“If you could but see it!” cried Nelly, with a thick utterance.
“'T is a droll way of showing affection, then,” said Dal ton, “to keep me a beggar, and you no better than a servant-maid. It's little matter about me, I know. I'm old, and worn out, a reduced Irish gentleman, with nothing but his good blood remaining to him. But you, Kate, that are young and handsome, ay, faith! a deal sight better-looking than my Lady herself, it's a little hard that you are to be denied what might be your whole fortune in life.”
“You surely would not stake all her happiness on the venture, papa?” said Nelly, mildly.
“Happiness!” said he, scornfully; “what do you call happiness? Is it dragging out life in poverty like this, with the proudest friend in our list an old toy-maker?”
“Poor Hanserl!” murmured Nelly, in a low voice; but soft as were the accents, the dwarf heard them, and nodded his head twice, as though to thank her for a recognition of whose import he knew nothing.
“Just so! You have pity enough for strangers, but none for your own people,” said Dalton, as he arose and paced the room, the very act of motion serving to increase his anger. “He was never used to better; he's just what he always was. But think of me! think of the expectations I was reared to, the place I used to hold, and see me now!”
“Dearest, best papa, do not say those bitter words,” cried Kate, passionately. “Our own dear Nelly loves us truly. What has her life been but self-denial?”
“And have I not had my share of self-denial?” said he, abruptly. “Is there left a single one of the comforts I was always accustomed to? 'T is sick I am of hearing about submission, and patience, and resignation, and the like, and that we never were so happy as now. Faith! I tell you, I 'd rather have one day at Mount Dalton, as it used to be long ago, than I 'd have twenty years of the life I spend here.”
“No, papa, no,” said Nelly, winding her arm around his waist, “you'd rather sit at the window yonder, and listen to a song from Kate, one of your own favorites, or take a stroll with us after sunset of a summer's evening, and talk of Frank, than go back to all the gayety of that wild life you speak of.”
“Who says so?” asked he, roughly.