactly, my man,” said Dalton, calmly; “but something like it.”
“What is 't you do, den?” asked Gregoire, curiously.
“I'll tell you,” said Dalton. “I'm breaking the ice for a new
acquaintance;” and, as he spoke, he seized the courier by the stout
leather belt which he wore around his waist, and, notwithstanding his
struggles and his weight, he jerked him off the ground, and, with a
swing, would have hurled him head foremost into the tank, when, the
leather giving way, he fell heavily to the ground, almost senseless from
shock and fright together. “You may thank that strap for your escape,”
said Dalton, contemptuously, as he threw towards him the fragments of
broken leather.
“I will have de law, and de polizei, and de Gericht. I will have you
in de Kerker, in chains, for dis!” screamed Gregoire, half choked with
passion.
“May I never see peace, but if you don't hold your prate I 'll put you
in it! Sit up there, and mind your business; and, above all, be civil,
and do what you 're bid.”
“I will fort; I will away. Noting make me remain in de service,” said
Gregoire, brushing off the dirt from his sleeve, and shaking his cap.
“I am respectable courier travel wid de Fursten vom Koniglichen Hatisen
mit Russen, Franzosen, Ostereichen; never mit barbaren, never mit de
wilde animalen.”
“Don't, now don't, I tell you,” said Dalton, with another of those
treacherous smiles whose expression the courier began to comprehend. “No
balderdash! no nonsense! but go to your work, like a decent servant.”
“I am no Diener; no serve anybody,” cried the courier, indignantly.
[Illustration: 222]
But somehow there was that in old Dalton's face that gave no
encouragement to an open resistance, and Monsieur Gregoire knew well the
case where compliance was the wisest policy. He also knew that in his
vocation there lay a hundred petty vengeances more than sufficient to
pay off any indignity that could be inflicted upon him. “I will wait
my times,” was the reflection with which he soothed down his rage, and
affected to forget the insult he had just suffered under.
Dalton, whose mind was cast in a very different mould, and who could
forgive either himself or his neighbor without any great exertion of
temper, turned now coolly away, and sauntered out into the street. The
flush of momentary anger that colored his cheek had fled, and a cast of
pale and melancholy meaning sat upon his features, for his eye rested
on the little wooden bridge which crossed the stream, and where now two
muffled figures were standing, that he recognized as his daughters.
They were leaning on the balustrade, and gazing at the mountain that,
covered with its dense pine-wood, rose abruptly from the river-side.
It had been the scene of many a happy ramble in the autumn, of many a
delightful excursion, when, with Frank, they used to seek for fragments
of wood that suited Nelly's sculptures. How often had they carried their
little basket up yonder steep path, to eat their humble supper upon the
rock, from which the setting sun could be seen! There was not a cliff
nor crag, not a mossy slope, not a grass bank, they did not know; and
now, as they looked, all the past moments of pleasure were crowding upon
their memory, tinged with the sad foreboding that they were never again
to be renewed.
“That's the Riesen Fels, Nelly, yonder,” said Kate, as she pointed to a
tall dark rock, on whose slopes the drifting snow had settled. “How sad
and dreary it is, compared with what it seemed on Frank's birthday,
when the nightingale was singing overhead, and the trickling stream came
sparkling along the grass when we sat together. I can bear to part with
it better thus than if all were as beautiful as then.”
Nelly sighed, and grasped her sister's hand closer, but made no answer.
“Do you remember poor Hanserl's song, and his little speech all about
our meeting there again in the next year, Nelly?”
“I do,” said Nelly, in a low and whispering voice.
“And then Frank stood up, with his little gilt goblet, and said,
'With hearts as free from grief or care,
Here 's to our happy--'”
“Wiederkehr,” cried Hanserl, supplying the word so aptly. How we all
laughed, Nelly, at his catching the rhyme!”
“I remember!” sighed Nelly, still lower.
“What are you thinking of, Nelly dearest?” said Kate, as she stood for a
few seconds gazing at the sorrow-struck features of the other.
“I was thinking, dearest,” said Nelly, “that when we were met together
there on that night, none of us foresaw what since has happened. Not
the faintest suspicion of a separation crossed our minds. Our destinies,
whatever else might betide, seemed at least bound up together. Our very
poverty was like the guarantee of our unity, and yet see what has come
to pass Frank gone; you, Kate, going to leave us now. How shall we
speculate on the future, then, when the past has so betrayed us? How
pilot our course in the storm, when, even in the calm, still sea, we
have wandered from the track?”
“Nelly! Nelly! every moment I feel more faint-hearted at the thought of
separation. It is as though, in the indulgence of a mere caprice, I were
about to incur some great hazard. Is it thus it appears to you?”
“With what expectations do you look forward to this great world you are
going to visit, Kate? Is it mere curiosity to see with your own eyes
the brilliant scenes of which you have only read? Is it with the hope
of finding that elegance and goodness are sisters, that refinement of
manners is the constant companion of noble sentiments and right actions;
or, does there lurk in your heart the longing for a sphere wherein you
yourself might contest for the prize of admiration? Oh, if this have a
share in your wishes, my own dear sister, beware of it. The more worthy
you are of such homage, the greater is your peril! It is not that I am
removed from all temptations of this kind; it is not because I have no
attractions of beauty, that I speak thus even poor, lame Nelly cannot
tear from her woman's heart the love of admiration. But for me, I fear,
for you, Kate, to whom these temptations will be heightened by your own
deservings. You are beautiful, and you blush as I speak the word; but
what if the time come when you will hear it unmoved? The modest sense of
shame gone, what will replace it? Pride yes, my dear sister, Pride
and Ambition! You will long for a station more in accordance with your
pretensions, more suited to your tastes.”
“How you wrong me, Nelly!” burst Kate in. “The brightest dream of all
this brilliant future is the hope that I may come back to you more
worthy of your love; that, imbibing some of those traits whose
fascinations we have already felt, I may bring beneath our humble roof
some memories, at least, to beguile your toil.”
“Oh, if that time should come!”
“And it will come, dearest Nelly,” said Kate, as she threw her arms
around her, and kissed her affectionately. “But, see! there is papa
yonder; he is beckoning to us to join him;” and the two girls hastened
forward to where Dalton was standing, at the corner of the street.
“I'm thinking we ought to go up there, now,” said Dalton, with a motion
of his hand in the direction of the hotel. “Take my arm, each of you.”
They obeyed, and walked along in silence, till they reached the inn,
where Dalton entered, with a certain assumed ease and confidence, that
very commonly, with him, covered a weak purpose and a doubting spirit.
“Is Sir Stafford at home, or Lady Onslow?” asked he of Mr. Twig, who,
with a cigar in his mouth, and a “Galignani” in his hand, never rose
from the seat he occupied.
“Can't say, sir,” was the cool response, which he delivered without
lifting his eyes from the newspaper.
“Do you know, ma'am?” said he, addressing Mademoiselle Celestine, who
happened to pass at the moment “do you know, ma'am, if Lady Onslow 's at
home?”
“She never receive in de morning,” was the curt reply. And, with a very
impudent stare at the two sisters, whose dress imposed no restraint upon
her insolence, mademoiselle flounced past. “Come along, girls,” said
Dalton, angrily, and offended that he should appear to his children
as if wanting in worldly tact and knowledge “come with me;” and he
proceeded boldly up stairs.
A folding-door lay open before them into a large chamber, littered with
boxes, trunks, and travelling gear of all kinds. Making his way through
these, while he left his daughters outside, Dalton approached a
door that led into an inner room, and knocked sharply at it with his
knuckles.
“You may take it away now; I 've used cold water!” cried a voice from
within, that at once proclaimed Dr. Grounsell.
Dalton repeated his summons more confidently.
“Go to the devil, I say,” cried the doctor; “you've made me cut my
chin;” and the enraged Grouusell, with his face covered with lather,
and streaming with blood, flung open the door in a passion. “Oh, Dalton,
this you, and the ladies here!” said he, springing back ashamed, as
Kate's hearty burst of laughter greeted him. “Come in, Dalton, come in,”
said he, dragging the father forward and shutting the door upon him. “I
was longing to see you, man; I was just thinking how I could have five
minutes' talk with you. What answer have you given to the letter they
've sent you?”
“What d' ye think?” said Dalton, jocularly, as he seated himself in a
comfortable chair.
“What do I think?” repeated he, twice or thrice over. “Egad, I don't
know what to think! I only know what to hope, and wish it may have
been!”
“And what's that?” said Dalton, with a look of almost sternness, for he
was not ignorant of the doctor's sentiments on the subject.
“A refusal, of course,” said Grounsell, who never yet was deterred by a
look, a sign, or an innuendo, from any expression of his sentiments.
“And why so, sir?” rejoined Dalton, warmly.
“On every ground in the world: What has your fine, generous-hearted,
dear child in common with that vile world of envy, malice, and all
wickedness you 'd throw her amongst? What similarity in thought,
feeling, or instinct between her and that artificial class with whom you
would associate her, with their false honor, false principle, and false
delicacy nothing real and substantial about them but their wickedness?
If you were a silly woman, like the mother in the 'Vicar of Wakefield,'
I could forgive you; but a man a hardened, worldly man, that has tasted
poverty, and knows the rubs of life. I 've no patience with you, d--n me
if I have!”
“A little more of this, and I 'll have none with you,” said Dalton, as
he clenched his fist, and struck his knee a hard blow. “You presume to
talk of us as people whose station was always what our present means
imply; but I 'd have you to know that we 've better blood in our veins--”
“Devil take your blood! you've made me spill mine again,” cried
Grounsell, as he sliced a piece off his chin, and threw down the
razor in a torrent of anger, while Dalton grinned a look of malicious
satisfaction. “Could n't your good blood have kept you above anything
like dependence?”
Dalton sprang to his feet, and clutching the chair, raised it in the
air; but as suddenly dashed it on the floor again, without speaking.
“Go on,” cried Grounsell, daring him. “I'd rather you 'd break my skull
than that dear girl's heart; and that 's what you 're bent on. Ay, break
her heart! no less. You can't terrify me, man, by those angry looks. You
can't wound me, either, by retaliating, and calling me a dependant. I
know I am such. I know well all the ignominy, all the shame; but I know,
too, all the misery of the position. But, mark me, the disgrace and the
sorrow end where they begin, with myself alone. I have none to blush
for me; I stand alone in the world, a poor, scathed, sapless, leafless
trunk. But it is not so with you. Come, come, Dalton, you fancy that you
know something of life because you have passed so many years of it among
your equals and neighbors in your own 'country; but you know nothing
absolutely nothing of the world as it exists here.”
A hearty but contemptuous laugh broke from Dalton as he heard this
speech. It was indeed somewhat of a surprise to listen to such a charge.
He, Peter Dalton, that knew a spavined horse, or could detect a windgall
better than any man in the county; he, that never was “taken in” by a
roarer, nor deceived by a crib-biter, to tell him that he knew nothing
of life!
“That'll do, doctor, that'll do,” said he, with a most compassionating
smile at the other's ignorance. “I hope you know more about medicine
than you seem to do about men and women;” and, with these words, he left
the room, banging the door after him as he went, and actually ashamed
that he had been betrayed into warmth by one so evidently deficient in
the commonest knowledge of the world.
[Illustration: 228]
“I 'm sorry I kept you waiting, girls,” said he, approaching them. “And,
indeed, I might have spent my time better, too. But no matter; we must
try and find out her Ladyship now, for the morning is slipping over.”
As he spoke, George Onslow appeared, and recognizing the party with much
cordiality, conducted them to the breakfast-room, where Sir Stafford,
Lady Hester, and Miss Onslow were seated. If Sydney's reception of the
two sisters was less enthusiastic than Lady Hester's, it was not less
kind. Nelly was won almost instantaneously by the unaffected ease
and simplicity of her manner. As for Dalton himself, her Ladyship had
determined to carry him by storm. She suffered him to declaim about his
ancestors and their wealth; heard him with assumed interest in all
his interminable stories of Dal tons for six generations; and artfully
opposed to his regrets at the approaching departure of his daughter
the ingenious consolation that she was not about to sojourn with mere
strangers, but with those united to her by the ties of kindred.
George had, meanwhile, made two or three efforts to engage Kate in
conversation; but, whether from the preoccupation of her mind, agitated
as it well might be at such a moment, or that his topics were so utterly
new and strange to her, his attempt was not attended with any signal
success. A sense of shame, too, at the disparity of her own and her
sister's appearance, in contrast with the quiet elegance of Lady Hester
and Miss Onslow's dress, oppressed her. Strange was it that this feeling
should have agitated her now, she who always hitherto had never wasted a
thought on such matters, and yet she felt it acutely; and as she glanced
from the rustling robe of silk to the folds of her own homely costume,
her heart beat painfully, and her breathing came short. Was she already
changed, that thoughts tike these could impress her so strongly? Had
Adam's first shame descended to his daughter? “How unlike I am to them!”
was the bitter thought that rose to her mind, and ate like a cancer into
her heart.
The sense of inferiority, galling and torturing as it is, becomes
infinitely more unendurable when connected with matters of trivial
importance. There is a sense of indignant anger in the feeling that
we are surpassed by what seem the mere conventionalities and tricks of
society, and although Kate knew not the source of her unhappiness, some
of it lay in this fact. Every little gesture, every motion, the merest
peculiarities of voice or accent, now struck her as distinctive of a
class, a class to which no imitation would ever give her a resemblance.
If it were not for very shame, she would have drawn back now at the
eleventh hour. More than once was she on the verge of confessing what
was passing within her mind; but fears of various kinds, of her father's
anger, of ridicule, of the charge of frivolity, all conspired to keep
her silent, and she sat and listened to descriptions of pleasure and
scenes wherein she had already lost every interest, and which somehow
came associated with a sense of her own inferiority.
Never did home seem so regrettable as in that moment: the humble
fireside in winter; the happy evenings with little Hanserl; the summer's
day rambles in the forest; their little feasts beside the waterfall,
under the ivy-clad walls of Eberstein, all rose before her. They were
pleasures which had no alloy in her own humble lot, and why desert them?
She had almost gained courage to say that she would not, when a chance
word caught her ear one word how little to hang a destiny upon! It was
Lady Hester, who, conversing in a half-whisper with Mr. Dalton, said,
“She will be perfectly beautiful when dressed becomingly.”
Was this, then, all that was needed to give her the stamp and semblance
of the others? Oh, if she could believe it! If she could but fancy that,
at some future time, such graceful elegance should be her own, that
gentle languor, that chastened quietude of Sydney, or that sparkling
lightness of Lady Hester herself!
“What time de horses, saar?” said the courier, popping his head into the
room.
“I scarcely know what do you say, Lady Hester?”
“I 'm quite ready this instant if you like indeed, I 'm always the
first,” said she, gayly; “nobody travels with less preparation than I
do. There, see all I want!” and she pointed to a fan, and a book, and a
smelling-bottle, as if all her worldly effects and requirements went no
further, and that four great imperials and a dozen capacious boxes
were not packed with her wardrobe. “I do detest the worry and fuss some
people make about a journey for a week, or even a month beforehand; they
unsettle themselves and every one around them; putting under lock
and key half the things of every-day utility, and making a kind of
'jail-delivery' of all the imprisoned old cloaks and dresses of the
toilet. As for me, I take the road as I 'd go to the Opera, or drive out
in the Park I ask for my bonnet, that's all.”
There was some truth in this. Her Ladyship did, in fact, give herself
not a whit more thought or consideration for preparation of any kind,
than if the excursion had been a promenade.
“It is now two o'clock,” said Sir Stafford, “and if we mean to reach
Offenburg to-night we must not lose more time. Isn't it Offenburg you
advise as our halt, Mr. Jekyl?”
“Yes, Sir Stafford,” simpered out that bland personage. “It is a most
comfortable little inn, and a very praiseworthy cook.”
“By the bye, has any one thought of ordering luncheon here?” cried
George.
Jekyl gave a nod, to intimate that he had taken that precaution.
“And, Mr. Jekyl,” said Lady Hester, “what of those bullfinches, for I
must have them?”
“They are safely caged and packed in our britzska, madam. You 'll also
find that your sketch-book and the water-colors are available at any
moment, Miss Onslow,” said he, with a respectful gesture. She smiled,
and bowed her thanks in silence.
“And de horses, saar?” asked the courier once more, for during this
colloquy he had been standing in expectation of his orders.
“Do tell him, Mr. Jekyl,” said Lady Hester, with that tone of languor
that bespoke her dislike to the trouble of even a trifling degree of
resolution.
“I think we shall say in one hour, Gregoire,” said Jekyl, mildly. “And,
perhaps, it would be better that you should see--” What this matter
was that the courier should bestow his special attention upon is not on
record in this history, inasmuch as that when the speaker had reached
thus far, he passed out of the door, talking as he went, in a low and
confidential voice.
“Capital fellow Jekyl!” exclaimed George; “he forgets nothing.”
“He appears to be a most accomplished traveller,” said Sir Stafford.
“And such a linguist!” said Sydney.
“And so amusing!” added my Lady.
“And such a rogue!” muttered Dalton to himself, who, although so open to
any imposition that took the form of flattery, could at once detect the
knavery that was practised upon others, and who, at a glance, read the
character of the new acquaintance.
“Don't you like the stir and excitement of the road, my dear child?”
said Lady Hester to Kate, who, with very red eyes and very pale cheeks,
stood in a window to avoid being observed. “There is something so
adventurous about a journey always. One may be robbed, you know, or the
carriage upset, as happened to ourselves t' other day; or mistaken for
somebody else, and carried off to prison. It gives such a flurry to
the spirits to think of these things, and a life of monotony is so very
detestable.”
Kate tried to smile an assent, and Lady Hester ran on in the same
strain, extolling the delights of anything and everything that promised
an excitement. “You know, my dear child, that this little place has
almost been the death of me,” added she. “I never was so bored in all my
life; and I vow I shall detest a mill and a pine-forest to the last day
I live. If it had not been for you and your sweet sister, I do not know
what we should have clone; but it 's all over now. The dreary interval
is passed, and when we turn the foot of that hill yonder, we shall have
seen the last of it.”
Kate's heart was almost bursting as she heard these words. To speak thus
of the little valley would have been a profanation at any time, but to
do so now, when she was about to leave it, when she was about to tear
herself away from all the ties of love and affection, seemed an actual
cruelty.
“Small places are my aversion,” continued Lady Hester, who, when
satisfied with her own talk, never cared much what effect it was
producing upon others. “One grows down insensibly to the measure of a
petty locality, with its little interests, its little people, and its
little gossip don't you think so, dear?”
“We were so happy here!” murmured Kate, in a voice that a choking
fulness of her throat almost stifled.
“Of course you were, child, very happy; and it was very good of you
to be so. Yes, very good and very right.” Here Lady Hester assumed a
peculiar tone, which she always put on whenever she fancied that she
was moralizing. “Natural amiability of disposition, and all that sort
of thing, is very nice indeed; but there 's luncheon, I see, and now, my
dear, let us take our places without loss of time. George, will you give
your arm to Miss Dalton? Mr. Dalton but where 's Mr. Dalton?”
“Papa has taken him with him to his dressing-room,” answered Sydney,
“but begged you'd not wait; they'll be back presently.”
“No lady does wait at luncheon,” said Lady Hester, snappishly, while,
drawing Kate's arm within her own, she led her into the adjoining room.
The party had scarcely seated themselves at table when they were joined
by Jekyl. Indeed, Lady Hester had only time to complain of his absence
when he appeared; for it was a trick of that gentleman's tact merely to
make himself sufficiently regretted not to be blamed. And now he came
to say that everything was ready, the postilions in the saddle, the
carriages drawn up before the door, the relays all been ordered along
the road, the supper bespoken for the end of the journey. These pleasant
facts he contrived to season with a running fire of little gossip and
mimicry, in which the landlord, and Gregoire, and Mademoiselle Celestine
were the individuals personated.
Never were Mr. Jekyl's peculiar abilities more in request; for the
moment was an awkward and embarrassing one for all, and none, save
himself, were able to relieve its seriousness. Even Nelly smiled at
the witty sallies and playful conceits of this clever talker, and felt
almost grateful to him for the momentary distraction he afforded her
from gloomier thoughts. With such success did he exert himself, that all
the graver sentiments of the occasion were swallowed up in the pleasant
current of his small-talk, and no time given for a thought of that
parting which was but a few minutes distant. Sir Stafford and Mr. Dalton
were not sorry to discover the party in this pleasant humor, and readily
chimed in with the gayety around them.
The bugle of the postilions at length announced that “time was up,” and
the half-hour, which German politeness accords to leave-taking, expired.
A dead silence succeeded the sound, and, as if moved by the same
instinctive feeling, the two sisters arose and withdrew into a window.
Close locked in each other's arms, neither could speak. Kate's thick
sobs came fast and full, and her heart beat against her sister's side
as though it were bursting. As for Nelly, all that she had meant to say,
the many things she had kept for the last moment, were forgotten, and
she could but press the wet cheek to her own, and murmur a tremulous
blessing.
“Oh, if I could but remain with you, Nelly dearest,” sobbed Kate; “I
feel even already my isolation. Is it too late, sister dear, is it too
late to go back?”
“Not if this be not a sudden impulse of sorrow for parting, Kate; not if
you think you would be happier here.”
“But papa! how will he--what will he--”
She had not time for more, when her father joined them. A certain flurry
of his manner showed that he was excited by talking and wine together.
There was that in the expression of his features, too, that betokened a
mind ill at ease with itself a restless alternating between two courses.
“'Tis you are the lucky girl, Kate,” said he, drawing his arm around
her, and pressing her to him. “This day's good luck pays me off for many
a hard blow of fortune. They 're kind people you are going with, real
gentry, and our own blood into the bargain.”
A thick heavy sob was all the answer she could make.
“To be sure you're sorry; why would n't you be sorry, leaving your own
home and going away among strangers? and 't is I am sorry to let you
go.”
“Are you so, dearest papa? Are you really sorry to part with me? Would
you rather I 'd stay behind with you and Nelly?” cried she, looking up
at him with eyes swimming in tears.
“Would it, is it?” said he, eagerly, as he kissed her forehead twice;
then, suddenly checking himself, he said, in an altered voice, “but that
would be selfish, Kate, nothing else than downright selfish. Ask Nelly,
there, if that's my nature? Not that Nelly will ever give me too good
a character!” added he, bitterly. But poor Ellen neither heard the
question nor the taunt; her mind was travelling many a long mile away in
realms of dreary speculation.
“I 'm sorry to interrupt a moment like this,” said Sir Stafford, “but
I believe I must take you away, Miss Dalton; our time is now of the
shortest.”
One fond and long embrace the sisters took, and Kate was led away
between Sir Stafford and her father, while Nelly went through a round
of leave-takings with the others in a state of semi-consciousness that
resembled a dream. The courteous flatteries of Lady Hester fell as
powerless on her ear as the rougher good wishes of Grounsell. George
Onslow's respectful manner was as unnoticed as the flippant smartness
of Albert Jekyl's. Even Sydney's gentle attempt at consolation was heard
without heeding; and when one by one they had gone and left her alone
in that dreary room, she was not more aware of her solitude than when
they stood around her.
Couriers and waiters passed in and out to see that nothing had been
forgotten. Doors were slammed on every side, loud voices were calling,
all the turmoil of a departure was there; but she knew nothing of it.
Even when the loud cracking of the postilions' whips echoed in the
courtyard, and the quick clatter of horses' feet and heavy wheels
resounded through the arched doorway, she was still unmoved; nor did she
recover full liberty of thought till her father stood beside her, and
said, “Come, Nelly, let us go home.”
Then she arose, and took his arm without a word. She would have given
her life to have been able to speak even a few words of comfort to the
poor old man, whose cheeks were wet with tears, but she could not utter
a syllable.
“Ay, indeed,” muttered he, “it will be a dreary home now.”
Not another word was spoken by either as they trod their way along the
silent streets, over which the coming gloom of evening threw a mournful
shadow. They walked, with bent-down heads, as if actually fearing to
recognize the objects that they had so often looked upon with her, and,
slowly traversing the little Platz, they gained their own door. There
they halted, and, from habit, pulled the bell. Its little tinkle, heard
in the stillness, seemed suddenly to recall them both to thought; for
Dalton, with a melancholy smile, said,
“'T is old Andy is coming now! 'T is n't her foot I hear! Oh, Nelly,
Nelly, how did you ever persuade me to this! Sure, I know I 'll never be
happy again!”
Nelly made no answer. The injustice of the speech was well atoned for in
her mind by the thought that, in shifting the blame from himself to her,
her father might find some sort of consolation; well satisfied to become
the subject of his reproach if the sacrifice could alleviate his sorrow.
“Take that chair away; throw it out of the window,” cried he, angrily.
“It breaks my heart to look at it.” And with this he leaned his head
upon the table, and sobbed like a child.