We have seen Baden in the dark winter of its discontent—in the spring-time of its promise—and now we come back to it once more, in the fall blaze of its noonday splendor. It was the height of the season! And what a world of dissipation does that phrase embody! What reckless extravagance, what thoughtless profusion, what systematic vice glossed over by the lacquer of polished breeding, what beauty which lacks but innocence to be almost divine! All the attractions of a lovely country, all the blandishments of wealth, the aids of music and painting, the odor of flowers, the songs of birds,—all pressed into the service of voluptuous dissipation, and made to throw a false lustre over a scene where vice alone predominates.
It was the camp of pleasure, to which all rallied who loved to fight beneath that banner. And there they were, a mingled host of princes, ministers, and generals. The spoiled children of fashion, the reckless adventurer, the bankrupt speculator, the nattered beauty in all the pride of her loveliness, the tarnished virtue in all the effrontery of conquest! Strange and incongruous elements of good and evil,—of all that is honored in heroism, and all that men shrink from with shame,—there they were met as equals.
As if by some conventional relaxation of all the habits which rule society, men admitted to their intimacy here those they would have strenuously avoided elsewhere. Vice, like poverty, seemed to have annihilated all the distinctions of rank, and the “decorated” noble and the branded felon sat down to the same board like brethren.
Amid all the gay company of the Cursaal none appeared to have a greater relish for the glittering pleasures of the scene than a large elderly man, who, in a coat of jockey cut and a showy waistcoat, sat at the end of one of the tables,—a post which the obsequious attention of the waiters proclaimed to be his own distinctively. Within a kind of ring-fence of bottles and decanters of every shape and size, he looked the genius of hospitality and dissipation; and it was only necessary to mark how many a smile was turned on him, how many a soft glance was directed towards him, to see that he was the centre of all designing flattery. There was a reckless, unsuspecting jollity in his look that could not be mistaken; and his loud, hearty laugh bespoke the easy self-satisfaction of his nature. Like “special envoys,” his champagne bottles were sent hither and thither down the table, and at each instant a friendly nod or a courteous bow acknowledged his hospitable attention. At either side of him were seated a knot of his peculiar parasites, and neither was wit nor beauty wanting to make their society agreeable. There is a species of mock affection, a false air of attachment in the homage rendered to such a man as this, that makes the flattery infinitely more seductive than all the respectful devotion that ever surrounded a monarch. And so our old friend Peter Dalton—need we to name him?—felt it. “Barring the glorious burst of a fox-hunting chorus, or the wild 'hip, hip' of a favorite toast, it was almost as good as Ireland.” Indeed, in some respects, it had rather the advantage over the dear island.
Peter was intensely Irish, and had all the native relish for high company, and it was no mean enjoyment that he felt in seeing royal and serene highnesses at every side of him, and knowing that some of the great names of Europe were waiting for the very dish that was served first in honor to himself. There was a glittering splendor, too, in the gorgeously decorated “Saal,” with its frescos, its mirrors, its lustres, and its bouquets, that captivated him. The very associations which a more refined critic would have cavilled at had their attractions for him, and he gloried in the noise and uproar. The clink of glasses and the crash of plates were to his ears the pleasant harmony of a convivial meeting.
He was in the very height of enjoyment. A few days back he had received a large remittance from Kate. It came in a letter to Nelly, which he had not read, nor cared to read. He only knew that she was at St. Petersburg waiting for Midchekoffs arrival. The money had driven all other thoughts out of his head, and before Nelly had glanced her eye over half the first page, he was already away to negotiate the bills with Abel Kraus, the moneychanger. As for Frank, they had not heard of him for several months back. Nelly, indeed, had received a few lines from Count Stephen, but they did not appear to contain anything very interesting, for she went to her room soon after reading them, and Dalton forgot to ask more on the subject. His was not a mind to conjure up possible misfortunes. Always too ready to believe the best, he took the world ever on its sunniest side, and never would acknowledge a calamity while there was a loophole of escape from it.
“Why wouldn't she be happy?—What the devil could ail her?——Why oughtn't he to be well?——Wasn't he as strong as a bull, and not twenty yet!” Such were the consolations of his philosophy, and he needed no better.
His flatterers, too, used to insinuate little fragments of news about the “Princess” and the “Young Count,” as they styled Frank, which he eagerly devoured, and as well as his memory served him, tried to repeat to Nelly when he returned home of a night. These were enough for him; and the little sigh with which he tossed off his champagne to their health was the extent of sorrow the separation cost him.
Now and then, it is true, he wished they were with him; he'd have liked to show the foreigners “what an Irish girl was;” he would have been pleased, too, that his handsome boy should have been seen amongst “them grinning baboons, with hair all over them.” He desired this the more, that Nelly would never venture into public with him, or, if she did, it was with such evident shame and repugnance that even his selfishness could not exact the sacrifice. “'T is, maybe, the sight of the dancing grieves her, and-she lame,” was the explanation he gave himself of this strange turn of mind; and whenever honest Peter had hit upon what he thought was a reason for anything, he dismissed all further thought about the matter forever. It was a debt paid, and he felt as if he had the receipt on his file.
On the day we now speak of he was supremely happy. An Irish peer had come into the Saal leaning on his arm, and twice called him “Dalton” across the table. The waiter had apologized to a royal highness for not having better Johannisberg, as the “Schloss” wine had all been reserved for the “Count,” as Peter was styled. He had won four hundred Napoleons at roulette before dinner; and a bracelet, that cost a hundred and twenty, was glittering on a fair wrist beside him, while a murmur of his name in tones of unquestionable adulation, from all parts of the table, seemed to fill up the measure of his delight.
“What's them places vacant there?” called he out to the waiter, and pointing to five chairs turned back to the table in token of being reserved.
“It was an English family had arrived that morning who bespoke them.”
“Faix! then, they 're likely to lose soup and fish,” said Peter; “the 'coorses' here wait for no man.” And as he spoke the party made their appearance.
A large elderly lady of imposing mien and stately presence led the way, followed by a younger and slighter figure; after whom walked a very feeble old man, of a spare and stooping form; the end being brought up by a little rosy man, with a twinkling eye and a short jerking limp, that made him seem rather to dance than walk forward.
“They've ca-ca-carried off the soup already,” cried the last-mentioned personage, as he arranged his napkin before him, “and—and—and, I fa-fancy, the fish, too.”
“Be quiet, Scroope,” called out the fat lady; “do be quiet.”
“Yes, but we shall have to p-p-pay all the same,” cried Scroope.
“There 's good sense in that, anyway,” broke in Dalton; “will you take a glass of champagne with me, sir? you 'll find it cool, and not bad of its kind.”
Mr. Purvis acknowledged the courtesy gracefully, and bowed as he drank.
“Take the ortolans to that lady, Fritz,” said Dalton to the waiter; and Mrs. Ricketts smiled her sweetest gratitude.
“We are dreadfully late,” sighed she; “but the dear Princess of Stauffenschwillingen passed all the morning with us, and we could n't get away.”
“I thought it was the woman about the ro-rope dancing detained you.”
“Hush, Scroope—will you be quiet? Martha, dearest, don't venture on those truffles. My poor child, they would be the death of you.” And, so saying, she drew her companion's plate before herself. “A most agreeable, gentlemanlike person,” muttered she, in a whisper, evidently intended for Peter's ears. “We must find out who he is. I suppose you know the Princess, sir? Don't you love her?” said she, addressing Dalton.
“Faix! if you mean the old lady covered with snuff that comes here to have her dogs washed at the well, without intending any offence to you, I do not. To tell you the truth, ma'am, when I was in the habit of fallin' in love, it was a very different kind of creature that did it! Ay, ay, 'the days is gone when beauty bright my heart's ease spoilt.'”
“My heart's chain wove,'” smiled and whispered Mrs. Ricketts.
“Just so. It comes to the same thing. Give me the wine, Fritz. Will you drink a glass of wine with me, sir?”
The invitation was addressed to General Ricketts, who, by dint of several shoves, pokings, and admonitions, was at last made aware of the proposition.
“Your father's getting a little the worse for wear, miss,” said Dalton to Martha, who blushed at even the small flattery of the observation.
“The General's services have impaired his constitution,” remarked Mrs. Ricketts, proudly.
“Ay, and to all appearance it was nothing to boast of in the beginning,” replied Peter, as he surveyed with self-satisfaction his own portly form.
“Fourteen years in the Hima-Hima-Hima—”
“Himalaya, Scroope,——the Himalaya.”
“The highest mountains in the world!” continued Purvis.
“For wet under foot, and a spongy soil that never dries, I'll back the Galtees against them any day. See, now, you can walk from morning to night, and be over your head at every step you go.”
“Where are they?” inquired Scroope.
“Why, where would they be? In Ireland, to be sure; and here's prosperity to her, and bad luck to Process-servers, 'Polis,' and Poor-Law Commissioners!” Dalton drained his glass with solemn energy to his toast, and looked as though his heart was relieved of a weight by this outburst of indignation.
“You Irish are so patriotic!” exclaimed Mrs. Ricketts, enthusiastically.
“I believe we are,” replied Dalton. “'T is only we 've an odd way of showing it.”
“I remark that they ne-never live in Ireland when they can li-live out of it,” cackled Purvis.
“Well, and why not? Is it by staying at home in the one place people learns improvements? you might drink whiskey-punch for forty years and never know the taste of champagne. Potatoes wouldn't teach you the flavor of truffles. There's nothing like travellin'!”
“Very true,” sighed Mrs. Ricketts; “but, as the poet says, 'Where'er I go, whatever realms I see—“'
“The devil a one you 'll meet as poor as Ireland,” broke in Dalton, who now had thrown himself headlong into a favorite theme. “Other countries get better, but she gets worse.”
“They say it's the po-po——” screamed Scroope.
“The Pope, is it?”
“No; the po-potatoes is the cause of everything.”
“They might as well hould their prate, then,” broke in Peter, whose dialect always grew broader when he was excited. “Why don't they tell me that if I was too poor to buy broadcloth, it would be better for me to go naked than wear corduroy breeches? Not that I'd mind them, miss!” said be, turning to Martha, who already was blushing at his illustration.
“I fear that the evil lies deeper,” sighed Mrs. Ricketts.
“You mean the bogs?” asked Dal ton.
“Not exactly, sir; but I allude to those drearier swamps of superstition and ignorance that overlay the land.”
Peter was puzzled, and scratched his ear like a man at a nonplus.
“My sister means the pr-pr-pr—”
“The process-servers?”
“No; the pr-priests—the priests,” screamed Purvis.
“Bother!” exclaimed Dalton, with an accent of ineffable disdain. “'T is much you know about Ireland!”
“You don't agree with me then?” sighed Mrs. Ricketts.
“Indeed I do not. Would you take away the little bit of education out of a country where there's nothing but ignorance? Would you extinguish the hopes of heaven amongst them that has nothing but starvation and misery here? Try it,—just try it. I put humanity out of the question; but just try it, for the safety's sake! Pat is n't very orderly now, but, faix! you 'd make a raal devil of him then, entirely!”
“But popery, my dear sir—the confessional—”
“Bother!” said Dalton, with a wave of his hand. “How much you know about it! 'T is just as they used to talk long ago about drunkenness. Sure, I remember well when there was all that hue and cry about Irish gentlemen's habits of dissipation, and the whole time nobody took anything to hurt his constitution. Well, it's just the same with confession,—everybody uses his discretion about it. You have your peccadilloes, and I have my peccadilloes, and that young lady there has her—Well, I did n't mean to make you blush, miss, but 'tis what I'm saying, that nobody, barrin' a fool, would be too hard upon himself!”
“So that it ain't con-confession at all,” exclaimed Purvis.
“Who told you that?” said Peter, sternly. “Is it nothing to pay two-and-sixpence in the pound if you were bankrupt to-morrow? Does n't it show an honest intention, any way?” said he, with a wink.
“Then what are the evils of Ireland?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, with an air of inquiring interest.
“I 'll tell you, then,” said Dalton, slowly, as he filled a capacious glass with champagne. “It is n't the priests, nor it isn't the potatoes, nor it isn't the Protestants either, though many respectable people think so; for you see we had always priests and potatoes, and a sprinkling of Protestants besides; but the real evil of Ireland—and there's no man living knows it better than I do—is quite another thing, and here's what it is.” And he stooped down and dropped his voice to a whisper. “'Tis this: 'tis paying money when you have n't it!” The grave solemnity of this enunciation did not seem to make it a whit more intelligible to Mrs. Ricketts, who certainly looked the very type of amazement. “That's what it is,” reiterated Dalton, “paying money when you have n't it! There's the ruin of Ireland; and, as I said before, who ought to know better? For you see, when you owe money, and you have n't it, you must get it how you can. You know what that means; and if you don't, I 'll tell you. It means mortgages and bond debts; rack-renting and renewals; breaking up an elegant establishment; selling your horses at Dycer's; going to the devil entirely; and not only yourself, but all belonging to you. The tradesmen you dealt with, the country shop where you bought everything, the tithes, the priests' dues,—not a farthing left for them.”
“But you don't mean to say that people shouldn't p-p-pay their debts?” screamed Purvis.
“There's a time for everything,” replied Dalton. “Shaving oneself is a mighty useful process, but you wouldn't have a man get up out of his bed at night to do it? I never was for keeping money,—the worst enemy would n't say that of me. Spend it freely when you have it; but sure it's not spending to be paying debts due thirty or forty years back, made by your great-grandfather?”
“One should be just before being ge-gen-gene-gene——”
“Faix! I'd be both,” said Dalton, who with native casuistry only maintained a discussion for the sake of baffling or mystifying an adversary. “I'd be just to myself and generous to my friends, them's my sentiments; and it 's Peter Dalton that says it!”
“Dalton!” repeated Mrs. Ricketts, in a low voice,——“did n't he say Dalton, Martha?”
“Yea, sister; it was Dalton.”
“Did n't you say your name was Da-Da-a-a——”
“No, I didn't!” cried Peter, laughing. “I said Peter Dalton as plain as a man could speak; and if ever you were in Ireland, you may have heard the name before now.”
“We knew a young lady of that name at Florence.”
“Is it Kate,—my daughter Kate?” cried the old man, in ecstasy.
“Yes, she was called Kate,” replied Mrs. Ricketts, whose strategic sight foresaw a world of consequences from the recognition. “What a lovely creature she was!”
“And you knew Kate?” cried Dalton again, gazing on the group with intense interest. “But was it my Kate? Perhaps it was n't mine!”
“She was living in the Mazzarini Palace with Lady Hester Onslow.”
“That's her,—that's her! Oh, tell me everything you know,—tell me all you can think of her. She was the light of my eyes for many a year! Is the old lady sick?” cried he, suddenly; for Mrs. Ricketts had leaned back in her chair, and covered her face with her handkerchief.
“She 's only overcome,” said Martha, as she threw back her own shawl and prepared for active service; while Scroope, in a burst of generous anxiety, seized the first decanter near him and filled out a bumper.
“She and yonr da-daughter were like sisters,” whispered Scroope to Dalton.
“The devil they were!” exclaimed Peter, who thought their looks must have belied the relationship. “Isn't she getting worse?—she's trembling all over her.”
Mrs. Ricketts's state now warranted the most acute sympathy; for she threw her eyes wildly about, and seemed like one gasping for life.
“Is she here, Martha? Is she near me——can I see her—can I touch her?” cried she, in accents almost heartrending.
“Yes, yes; you shall see her; she 'll not leave you,” said Martha, as if caressing a child. “We must remove her; we must get her out of this.”
“To be sure; yes, of course!” cried Dalton. “There's a room here empty. It's a tender heart she has, any way;” and, so saying, he arose, and with the aid of some half-dozen waiters transported the now unconscious Zoe, chair and all, into a small chamber adjoining the Saal.
“This is her father's hand,” murmured Mrs. Ricketts, as she pressed Dalton's in her own,——“her father's hand.”
“Yes, my dear!” said Dalton, returning the pressure, and feeling a strong desire to blubber, just for sociality's sake.
“If you knew how they loved each other,” whispered Martha, while she busied herself pinning cap-ribbons out of the way of cold applications, and covering up lace from the damaging influence of restoratives.
“It 's wonderful,—it's wonderful!” exclaimed Peter, whose faculties were actually confounded by such a rush of sensations and emotions.
“Make him go back to his dinner, Martha; make him go back,” sighed the sick lady, in a half-dreamy voice.
“I couldn't eat a bit; a morsel would choke me this minute,” said Dalton, who could n't bear to be outdone in the refinements of excited sensibility.
“She must never be contradicted while in this state,” said Martha, confidingly. “All depends on indulgence.”
“It's wonderful!” exclaimed Dalton, again,——“downright wonderful!”
“Then, pray go back; she'll be quite well presently,” rejoined Martha, who already, from the contents of a reticule like a carpet-bag, had metamorphosed the fair Zoe's appearance into all the semblance of a patient.
“It's wonderful; it beats Banagher!” muttered Peter, as he returned to the Saal, and resumed his place at the table. The company had already taken their departure, and except Purvis and the General, only a few stragglers remained behind.
“Does she often get them?” asked Peter of Purvis.
“Only when her fee-fee-feelings are worked upon; she's so se-sensitive!”
“Too tender a heart,” sighed Peter, as he filled his glass, and sighed over an infirmity that he thought he well knew all the miseries of. “And her name, if I might make bould?”
“Ricketts,——Mrs. Montague Ricketts. This is Ge-Ge-General Ricketts.” At these words the old man looked op, smiled blandly, and lifted his glass to his lips.
“Your good health, and many happy returns to yoo,” said Peter, in reply to the courtesy. “Ricketts,——Ricketts. Well, I 'm sure I heard the name before.”
“In the D-D-Duke's despatches you may have seen it.” “No, no, no. I never read one of them. I heard it here in Baden. Wait, now, and I'll remember how.” Neither the effort at recollection nor the aid of a bumper seemed satisfactory, for Dalton sat musingly for several minutes together. “Well, I thought I knew the name,” exclaimed he, at last, with a deep sigh of discomfiture; “'t is runnin' in my head yet; something about chilblains,——chilblains.”
“But the name is R-R-Ricketts,” screamed Purvis.
“And so it is,” sighed Peter. “My brain is woolgathering. By my conscience, I have it now, though!” cried he, in wild delight. “I knew I 'd scent it out. It was one Fogles that was here,——a chap with a red wig, and deaf as a door-nail.”
“Foglass, you mean,—Fo-Foglass,——don't you?”
“I always called him Fogies; and I 'm sure it's as good a name as the other, any day.”
“He's so pl-pleasant,” chimed in Scroope, who, under the influence of Dalton's champagne, was now growing convivial,——“he's so agreeable; always in the highest cir-circles, and dining with no-no-no——”
“With nobs,” suggested Peter. “He might do better, and he might do worse. I 've seen lords that was as great rapscallions as you 'd meet from this to Kilrush.”
“But Foglass was always so excl-exclusive, and held himself so high.”
“The higher the better,” rejoined Dalton, “even if it was out of one's reach altogether; for a more tiresome ould crayture I never forgathered with; and such a bag of stories he had, without a bit of drollery or fun in one of them. You may think that kind of fellow good company in England; but, in my poor country, a red herring and a pint of beer would get you one he could n't howld a candle to. See now, Mister—”
“P-P-Purvis,” screamed the other.
“Mister Purvis,—if that's the name,—see, now, 't is n't boasting I am, for the condition we 're in would n't let any man boast,—but it's what I 'm saying, the English is a mighty stupid people. They have their London jokes, and, like London porter, mighty heavy they are, and bitter, besides; and they have two or three play-actors that makes them die laughing at the same comicalities every day of the year. They get used to them as they do the smoke and the noise and the Thames water; and nothing would persuade them that, because they 're rich, they 're not agreeable and social and witty. And may I never leave this, but you 'd find cuter notions of life, droller stories, and more fun, under a dry arch of the Aqueduct of Stoney Batter than if you had the run of Westminster Hall. Look at the shouts of laughter in the Law Coorts; look at the loud laughter in the House of Commons! Oh dear! oh dear! it makes me quite melancholy just to think of it I won't talk of the Parliament, because it's gone; but take an Irish Coort in Dublin or on the Assizes, at any trial,—murder, if you like,——and see the fun that goes on: the judge quizzing the jury, and the counsel quizzing the judge, and the prisoner quizzing all three. There was poor ould Nor-bury,—rest his soul!—I remember well how he could n't put on the black cap for laughing.”
“And is ju-justice better administered for all that?” cried Purvis.
“To be sure it is. Isn't the laws made to expose villany, and not let people be imposed upon? Sure it's not to hang Paddy Blake you want, but to keep others from following his example. And many 's the time in Ireland when, what between the blunderin' of the Crown lawyers, the flaws of the indictment, the conscientious scruples of the jury,—you know what that means,—and the hurry of the judge to be away to Harrogate or Tunbridge, a villain gets off. But, instead of going out with an elegant bran-new character, a bit of a joke—a droll word spoken during the trial—sticks to him all his life after, till it would be just as well for him to be hanged at once as be laughed at, from Pill-Lane to the Lakes of Killarney. Don't I remember well when one of the Regans—Tim, I think it was—was tried for murder at Tralee; there was a something or other they could n't convict upon. 'T was his grandfather's age was put down wrong, or the color of his stepmother's hair, or the nails in his shoes wasn't described right,——whatever it was, it was a flaw, as they called it; and a flaw in a brief, like one in a boiler, leaves everybody in hot water. “Not Guilty,” says the jury, 'for we can't agree.'
“''Tis a droll verdict,' says O'Grady, for he was the judge. 'What d' ye mean?'
“'Most of us is for hanging, my Lord; but more of us would let him off.'
“'What will you do, Mr. Attorney?' says the judge. 'Have you any other evidence to bring forward?' And the Attorney-General stooped down and began whispering with the bench. 'Very well,' says the judge, at last, 'we 'll discharge him by proclamation.'
“'Wait a minute, my Lord,' says ould Blethers, who got five guineas for the defence, and had n't yet opened his mouth. 'Before my respected but injured client leaves that dock, I call to your Lordship, in the name and on behalf of British justice,—I appeal to you, by the eternal principles of our glorious Constitution, that he may go forth into the world with a reputation unstained and a character unblemished.'
“'Not so fast, Mister Blethers,' says old Grady,——'not so fast I 'm going over Thieve-na-muck Mountain tonight, and, with the blessing of God, I 'll keep your unblemished friend where he is till morning.' Now you see the meaning of what I was telling you. 'T is like tying a kettle to a dog's tail.”
It is not quite clear to us whether Purvis comprehended the story or appreciated the illustration; but he smiled, and smirked, and looked satisfied, for Peter's wine was admirable, and iced to perfection. Indeed, the worthy Scroope, like his sister, was already calculating how to “improve the occasion,” and further cultivate the esteem of one whose hospitable dispositions were so excellent. It was just at this moment that Martha glided behind Purvis's chair, and whispered a word in his ear. Whatever the announcement, it required some repetition before it became quite palpable to his faculties, and it was only after about five minutes that his mind seemed to take in all the bearings of the case.
“Oh, I ha-have it!” cried he. “That's it, eh?” And he winked with a degree of cunning that showed the most timely appreciation of the news.
“Would n't the young lady sit down and take something?” said Dalton, offering a seat “A glass of sweet wine? They 've elegant Tokay here.”
“Thanks, thanks,” said Scroope, apologizing for the bashful Martha; “but she's in a bit of a quandary just now. My sister wishes to return home, and we cannot remember the name of the hotel.”
Dalton took a hearty fit of laughing at the absurdity of the dilemma.
“'T is well,” said he, “You were n't Irish. By my conscience! they'd call that a bull;” and he shook his sides with merriment. “How did you get here?”
“We walked,” said Martha.
“And which way did you come?”
“Can you remember, Scroope?”
“Yes, I can re-re-member that we crossed a little Plate, with a fountain, and came oyer a wooden bridge, and then down an alley of li-li-linden-trees.”
“To be sure ye did,” broke in Dalton; “and the devil a walk of five minutes ye could take in any direction here without seeing a fountain, a wooden bridge, and a green lane. 'T is the same whichever way you turn, whether you were going to church or the gambling-house. Would you know the name, if you hear it? Was it the Schwan?” Purvis shook his head. “Nor the Black Eagle?—nor the Cour de Londres?—nor the Russie?—nor the Zaringer? Nor, in fact, any of the cognate hotels of Baden. Was n't there a great hall when you entered, with orange-trees all round it, and little couriers, in goold-lace jackets, smoking and drinking beer?” Scroope thought he had seen something of that sort “Of course ye did,” said Dalton, with another burst of laughter. “'Tis the same in every hotel of the town. There 's a clock that never goes, too, and a weather-glass always at 'set fair,' and pictures round the walls of all the wonderful inns in Germany and Switzerland, with coaches-and-four driving in at full gallop, and ladies on the balconies, and saddle-horses waiting, and every diversion in life going on, while, maybe, all the time, the place is dead as Darmstadt.”
Scroope recognized the description perfectly, but could give no clew to its whereabouts.
“Maybe 't is Kaufmayer's. Was it painted yellow outside?”
Scroope thought not. “It hadn't a garden in front?” He couldn't say positively; but, if so, it was a small garden. “He did n't remark two dogs in stone beside the door?” No, he had not seen them.
“Then, by the powers!” exclaimed Peter, “I give it up. Nelly's the only body can make anything out of it.”
“And who's Ne-Ne-Nelly?” screamed Purvis.
“My daughter, Miss Dalton,” said Peter, haughtily, And as if rebuking the liberty of the question.
Scroope hastened to apologize, and suddenly remembered how frequently he had heard of the young lady from her sister, and how eager Mrs. Ricketts would be to make her Acquaintance.
“There's nothing easier than that same,” said Dalton. “Just come with me to my little place, and take tea with us. Nelly will be right glad to see them that was kind to her sister, and then we'll try if we can't find out your inn.”
“Can we do this, Martha?” cried Scroope, in seeming Agitation.
“I 'll speak to my sister,” mildly replied she.
“Do, then, Miss,” said Dalton. “Say 'tis just alone, and in the family way, and that we have n't more than ten minutes' walk from this; or, we 'll get a coach if she likes.”
The very thought of practising hospitality was ecstasy to honest Peter, who, while Martha retired to consult her sister, ordered in a relay of bottles to beguile the time.
“I like that little ould man,” said he, confidingly, to Purvis, while he bent a kindly glance on the General. “He doesn't say much, and, maybe, he hears less; but he takes his glass pleasantly, and he lays it down when it's empty, with a little sigh. I never knew a bad fellow had that habit.”
Scroope hinted that the General was one of the bright stars of the British army.
“I did n't care that he took Tippoo Saib, or Bergen-op-Zoom, and that's a big word,—for a wickeder pair of devils, by all accounts, never lived,—if he's all right here.” And Peter touched the left region of his brawny chest “If he's good and generous, kind to the poor, and steady to his friends, I'd be prouder to know him than if he was 'Bony' or Brian Maguire!”
Scroope assured him that the General's greatness took nothing from the kindly qualities of his heart; and, indeed, the mild looks of the old man well corroborated the eulogy; and he and Dalton nodded and drank to each other with all the signs of a most amicable understanding.
Martha was not long absent. She returned with all manner of acknowledgments on the part of her sister; but gratitude was so counterbalanced by delicacy, fears of intrusion were so coupled with enthusiastic delight, that poor Dalton was quite unable to unravel the web, and satisfy himself what were her real intentions.
“Is it that she won't come?” said he, in a state of bewilderment.
“Oh, no,” said Martha; “she did not mean that.”
“Well, then, she is coming,” said he, more contentedly.
“She only fears the inconvenience,——the trouble she may give Miss Dalton,—not to speak of the abruptness of such a visit.”
“She does n't know Nelly,—tell her that. She doesn't know Nelly Dalton,” said Peter. “'T is the same girl does n't care for trouble or inconvenience; just talk to her about Kate and you 'll pay her well for all she could do for you.”
“My sister thinks a carriage would be better, she is so very weak,” mildly observed Martha.
“Well, we 'll get one in a jiffy. Fritz, my man, send down to the Platz for a shandradan,—a wagon, I mean. 'T is a droll name for a coach.” And he laughed heartily at the conceit “And now, Mr. Purvis, let us finish them before we go. The Gen'ral is doing his part like a man. It's wonderful the nourishment would n't put flesh on him; you could shave him with his shin bone!” and Dalton stared at the frail figure before him with all the astonishment a great natural curiosity would create.
“What a kind creature! what a really Irish heart!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, as she slowly sailed into the room, and sank into a chair beside Dalton. “It is like a dream, a delicious dream,—all this is. To be here in Baden, with my dear Miss Kate Dalton's father,—actually going to drink tea.——What a thought, Martha! to drink tea with dearest Nelly!”
Peter began to fear that the prospect of such happiness was about to overwhelm her sensibilities once more; but fortunately, this time, she became more composed, and discussed the visit with wonderful calm and self-possession.
The carriage now drove up; and although Dalton would greatly have preferred a little longer dalliance over the bottle, he politely gave one arm to Mrs. Ricketts and the other to Martha, issuing forth from the Cursaal in all the pride of a conqueror.
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.