The attempt to accommodate a company to which the house was unsuited
would have been a source of painful annoyance to most men. To Peter
Dalton it was unqualified pleasure. The subversion of all previous
arrangements, the total change in the whole order of domesticity, were
his delight The changing of rooms, the being sent to sleep in strange
and inconvenient corners, the hurry-scurry endeavors to find a
substitute for this or a representative for that, the ingenious devices
to conceal a want or to supply a deficiency, afforded him the most
lively amusement; and he went about rubbing his hands, and muttering
that it did his heart good. It was “so like Mount Dalton when he was a
boy.”
All Mrs. Ricketts's softest blandishments were so many charms clean
thrown away. His thoughts were centred on himself and his own amiable
qualities, and he revelled in the notion that the world did not contain
another as truly generous and hospitable as Peter Dalton. In accordance
with the singular contradictions of which his character was made up, he
was willing to incur every sacrifice of personal inconvenience, if it
only served to astonish some one, or excite a sensation of surprise
at his good-nature; and while all Nelly's efforts were to conceal the
inconveniences these hospitalities inflicted, Peter was never satisfied
except when the display could reflect honor on himself, and exact
a tribute of flattery from his guests. Nor was he all this time in
ignorance of Mrs. Ricketts's character. With native shrewdness be had at
once detected her as an “old soldier.” He saw the practised readiness
of her compliance with everything; he saw the spirit of accommodation
in which she met every plan or project. He knew the precise value of her
softest look or her sweetest smile; and yet he was quite content with
possessing the knowledge, without any desire to profit by it. Like one
who sits down to play with sharpers, and resolves that either the stake
shall be a trifle or the roguery be very limited, he surrendered himself
to the fair Zoe's seductions with this sort of a reservation to guide
him.
If Mrs. Ricketts did not cheat him by her goodness, she took her revenge
by the claims of her grandeur. Her intimacy with great people--the very
greatest--exalted her to the highest place in Dalton's esteem. Honest
Peter knew nothing of the years of toil and pain, the subtle arts, the
deep devices, the slights, the affronts, the stern rebuffs here, the
insolent denials there, by which these acquisitions, precarious as
they were, had been won. He did not know how much of the royalty was
left-handed, nor how much of the nobility was factitious. All he could
see was the gracious salutes wafted to her from coroneted carriages, the
soft smiles wafted from high places, the recognitions bestowed on her in
the promenade, and the gracious nods that met her in the Cursaal.
Mrs. Ricketts was perfect in all the skill of this peculiar game, and
knew how, by the most ostentatious display of respect in public, not
only to exalt the illustrious person--age who deigned to acknowledge
her, but also to attach notice to herself as the individual so highly
favored. What reverential courtesies would she drop before the presence
of some small German “Hochheit,” with a gambling-house for a palace, and
a roulette-table for an exchequer! What devotional observances would
she perform in front of the chair of some snuffy old Dowager “Herzogin,”
of an unknown or forgotten principality! How pertinaciously would she
remain standing till some “Durchlaut” was “out of the horizon;” or
how studiously would she retire before the advancing step of some puny
potentate,--a monarch of three huesars and thirty chamberlains! Poor
Peter was but a sorry pupil in this “School of Design.” He found it
difficult to associate rank with unwashed faces and unbrushed clothes;
and although he _did_ bow, and flourish his hat, and perform all
the other semblances of respect, he always gave one the idea of
an irreverential Acolyte at the back of a profoundly impressed and
dignified high-priest.
Dalton was far more at his ease when he paraded the rooms with Mrs.
Ricketts on one arm, and Martha on the other, enjoying heartily all the
notice they elicited, and accepting, as honest admiration, the staring
wonderment and surprise their appearance was sure to excite. Mrs.
Ricketts, who had always something geographical about her taste in
dress, had this year leaned towards the Oriental, and accordingly
presented herself before the admiring world of Baden in a richly
spangled muslin turban, and the very shortest of petticoats, beneath
which appeared a pair of ample trousers, whose deep lace frills covered
the feet, and even swept the floor. A paper-knife of silver gilt, made
to resemble a yataghan, and a smelling-bottle, in the counterfeit of
a pistol, glittered at her girdle, which, with the aid of a very well
arched pair of painted eyebrows, made up as presentable a Sultana as one
usually sees in a second-rate theatre. If Dalton's blue coat and tight
nankeen pantaloons----his favorite full-dress costume--did somewhat
destroy the “Bosphorean illusion,” as Zoe herself called it, still
more did Martha's plain black silk and straw bonnet,--both types of the
strictly useful, without the slightest taint of extraneous ornament.
Purvis and the General, as they brought up the rear, came also in for
their meed of surprise,--the one lost under a mass of cloaks, shawls,
scarfs, and carpets, and the other moving listlessly along through the
crowded rooms, heedless of the mob and the music, and seeming to follow
his leader with a kind of fatuous instinct utterly destitute of volition
or even of thought A group so singularly costumed, seen every day dining
at the most costly table, ordering whatever was most expensive; the
patrons of the band, and the numerous flower-girls, whose bouquets were
actually strewed beneath their feet, were sure to attract the notice of
the company,--a tribute, it must be owned, which invariably contains a
strong alloy of all that is ill-natured, sarcastic, and depreciating.
Zoe was a European celebrity, known and recognized by every one. The
only difficulty was to learn who the new “victim” was, whence he came,
and what means he possessed. There are few places where inventive genius
more predominates than at Baden, and Dalton was alternately a successful
speculator in railroads, a South American adventurer, a slaver, and a
Carlist agent,----characters for which honest Peter had about as many
requisites as he possessed for Hamlet or Cardinal Wolsey. He seemed to
have abundance of money, however, and played high,--two qualities of no
small request in this favored region. Dalton's gambling tastes were all
originally associated with the turf and its followers. A race in his
eyes was the legitimate subject of a bet; and if anything else could
rival it in interest, it was some piece of personal prowess or skill,
some manly game of strength or activity. To men of this stamp the
wager is merely a pledge to record the sentiments they entertain upon a
particular event. It is not, as gamesters understand it, the whole
sum and substance of the interest. Personal pride, the vainglory of'
success, is the triumph in one case; in the other there is no question
of anything save gain. To this difference may be traced the wide
disparity of feeling exhibited by both in moments of failing fortune.
To one loss comes with all the harassing sensations of defeat; wounded
self-esteem and baffled hope giving poignancy to the failure. To the
other it is a pure question of a moneyed forfeiture, unaccompanied with
a single thought that can hurt the pride of the player. Hence the
wild transports of passion in the one case, and the calm, cold
self-possession in the other.
We need scarcely say to which class Dalton belonged; indeed, so far
as the public play at Baden was concerned, it was the notoriety that
pleased him most. The invariable falling back to make way for him as he
came up; the murmur of his name as he passed on; the comments on what
he would probably do; and, not least of all, the buzz of admiring
astonishment that was sure to arise as he plumped down before him the
great canvas bag full of gold, which the banker's porter had just handed
him!
All the little courtesies of the croupiers, those little official
flatteries which mean so much and so little, were especially reserved
for _him_; and the unlucky player who watched his solitary Napoleon
“raked in” by a yawning, listless croupier, became suddenly aware, by
the increased alacrity of look around him, that a higher interest was
awakened as Peter drew nigh.
The “Count's” chair was ostentatiously placed next the banker's; a store
of cards to mark the chances laid before him. The grave croupier----he
looked like an archdeacon--passed his gold snuff-box across the table;
the smartly wigged and waistcoated one at his side presented the cards
to cut, with some whispered remark that was sure to make Dalton laugh
heartily. The sensation of this _entrée_ was certain to last some
minutes; and even the impatience of the players to resume the game was
a tribute that Dalton accepted as complimentary to the bustle of his
approach.
In accordance with the popular superstition of the play-table, Dalton's
luck was an overmatch for all the skill of more accomplished gamblers;
knowing nothing whatever of the game, only aware when he had won or
lost, by seeing that his stake had doubled or disappeared, he was an
immense winner. Night after night the same fortune attended him, and so
unerringly seemed all his calculations made, that the very caprices of
his play looked like well-studied and deep combinations. If many of
the bystanders were disposed to this opinion, the “bankers” thought
otherwise; they knew that,-in the end, the hour of retribution must
come, and, through all their losses, not only observed every mark of
courteous deference towards him, but by many a bland smile and many a
polite gesture seemed to intimate the pleasure they felt in his good
fortune. This was all that was wanting to fill up the measure of
Dalton's delight.
“There isn't a bit of envy or bad feeling about them chaps,” he would
often say; “whether I carry away forty Naps, or four hundred of a night,
they 're just as civil. Faix! he knew many a born gentleman might take a
lesson from them.”
So long as he continued to win, Dalton felt comparatively little
interest in play, beyond the notice his presence and his large stakes
were sure to excite. As a game it possessed no hold upon him; and when
he had changed his heaps of glittering gold for notes, he arose to leave
the table, and to forget all that had occurred there as matters of no
possible interest to remember.
Such was no longer the case when fortune turned. Then, and for the first
time, the gambler's passion awoke in his heart, and the sting of
defeat sent its pangs through him. The prying, searching looks of the
by-standers, too, were a dreadful ordeal; for all were curious to see
how he bore his losses, and Dalton was no accomplished gamester who
could lose with all the impassive gravity of seeming indifference. Still
less was he gifted with that philosophy of the play-table that teaches
a timely retreat before adverse fortune. He knew nothing of those sage
maxims by which the regular gambler controls his temper and regulates
his conduct; nor had he learned the art by which good and sterling
qualities, the gifts of noble natures, can be brought into the service
of a low and degrading vice! Dalton, it must be owned, was what is
called “a bad loser,”--that is, he lost his temper with his money; and
the more steadily luck seemed against him the more determinedly did
he “back his fortune.” Now doubling, now trebling his stake, he lost
considerable sums; till at last, as the hand of the clock stood within
a few minutes of the closing hour, he emptied the remainder of his bag
upon the table, and, without counting, set it all upon a card.
“Rouge perd et couleur!” cried the banker, and raked in the glittering
heap; and, amid a murmur of half-compassionate astonishment, Peter arose
from the table. Mrs. Ricketts and her suite were all in the ball-room,
but Dalton only remembered them when he had gained the open air. The
terrible shock of his reverse had overwhelmed all his faculties, and
almost stunned him to unconsciousness. At last he bethought him of his
guests; but it was some time before he could summon sufficient composure
of look to go in search of them. He had been so accustomed--to use his
own phrase--“to ride the winner,” that he did n't know how to face the
company as a beaten man. He thought of all the glances of impertinent
pity his presence would call forth, and imagined the buzz of remark
and comment every line of his features would give rise to. Poor
Peter!--little knew he that such signs of sympathy are never given to
the very saddest of misfortunes, and that, in such a society, no one
wastes a thought upon his neighbor's reverses, except when they serve as
a guide to himself.
He did, indeed, overhear from time to time little broken sentences
like these: “The old fellow with the white moustache has had a squeeze
'to-night.'” “He caught it heavy and thick.” “Must have lost close on a
thousand Naps.” “Bank walked into him;” and so on,----comments as free
from any tone of sympathy as the proudest heart could possibly have
asked for. But even these were easier to bear than the little playful
cajoleries of Mrs. Ricketts on his supposed successes.
Knowing him to be a frequent winner, and hearing from Scroope the large
sums he occasionally carried away, she invariably accosted him with
some little jesting rebuke on his “dreadful luck”--that “wicked good
fortune”--that would follow him in everything and everywhere.
Purvis had been a close spectator of all that went on this unlucky
evening, and was actually occupied with his pencil in calculating the
losses when Peter entered the room.
“He had above eighteen or twenty bank-notes of a th-thousand francs,”
cried he, “when he be-be-began the evening. They are all gone now. He
played at least a dozen 'rouleaux' of fifty Naps.; and as to the bag, I
can m-make no guess how m-m-much it held.”
“I 'll tell you then, sir,” said Peter, good-humoredly, as he just
overheard the last remark. “The bag held three hundred and eighty
Napoleons; and as you 're pretty correct in the other items, you 'll
not be far from the mark by adding about fifty or sixty Naps, for little
bets here and there.”
“What coolness, what stoical indifference!” whispered Mrs. Ricketts to
Martha, but loud enough for Dalton to hear. “That is so perfectly
Irish; they can be as impetuous as the Italian, and possess all the
self-restraint and impassive bearing of the Indian warrior.”
“But w-w-why did you go on, when luck was a-a-gainst you?”
“Who told me it was against me till I lost all my money?” cried Dalton.
“If the first reverse was to make a man feel beat, it would be a very
cowardly world, Mr. Purvis.”
“Intensely Irish!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts.
“Well, maybe it is,” broke in Peter, who was not in a mood to accept
anything in a complimentary sense. “Irish it may be; and as you remarked
a minute ago, we're little better than savages--”
“Oh, Mr. Dalton,----dear Mr. Dalton!”
“No matter; I'm not angry, ma'am. The newspapers says as bad,--ay,
worse, every day of the week. But what I 'm observing is, that the man
that could teach me how to keep my money could never have taught me how
to win it You know the old proverb about the 'faint heart, 'Mr. Purvis?”
“Yes; but I----I----I don't want a f-f-fair lady!”
“Faix! I believe you're right there, my little chap,” said Peter,
laughing heartily, and at once recovering all his wonted good-humor at
the sound of his own mellow-toned mirth; and in this pleasant mood
he gave an arm to each of his fair companions, and led them into the
supper-room. There was an ostentatious desire for display in the order
Dalton gave that evening to the waiter. It seemed as if he wished to
appear perfectly indifferent about his losses. The table was covered
with a costly profusion that attracted general notice. Wines of the
rarest and most precious vintages stood on the sideboard. Dalton did the
honors with even more than his accustomed gayety. There was a stimulant
in that place at the head of the table; there was some magical influence
in the duty of host that never failed with him. The sense of sway and
power that ambitious minds feel in high and pre-eminent stations were
all his, as he sat at the top of his board; and it must be owned that
with many faults of manner, and many shortcomings on the score of taste,
yet Peter did the honors of his table well and gracefully.
Certain is it Mrs. Ricketts and her friends thought so. Zoe was in
perfect ecstasies at the readiness of his repartees and the endless
variety of his anecdotes. He reminded her at once of Sheridan and “poor
dear Mirabeau,” and various other “beaux esprits” she used to live with.
Martha listened to him with sincere pleasure. Purvis grew very tipsy
in the process of his admiration, and the old General, suddenly brought
back to life and memory under the influence of champagne, thought him so
like Jack Trevor, of the Engineers, that he blubbered out, “I think I 'm
listening to Jack. It's poor Trevor over again.”
Was it any wonder if in such intoxications Peter forgot all his late
reverses, nor ever remembered them till he had wished his company
good-night, and found himself alone in his own chamber? Pecuniary
difficulties were no new thing to Dalton, and it would not have
interfered with his pleasant dreams that night had the question been one
of those ordinary demands which he well knew how to resist or evade by
many a legal sleight and many an illegal artifice; but here was a debt
of honor. He had given his name, three or four times during the evening,
for large sums, lost on the very instant they were borrowed. These must
be repaid on the next day; but how, he knew not. How he “stood” in Abel
Kraus's books he had not the remotest idea. It might be with a balance,
or it might be with a deficit All he really knew was that he had
latterly drawn largely, and spent freely; and as Abel always smiled and
seemed satisfied, Peter concluded that his affairs needed no surer or
safer evidences of prosperity. To have examined ledgers and day-books
with such palpable proofs of solvency would have been, in his eyes, an
act of as great absurdity as that of a man who would not believe in the
sunshine till he had first consulted the thermometer.
“I must see Abel early to-morrow. Abel will set it all right,” were
the conclusions to which he always came back; and if not very clearly
evident how, why, or by what means, still he was quite satisfied that
honest Kraus would extricate him from every difficulty. “The devil go
with it for black and red,” said he, as he lay down in his bed. “I 'd
have plenty of cash in my pocket for everything this night, if it was
n't for that same table; and an ugly game it is as ever a man played.
Shuffle and cut; faites your 'jeu'; thirty-four--thirty-three; red
wins--black loses; there's the whole of it; sorrow more on 't except
the sad heart that comes afterwards!” These last words he uttered with a
deep sigh, and then turned his face to the pillow.
He passed a restless, feverish night; the sleep being more harassing
than even his waking moments, disturbed, as it was, by thoughts of
all he had lately gone through. All the tremendous excitement of the
play-table, heightened by the effect of wine, made up a wild chaotic
confusion in his brain, that was almost madness. He awoke repeatedly,
too, eager for daylight, and the time to call upon honest Abel. At these
times he would pace his room up and down, framing the speeches by
which he meant to open the interview. Kraus was familiar with his usual
“pleas.” With Ireland and her stereotyped distresses he was thoroughly
conversant. Famine, fever, potato-rot, poor-rates, emigration, and
eviction were themes he could have almost discussed himself; but all he
recognized in them was an urgent demand for money, and an occasion for
driving the very hardest of bargains. The Russian remittances had been
less regular of late; so at least Abel averred, for Dalton neither knew
nor tried to know any details. The dates were frequently inconvenient,
and the places of payment oftentimes remote. Still, Abel was
civil,--nay, almost cordial; and what can any man ask for more than a
smile from his banker!
Dalton was quite at ease upon one point,--Kraus was sure to know nothing
of his late losses at play; in fact, out of his little den wherein he
sat he seemed to be aware of nothing in the whole wide world. A small
“slip,” which arrived each morning from Frankfort, told him the current
exchanges of the day. The faces of his clients revealed all the rest But
Dalton was greatly deceived on this point There was not the slightest
incident of Baden with which he was not familiar, nor any occurrence in
its life of dissipation on which he was uninformed. His knowledge was
not the offspring of any taste for scandal, or any liking for the secret
gossiping of society. No; his was a purely practical and professional
information. The archduke who had lost so heavily at “roulette” would
need a loan on the morrow; the count who was about to elope with the
marchioness must have bills on Paris; the colonel who had shot the baron
in a duel could n't escape over the frontier without money. In a word,
every vice and iniquity seemed the tributaries of his trade; and whether
to consummate their wickedness or escape its penalty, men must first
come to Abel Kraus.
To see him crouching behind his little desk, poring over the scattered
fragments of dirty papers, which were his only books, you would never
have suspected that he had a thought above the mystic calculations
before him. Watch him more narrowly, however, and you will perceive that
not a figure can cross the street and approach his door without meeting
a shrewd, quick glance from those dark eyes; while a faint muttering
sound betrays his detection of the visitor's object.
Long, then, before Dalton swaggered up to the moneychanger's den, Abel
knew every circumstance of the previous night, and had actually before
him, on his desk, a correct account of all the sums he had lost at play.
Abel was not unprepared for such tidings. Dalton was precisely the man
to rush headlong into play the moment fortune turned with him, and the
pang of defeat was added to the bitterness of a loss; Abel only wondered
that the reverse had not come earlier. And so he mumbled below his
breath, as with his hat set jauntily on one side, and his hands stuck
carelessly beneath his coat-tails, Dalton came forward.
Peter had so far “got up” his air of easy indifference as to whistle
a tune; but, somehow, as he drew nearer to the door, the sounds waxed
fainter and fainter, and, before he had crossed the threshold, bad sunk
away into the cadence of a heavy sigh. Abel never looked up as the other
entered, but, affecting the deepest preoccupation, went on with his
figures.
“Morrow, Abel,” said Dalton, as he threw himself into a chair, and,
removing his hat, began to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief.
“This is a murdering hot day. It's not ten yet, and the sun's roasting!”
“Fine weather for de harvest, Herr von Dalton, but a leetle rain do no
harm.”
“Faix! I think not; neither to man nor beast.”
Abel grinned at the brawny throat and massive proportions that seemed so
unequal to sustain the heat, but said nothing.
“How's the exchange, Abel?” said Peter; “how's the exchange?”
Now, in justice to our worthy friend Dalton, we must own that he put
this question without having the very remotest idea of its meaning. An
inscription from the tomb of the Pharaohs would have been to the full as
intelligible to him as an abstract from the “City Article.” He asked
it as certain “charming women” inquire about the compass on board
ship,--something, in fact, suitable to the time and place, and proper to
be done on like occasions.
“De exchange is very uncertain; de market is up and down,” said Abel,
dryly.
“That's bad,” said Dalton, gravely,----“that's very bad!”
“De Mongolian loan is de reason,” rejoined Abel.
Dalton gave a grunt, that might mean assent or displeasure with that
view of the case, but did not trust himself with more.
“Dey will not take de scrip at eighty-two, and I tink dey are right.”
“Faix! I don't doubt but that they are!” chimed in Peter.
“Dey are right, if all be true we hear of de security. It is de mines
of de State dat are hypotheked,--how you call it,--what you say,
'hypotheked'?”
Dalton was completely puzzled now, and could only scratch his ear,--his
invariable symptom of utter discomfiture.
“Tis no matter,” cried Abel, with a grating, harsh laugh. “Dey promise,
and no pay; and dat is very bad--ha! ha! ha!”
Now Dalton joined in the laugh, but with as ill a grace as needs be.
“Dey promise, and dey no pay, Herr von Dalton!” repeated the Jew,
with another laugh, as though he could not tear himself away from so
excellent a jest. “Dey borrow, dat dey may make explorations--how you
call dem--wit oder men's money. If dey de win, well! if dey lose--bah!
dey are bankrupt!”
Now, all these allusions were of the most provoking character to poor
Dalton, who could not help feeling a very different sympathy for
the Mongolians from that expressed by Abel Kraus. “Who knows what
difficulties they are in?--maybe they'd pay it if they could,” muttered
he, as he slapped his boot with his cane, and fell into a musing fit.
“Dey shall not have one kreutzer of my moneys; I can tell dem dat!” said
Kraus, as he buttoned up the keys of his strong-box, as though suiting
the action to his words.
“Don't put up the keys so soon, Abel!” said Dalton, with an effort at a
laugh. “I want to see the inside of that little iron trunk there.”
“You no want money, Herr von Dalton!” exclaimed the other, in amazement.
“You no want money! you draw eight hundred florin on Tuesday; you have
four hundred on Wednesday evening, and seven rouleaux of Napoleons; on
Saturday again I send you twenty thousand franc!”
“All true,--every word of it,” said Dalton; “but there's no use telling
a hungry man about the elegant dinner he ate last week! The short of the
matter is, I want cash now.”
Kraus appeared to reflect for a few minutes, and then said, “If a leetle
sum will do--”
“Faix! it will not. I want five hundred Naps., at the very least.”
Kraus threw down his pen, and stared at him without speaking.
“One would think from your face, Abel, that I was asking for a loan of
the National Debt. I said five hundred Naps.!”
Abel shook his head mournfully, and merely muttered “Ja! ja!” to
himself. “We will look over de account, Herr von Dalton,” said he, at
last; “perhaps I am wrong, I no say, I am sure; but I tink--dat is, I
believe--you overdraw very much your credit.”
“Well, supposing I did; is it the first time?” said Dalton, angrily.
“Ain't I as good a man now as I was before?”
“You are a very goot man, I know well; a very goot and a very pleasant
man; but you know de old German proverb, 'Das Gut ist nicht Gelt.'”
“I never heard it till now,” muttered Peter, sulkily; “but if a robber
in this country put a pistol to your head, he 'd be sure to have a
proverb to justify him! But to come to the point,----can I have the
money?”
“I fear very mush--No!” was the dry response.
“No,--is it?” cried Dalton, starting up from his seat; “did you say no?”
Kraus nodded twice, slowly and deliberately.
“Then bad luck to the rap ever you'll see more of _my_ money,” cried
Peter, passionately. “You old Jewish thief, I ought to have known you
long ago; fifty, sixty, seventy per cent I was paying for the use of
my own cash, and every bill I gave as good as the bank paper! Ain't
you ashamed of yourself, tell me that,--ain't you downright ashamed of
yourself?”
“I tink not; I have no occasions for shame,” said the other, calmly.
“Faix! I believe you there,” retorted Dalton. “Your line of life doesn't
offer many opportunities of blushing. But if I can't bring you to know
shame, maybe I can teach you to feel sorrow. Our dealing is ended from
this day out. Peter Dalton does n't know you more! He never saw you! he
never heard of your name! D'ye mind me now? None of your boasting among
the English here that you have Mr. Dalton's business. If I hear of
your saying it, it's not a contradiction will satisfy me. Understand
me well--it's not to leave a mark of friendship that I 'll come in here
again!”
The fierce tone in which Dalton said these words, and the gesture he
made with a tremendous walking-stick, were certainly well calculated to
excite Abel's terrors, who, opening a little movable pane of the window,
looked out into the street, to assure himself of succor in case of need.
“What's the use of family, rank, or fortune,” cried Dalton, indignantly,
as he paced up and down the little shop, in a perfect frenzy of passion,
“if a little dirty Jew, with a face like a rat-terrier, can insult
you? My uncle is one of the first men in Austria, and my daughter's a
Princess; and there's a creature you would't touch with the tongs has
the impudence to--to--to--” Evidently the precise offence did not at
once occur to Dalton's memory, for after several efforts to round
off his phrase--“to outrage me----to outrage me!” he cried, with the
satisfaction of one who had found a missing object.
Meanwhile Abel, who had gradually resumed his courage, was busily
engaged in some deep and intricate calculations, frequently referring
to a number of ill-scrawled scraps of paper on a file before him, not
heeding, if he heard, the storm around him.
“Dere, saar,” said he at length, as he pushed a slip of paper towards
Dalton,--“dere, saar; our affairs is closed, as you say. Dere is your
debit,--eighteen hundred and seventy-three florins, 'convenzion money.'
Dere may be leetle charges to be added for commissions and oder tings;
but dat is de chief sum, which you pay now.”
There was a sharp emphasis on the last monosyllable that made Dalton
start.
“I'll look over it; I'll compare it with my books at home,” said he,
haughtily, as he stuffed the slip of paper into his waistcoat-pocket.
“Den you no pay to-day?” asked Abel.
“Nor to-morrow, nor the day after, nor, maybe, awhile longer,” said
Dalton, with a composure he well knew how to feel in like circumstances.
“Very well, den; I will have securities. I will have bail for my moneys
before tree o'clock this day. Dere is de sommation before de Tribunal,
Herr von Dalton.” Aud he handed a printed document, stamped with the
official seal of a law court, across the table. “You will see,” added
the Jew, with a malicious grin, “dat I was not unprepared for all dis.
Abel Kraus is only an old Jew, but he no let de Gentile cheat him!”
Dalton was stunned by the suddenness of this attack. The coolly planned
game of the other so overmatched all the passionate outbreak of his own
temper that he felt himself mastered at once by his wily antagonist.
“To the devil I fling your summons!” cried he, savagely. “I can't even
read it.”
“Your avocat will explain it all. He will tell you dat if you no pay
de moneys herein charged, nor give a goot and sufficient surety dereof
before de Civil Grericht, dis day, dat you will be consign to de prison
of de State at Carlsruhe, dere to remain your 'leben lang,' if so be you
never pay.”
“Arrest me for debt the day it's demanded!” cried Dalton, whose
notions of the law's delay were not a little shocked by such peremptory
proceedings.
“It is in criminal as well as in civil Grericht to draw on a banker
beyond your moneys, and no pay, on demand.”
“There's justice for you!” cried Dalton, passionately. “Highway robbery,
housebreaking, is decenter. There's some courage, at least, in _them!_
But I wouldn't believe you if you were on your oath. There is n't such a
law in Europe, nor in the East'Ingies'!”
Abel grinned, but never uttered a word.
“So any ould thief, then, can trump up a charge against a man----can
send him off to jail--before he can look around him!”
“If he do make false charge, he can be condem to de galleys,” was the
calm reply.
“And what's the use of that?” cried Dalton, in a transport of rage. “Is
n't the galleys as good a life as sitting there? Is n't it as manly a
thing to strain at an oar as to sweat a guinea?”
“I am a burgher of the Grand Duchy,” said Abel, boldly; “and if you
defame me, it shall be before witnesses!” And as he spoke he threw wide
the window, so that the passers-by might hear what took place.
Dalton's face became purple; the veins in his forehead swelled like a
thick cordage, and he seemed almost bursting with suppressed passion.
For an instant it was even doubtful if he could master his struggling
wrath. At last he grasped the heavy chair he had been sitting on, and
dashing it down on the ground, broke it into atoms; and then, with
an execration in Irish, the very sound of which rang like a curse, he
strode out of the shop, and hastened down the street.
[Illustration: 278]
Many a group of merry children, many a morning excursionist returning
from his donkey-ride, remarked the large old man, who, muttering and
gesticulating, as he went, strode along the causeway, not heeding nor
noticing those around him. Others made way for him as for one it were
not safe to obstruct, and none ventured a word as he passed by. On he
went, careless of the burning heat and the hot rays of the sun,--against
which already many a jalousie was closed, and many an awning spread,--up
the main street of the town, across the “Plate,” and then took his way
up one of the steep and narrow lanes which led towards the upper town.
To see him, nothing could look more purpose-like than his pace and the
manner of his going; and yet he knew nothing of where he walked nor
whither the path led him. A kind of instinct directed his steps into an
old and oft-followed track, but his thoughts were bent on other objects.
He neither saw the half-terrified glances that were turned on him, nor
marked how they who were washing at the fountain ceased their work, as
he passed, to stare at him.
At last he reached the upper town; emerging from which by a steep flight
of narrow stone steps, he gained a little terraced spot of ground,
crossed by two rows of linden-trees, under whose shade he had often sat
of an evening to watch the sunset over the plain. He did not halt here,
but passing across the grassy sward, made for a small low house which
stood at the angle of the terrace. The shutters of the shop-window were
closed, but a low half-door permitted a view of the interior; leaning
over which Dalton remained for several minutes, as if lost in deep
revery.
The silent loneliness of the little shop at first appeared to engross
all his attention, but after a while other thoughts came slowly
flittering through his muddy faculties, and with a deep-drawn sigh he
said,----
“Dear me! but I thought we were living here still! It's droll enough how
one can forget himself! Hans, Hans Roëckle, my man!” cried he, beating
with his stick against the doors as he called out. “Hanserl! Hans, I
say! Well, it's a fine way to keep a shop! How does the creature know
but I'm a lady that would buy half the gimcracks in the place, and he's
not to be found! That's what makes these devils so poor,--they never
mind their business. 'Tis nothing but fun and diversion they think of
the whole day long. There's no teaching them that there's nothing like
indhustry! What makes us the finest people under the sun? Work--nothing
but work! I 'm sure I 'm tired of telling him so! Hans, are you asleep,
Hans Roëckle?” No answer followed this summons, and now Dalton, after
some vain efforts to unbolt the door, strode over it into the shop.
“Faix! I don't wonder that you had n't a lively business,” said he,
as he looked around at the half-stocked shelves, over which dust and
cobwebs were spread like a veil. “Sorrow a thing I don't know as well
as I do my gaiters! There's the same soldiers, and that's the woodcutter
with the matches on his back, and there's the little cart Frank mended
for him! Poor Frank, where is he now, I wonder?” Dalton sighed heavily
as he continued to run his eye over the various articles all familiar to
him long ago. “What's become of Hans?” cried he at last, aloud; “if it
was n't an honest place, he would n't have a stick left! To go away and
leave everything at sixes and sevens--well, well, it's wonderful!”
Dalton ascended the stairs--every step of which was well known to
him--to the upper story where he used to live. The door was unfastened,
and the rooms were just as he had left them--even to the little table
at which Nelly used to sit beside the window. Nothing was changed; a
bouquet of faded flowers--the last, perhaps, she had ever plucked in
that garden--stood in a glass in the window-sill; and so like was all
to the well-remembered past, that Dalton almost thought he heard her
footstep on the floor.
“Well, it was a nice little quiet spot, any way!” said he, as he sank
into a chair, and a heavy tear stole slowly along his cheek. “Maybe it
would have been well for me if I never left it! With all our poverty we
spent many a pleasant night beside that hearth, and many's the happy day
we passed in that wood there. To be sure, we were all together, then!
that makes a difference! instead of one here, another there, God knows
when to meet, if ever!
“I used to fret many a time about our being so poor, but I was wrong,
after all, for we divided our troubles amongst us, and that left a small
share for each; but there's Nelly now, pining away--I don't know for
what, but I see it plain enough; and here am I myself with a heavy heart
this day; and sure, who can tell if Kate, great as she is, has n't her
sorrows; and poor Frank, 't is many a hard thing, perhaps, he has to
bear. I believe in reality we were better then!”
He arose, and walked about the room, now stopping before each
well-remembered object, now shaking his head in mournful acquiescence
with some unspoken regret; he went in turn through each chamber, and
then, passing from the room that had been Nelly's, he descended a little
zigzag, rickety stair, by which Hans had contrived to avoid injuring
the gnarled branches of a fig-tree that grew beneath. Dalton now
found himself in the garden; but how unlike what it had been! Once the
perfection of blooming richness and taste,--the beds without a weed, the
gravel trimly raked and shining, bright channels of limpid water running
amid the flowers, and beautiful birds of gay plumage caged beneath the
shady shrubs,--now all was overrun with rank grass and tall weeds; the
fountains were dried up, the flowers trodden down,--even the stately yew
hedge, the massive growth of a century, was broken by the depredations
of the mountain cattle. All was waste, neglect, and desolation.
“I 'd not know the place,--it is not like itself,” muttered Dalton,
sorrowfully. “I never saw the like of this before. There's the elegant
fine plants dying for want of care! and the rose-trees rotting just for
want of a little water! To think of how he labored late and early here,
and to see it now! He used to call them carnations his children: there
was one Agnes, and there was another Undine--indeed, I believe that was
a lily; and I think there was a Nelly, too; droll enough to make out
they were Christians! but sure, they did as well; and he watched after
them as close! and ay, and stranger than all, he'd sit and talk to them
for hours. It's a quare world altogether; but maybe it's our own fault
that it's not better; and perhaps we ought to give in more to each
other's notions, and not sneer at whims and fancies when they don't
please ourselves.”
It was while thus ruminating, Dalton entered a little arbor, whose
trellised walls and roofs had been one of the triumphs of Hanserl's
skill. Ruin, however, had now fallen on it, and the drooping branches
and straggling tendrils hung mournfully down on all sides, covering the
stone table, and even the floor, with their vegetation. As Dalton stood,
sad and sorrow-struck at this desolation, he perceived the figure of
Hans himself, as, half-hidden by the leaves, he sat in his accustomed
seat. His head was uncovered, but his hair fell in great masses on
either side, and with his long beard, now neglected and untrimmed, gave
him an unusually wild and savage look. A book lay open on his knees,
but his hands were crossed over it, and his eyes were upturned as if in
revery.
Dalton felt half ashamed at accosting him; there was something
ungracious in the way he had quitted the poor dwarfs dwelling; there
had been a degree of estrangement for weeks before between them, and
altogether he knew that he had ill-requited all the unselfish kindness
of the little toy-seller; so that he would gladly have retired without
being noticed, when Hans suddenly turned and saw him.
It was almost with a cry of surprise Hans called out his name.
“This is kind of you, Herr von Dalton. Is the Fräulein--” He stopped
and looked eagerly around.
“No, Hanserl,” said Dalton, answering to the half-expressed question,
“Nelly is n't with me; I came up alone. Indeed, to tell the truth, I
found myself here without well knowing why or how. Old habit, I suppose,
led me, for I was thinking of something else.”
“They were kind thoughts that guided your steps,” said the dwarf, in
accents of deep gratitude, “for I have been lonely of late.”
“Why don't you come down and see us, Hanserl? It's not so far off, and
you know Nelly is always glad to see you.”
“It is true,” said the dwarf, mournfully.
“You were always a good friend to us, Hanserl,” said Dalton, taking the
other's hand and pressing it cordially; “and faix! as the world goes,”
added he, sighing, “there 's many a thing easier found than a friend.”
“The rich can have all,--even friendship,” muttered Hans, slowly.
“I don't know that, Hans; I 'm not so sure you 're right there.”
“They buy it,” said the dwarf, with a fierce energy, “as they can buy
everything,--the pearl for which the diver hazards life, the gem that
the polisher has grown blind over, the fur for which the hunter has
shed his heart's blood. And yet when they 've got them they have not got
content.”
“Ay, that's true,” sighed Dalton. “I suppose nobody is satisfied in this
world.”
“But they can be if they will but look upward,” cried Hans,
enthusiastically; “if they will learn to think humbly of themselves, and
on how slight a claim they possess all the blessings of their lot;
if they will but bethink them that the sun and the flowers, the
ever-rolling sea, and the leafy forest are all their inheritance,--that
for them, as for all, the organ peals through the dim-vaulted aisle
with promises of eternal happiness,--and lastly, that, with all the wild
contentions of men's passions, there is ever gushing up in the human
heart a well of kind and affectionate thoughts; like those springs we
read of, of pure water amid the salt ocean, and which, taken at the
source, are sweet and good to drink from. Men are not so bad by nature;
it is the prizes for which they struggle, the goals they strive for,
corrupt them! Make of this fair earth a gaming-table, and you will have
all the base passions of the gamester around it.”
“Bad luck to it for gambling,” said Dalton, whose intelligence was just
able to grasp at the illustration; “I wish I 'd never seen a card; and
that reminds me, Hans, that maybe you 'd give me a bit of advice. There
was a run against me last night in that thieving place. The 'red' came
up fourteen times, and I, backing against it every time, sometimes ten,
sometimes twenty,----ay, faix! as high as fifty 'Naps.' you may think
what a squeeze I got! And when I went to old Kraus this morning, this
is what he sticks in my hand instead of a roll of banknotes.” With these
words Dalton presented to Hans the printed summons of the “Tribunal.”
“A Gerichts-Ruf!” said Hans, with a voice of deep reverence; for he
entertained a most German terror for the law and its authority. “This is
a serious affair.”
“I suppose it is,” sighed Dalton; “but I hope we 're in a Christian
country, where the law is open?”
Hans nodded, and Peter went on:----
“What I mean is, that nothing can be done in a hurry; that when we have
a man on our side, he can oppose and obstruct, and give delays, picking
a hole here and finding a flaw there; asking for vouchers for this and
proofs for that, and then waiting for witnesses that never come, and
looking for papers that never existed; making Chancery of it, Hans, my
boy,--making Chancery of it.”
“Not here,--not with us!” said Hans, gravely. “You must answer to this
charge to-day, and before four o'clock too, or to-morrow there will be
writ of 'contumacy' against you. You have n't got the money?”
“Of course I haven't, nor a ten-pound note towards it.”
“Then you must provide security.”
“'T is easy said, my little man, but it is not so easy dealing with
human beings as with the little wooden figures in your shop beyond.”
“There must be 'good and substantial bail,' as the summons declares;
such as will satisfy the Court,” said Hans, who seemed at once to
have become a man of acute worldly perception at sight of this printed
document.
“Security--bail!” exclaimed Dalton. “You might as well ask Robinson
Crusoe who 'd be godfather to his child on the desert island. There's
not a man, woman, or child in the place would give me a meal's meat
There's not a house I could shelter my head in for one night; and see
now,” cried he, carried away by an impulse of passionate excitement, “it
is n't by way of disparagement I say it to this little town,--for the
world all over is the same,--the more you give the less you get! Treat
them with champagne and venison; send money to this one, make presents
to that, and the day luck turns with you, the best word they 'll have
for you is, 'He was a wasteful, careless devil; could n't keep it when
he had it; lived always above his means; all hand and mouth.' It's a
kind friend that will vouchsafe as much as 'Poor fellow! I 'm sorry for
him.'”
“And to what end is wealth,” cried Hans, boldly, “if it but conduce
to this? Are the friends well chosen who can behave thus? Are the
hospitalities well bestowed that meet such return? or is it not rather
selfishness is paid back in the same base coin that it uttered?”
“For the matter of that,” said Dalton, angrily, “I never found that
vulgar people was a bit more grateful than their betters, nor low
manners any warranty for high principles; and when one is to be
shipwrecked it's better to go down in a 'seventy-four' than be drowned
out of a punt in a mill-pond.”
“It's past noon already,” said Hans, pointing to the son-dial on his
house. “There 's little time to be lost.”
“And as little to be gained,” muttered Dalton, moodily, as he strolled
out into the garden.
“Let me have this paper,” said Hans; “I will see the Herr Kraus myself,
and try if something cannot be done. With time, I suppose, you could
meet this claim?”
“To be sure I could, when my remittances arrive,----when my instalments
are paid up, when my rents come in, when--” He was about to add, “when
luck changes,” but he stopped himself just in time.
“There need be no difficulty if you can be certain,” said Hans, slowly.
“Certain!--and of what is a man certain in this life?” said Dalton, in
his tone of moralizing. “Was n't I certain of the Corrig-O'Neal estate?
Wasn't I certain of Miles Dalton's property in the funds? Wasn't I
certain that if the Parliament was n't taken away from us that I 'd have
my own price for the boroagh of Knocknascanelera?--and sorrow one of the
three ever came to me. Ay, no later than last night, was n't I certain
that black would come up--”
“When I said certain,” broke in Hans, “I meant so far as human
foresight could pledge itself; but I did not speak of the chances of the
play-table. If your expectations of payment rest on these, do not talk
of them as certainties.”
“What's my estates for? Where's my landed property?” cried Dalton,
indignantly. “To hear you talk, one would think I was a chevalier of
indhustry, as they call them.”
“I ask your pardon, Herr,” said Hans, humbly. “It is in no spirit of
idle curiosity that I speak; less still, with any wish to offend you. I
will now see what is best to do. You may leave all in my hands, and by
four o'clock, or five at furthest, you shall hear from me.”
“That's sensible,----that's friendly,” cried Dalton, shaking the
other's hand warmly, and really feeling the most sincere gratitude for
the kindness.
If there was any act of friendship he particularly prized, it was the
intervention that should relieve him of the anxiety and trouble of
a difficult negotiation, and leave him, thoughtless and careless, to
stroll about, neither thinking of the present nor uneasy for the
future. The moment such an office had devolved upon another, Dalton felt
relieved of all sense of responsibility before his own conscience; and
although the question at issue were his own welfare or ruin, he ceased
to think of it as a personal matter. Like his countryman, who consoled
himself when the house was in flames by thinking “he was only a lodger,”
he actually forgot his own share of peril by reflecting on the other
interests that were at stake. And the same theory that taught him to
leave his soul to his priest's care, and his health to his doctor's,
made him quite satisfied when a friend had charge of his honor or his
fortune.
It was as comfortable a kind of fatalism as need be; and, assuredly, to
have seen Peter's face as he now descended the steps to the lower town,
it would be rash to deny that he was not a sincere believer in his
philosophy. No longer absent in air and clouded in look, he had a smile
and a pleasant word for all who passed him; and now, with a jest for
this one, and a kreutzer for that, he held on his way, with a tail of
beggars and children after him, all attracted by that singular
mesmerism which draws around certain men everything that is vagrant
and idle,--from the cripple at the crossing to the half-starved cur-dog
without an owner.
This gift was, indeed, his; and whatever was penniless and friendless
and houseless seemed to feel they had a claim on Peter Dalton.