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.”