A youthful heir never experienced a more glorious burst of delight on
the morning of his twenty-first birthday, than did Peter Dalton feel
as he sauntered down the principal street of Baden. It was with a
step almost elastic, and his head high, that he went along; not humbly
returning the “Good-day” of the bowing shopkeeper, but condescendingly
calling his worthy creditors--for such nearly all of them were--by their
Christian names, he gave them to believe that he was still, as ever,
their kind and generous patron.
There was scarcely a shop or a stall he did not linger beside for a
minute or two. Everywhere there was something not only which he liked,
but actually needed. Never did wants accumulate so rapidly! With
a comprehensive grasp they extended to every branch of trade and
merchandise,--ranging from jewelry to gin, and taking in all, from fur
slippers to sausages.
His first visit was to Abel Kraus, the banker and moneylender,--a little
den, which often before he had entered with a craven heart and a sinking
spirit; for Abel was a shrewd old Israelite, and seemed to read the very
schedule of a man's debts, in the wrinkles around his mouth. Dalton now
unbarred the half door and stalked in, as if he would carry the place by
storm.
The man of money was munching his breakfast of hard eggs and black
bread,--the regulation full diet of misers in all Germany,--when Peter
cavalierly touched his hat and sat down. Not a word did Abel speak.
No courtesies about the season or the weather, the funds or the
money-market, were worth bestowing on so poor a client; and so he ate
on, scarcely deigning even a glance towards him.
“When you 've done with the garlic, old boy, I 've some work for you,”
said Dalton, crossing his arms pretentiously.
“But what if I do not accept your work? What if I tell you that we shall
have no more dealings together? The two last bills--”
“They'll be paid, Abel,--they'll be paid. Don't put yourself in a
passion. Times is improving,--Ireland 's looking up, man.”
“I think she is,” muttered the Jew, insolently; “she is looking up like
the beggar that asks for alms yonder.”
“Tear and ages!” cried Dalton, with a stroke of his fist upon the
table that made every wooden bowl of gold and silver coin jump and ring
again,--“tear and ages! take care what you say! By the soul in my body,
if you say a syllable against the old country, I 'll smash every stick
in the place, and your own bones, besides! Ye miserable ould heathen!
that has n't a thought above sweating a guinea,--how dare you do it?”
“Why do you come into my counting-house to insult me, saar? Why you come
where no one ask you?”
“Is it waiting for an invitation I'd be, Abel? Is it expecting a card
with ould Kraus's compliments?” said Dalton, laughing. “Sure, isn't the
place open like the fish-market, or the ball-room, or the chapel, or any
place of diversion? There, now; keep your temper, old boy. I tell ye,
there's luck before ye! What d'ye think of that?” And, as he spoke, he
drew forth one of the bills, and handed it across the counter; and then,
after gloating, as it were, over the changed expression of the Jew's
features, he handed a second, and a third.
“These are good papers, Herr von Dalton; no better! The exchange, too,
is in your favor; we are giving--let me see--ten and three-eighths
'Convenzions-Gelt'.”
“To the devil I fling your three-eighths!” cried Dalton. “I never forgot
the old song at school that says, 'Fractions drives me mad.'”
“Ah, always droll,----always merry!” cackled out Abel. “How will you
have these moneys?”
“In a bag,----a good strong canvas-bag!”
“Yes, to be sure, in a bag; but I was asking how you 'd have them. I
mean, in what coin,--in what for 'Gelt.'”
“Oh, that's it!” cried Dalton. “Well, give me a little of everything.
Let me have 'Louis' to spend, and 'Gros-chen' to give the beggars.
Bank-notes, too, I like; one feels no regretting parting with the dirty
paper that neither jingles nor shines: and a few crown pieces, Abel; the
ring of them on a table is like a brass band!”
“So you shall,--so you shall, Herr von Dalton. Ha, ha, ha! you are the
only man ever make me laugh!”
“By my conscience, then, it's more than you deserve, Abel; for you've
very often nearly made _me_ cry,” said Dalton, with a little sigh over
the past, as he recalled it to his memory.
The Jew did not either heed or hear the remark; for, having put away the
remnant of his frugal breakfast, he now began a very intricate series of
calculations respecting interest and exchange and commission, at which
poor Dalton gazed in a most complete mystification.
“Fourteen hundred and sixty-three, at ten three-eighths,--less cost of
commission; I will not charge you the one per cent--”
“Charge all that's fair, and no favor, old boy.”
“I mean that I will not treat the Herr von Dalton like a stranger----”
“I was going to say, treat me like a Christian,” said Dalton, laughing;
“but maybe that's the most expensive thing going.”
“Always droll,--always have his jest,” cackled Abel. “Now there's an
agio on gold, you pay five kreutzers for every Louis.”
“By George! I 'll take a ship-load of them at the same price.”
“Ha! U mean you pay that over the value,” said the Jew.
“Faix! I often promised to pay more,” said Dalton, sighing; “and what's
worse, on stamped paper too!”
As the Jew grew deeper in his figures, Dalton rambled on about Ireland
and her prospects, for he wished it to be supposed that his present
affluence was the long-expected remittance from his estates. “We 'll
get right yet,” muttered he, “if they 'll only give us time; but ye see,
this is the way it is: we're like an overloaded beast that can't pull
his cart through the mud, and then the English comes up, and thrashes
us. By course, we get weaker and weaker--licking and abusing never made
any one strong yet. At last down we come on our knees with a smash.
Well, ye 'd think, then, that anybody with a grain of sense would say,
'Take some of the load off the poor devil's back--ease him a bit tell he
gets strength.' Nothing of the kind. All they do is to tell us that we
ought to be ashamed of ourselves for falling--that every other people
was doing well but ourselves--that it's a way we have of lying down,
just to get somebody to pick us up, and such like. And the blaguard
newspapers raises the cry against us, and devil a thief or a
housebreaker or a highway robber they take, that they don't put him
down in the police reports as a 'hulking Irishman,' or a 'native of the
Emerald Isle.' 'Paddy Fitzsimons, or Peter O'Shea, was brought up this
mornin' for cutting off his wife's head with a trowel.' 'Molly Maguire
was indicted for scraping her baby to death with an oyster-shell.'
That's the best word they have for us! 'Ain't ye the plague of our
lives?' they're always saying. 'Do ye ever give us a moment's peace?'
And why the blazes don't ye send us adrift, then? Why don't ye let us
take our own road? We don't want your company--faix! we never found
it too agreeable. It's come to that now, that it would better be a
Hottentot or a Chinese than an Irishman! Oh dear, oh dear, but we 're
hardly treated!”
“Will you run your eye over that paper, Herr von Dalton, and see if it
be all correct?” said Abel, handing him a very complex-looking array of
figures.
“'T is little the wiser I 'll be when I do,” muttered Dalton to himself,
as he put on his spectacles and affected to consider the statement.
“Fourteen hundred and sixty-three----I wish they were pounds, but they
're only florins--and two thousand eight hundred and twenty-one--five
and two is seven and nine is fifteen. No, seven and nine is--I wish
Nelly was here. Bad luck to the multiplication-table. I used to be
licked for it every day when I was a boy, and it's been a curse to me
since I was a man. Seven and nine is fourteen, or thereabouts--a figure
would n't signify much, one way or f other. Interest at three-quarters
for twenty-one days--there I 'm done complete! Out of the four first
rules in Gough I'm a child, and indeed, to tell the truth, I 'm no great
things after subtraction.”
“You will perceive that I make the charges for postage, commission,
and other expenses in one sum. This little claim of fifty-eight florins
covers all.”
“Well, and reasonable it is, that I must say,” cried Dalton, who,
looking at the whole as a lucky windfall, was by no means indisposed to
see others share in the good fortune. “How much is coming to me, Abel?”
“Your total balance is four thousand two hundred and twenty-seven
florins eight kreutzers, Müntze,” said Abel, giving the sum a resonance
of voice highly imposing and impressive.
“How many pounds is that now?” asked Peter.
“Something over three hundred and fifty pounds sterling, sir.”
“Is it? Faith! a neat little sum. Not but I often got rid of as much of
an evening at blind-hookey, with old Carters, of the 'Queen's Bays.' Ye
don't know Carters? Faix! and ye 'd be the very man he would know, if
ye were in the same neighborhood. I wish he was here to-day; and that
reminds me that I must go over to the market and see what's to be had.
Ye don't happen to know if there's any fish to-day?”
Abel could not answer this important question, but offered to send his
servant to inquire; but Dalton, declining the attention, strolled out
into the street, jingling his Napoleons in his pocket as he went, and
feeling all the importance and self-respect that a well-filled purse
confers on him who has long known the penniless straits of poverty.
He owed something on every side of him; but he could bear to face his
creditors now; he was neither obliged to be occupied with a letter, nor
sunk in a fit of abstraction as he passed them; nay, he was even jocular
and familiar, and ventured to criticise the wares for which, once, he
was almost grateful.
“Send your boy down to the house for some money--ye need n't mind the
bill; but I 'll give you fifty florins. There's a trifle on account. Put
them ten Naps, to my credit; that will wipe off some of our scores; it's
good for forty crowns.” Such were the brief sentences that he addressed
to the amazed shopkeepers as he passed along; for Peter, like Louis
Philippe, couldn't bear the sight of an account, and always paid
something in liquidation. It was with great reluctance that he abstained
from inviting each of them to dinner; nothing but his fear of
displeasing Nelly could have restrained him. He would have asked the
whole village if he dared, ay, and made them drunk, too, if they 'd have
let him. “She's so high in her notions,” he kept muttering to himself:
“that confounded pride about family, and the like! Well, thank God! I
never had that failing. If I knew we were better than other people, it
never made me unneighborly; I was always free and affable; my worst
enemy could n't say other of me. I 'd like to have these poor devils to
dinner, and give them a skinful for once in their lives, just to drink
Kate's health, and Frank's; they 'd think of the Daltons for many a long
year to come--the good old Dalton blood, that never mixed with the
puddle! What a heavenly day it is! and an elegant fine market. There's a
bit of roasting beef would feed a dozen; and maybe that isn't a
fine trout! Well, well, but them's cauliflowers!. Chickens and
ducks--chickens and ducks--a whole street of them! And there's a wild
turkey--mighty good eating, too! and venison!--ah! but it has n't the
flavor, nor the fat! Faix! and not bad either, a neck of mutton with
onions, if one had a tumbler of whiskey-punch afterwards.”
Thus communing with himself, he passed along, totally inattentive to
the solicitations of those who usually supplied the humble wants of his
household, and who now sought to tempt him by morsels whose merits lay
rather in frugality than good cheer.
As Dalton drew near his own door, he heard the sounds of a stranger's
voice from within. Many a time a similar warning had apprised him that
some troublesome dun had gained admittance, and was torturing poor Nelly
with his importunities; and on these occasions Peter was wont, with more
cunning than kindness, to steal noiselessly downstairs again, and wait
till the enemy had evacuated the fortress. Now, however, a change had
come over his fortunes, and with his hat set jauntily on one side, and
his hands stuck carelessly in his pockets, he kicked open the door with
his foot, and entered.
Nelly was seated near the stove, in conversation with a man who, in
evident respect, had taken his place near the door, and from which
he rose to salute Dalton as he came in. The traveller--for such his
“blouse” or travelling-frock showed him to be, as well as the knapsack
and stick at his feet----was a hale, fresh-looking man of about thirty;
his appearance denoting an humble walk in life, but with nothing that
bordered on poverty.
“Herr Brawer, papa,--Adolf Brawer,” said Nelly, whispering the last
words, to remind him more quickly of the name.
“Servant, sir,” said Dalton, condescendingly; for the profound deference
of the stranger's manner at once suggested to him their relative
conditions.
“I kiss your hand,” said Adolf, with the respectful salutation of a
thorough Austrian, while he bowed again with even deeper humility.
“The worthy man who was so kind to Frank, papa,” said Nelly, in deep
confusion, as she saw the scrutinizing and almost depreciating look with
which Dalton regarded him.
“Oh, the pedler!” said Dalton, at last, as the remembrance flashed on
him. “This is the pedler, then?”
“Yes, papa. He came out of his way, from Durlach, Just to tell us about
Frank; to say how tall he had grown--taller than himself, he says--and
so good-looking, too. It was so kind in him.”
“Oh, very kind, no doubt of it,----very kind indeed!” said Dalton, with
a laugh of most dubious expression. “Did he say nothing of Frank's debt
to him? Has n't that 'I O U' You were talking to me about anything to say
to this visit?”
“He never spoke of it, never alluded to it,” cried she, eagerly.
“Maybe he won't be so delicate with me,” said Dalton. “Sit down, Mr.
Brawer; make no ceremony here. We 're stopping in this little place till
our house is got ready for us. So you saw Frank, and he's looking well?”
“The finest youth in the regiment. They know him through all Vienna as
the 'Handsome Cadet.'”
“And so gentle-mannered and unaffected,” cried Nelly.
“Kind and civil to his inferiors?” said Dalton; “I hope he's that?”
“He condescended to know _me_,” said Brawer, “and call me his friend.”
“Well, and maybe ye were,” said Peter, with a majestic wave of the hand.
“A real born gentleman, as Frank is, may take a beggar off the streets
and be intimate with him. Them's my sentiments. Mark what I say, Mr.
Brawer, and you 'll find, as you go through life, if it is n't true;
good blood may mix with the puddle every day of the year, and not be the
worse of it!”
“Frank is so grateful to you,” broke in Nelly, eagerly; “and we are so
grateful for all your kindness to him!”
“What an honor to _me!_ that he should so speak of me!” said the pedler,
feelingly,--“I, who had no claim upon his memory.”
“There was a trifle of money between you, I think,” said Dalton,
ostentatiously; “have you any notion of what it is?”
“I came not here to collect a debt, Herr von Dalton,” said Adolf,
rising, and assuming a look of almost fierceness in his pride.
“Very well, very well; just as you please,” said Dalton, carelessly; “it
will come with his other accounts in the half-year; for, no matter how
liberal a man is to his boys, he'll be pestered with bills after
all! There's blaguards will be lending them money, and teachin' them
extravagance, just out of devilment, I believe. I know well how it used
to be with myself when I was in old 'Trinity,' long ago. There was a
little chap of the name of Foley, and, by the same token, a pedler,
too----”
“Oh, papa, he's going away, and you have n't thanked him yet!” cried
Nelly, feelingly.
“What a hurry he's in!” said Dalton, as he watched the eager haste with
which the pedler was now arranging the straps of his knapsack.
“Would you not ask him to stay--to dine with us?” faltered Nelly, in a
low, faint whisper.
“The pedler--to dine?” asked Dalton, with a look of astonishment
“Frank's only friend!” sighed she, mournfully.
“By my conscience, sometimes I don't know if I 'm standing on my head
or my heels,” cried Dalton, as he wiped his brows, with a look of utter
bewilderment. “A pedler to dinner! There now--that's it--more haste
worse speed: he's broke that strap in his hurry!”
“Shall I sew it for you?” said Nelly, stooping down and taking out her
needle as she spoke.
“Oh, Fräulein, how good of you!” cried Adolf; and his whole face beamed
with an expression of delight. “How dearly shall I value this old pack
hereafter!”
These last words, scarcely muttered above his breath, were overheard by
Nelly, and a deep blush covered her cheeks as she bent over the work.
“Where's your own maid? Couldn't one of the women do it as well?” cried
Dalton, impatiently. “Ye'd not believe, Mr. Brawer, that we have
the house full of servants this minute; a set of devils feasting and
fattening at one's expense.”
“Thanks, Fräulein,” said the pedler, as she finished; “You little know
how I shall treasure this hereafter.”
“Ask him to stay, papa,” whispered Nelly once more.
“Sure he's a pedler!” muttered Dalton, indignantly.
“At least thank him. Tell him you are grateful to him.”
“He 'd rather I 'd buy ten yards of damaged calico,--that's the flattery
_he_ 'd understand best,” said Dalton, with a grin.
“Farewell, Herr von Dalton. Farewell, Fräulein!” said Adolf. And with a
bow of deep respect he slowly retired from the room, while Nelly turned
to the window to conceal her shame and sorrow together.
“It was this very morning,” muttered Dalton, angrily, “when I spoke of
giving a little dinner-party, you did nothing but turn up your nose at
this, that, and t' other. There was nobody good enough, forsooth! There
was Monsieur Ratteau, the 'croupier' of the tables there, a very nice
man, with elegant manners and the finest shirt-studs ever I seen, and
you would n't hear of him.”'
Nelly heard little of this reproachful speech, for, sunk in the recess
of the window, she was following with her eyes the retiring figure of
Adolf Brawer. He had just crossed the “Plate,” and ere he turned into
a side street he stopped, wheeled round, and made a gesture of farewell
towards the spot where, unseen by him, Nelly was still standing.
“He is gone!” muttered she, half aloud.
“Well, God speed him!” rejoined Dalton, testily. “I never could abide a
pedler.”