While Mr. Dalton is accompanying his guests along the Lichtenthal Alley,
and describing the various objects of interest on either hand, we will
take the opportunity of explaining to our reader why it happened that
honest Peter no longer inhabited the little quiet quarters above the
toyshop.
By Kate's liberality, for some time back he had been most freely
supplied with money. Scarcely a week passed over without a line from
Abel Kraus to say that such or such a sum was placed to his credit; and
Dalton once more revelled in those spendthrift habits that he loved.
At moments, little flashes of prudential resolve would break upon him.
Thoughts of Ireland and of the “old place” would arise, and he would
half determine on some course of economy which might again restore
him to his home and country. But the slightest prospect of immediate
pleasure was sufficient to rout these wise resolves, and Baden was
precisely the spot to suggest such “distractions.” There was nothing
Peter so much liked in the life of this watering-place as the facility
with which acquaintance was formed. The stately reserve of English
people was his antipathy, and here he saw that all this was laid aside,
and that people conversed freely with the neighbor that chance had
given, and that even intimacies grew up between those who scarcely knew
each other's names.
Whatever might be thought of these practices by more fastidious critics,
to Peter Dalton they appeared admirable. In his estimation the world was
a great Donnybrook Fair, where everybody came to amuse and be amused.
Grave faces and careworn looks, he thought, should stay at home, and not
disturb the harmony of what he deemed a great convivial gathering.
It may easily be guessed from this what class of persons found access
to his intimacy, and how every smooth-tongued adventurer, every
well-dressed and plausible-looking pretender to fashion, became his
companion. Nothing but honest Peter's ignorance of foreign languages set
any limit to his acquaintance; and, even with this, he had a shake-hands
intimacy with every Chevalier d'Industrie of France and Germany, and a
cigar-lending-and-lighting treaty with every long-haired Pole in Baden.
As he dined every day at the Cursaal, he seldom returned home of
an evening without some three or four chance acquaintances, whom he
presented to Nelly without knowing their names. But they were sure to be
“tip-top chaps,” and “up to everything.” Not that the latter eulogy was
much of an exaggeration; the majority of them, indeed, well deserving
such a panegyric. If Dalton's long stories about Ireland and its joys or
grievances were very uninteresting to these gentlemen, they found
some compensation in the goodness of his wine and the abundance of his
cigars; and hock and tobacco digested many a story which, without
such adjuncts, would never have found a listener. Play is, however, so
paramount to all else at Baden, that, as the season advanced, even a hot
supper from the “Russie” and an ice-pail full of champagne-flasks could
not attract the company from the fascinations of the gaming-table, and
Peter saw that his choice spirits were deserting him.
“You live so far away,” cried one. “Your house is full a mile from the
Cursaal.”
“There is such a climb-up to that crib of yours, Dalton,” cried another.
“One can't manage it in this hot weather. Why won't you pitch your
tent in the plain? It's like going up the Righi to try and reach your
quarters.”
Such and such like were the polite admonitions administered by those who
wanted a convenient lounge for their spare half-hours, and who, while
affecting to think of their friend, were simply consulting what suited
themselves. And is this philosophy confined only to Baden? Is not the
world full of friendships that, like cab-fares, are regulated by
the mile? The man who is half a brother to you while you live on the
Boulevard de Gand, becomes estranged from your bosom when you remove to
the Champs Élysées; and in these days of rapid transport, ten minutes'
walk would separate the most devoted attachments.
Dalton's pride was at first wounded by these remonstrances; but his
second thoughts led him to think them more reasonable, and even elevated
the grumblers in his esteem. “Sure, ain't they the height of the
fashion? Sure, is n't everybody trying to get them? Is it any wonder
they would n't scale a mountain for the sake of a glass of wine?” The
quiet home, so dear to him by many an association; the little window
that looked out upon the Alten Schloss, and beside which Nelly sat with
him each evening; the small garden underneath, where Hans cultivated
his beautiful carnations, and where many a little figure by Nelly's
hand graced some bed or alley,--all became now distasteful. “The stairs
creaked dreadfully; he did n't think they were quite safe. The ceilings
were so low, there was no breathing in the rooms. The hill would be
the death of him; he had pains in his knees for half the night after
he climbed it.” Even the bracing air of the mountain, that was his once
boast and pride, was now a “searching, cutting wind, that went through
you like a knife.” It was a mean-looking little place, too, over a
toy-shop, “and Hans himself was n't what he used to be.”
Alas! there was some truth in this last complaint He was more silent and
more absent in manner than ever; sometimes would pass whole days without
a word, or remain seated in his little garden absorbed in deep thought.
The frequenters of his shop would seek in vain for him; and were it not
for Nelly, who in her father's absence would steal down the stairs
and speak to them, the place would have seemed deserted. On one or
two occasions she had gone so far as to be his deputy, and sold little
articles for him; but her dread of her father's knowing it had made her
ill for half the day after.
It was, then, a dreadful blow to Nelly when her father decided on
leaving the place. Not alone that it was dear by so many memories, but
that its seclusion enabled her to saunter out at will under the shade of
the forest-trees, and roam for hours along the little lanes of the deep
wood. In Hans, too, she took the liveliest interest He had been their
friend when the world went worst with them; his kindness had lightened
many a weary burden, and his wise counsels relieved many a gloomy hour.
It was true that of late he was greatly altered. His books, his favorite
volumes of Uhland and Tieck, were never opened. He never sat, as of
yore, in the garden, burnishing up his quaint old fragments of armor,
or gazing with rapture on his strange amulets against evil. Even to the
little ballads that she sang he seemed inattentive and indifferent, and
would not stop to listen beneath the window as he once did.
His worldly circumstances, too, were declining. He neglected his shop
altogether; he made no excursions, as of old, to Worms or Nuremberg for
new toys. The young generation of purchasers found little they cared for
in his antiquated stores, and, after laughing at the quaint old devices
by which a past age were amused, they left him. It was in vain that
Nelly tried to infuse some interest into the pursuit which once had been
his passion. All the little histories he used to weave around his toys,
the delusions of fancy in which he revelled, were dissipated and gone,
and he seemed like one suddenly awakened from a delicious dream to
the consciousness of some afflicting fact He strenuously avoided the
Daltons, too, and even watched eagerly for moments of their absence
to steal out and walk in the garden. When by chance they did meet, his
manner, instead of its old cordiality, was cold and respectful; and
he, whose eyes once sparkled with delight when spoken to, now stood
uncovered, and with downcast looks, till they went by him.
No wonder, then, if Dalton thought him changed.
“'T is nothing but envy 's killing him, Nelly,” said he. “As long as we
were poor like himself, he was happy. It gratified the creature's pride
that we were behind with the rent; and while he was buying them images,
he was a kind of a patron to you; but he can't bear to see us well
off,----that's the secret of it all. 'Tis our prosperity is poison to
him.”
To no end did Nelly try to undeceive her father on this head. It was a
corollary to his old theory about “the 'bad dhrop' that was always in
low people.” In vain did she remind him of poor Hanserl's well-tried
friendship, and the delicacy of a kindness that in no rank of life could
have been surpassed. Dalton was rooted in his opinion, and opposition
only rendered him more unforgiving.
Quite forgetting the relations which once subsisted between them, he saw
nothing in Hanserl's conduct but black ingratitude. “The little chap,”
he would say, “was never out of the house; we treated him like one of
the family, and look at him now!
“You saw him yourself, Nelly,----you saw him shed tears the other day
when you spoke of the Princess. Was that spite, or not,--tell me that?
He could n't speak for anger when you told him Frank was an officer.”
“Oh, how you mistake these signs of emotion, dearest father.”
“Of course I do. I know nothing,--I 'm too old; I 'm in my dotage. 'Tis
my daughter Nelly understands the world, and is able to teach me.”
“Would that I knew even less of it! Would that I could fall back to the
ignorance of those days when all our world was within these walls!”
“And be cutting the images, I hope, again!” said he, scornfully; “why
don't you wish for that? It was an elegant trade for a young lady of
your name and family! Well, if there's anything drives me mad, it's to
think that all them blasted figures is scattered about the world, and
one does n't know at what minute they 'll turn up against you!”
“Nay, father,” said she, smiling sadly; “You once took an interest in
them great as my own.”
“It only shows, then, how poverty can break a man's spirit.”
Discussions like these, once or twice a week, only confirmed Dalton in
his dislike to his old abode, and Nelly at last saw that all resistance
to his will was hopeless. At last he peremptorily ordered her to give
Hans notice of their intended removal; for he had fixed upon a house in
the Lichtenthal Alley to suit them exactly. It was a villa which had a
few months before been purchased and fitted up by a young French count,
whose gains at the gaming table had been enormous. Scarcely, however,
had he taken possession of his sumptuous abode, than “luck” turned; he
lost everything in the world, and finished his career by suicide. In
a colony of gamblers, where superstition has an overweening influence,
none could be found rash enough to succeed to so ill-omened a
possession; and thus, for nigh half the season, the house continued shut
up and unoccupied. Dalton, whose mind was strongly tinctured with fears
of this kind, yet felt a species of heroism in showing that he was not
to be deterred by the dangers that others avoided; and as Abel Kraus, to
whom the property now belonged, continually assured him “it was just the
house for him,” Peter overcame his scruples, and went to see it.
Although of small extent, it was princely in its arrangements. Nothing
that French taste and elegance could supply was wanting, and it was a
perfect specimen of that costly splendor which in our own day rivals
all the gorgeous magnificence of “the Regency.” Indeed, it must be
owned that honest Peter thought it far too fine to live in; he trod the
carpets with a nervous fear of crushing the embroidery, and he sat down
on the brocaded sofa with as much terror as though it were glass. How he
was ever to go asleep in a bed where Cupid and angels were sculptured in
such endless profusion, he couldn't imagine; and he actually shrank back
with shame from his own face, as he surveyed it within the silver frame
of a costly toilet-glass.
Such were his impressions as he walked through the rooms with Abel, and
saw, as the covers were removed from lustres and mirrors, some new and
more dazzling object at each moment reveal itself. He listened with
astonishment to the account of the enormous sums lavished on these
sumptuous articles, and heard how twenty, or thirty, or forty thousand
francs had been given for this or that piece of luxury.
What was forty Napoleons a month for such splendor! Kraus was actually
lending him the villa at such a price; and what a surprise for Nelly,
when he should show her the little drawing-room in rose-damask he meant
for herself; and then there was a delightful arbor in the garden to
smoke in; and the whole distance from the Cursaal was not above ten
minutes' walk. Peter's fancy ran over rapidly all the jollifications
such a possession would entail; and if he wished, for his own sake, that
there were less magnificence, he consoled himself by thinking of the
effect it would have upon others. As he remarked to himself, “There 's
many thinks more of the gilding than the gingerbread!”
If Nelly's sorrow at leaving Hanserl's house was deep and sincere, it
became downright misery when she learned to what they were about to
remove. She foresaw the impulse his extravagance would receive from
such a residence, and how all the costliness of decoration would
suggest wasteful outlay. Her father had not of late confided to her
the circumstances of his income. He who once could not change a crown
without consulting her, and calling in her aid to count the pieces and
test their genuineness, would now negotiate the most important dealings
without her knowledge. From his former distrust of Kraus he grew to
believe him the perfection of honesty. There is something so captivating
to a wasteful man in being freely supplied with money,--with receiving
his advances in a spirit of apparent frankness,----that he would find it
impossible to connect such liberality with a mean or interested motive.
Kraus's little back room was then a kind of California, where he could
dig at discretion; and if in an unusual access of prudence honest Peter
would ask, “How do we stand, Abel?” Kraus was sure to be too busy to
look at the books, and would simply reply, “What does it matter? How
much do you want?” From such a dialogue as this Dalton would issue forth
the happiest of men, muttering to himself, how differently the world
would have gone with him if he “had known that little chap thirty or
forty years ago.”
Without one gleam of comfort,--with terror on every side,--poor Nelly
took possession of her splendor to pass days of unbroken sorrow. Gloomy
as the unknown future seemed, the tidings she received of Kate and Frank
were still sadder.
From her sister she never heard directly. A few lines from Madame de
Heidendorf, from a country house near St. Petersburg, told her that the
Prince had not succeeded in obtaining the Imperial permission, and that
the marriage was deferred indefinitely. Meanwhile the betrothed Princess
lived a life of strict seclusion as the etiquette required, seeing
none but such members of the royal family as deigned to visit her.
Poor Nelly's heart was nigh to bursting as she thought over her dear
Kate,--the gay and brilliant child, the happy, joyous girl, now pining
away in dreary imprisonment. This image was never out of her mind, and
she would sit hour after hour in tears for her poor sister. What future
happiness, however great it might be, could repay a youth passed in
misery like this? What splendor could efface the impression of this
dreary solitude, away from all who loved and cared for her?
Of Frank, the tidings were worse again. A short and scarcely
intelligible note from Count Stephen informed her that, “although the
court-martial had pronounced a sentence of death, the Emperor, rather
than stain a name distinguished by so many traits of devotion to his
house, had commuted the punishment to imprisonment for life at Moncacs.
There was,” he added, “a slight hope that, after some years, even
this might be relaxed, and banishment from the Imperial dominions
substituted. Meanwhile,” said the old soldier, “I have retired forever
from a career where, up to this hour, no stain of dishonor attached to
me. The name which I bore so long with distinction is now branded with
shame, and I leave the service to pass the few remaining days of my life
wherever obscurity can best hide my sorrow and my ignominy.”
Although Nelly at once answered this afflicting letter, and wrote again
and again to Vienna, to Milan, and to Prague, she never received any
reply, nor could obtain the slightest clew to what the sentence on Frank
referred. To conceal these terrible events from her father was her first
impulse; and although she often accused herself of duplicity for so
doing, she invariably came round to her early determination. To what
end embitter the few moments of ease he had enjoyed for years past? Why
trouble him about what is irremediable, and make him miserable about
those from whom his careless indifference asks nothing and requires
nothing? Time enough when the future looks brighter to speak of the
sorrows of the past!
This task of secrecy was not a difficult one. Dalton's was not a nature
to speculate on possible mischances so much as to hope for impossible
good turns of fortune; and when he knew that Kate had sent him money,
and Frank did not ask for any, the measure of his contentment was
filled. Kate was a Princess, and Frank an officer of hussars; and that
they were as happy as the day was long he would have taken an oath
before any “justice of the quorum,” simply because he saw no reason why
they ought not to be so; and when he drank their healths every day after
dinner, and finished a bumper of champagne to their memory, he perfectly
satisfied his conscience that he had discharged every parental duty in
their behalf. His “God bless you, my darling child!” was the extent of
his piety as of his affection; and so he lived in the firm belief that
he had a heart overflowing with good and kind and generous sentiments.
The only unpleasant feelings he had arose for Nelly. Her eyes, that
in spite of all her efforts showed recent tears; her pale face; her
anxious, nervous manner worried and amazed him. “There 's something
strange about that girl,” he would say to himself; “she would sing the
whole day long when we hadn't a shilling beyond the price of our dinner;
she was as merry as a lark, cutting out them images till two or three
o'clock of a morning; and now that we have lashings and leavings of
everything, with all manner of diversions about us, there she sits
moping and fretting the whole day.” His ingenuity could detect no
explanation for this. “To be sure, she was lame, and it might grieve
her to look at dancing, in which she could take no part But when did she
ever show signs of an envious nature? She was growing old, too,----at
least, she was six or seven-and-twenty,--and no prospect of being
married; but was Nelly the girl to grieve over this? Were not all her
affections and all her hopes home-bound? 'T was n't fretting to be back
in Ireland that she could be!--she knew little of it before she left it.”
And thus he was at the end of all his surmises without being nearer the
solution.
We have said enough to show that Nelly's sorrow was not causeless,
and that she had good reason to regret the days of even their hardest
fortune.
“Had we been but contented as we were!” cried she; “had we resisted
ambitions for which we were unfitted, and turned away from 'paths in
life' too steep and too arduous for our strength, we might have been
happy now! Who can say, too, what development of mind and intelligence
should not have come of this life of daily effort and exertion? Frank
would have grown manly, patient, and self-relying; Kate would have been,
as she ever was, the light of our home, making us sharers in all those
gifts of her own bright and happy nature; while even I might have risen
to worthier efforts of skill than those poor failures I have now to
blush for.”
Such were the regrets which filled her heart, as she sat many an hour in
solitude, grieving over the past, and yet afraid to face the future.