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