Stunned, but not overcome, by the terrible shock, Nelly Dalton sat
beside the bed where the dead man lay in all that stern mockery of calm
so dreadful to look upon. Some candles burned on either side, and threw
a yellowish glare over the bold strong features on which her tears had
fallen, as, with a cold hand clasped in his, she sat and watched him.
With all its frequency, Death never loses its terrors for us! Let a man
be callous as a hard world and a gloomy road in it can make him; let him
drug his mind with every anodyne of infidelity; let him be bereft of all
affection, and walk alone on his life road; there is yet that which can
thrill his heart in the aspect of the lips that are never to move more,
and the eyes that are fixed forever. But what agony of suffering is it
when the lost one has been the link that tied us to life,--the daily
object of our care, the motive of every thought and every action! Such
had been her father to poor Nelly. His wayward, capricious humors, all
his infirmities of temper and body, had called forth those exertions
which made the business of her life, and gave a purpose and direction to
her existence; now repaid by some passing expression of thankfulness or
affection, or, better still, by some transient gleam of hope that he was
stronger in health or better in spirits than his wont; now rallied by
that sense of duty which can ennoble the humblest as it can the greatest
of human efforts, she watched over him as might a mother over an ailing
child. Catching at his allusions to “home,” as he still called it, she
used to feed her hopes with thinking that at some distant day they were
to return to their own land again, and pass their last years in tranquil
retirement together; and now hope and duty were alike extinguished.
“The fount that fed the river of her thoughts” was dry, and she was
alone--utterly alone--in the world!
Old Andy, recalled by some curious instinct to a momentary activity,
shuffled about the room, snuffing the candles, or muttering a faint
prayer at the bedside; but she did not notice him any more than the
figure who, in an attitude of deep devotion, knelt at the foot of the
bed. This was Hanserl, who, book in hand, recited the offices with all
the fervent rapidity of a true Catholic. Twice he started and looked up
from his task, disturbed by some noise without; but when it occurred a
third time, he laid his book gently down and stole noiselessly from the
room. Passing rapidly through the little chamber which used to be called
Nelly's drawing-room, he entered the larger dining-room, in which now
three or four ill-dressed men were standing, in the midst of whom was
Abel Kraus in active colloquy with Mr. Purvis. Hanserl made a gesture to
enforce silence, and pointed to the room from whence he had just come.
“Ah!” cried Scroope, eagerly, “You 're a kind of co-co-connection, or
friend, at least, of these people, ain't you? Well, then, speak to this
wo-worthy man, and tell him that he mustn't detain our things here; we
were merely on a visit.”
“I will suffer nothing to leave the house till I am paid to the last
kreutzer,” said Kraus, sternly; “the law is with me, and I know it.”
“Be patient; but, above all, respect the dead,” said Hans, solemnly. “It
is not here nor at this time these things should be discussed.”
“But we wa-want to go; we have ta-ta-taken our apartments at the
'Russie.' The sight of a funeral and a--a--a hearse, and all that, would
kill my sister.”
“Let her pay these moneys, then, and go in peace,” said Kraus, holding
forth a handful of papers.
“Not a gr-groschen, not a kreutzer will we pay. It's an infamy, it's a
sh-sh-shameful attempt at robbery. It's as bad as st-stopping a man on
the highway.”
“Go on, sir,--go on. You never made a speech which cost you dearer,”
said Kraus, as he took down the words in his pocket-book.
“I--I--I did n't mean that; I did n't say you were a housebreaker.”
“Speak lower,” said Hans, sternly. “And you, sir; what is this demand?”
“Two thousand francs,----rent of this house; which, with damage to the
furniture and other charges, will make two thousand eight hundred.”
“I will pay it,” said Hans, stopping him.
“Your credit would be somewhat better, Master Hans, had you not given a
certain bail bond that you know of,” said Kraus, sneeringly.
“I have wherewith to meet my debts,” said Hans, calmly.
“I will claim my bond within a week; I give you notice of it,” said
Kraus.
“You shall be paid to-morrow. Let us be in peace to-night; bethink you
what that room contains.”
“He ain't black, is he? I--I would n't look at him for a thousand
pounds,” said Purvis, with a shudder.
“If she remain here after noon, to-morrow,” said Kraus, in a low voice,
“a new month will have begun.”
“To-morrow afternoon; Lord! how close he r-ran it,” exclaimed Purvis.
“Once more, I say, be patient,” said Hans. “Let these good people go,
you shall lose nothing; I pledge the word of a man who never told
a falsehood. I will pay all. Have some pity, however, for this
orphan,--one who has now neither a home nor a country.”
“Yes, yes, he 'll have p-pity; he 's an excellent man is Mr. Kraus.
I shouldn't wonder if we'd come to terms about this vi-villa for
ourselves.”
Hans turned a look of anger towards him, and then said: “Go, sir, and
take those that belong to you away also. This place no longer can suit
you nor them. He who lies yonder can be flattered and fawned on no more;
and, as for her, she is above your compassion, if it even lay in your
heart to offer it.”
“He ain't quite right here,” whispered Purvis to Kraus, as he tapped
his forehead significantly. “They told me that in the town.” Kraus moved
away without reply, and Purvis followed him. “He's rich, too, they say,”
added he, in a whisper.
“They'll scarcely say as much this day week,” said Kraus, sneeringly;
while, beckoning his people to follow him, he left the house.
No sooner did Mrs. Ricketts learn that her worldly possessions were
safe, and that the harpy clutches of the law could make no seizure among
those curious turbans and wonderful tunics which composed her wardrobe,
than she immediately addressed herself to the active duties of the hour
with a mind at ease, and, while packing her trunks, inadvertently stowed
away such little stray articles as might not be immediately missed, and
might serve hereafter to recall thoughts of “poor dear Miss Dalton,” for
so she now preferred to name her.
“Those little box figures, Martha, don't forget them. They of course
don't belong to the house; and Scroope suspects that the bracket for the
hall lamp must have been her carving also.”
“I 've p-put away two pencil drawings marked 'N. D.,' and a little
sketch in oil of the Alten Schloss; and I 've my pockets stuffed with
the tulip roots.”
“Well thought of, Scroope; and there's a beautiful paper-knife,--poor
thing, she's not likely to want it now. What a sad bereavement! And are
his affairs really so bad?”
“Ov-over head and ears in debt There ain't enough to bury him if the
dwarf does not shell out,--but he will. They say he's in love with
Nelly,--he, he, he!”
“Shocking, quite shocking. Yes, Martha, that telescope is a very good
one. What improvidence, what culpable improvidence!”
“And is she quite friendless?” asked Martha, feelingly.
“Not while she has _our_ protection,” said Mrs. Rickett», grandly. “I
've determined 'to take her up.'”
Martha reddened slightly at the phrase, for she knew of some others who
had been so “taken up,” and with what small profit to their prosperity.
“Her talents, when aided by _our_ patronage, will always support her,”
said Mrs. Ricketts; “and I mean, when the shock of this calamity
is past, to employ her on a little group for a centrepiece for our
dinner-table. She will, of course, be charmed to have her genius
displayed to such advantage. It will afford us a suitable opportunity of
introducing her name.”
“And we shall have the piece of carving for nothing,” said Martha, who
innocently believed that she was supplying another argument of equal
delicacy and force.
“You 're an idiot!” said Mrs. Ricketts, angrily; “and I begin to fear
you will never be anything else.”
“I 'm quite sure I shall not,” muttered the other, with a faint
submissiveness, and continued the task of packing the trunks.
“Take care that you find out her sister's address, Martha. I 'm sadly
in want of some furs; that tippet, I suppose, is only fit for _you_ now,
and my sable muff is like a dog in the mange. The opportunity is a most
favorable one; for when the Princess, as they persist in calling her,
knows that her sister is our dependant, we may make our own terms. It
would be the very ruin of her in St Petersburg to publish such a fact.”
“But Miss Dalton will surely write to her herself.”
“She can be persuaded, I trust, to the contrary,” said Mrs. Ricketts,
knowingly. “She can be shown that such an appeal would, in all
likelihood, wreck her sister's fortunes, that the confession of such a
relationship would utterly destroy her position in that proud capital;
and if she prove obstinate, the letter need not go; you understand that,
at least,” added she, with a contemptuous glance that made poor Martha
tremble.
Mrs. Ricketts was now silent, and sat revelling in the various thoughts
that her active mind suggested. Upon the whole, although Dalton's dying
was an inconvenience, there were some compensating circumstances. She
had gained a most useful _protégée_ in Nelly,----one whose talents
might be made of excellent use, and whose humble, unpretending nature
would exact no requital. Again, the season at Baden was nearly over; a
week or two more, at most, was all that remained. The “Villino,” which
she had left for the summer to some confiding family, who believed
that Florence was a paradise in July and August, would again be at her
disposal; and, in fact, as she phrased it, “the conjunctures were all
felicitous,” and her campaign had not been unfruitful. This latter
fact attested itself in the aspect of her travelling-carriage, with its
“spolia” on the roof, and its various acquired objects under the body.
Pictures, china, plate, coins, brocades, old lace, books, prints,
manuscripts, armor, stained glass, trinkets, and relics of all kinds,
showed that travel with her was no unprofitable occupation, and that
she had realized the grand desideratum of combining pleasure with solid
advantage.
Meanwhile, so ingenious is thorough selfishness, she fancied herself
a benefactor of the whole human race. All the cajoleries she used to
practise, she thought were the amiable overflowings of a kindly nature;
her coarse flatteries she deemed irresistible fascinations; her
duperies even seemed only the triumphs of a mind transcendently rich in
resources, and never for a moment suspected that the false coin she was
uttering could be called in question, though the metal was too base for
imposition. There is no supply without demand, and if the world did not
like such characters there would be none of them. The Rickettses
are, however, a large and an increasing class of society, and, to our
national shame be it said, they are distinctively English in origin. And
now we leave her, little regretting if it be forever; and if we turn
to a darker page in our story, it is, at least, to one wherein our
sympathies are more fairly enlisted.
That long night passed over like a dreary dream, and morning was now
mingling its beams with the glare of the tapers, as Nelly sat beside the
death-bed.
“Come with me, Fräulein! come away from this,” said Hanserl, as with a
tearful eye and quivering lip he stood before her.
Nelly shook her head slowly, and for answer turned her gaze on the dead
man.
“You shall come back again; I promise you, you shall come back again,”
said he, softly.
She arose without a word and followed him. They passed through an outer
room, and entered the garden, where Hans, taking her hand, led her to a
seat.
“You will be better here, Fräulein,” said he, respectfully; “the air is
fresh and balmy.”
“He sat beside me on this bench three nights ago,” said she, as if
talking to herself, “and said how he wished I could be with Kate, but
that he could not part with me; and see,--we are parted, and for a
longer separation! Oh, Hanserl! what we would give to recall some of the
past, when death has closed it forever against us!”
“Remember Wieland, Fräulein; he tells us that 'the Impossible is a tree
without fruit or flowers.'”
“And yet my mind will dwell on nothing else. The little thwartings of
his will, the cold compliance which should have been yielded in a better
spirit, the counsels that often only irritated,--how they rise up now,
like stern accusers, before me, and tell me that I failed in my duty.”
“Not so, Fräulein, not so,” said Hans, reverently.
“But there is worse than that, Hanserl, far worse,” said she, trembling.
“To smooth the rough path of life, I descended to deception. I told him
the best when my heart felt the worst. Had he known of Kate's real life,
and had he sorrowed over _her_ fortunes, might not such grief have been
hallowed to him! To have wept over Frank--the poor boy in prison--might
have raised his thoughts to other themes than the dissipation that
surrounded him. All this was _my_ fault I would have his love, and see
the price it has cost me!” She hid her face between her hands, and never
spoke for a long time. And at length she lifted up her eyes, red as they
were with weeping, and with a heavy sigh said, “How far is it to Vienna,
Hanserl?”
“To Vienna, Fräulein! It is a long journey,----more than four hundred
miles. But why do you ask?”
“I was thinking that if I saw Count Stephen--if I could but tell him our
sad story myself--he might intercede for poor Frank, and perhaps obtain
his freedom. His crime can scarcely be beyond the reach of mercy, and
his youth will plead for him. And is it so far away, Hanserl?”
“At the very least; and a costly journey, too.”
“But I would go on foot, Hans. Lame as I am, I can walk for miles
without fatigue, and I feel as if the exertion would be a solace to me,
and that my mind, bent upon a good object, could the more easily turn
away from my own desolation. Oh, Hans, think me not selfish that I speak
thus; but thoughts of my own loneliness are so linked with all I have
lost, I cannot separate them. Even the humble duty that I filled gave a
value to my life, without which my worthlessness would have crushed
me; for what could poor lame Nelly be,--I, that had no buoyancy for the
young, no ripe judgment for the old? And yet, in caring for him that is
gone, I found a taste of love and happiness.”
“I will go with you, Fräulein; you shall not take this weary road alone.
Heaven knows that, without you, this place would be too dreary for me.”
“But your house, Hanserl,--all that you possess,--the fruits of all your
hard industry--”
“Speak not of them,” said Hans, reddening. “They who deem me rich are
mistaken. I have speculated ill, I have made bad ventures, and what I
have will but pay my debts, and I will be glad to quit this spot.”
“And I,” said Nelly, with a voice of deep emotion,--“I cannot say that I
can help you. I know nothing of what may remain to me in this world; my
father never spoke to me latterly of his means, and I may be, for aught
I know, a beggar. Will you see his banker and speak with him?”
“I have done so,” said Hans, slowly. “He claims some small sum as due to
him.”
“And how am I to pay it?” said Nelly, growing pale. “It is true, I can
labor--”
“Have no care for this, Fräulein. It shall be looked to, and you shall
repay it hereafter.”
“Oh, Hanserl, beware!” said she, solemnly; “we are an unfortunate
race to those who help us; my poor father often said so, and even his
superstitions are hallowed to me now.”
A gesture from some one within the house called Hans away, and Nelly was
left alone. She sat with her eyes closed and her arms firmly clasped,
deep in her own sad thoughts, when she heard a footstep close by. It was
only Andy, who, with a piece of ragged crape fastened round his arm, was
slowly tottering towards her. His face was flushed, and his eyes wild
and excited, as he continued to mutter and reply to himself,----
“A Dalton; one of the ould stock, and maybe the last of them, too.”
“And what is it, Andy?----tell me, what is it?” said she, kindly.
“There's no wake,--there is n't as much as a tenant's child would have!”
“We are almost friendless here, Andy. It is not our own country.”
“Ain't they Christians, though? Could n't they keep the corpse company?
Is it four candles and a deal coffin ought to be at a Dalton's burial?”
“And we are poor also,” said she, meekly.
“And has n't the poorest respect for the dead?” said he, sternly.
“Wouldn't they sell the cow, or the last pig, out of honor to him
that's gone to glory? I 'll not stay longer in the place; I 'll have my
discharge; I 'll go back to Ireland.”
“Poor fellow,” said Nelly, taking his hand kindly, and seating him
beside her. “You loved him so! and he loved you, Andy. He loved to
hear you sing your old songs, and tell over the names of his favorite
hounds.”
“Bessy and Countess were the sweetest among them,” said the old man,
wandering away to old memories of the past, “but Nora was truer than
either.” And so he fell into a low mumbling to himself, endeavoring,
as it seemed, to recall the forgotten line of some hunting chant, while
Nelly returned to the house to take her last farewell ere the coffin lid
was closed.