Were we disposed to heroics, we might compare Mrs. Ricketts's sensations, on entering the grounds of the villa, to the feelings experienced by the ancient Gauls when, from the heights of the Alps, they gazed down on the fertile plains of Italy. If less colored by the glorious hues of conquering ambition, they were not the less practical. She saw that, with her habitual good fortune, she had piloted the Rickettses' barque into a safe and pleasant anchorage, where she might at her leisure refit and lay in stores for future voyaging. Already she knew poor Dalton, as she herself said, from “cover to cover,”—she had sounded all the shallows and shoals of his nature, and read his vanity, his vainglorious importance, and his selfish pride, as though they were printed on his forehead. Were Nelly to be like Kate, the victory, she thought, could not be very difficult. “Let her have but one predominant passion, and be it love of admiration, avarice, a taste for dress, for scandal, or for grand society, it matters not, I'll soon make her my own.”
“This will do, Martha!” whispered she, in Miss Ricketts's ear, as they drove up the approach.
“I think so,” was the low-uttered reply.
“Tell Scroope to be cautious,—very cautious,” whispered she once more; and then turned to Dalton, to expatiate on the beauty of the grounds, and the exquisite taste displayed in their arrangement.
“It has cost me a mint of money,” said Dalton, giving way irresistibly to his instinct of boastfulness. “Many of those trees you see there came from Spain and Portugal; and not only the trees, but the earth that's round them.”
“Did you hear that, Martha?” interposed Mrs. Rick-etts. “Mr. Dalton very wisely remarks that man is of all lands, while the inferior productions of nature require their native soils as a condition of existence.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dalton, fathering the sentiment at once; “'tis only the blacks that can't bear the cowld. But, after all, maybe they 're not the same as ourselves.”
“I own I never could think them so,” smiled Mrs. Rick-etts, as though the very appearance of Peter Dalton had confirmed the prejudice.
“Faix! I'm glad to hear you say that,” said he, delightedly. “Tis many's the battle Nelly and me has about that very thing. There's the villa, now—what d' ye think of it?”
“Charming—beautiful—a paradise!”
“Quite a paradise!” echoed Martha.
“'T is a mighty expensive paradise, let me tell you,” broke in Peter. “I've a gardener, and four chaps under him, and sorrow a thing I ever see them do but cut nosegays and stick little bits of wood in the ground, with hard names writ on them; that's what they call gardening here. As for a spade or a hoe, there's not one in the country; they do everything with a case-knife and watering-pot.”
“You amaze me,” said Mrs. Ricketts, who was determined on being instructed in horticulture.
“There's a fellow now, with a bundle of moss-roses for Nelly, and there's another putting out the parrot's cage under a tree,——that's the day's work for both of them.”
“Are you not happy to think how your ample means diffuse ease and enjoyment on all round you? Don't tell me that the pleasure you feel is not perfect ecstasy.”
“That's one way of considering it,” said Dalton, dubiously, for he was not quite sure whether he could or could not yield his concurrence.
“But if people did n't la-la-la—”
“Lay abed, you mean,” cried Dalton; “that's just what they do; a German wouldn't ask to awake at all, if it wasn't to light his pipe.”
“I meant la-la-labor; if they did n't la-labor the ground, we should all be starved.”
“No political economy, Scroope,” cried Mrs. Ricketts; “I will not permit it. That dreadful science is a passion with him, Mr. Dal ton.”
“Is it?” said Peter, confusedly, to whose ears the word “economy” only suggested notions of saving and sparing. “I can only say,” added he, after a pause, “tastes differ, and I never could abide it at all.”
“I was certain of it,” resumed Mrs. Ricketts; “but here comes a young lady towards us,—Miss Dalton, I feel it must be.”
The surmise was quite correct. It was Nelly, who, in expectation of meeting her father, had walked down from the house, and now, seeing a carriage, stood half irresolute what to do.
“Yes, that's Nelly,” cried Dalton, springing down to the ground; “she'll be off now, for she thinks it's visitors come to see the place.”
While Dalton hastened to overtake his daughter, Mrs. Ricketts had time to descend and shake out all her plumage,—a proceeding of manual dexterity to which Martha mainly contributed; indeed, it was almost artistic in its way, for while feathers were disposed to droop here, and lace taught to fall gracefully there, the fair Zoe assumed the peculiar mood in which she determined on conquest.
“How do I look, Martha?” said she, bridling up, and then smiling.
“Very sweetly,—quite charming,” replied Martha.
“I know that,” said the other, pettishly; “but am I maternal,—am I affectionate?”
“Very maternal,——most affectionate,” was the answer.
“You're a fool!” said Mrs. Ricketts, contemptuously; but had barely time to restore her features to their original blandness, when Nelly came up. The few words in which her father had announced Mrs. Ricketts spoke of her as one who had known and been kind to Kate, and Nelly wanted no stronger recommendation to her esteem.
The quiet, gentle manner of the young girl, the almost humble simplicity of her dress, at once suggested to Mrs. Ricketts the tone proper for the occasion, and she decided on being natural; which, to say truth, was the most remote thing from nature it is well possible to conceive. Poor Nelly was not, however, a very shrewd critic, and she felt quite happy to be so much at her ease as they walked along to the house together.
Mrs. Ricketts saw that Kate was the key-note to all her sister's affection, and therefore talked away of her unceasingly. To have heard her, one would have thought they had been inseparable, and that Kate had confided to the dear old lady the most secret thoughts of her heart. The amiable Zoe did, indeed, contrive to effect this rather by the aid of an occasional sigh, a tone of lamentation and sorrow, than by direct assertion; all conveying the impression that she was cut to the heart about something, but would rather be “brayed in a mortar” than tell it. Martha's mild and submissive manner won rapidly on Nelly, and she wondered whether Kate had liked her. In fact, the visitors were all so very unlike the usual company her father presented to her, she felt disposed to think the best of them; and even Scroope came in for a share of her good opinion.
The interior of the villa changed the current of conversation, and now Mrs. Ricketts felt herself at home examining the rich brocade of the hangings, the bronzes, and the inlaid tables.
“Lyons silk,——twenty-four francs a metre!” whispered she to Scroope.
“I thought they had n't a s-s-sixpence,” observed the other.
“And these things are new, Scroope!—all new!”
“I—I—I was observing that, sister.”
“What a creature he is, Scroope!—what a creature!”
“And the daughter, I suspect, is only ha-ha-half-witted.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Zoe, as though she did not quite coincide with that opinion.
The confidential dialogue was broken in upon by Dalton, who, having dragged the poor General over the terrace and the flower-garden, was now showing him the inside of the dwelling.
“If I could but see dear Kate here!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, as she slowly sank into a downy chair, “I'd fancy this was home. It's all so like herself,—such graceful elegance, such tasteful splendor.”
“It's neat,——I think it's neat,” said Dalton, almost bursting with the effort to repress his delight.
“Oh, sir, it's princely! It's worthy the great name of its possessor. Dear Kate often told me of her beautiful home.”
“I thought you li-li-lived over a toy-shop? Foglass said you li-lived—”
“So we did while the place was getting ready,” said Dalton, flushing.
“Just let me sit here, and watch the rippling of that shining river!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, laying her hand on Dalton's, and, by a melting look, withdrawing him from Scroope's unlucky reminiscence. “If I could but pass the night here, I feel it would be ecstasy.”
“What easier, if it's in earnest you are?” cried Dalton. “We never make use of this little drawing-room. Nelly will get you a bed put up in five minutes.”
“Is n't that Irish, Scroope?—is n't that what I often told you of Ireland?” cried Zoe, as her eyes glistened.
“Well, but I'm not joking,” resumed Dalton; “small as the place is, we can make room for you all. We 'll put Miss Martha in Nelly's room, and the General can have mine; and there's a mighty snug tittle place for you in the garden.”
“Oh, dear, dear, dear Ireland, how I love you!” said Mrs. Ricketts, closing her eyes, and affecting to talk in her sleep.
“There's worse places,” murmured Dalton, who drank in national flattery as the pleasantest “tipple” after personal. “But say the word, now, and see if we won't make you comfortable.”
“Comfortable!——you mean happy, supremely happy,” ejaculated Zoe.
“And there's no inconvenience in it, none whatever,” continued Dalton, who now was breast-high in his plot. “That's a fine thing in this little town of Baden; you can have everything at a moment's warning, from a sirloin of beef to a strait-waistcoat.”
Now Mrs. Ricketts laughed till her eyes overflowed with tears, at Dalton's drollery; and Scroope, too, cackled his own peculiar cry; and the old General chimed in with a faint wheezing sound,—a cross between the wail of an infant and a death-rattle; in the midst of which Dalton hurried away to seek Nelly, who was showing the garden to Martha.
“Now, mind me, Scroope,” cried Mrs. Ricketts, as soon as they were alone; “no selfishness, no eternal trouble about your own comfort. We may probably pass the summer here, and—”
“But I—I——I won't sleep under the stairs, I—I——I promise you,” cried he, angrily.
“You had a dear little room, with a lovely view, at Noëringen. You are most ungrateful.”
“It was a d-d ear little room, six feet sqnare, and looked ont on a tannery. My skin would have been leather if I had st-st-stayed another week in it.”
“Martha slept in a wardrobe, and never complained.”
“For that matter, I passed two months in a sh-shower-bath,” cried Scroope; “but I—I won't do it a-any more.”
To what excesses his rebellious spirit might have carried him it is hard to say, for Dalton now came up with Nelly, who was no less eager than her father to offer the hospitalities of the villa. At the hazard of detracting in the reader's esteem from all this generous liberality, we feel bound to add that neither Dalton nor his daughter ever speculated on the lengthened sojourn which Mrs. Ricketts's more prophetic spirit foreshadowed.
The accidental mistake about the hotel first suggested the offer, which of course the next day was sure to obviate. And now, as it has so often been an unpleasant task to record little flaws and frailties of the Rickettses' nature, let us take the opportunity of mentioning some traits of an opposite kind, which, even as a “set-off,” are not valueless. Nothing could be more truly amiable than the conduct of the whole family when the question of their stay had been resolved upon. Had Scroope been bred a cabinet-maker, he could n't have been handier with bed-screws, laths, and curtain-rods. Martha, divested of shawl and bonnet, arranged toilet-tables and looking-glasses like the most accomplished housemaid; while, reclining in her easy-chair, the fair Zoe vouchsafed praises on all the efforts around her, and nodded, as Jove might, on mortal endeavors to conciliate him.
Poor Nelly was in ecstasy at all this goodness; such a united family was a perfect picture. Nothing seemed to inconvenience them,—nothing went wrong. There was a delightfully playful spirit in the way they met and conquered little difficulties, and whenever hard pushed by fate there was a wonderful reticule of Mrs. Ricketts's which was sure to contain something to extricate them at once. Since Aladdin's lamp, there never was such a magical contrivance as that bag; and the Wizard of the North, who makes pancakes in a gentleman's hat and restores it unstained, and who, from the narrow limits of a snuff-box, takes out feathers enough to stuff a pillow-case, would have paled before the less surprising but more practical resources of the “Rickettses' sack.”
Various articles of toilet necessity, from objects peculiar to the lady's own, down to the General's razors, made their appearance. An impertinent curiosity might have asked why a lady going to dine at a public ordinary should have carried about with her such an array of flannel jackets, cordials, lotions, slippers, hair-brashes, and nightcaps; but it is more than likely that Mrs. Ricketts would have smiled at the short-sighted simplicity of the questioner, as she certainly did at poor Nelly's face of quiet astonishment.
It was a downright pleasure to make sacrifices for people so ready to accommodate themselves to circumstances, and who seemed to possess a physical pliancy not inferior to the mental one. The General wanted no window to shave at. Martha could bestow herself within limits that seemed impossible to humanity. As for Scroope, he was what French dramatists call a “grand utility,”—now climbing up ladders to arrange curtain-rods, now descending to the cellars in search of unknown and nameless requisites. A shrewd observer might have wondered that such extensive changes in the economy of a household were effected for the sake of one night's accommodation; but this thought neither occurred to Dalton nor his daughter, who were, indeed, too full of admiration for their guests' ingenuity and readiness, to think of anything else.
As for honest Peter, a house full of company was his delight. As he took his place that evening at the supper-table, he was supremely happy. Nor was it wonderful, considering the pleased looks and bland faces that he saw on each side of him. All his stories were new to his present audience. Mount Dalton and its doings were an anecdotic mine, of which they had never explored a single “shaft.” The grandeur of his family was a theme all listened to with interest and respect; and as Mrs. Ricketts's flattery was well-timed and cleverly administered, and Scroope's blunders fewer and less impertinent than usual, the evening was altogether a very pleasant one, and, as the cant is, went off admirably.
If Nelly had now and then little misgivings about the over-anxiety to please displayed by Mrs. Ricketts, and a certain exaggerated appreciation she occasionally bestowed upon her father's “Irishism,” she was far too distrustful of her own judgment not to set down her fears to ignorance of life and its conventionalities. “It would ill become her,” she thought, “to criticise people so well-bred and so well-mannered.” And this modest depreciation of herself saved the others.
It was thus that the hosts felt towards their guests as they wished them good-night, and cordially shook hands at parting.
“As agreeable an old lady as ever I met,” said Dalton to his daughter; “and not wanting in good sense either.”
“I like Miss Martha greatly,” said Nelly. “She is so gently mannered and so mild, I'm sure Kate was fond of her.”
“I like them all but the little chap with the stutter. He seems so curious about everything.”
“They are all so pleased—so satisfied with everything,” said Nelly, enthusiastically.
“And why wouldn't they? There's worse quarters, let me tell you, than this! It is n't under Peter Dalton's roof that people go to bed hungry. I wouldn't wonder if they'd pass a day or two with us.”
“Do you think so?” said Nelly, scarcely knowing whether to be pleased or the reverse.
“Well see to-morrow,” said Dalton, as he took his candle and began to climb up the stairs to the room which he was now to occupy instead of his own chamber, singing, as he went, an old ballad,——
Leaving Dalton to con over the stray verses of his once favorite ballad as he dropped off to sleep, we turn for a moment to the chamber which, by right of conquest, was held by the fair Zoe, and where, before a large mirror, she was now seated; while Martha was engaged upon that wonderful head, whose external machinery was almost as complex as its internal. Mrs. Ricketts had resolved upon adopting a kind of materno-protective tone towards Nelly; and the difficulty now was to hit off a coiffure to sustain that new character. It should combine the bland with the dignified, and be simple without being severe. There was something Memnonic in that large old head, from which the gray hair descended in massive falls, that seemed worthy of better things than a life of petty schemes and small intrigues; and the patient Martha looked like one whose submissive nature should have been bent to less ignoble burdens than the capricious fretfulness of a tiresome old woman. But so is it every day in life; qualities are but what circumstances make them, and even great gifts become but sorry aids when put to base uses!
There was another figure in the group, and for him no regrets arise as to talents misapplied and tastes perverted. Nature had created Scroope Purvis for one line of character, and he never ventured to walk out of it. In a large and showy dressing-gown belonging to his host, and a pair of most capacious slippers from the same wardrobe, Scroope had come down to assist at a Cabinet Council. He had just performed a voyage of discovery round the house, having visited every available nook, from the garret to the cellars, and not omitting the narrow chamber to which Nelly herself had retired, with whom he kept up an amicable conversation for several minutes, under pretence of having mistaken his room. Thence he had paid a visit to old Andy's den; and, after a close scrutiny of the larder and a peep between the bars at the dairy, came back with the honest conviction that he had done his duty.
“It's sm-small, sister——it's very small,” said he, entering her chamber.
“It's not smaller than Mrs. Balfour's cottage at the Lakes, and you know we spent a summer there,” said the lady, rebukingly.
“But we had it all to—to ourselves, sister.”
“So much the worse. A cook and a cellar are admirable fixtures.—The curls lower down on the sides, Martha. I don't want to look like Grisi.” There was something comforting in the last assurance, for it would have sorely tested poor Martha's skill had the wish been the reverse.
“They don't seem to ha-have been long here, sister. The knif eboard in the scullery has n't been used above a—a few times. I should n't wonder if old Da-Da-Dalton won the villa at play.”
“Fudge!—Fuller on the brow, Martha—more expansive there.”
“Is n't the girl vulgar, sister?” asked Scroope.
“Decidedly vulgar, and dressed like a fright!—I thought it was only you, Martha, that rolled up the back hair like a snail's shell.” Martha blushed, but never spoke. “I suppose she's the same that used to cut the pipe-heads and the umbrella tops. I remarked that her fingers were all knotted and hard.”
“Her smile is very pleasing,” submitted Martha, diffidently.
“It's like her father's laugh,—far too natural for my taste! There's no refinement, no elegance, in one of your sweet, unmeaning smiles. I thought I had told you that at least twenty times, Martha. But you have grown self-willed and self-opinionated of late, and I must say, you couldn't have a graver fault! Correct it in time, I beseech you.”
“I 'll try,” said Martha, in a very faint voice.
“If you try, you 'll succeed. Look at your brother. See what he has become. There's an example might stimulate you.”
Another and a far deeper sigh was all Martha's acknowledgment of this speech.
“He was the same violent, impetuous creature that you are. There, you need n't tear my hair out by the roots to prove it! He wouldn't brook the very mildest remonstrance; he was passionate and irrestrainable, and what I have made him. Oh, you spiteful creature, how you hurt me!”
This cry of pain was not quite causeless, for Martha was trembling from head to foot, and actually only saved herself from falling by a mechanical clutch at something like a horse's tail. With many excuses, and in a voice broken by regrets, she resumed her task with a vigorous effort for success, while Mrs. Ricketts and Purvis exchanged glances of supreme contempt.
“I speak to you, Martha,” resumed she, “for your own sake. You cannot see what all the world sees,—the sinful selfishness of your nature,——a vice, I must say, the less pardonable that you live beneath the shadow of my counsels!—Scroope, don't creak that chair,—sit upon that stool there.—Now that we shall probably spend two months here—”
“Here! Do—do you m-mean here?” cried Purvis.
“Of course I mean here, sir. There's nothing in the shape of a lodging to be had under three or four hundred francs a month. This is a very sweet place; and when the old gentleman can be induced to take a room in the town for himself, and that his daughter learns, as she will,—though certainly not from Martha,—what is due to me, it will be comfortable and convenient. We'll ask the Princess, too, to spend a week with us; for who knows, in the present state of politics, to what corner of Germany we may yet be reduced to fly!”
“How will you m-m-manage with Haggerstone and the rest, when they arrive, sister?”
“Easily enough. I 'll show them that it's for their advantage that we are here. It is true that we agreed to take a house together; but every plan is modified by the events of the campaign. Petrolaffsky will be content if Mr. Dalton plays piquet; the Colonel will like his claret and Burgundy; and Foglass will be pleased with the retirement that permits him to prosecute his attentions to Martha.”
Poor Martha blushed crimson at the tone rather, even than the words of the speech; for, when nothing else offered, it was the practice of Mrs. Ricketts to insinuate coquetry as among her sister's defects.
“You needn't look so much confused, my dear,” resumed the torturer; “I 'm certain it's not the first affair of the kind you've known.”
“Oh, sister!” cried Martha, in a voice of almost entreaty.
“Not that I think there would be anything unsuitable in the match; he is probably fifty-eight or nine,—sixty at most,——and, excepting deafness and the prosy tendency natural to his time of life, pretty much like everybody else.”
“You know, sister, that he never thought of me, nor I of him.”
“I know that I am not in the confidence of either party,” said Mrs. Ricketts, bridling; “and I also know I am sincerely happy that my head is not crammed with such fiddle-faddle. Before the great event comes off, however, you will have time to attend to something else, and therefore I beg you will keep in mind what I am about to say to you. We are here, Martha,” resumed she, with all the solemnity of a judicial charge,—“we are here by no claims of relationship or previous friendship. No secret ties of congenial tastes bind us up together. No common attachment to some other dear creature forms a link between us. We are here as much by chance as one can venture to call anything in this unhappy world. Let us, then, show Fortune that we are not unworthy of her goodness, by neglecting nothing which may strengthen our position and secure our permanence. In a word, Martha, throw over all your selfishness'——forget the miserable egotism that besets you, and study that young girl's character and wishes. She has never been courted in life—flatter her; she has never been even thought of——show her every consideration; she is evidently of a thoughtful turn, and nobody can mope better than yourself. Insinuate yourself day by day into little household affairs, mingling counsels here and warnings there,—always on the side of economy,—so that while affecting only to play with the reins, you'll end by driving the coach.”
“I 'm afraid I 've no head for all this, sister.”
“Of course you have n't, nor for anything else without me to guide you. I 'm perfectly aware of that. But you can learn. You can at least obey!”
“My sister means that you can st-st-struggle against the natural w-w-wilfulness of your d-disposition,” cackled in Purvis.
“I'll do my best,” murmured Martha, in a voice of humility.
“Women are so fond of sa-saving,” cried Scroope, “You'll always be safe when you c-c-cut down the estimates.”
“Attend to that, Martha,” remarked Mrs. Ricketts.
“Find out the price of ch-chickens, and always buy them a kreutzer cheaper than she has done.”
“There is nothing gives such an ascendency in a house as showing that you can maintain the establishment for fourpence less per quarter,” said Zoe, gravely. “I have known connubial happiness, that has stood the test of temper and illness for years, wrecked on the small rock of a cook's bill. Like all wasteful men, you may be sure that this Dalton has many miserly habits. Learn these, and indulge them. There was that poor Marquis of Binchley, that never dined without a hundred wax candles in the room, left all his fortune to a nephew he once found collecting the sealing-wax from old letters and making it up for fresh use. Reflect upon this, Martha; and always bear in mind that the vices of mankind are comparatively uninstructive. It is their foibles, their small weaknesses, that teach everything.”
“When Ha-Ha-Haggerstone comes, and finds no room for him, you 'll ha-ha-have the devil to pay.”
“He shall take it out in dinners, Scroope; and what between drinking Dalton's wine with him, and abusing him behind his back, you 'll see he 'll be perfectly happy.”
“How long do you purpose to st-stay here, sister?” asked Scroope.
“Ask the butterfly how long the rose and the hyacinth will bloom,” said Mrs. Ricketts, pensively; for, by dint of smiling at herself in the looking-glass, she had come round to that mock poetical vein which ran through her strange incongruous nature. “And now good-night, dears,” sighed she. “These are sweet moments, but they are paid for at a price. Exhausted energies will have repose.” She held out her hand to Martha, who kissed it respectfully, and then waived a graceful adieu to Purvis, as he retired.
“Sister Zoe has a head for everything,” muttered Purvis to Martha. “There's nothing she's not up to.”
“She's very clever indeed!” sighed Martha.
“And this is n't the worst h-hit she has ever made. It was d-deucedly well done to get in here.”
Either Martha did n't concur in the sentiment, or Scroope's satisfaction did not need any backing, for she made no reply.
“They 've given me a capital room; I fa-fancy Dalton's own, for I found a heap of old bills and letters in a table-drawer, and something like a—like a——like a writ”—here he laughed till the tears came at the drollery of the thought,—“in the pocket of his dressing-gown.”
“Good-night,” said Martha, softly, as she glided into the little chamber allotted to her. Poor Martha! Save Nelly's, hers was the saddest heart beneath that roof. For the first time in all her long years of trial, a ray of doubt, a flash of infidelity had broken upon her mind, and the thought of her sister-in-law's infallibility became for a moment suspected. It was not that abused and outraged submission was goaded into rebellion; it was dormant reason that was suddenly startled into a passing wakefulness. It was like one of those fitful gleams of intelligence which now and then dart across the vacuity of dulled intellects, and, like such, it was only a meteor-flash, and left no trace of light behind it. Even in all its briefness the anguish it gave was intense; it was the delusion of a whole life rent asunder at once, and the same shock which should convulse the moral world of her thoughts would rob her of all the pleasantest fancies of her existence. If Zoe were not all goodness and all genius, what was to become of all the household gods of the Villino? Titians would moulder away into stained and smoked panels; “Sèvres” and “Saxe” would fall down to pasteboard and starch; carved oak and ebony would resolve themselves into leather; and even the friendship of princes and the devotion of philosophers be only a mockery, a sham, and a snare!
Poor Martha! Deprived of these illusions, life was but one unceasing round of toil; while, aided by imagination, she could labor on unwearied. Without a thought of deception, she gloried in the harmless frauds to which she contributed, but could n't resist the contagion of credulity around her. How easily could such a spirit have been moulded to every good gift, and qualities like these have been made to minister to comfort and happiness, and the faith that was given to gilt paper, and glue, and varnish, elevated to all that is highest in the moral and material world!
And now they were all in slumber beneath that roof,—all save one. Poor Nelly sat at her window, tearful and sad. In the momentary excitement of receiving her guests she had forgotten her cares; but now they came back upon her, coupled with all the fears their wasteful habits could suggest At times she blamed herself for the tame cowardice which beset her, and restrained her from every effort to avert the coming evil; and at times she resigned herself to the gloomy future, with the stern patience of the Indian who saw his canoe swept along into the rapids above the cataract. There was not one to turn to for advice or counsel, and the strength that would have sustained her in any other trial was here sapped by the dread of giving pain to her father. “It would ill become me to give him cause for sorrow,—I, that of all his children have ministered nothing to his pride nor his happiness!” Such was the estimate she held of herself, and such the reasoning that flowed from it.
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.