“Certain!—and of what is a man certain in this life?” said Dalton, in his tone of moralizing. “Was n't I certain of the Corrig-O'Neal estate? Wasn't I certain of Miles Dalton's property in the funds? Wasn't I certain that if the Parliament was n't taken away from us that I 'd have my own price for the boroagh of Knocknascanelera?—and sorrow one of the three ever came to me. Ay, no later than last night, was n't I certain that black would come up—”
“When I said certain,” broke in Hans, “I meant so far as human foresight could pledge itself; but I did not speak of the chances of the play-table. If your expectations of payment rest on these, do not talk of them as certainties.”
“What's my estates for? Where's my landed property?” cried Dalton, indignantly. “To hear you talk, one would think I was a chevalier of indhustry, as they call them.”
“I ask your pardon, Herr,” said Hans, humbly. “It is in no spirit of idle curiosity that I speak; less still, with any wish to offend you. I will now see what is best to do. You may leave all in my hands, and by four o'clock, or five at furthest, you shall hear from me.”
“That's sensible,——that's friendly,” cried Dalton, shaking the other's hand warmly, and really feeling the most sincere gratitude for the kindness.
If there was any act of friendship he particularly prized, it was the intervention that should relieve him of the anxiety and trouble of a difficult negotiation, and leave him, thoughtless and careless, to stroll about, neither thinking of the present nor uneasy for the future. The moment such an office had devolved upon another, Dalton felt relieved of all sense of responsibility before his own conscience; and although the question at issue were his own welfare or ruin, he ceased to think of it as a personal matter. Like his countryman, who consoled himself when the house was in flames by thinking “he was only a lodger,” he actually forgot his own share of peril by reflecting on the other interests that were at stake. And the same theory that taught him to leave his soul to his priest's care, and his health to his doctor's, made him quite satisfied when a friend had charge of his honor or his fortune.
It was as comfortable a kind of fatalism as need be; and, assuredly, to have seen Peter's face as he now descended the steps to the lower town, it would be rash to deny that he was not a sincere believer in his philosophy. No longer absent in air and clouded in look, he had a smile and a pleasant word for all who passed him; and now, with a jest for this one, and a kreutzer for that, he held on his way, with a tail of beggars and children after him, all attracted by that singular mesmerism which draws around certain men everything that is vagrant and idle,—from the cripple at the crossing to the half-starved cur-dog without an owner.
This gift was, indeed, his; and whatever was penniless and friendless and houseless seemed to feel they had a claim on Peter Dalton.