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.