The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II

He passed a restless, feverish night; the sleep being more harassing than even his waking moments, disturbed, as it was, by thoughts of all he had lately gone through. All the tremendous excitement of the play-table, heightened by the effect of wine, made up a wild chaotic confusion in his brain, that was almost madness. He awoke repeatedly, too, eager for daylight, and the time to call upon honest Abel. At these times he would pace his room up and down, framing the speeches by which he meant to open the interview. Kraus was familiar with his usual “pleas.” With Ireland and her stereotyped distresses he was thoroughly conversant. Famine, fever, potato-rot, poor-rates, emigration, and eviction were themes he could have almost discussed himself; but all he recognized in them was an urgent demand for money, and an occasion for driving the very hardest of bargains. The Russian remittances had been less regular of late; so at least Abel averred, for Dalton neither knew nor tried to know any details. The dates were frequently inconvenient, and the places of payment oftentimes remote. Still, Abel was civil, – nay, almost cordial; and what can any man ask for more than a smile from his banker!

Dalton was quite at ease upon one point, – Kraus was sure to know nothing of his late losses at play; in fact, out of his little den wherein he sat he seemed to be aware of nothing in the whole wide world. A small “slip,” which arrived each morning from Frankfort, told him the current exchanges of the day. The faces of his clients revealed all the rest But Dalton was greatly deceived on this point There was not the slightest incident of Baden with which he was not familiar, nor any occurrence in its life of dissipation on which he was uninformed. His knowledge was not the offspring of any taste for scandal, or any liking for the secret gossiping of society. No; his was a purely practical and professional information. The archduke who had lost so heavily at “roulette” would need a loan on the morrow; the count who was about to elope with the marchioness must have bills on Paris; the colonel who had shot the baron in a duel could n’t escape over the frontier without money. In a word, every vice and iniquity seemed the tributaries of his trade; and whether to consummate their wickedness or escape its penalty, men must first come to Abel Kraus.

To see him crouching behind his little desk, poring over the scattered fragments of dirty papers, which were his only books, you would never have suspected that he had a thought above the mystic calculations before him. Watch him more narrowly, however, and you will perceive that not a figure can cross the street and approach his door without meeting a shrewd, quick glance from those dark eyes; while a faint muttering sound betrays his detection of the visitor’s object.

Long, then, before Dalton swaggered up to the moneychanger’s den, Abel knew every circumstance of the previous night, and had actually before him, on his desk, a correct account of all the sums he had lost at play. Abel was not unprepared for such tidings. Dalton was precisely the man to rush headlong into play the moment fortune turned with him, and the pang of defeat was added to the bitterness of a loss; Abel only wondered that the reverse had not come earlier. And so he mumbled below his breath, as with his hat set jauntily on one side, and his hands stuck carelessly beneath his coat-tails, Dalton came forward.

Peter had so far “got up” his air of easy indifference as to whistle a tune; but, somehow, as he drew nearer to the door, the sounds waxed fainter and fainter, and, before he had crossed the threshold, bad sunk away into the cadence of a heavy sigh. Abel never looked up as the other entered, but, affecting the deepest preoccupation, went on with his figures.

“Morrow, Abel,” said Dalton, as he threw himself into a chair, and, removing his hat, began to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief. “This is a murdering hot day. It’s not ten yet, and the sun’s roasting!”

“Fine weather for de harvest, Herr von Dalton, but a leetle rain do no harm.”

“Faix! I think not; neither to man nor beast.”

Abel grinned at the brawny throat and massive proportions that seemed so unequal to sustain the heat, but said nothing.

“How’s the exchange, Abel?” said Peter; “how’s the exchange?”

Now, in justice to our worthy friend Dalton, we must own that he put this question without having the very remotest idea of its meaning. An inscription from the tomb of the Pharaohs would have been to the full as intelligible to him as an abstract from the “City Article.” He asked it as certain “charming women” inquire about the compass on board ship, – something, in fact, suitable to the time and place, and proper to be done on like occasions.

“De exchange is very uncertain; de market is up and down,” said Abel, dryly.

“That’s bad,” said Dalton, gravely, – “that’s very bad!”

“De Mongolian loan is de reason,” rejoined Abel.

Dalton gave a grunt, that might mean assent or displeasure with that view of the case, but did not trust himself with more.

“Dey will not take de scrip at eighty-two, and I tink dey are right.”

“Faix! I don’t doubt but that they are!” chimed in Peter.

“Dey are right, if all be true we hear of de security. It is de mines of de State dat are hypotheked, – how you call it, – what you say, ‘hypotheked’?”

Dalton was completely puzzled now, and could only scratch his ear, – his invariable symptom of utter discomfiture.

“Tis no matter,” cried Abel, with a grating, harsh laugh. “Dey promise, and no pay; and dat is very bad – ha! ha! ha!”

Now Dalton joined in the laugh, but with as ill a grace as needs be.

“Dey promise, and dey no pay, Herr von Dalton!” repeated the Jew, with another laugh, as though he could not tear himself away from so excellent a jest. “Dey borrow, dat dey may make explorations – how you call dem – wit oder men’s money. If dey de win, well! if dey lose – bah! dey are bankrupt!”

Now, all these allusions were of the most provoking character to poor Dalton, who could not help feeling a very different sympathy for the Mongolians from that expressed by Abel Kraus. “Who knows what difficulties they are in? – maybe they’d pay it if they could,” muttered he, as he slapped his boot with his cane, and fell into a musing fit.

“Dey shall not have one kreutzer of my moneys; I can tell dem dat!” said Kraus, as he buttoned up the keys of his strong-box, as though suiting the action to his words.

“Don’t put up the keys so soon, Abel!” said Dalton, with an effort at a laugh. “I want to see the inside of that little iron trunk there.”

“You no want money, Herr von Dalton!” exclaimed the other, in amazement. “You no want money! you draw eight hundred florin on Tuesday; you have four hundred on Wednesday evening, and seven rouleaux of Napoleons; on Saturday again I send you twenty thousand franc!”

“All true, – every word of it,” said Dalton; “but there’s no use telling a hungry man about the elegant dinner he ate last week! The short of the matter is, I want cash now.”

Kraus appeared to reflect for a few minutes, and then said, “If a leetle sum will do – ”

“Faix! it will not. I want five hundred Naps., at the very least.”

Kraus threw down his pen, and stared at him without speaking.

“One would think from your face, Abel, that I was asking for a loan of the National Debt. I said five hundred Naps.!”

Abel shook his head mournfully, and merely muttered “Ja! ja!” to himself. “We will look over de account, Herr von Dalton,” said he, at last; “perhaps I am wrong, I no say, I am sure; but I tink – dat is, I believe – you overdraw very much your credit.”

“Well, supposing I did; is it the first time?” said Dalton, angrily. “Ain’t I as good a man now as I was before?”

“You are a very goot man, I know well; a very goot and a very pleasant man; but you know de old German proverb, ‘Das Gut ist nicht Gelt.’”

“I never heard it till now,” muttered Peter, sulkily; “but if a robber in this country put a pistol to your head, he ‘d be sure to have a proverb to justify him! But to come to the point, – can I have the money?”

“I fear very mush – No!” was the dry response.

“No, – is it?” cried Dalton, starting up from his seat; “did you say no?”

Kraus nodded twice, slowly and deliberately.

“Then bad luck to the rap ever you’ll see more of my money,” cried Peter, passionately. “You old Jewish thief, I ought to have known you long ago; fifty, sixty, seventy per cent I was paying for the use of my own cash, and every bill I gave as good as the bank paper! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself, tell me that, – ain’t you downright ashamed of yourself?”

“I tink not; I have no occasions for shame,” said the other, calmly.

“Faix! I believe you there,” retorted Dalton. “Your line of life doesn’t offer many opportunities of blushing. But if I can’t bring you to know shame, maybe I can teach you to feel sorrow. Our dealing is ended from this day out. Peter Dalton does n’t know you more! He never saw you! he never heard of your name! D’ye mind me now? None of your boasting among the English here that you have Mr. Dalton’s business. If I hear of your saying it, it’s not a contradiction will satisfy me. Understand me well – it’s not to leave a mark of friendship that I ‘ll come in here again!”

The fierce tone in which Dalton said these words, and the gesture he made with a tremendous walking-stick, were certainly well calculated to excite Abel’s terrors, who, opening a little movable pane of the window, looked out into the street, to assure himself of succor in case of need.

“What’s the use of family, rank, or fortune,” cried Dalton, indignantly, as he paced up and down the little shop, in a perfect frenzy of passion, “if a little dirty Jew, with a face like a rat-terrier, can insult you? My uncle is one of the first men in Austria, and my daughter’s a Princess; and there’s a creature you would’t touch with the tongs has the impudence to – to – to – ” Evidently the precise offence did not at once occur to Dalton’s memory, for after several efforts to round off his phrase – “to outrage me – to outrage me!” he cried, with the satisfaction of one who had found a missing object.

Meanwhile Abel, who had gradually resumed his courage, was busily engaged in some deep and intricate calculations, frequently referring to a number of ill-scrawled scraps of paper on a file before him, not heeding, if he heard, the storm around him.

“Dere, saar,” said he at length, as he pushed a slip of paper towards Dalton, – “dere, saar; our affairs is closed, as you say. Dere is your debit, – eighteen hundred and seventy-three florins, ‘convenzion money.’ Dere may be leetle charges to be added for commissions and oder tings; but dat is de chief sum, which you pay now.”

There was a sharp emphasis on the last monosyllable that made Dalton start.

“I’ll look over it; I’ll compare it with my books at home,” said he, haughtily, as he stuffed the slip of paper into his waistcoat-pocket.

“Den you no pay to-day?” asked Abel.

“Nor to-morrow, nor the day after, nor, maybe, awhile longer,” said Dalton, with a composure he well knew how to feel in like circumstances.

“Very well, den; I will have securities. I will have bail for my moneys before tree o’clock this day. Dere is de sommation before de Tribunal, Herr von Dalton.” Aud he handed a printed document, stamped with the official seal of a law court, across the table. “You will see,” added the Jew, with a malicious grin, “dat I was not unprepared for all dis. Abel Kraus is only an old Jew, but he no let de Gentile cheat him!”

Dalton was stunned by the suddenness of this attack. The coolly planned game of the other so overmatched all the passionate outbreak of his own temper that he felt himself mastered at once by his wily antagonist.

“To the devil I fling your summons!” cried he, savagely. “I can’t even read it.”

“Your avocat will explain it all. He will tell you dat if you no pay de moneys herein charged, nor give a goot and sufficient surety dereof before de Civil Grericht, dis day, dat you will be consign to de prison of de State at Carlsruhe, dere to remain your ‘leben lang,’ if so be you never pay.”

“Arrest me for debt the day it’s demanded!” cried Dalton, whose notions of the law’s delay were not a little shocked by such peremptory proceedings.

“It is in criminal as well as in civil Grericht to draw on a banker beyond your moneys, and no pay, on demand.”

“There’s justice for you!” cried Dalton, passionately. “Highway robbery, housebreaking, is decenter. There’s some courage, at least, in them! But I wouldn’t believe you if you were on your oath. There is n’t such a law in Europe, nor in the East’Ingies’!”

Abel grinned, but never uttered a word.

“So any ould thief, then, can trump up a charge against a man – can send him off to jail – before he can look around him!”

“If he do make false charge, he can be condem to de galleys,” was the calm reply.

“And what’s the use of that?” cried Dalton, in a transport of rage. “Is n’t the galleys as good a life as sitting there? Is n’t it as manly a thing to strain at an oar as to sweat a guinea?”

“I am a burgher of the Grand Duchy,” said Abel, boldly; “and if you defame me, it shall be before witnesses!” And as he spoke he threw wide the window, so that the passers-by might hear what took place.

Dalton’s face became purple; the veins in his forehead swelled like a thick cordage, and he seemed almost bursting with suppressed passion. For an instant it was even doubtful if he could master his struggling wrath. At last he grasped the heavy chair he had been sitting on, and dashing it down on the ground, broke it into atoms; and then, with an execration in Irish, the very sound of which rang like a curse, he strode out of the shop, and hastened down the street.

Many a group of merry children, many a morning excursionist returning from his donkey-ride, remarked the large old man, who, muttering and gesticulating, as he went, strode along the causeway, not heeding nor noticing those around him. Others made way for him as for one it were not safe to obstruct, and none ventured a word as he passed by. On he went, careless of the burning heat and the hot rays of the sun, – against which already many a jalousie was closed, and many an awning spread, – up the main street of the town, across the “Plate,” and then took his way up one of the steep and narrow lanes which led towards the upper town. To see him, nothing could look more purpose-like than his pace and the manner of his going; and yet he knew nothing of where he walked nor whither the path led him. A kind of instinct directed his steps into an old and oft-followed track, but his thoughts were bent on other objects. He neither saw the half-terrified glances that were turned on him, nor marked how they who were washing at the fountain ceased their work, as he passed, to stare at him.

At last he reached the upper town; emerging from which by a steep flight of narrow stone steps, he gained a little terraced spot of ground, crossed by two rows of linden-trees, under whose shade he had often sat of an evening to watch the sunset over the plain. He did not halt here, but passing across the grassy sward, made for a small low house which stood at the angle of the terrace. The shutters of the shop-window were closed, but a low half-door permitted a view of the interior; leaning over which Dalton remained for several minutes, as if lost in deep revery.

The silent loneliness of the little shop at first appeared to engross all his attention, but after a while other thoughts came slowly flittering through his muddy faculties, and with a deep-drawn sigh he said, —

“Dear me! but I thought we were living here still! It’s droll enough how one can forget himself! Hans, Hans Roëckle, my man!” cried he, beating with his stick against the doors as he called out. “Hanserl! Hans, I say! Well, it’s a fine way to keep a shop! How does the creature know but I’m a lady that would buy half the gimcracks in the place, and he’s not to be found! That’s what makes these devils so poor, – they never mind their business. ‘Tis nothing but fun and diversion they think of the whole day long. There’s no teaching them that there’s nothing like indhustry! What makes us the finest people under the sun? Work – nothing but work! I ‘m sure I ‘m tired of telling him so! Hans, are you asleep, Hans Roëckle?” No answer followed this summons, and now Dalton, after some vain efforts to unbolt the door, strode over it into the shop. “Faix! I don’t wonder that you had n’t a lively business,” said he, as he looked around at the half-stocked shelves, over which dust and cobwebs were spread like a veil. “Sorrow a thing I don’t know as well as I do my gaiters! There’s the same soldiers, and that’s the woodcutter with the matches on his back, and there’s the little cart Frank mended for him! Poor Frank, where is he now, I wonder?” Dalton sighed heavily as he continued to run his eye over the various articles all familiar to him long ago. “What’s become of Hans?” cried he at last, aloud; “if it was n’t an honest place, he would n’t have a stick left! To go away and leave everything at sixes and sevens – well, well, it’s wonderful!”

Dalton ascended the stairs – every step of which was well known to him – to the upper story where he used to live. The door was unfastened, and the rooms were just as he had left them – even to the little table at which Nelly used to sit beside the window. Nothing was changed; a bouquet of faded flowers – the last, perhaps, she had ever plucked in that garden – stood in a glass in the window-sill; and so like was all to the well-remembered past, that Dalton almost thought he heard her footstep on the floor.

“Well, it was a nice little quiet spot, any way!” said he, as he sank into a chair, and a heavy tear stole slowly along his cheek. “Maybe it would have been well for me if I never left it! With all our poverty we spent many a pleasant night beside that hearth, and many’s the happy day we passed in that wood there. To be sure, we were all together, then! that makes a difference! instead of one here, another there, God knows when to meet, if ever!

“I used to fret many a time about our being so poor, but I was wrong, after all, for we divided our troubles amongst us, and that left a small share for each; but there’s Nelly now, pining away – I don’t know for what, but I see it plain enough; and here am I myself with a heavy heart this day; and sure, who can tell if Kate, great as she is, has n’t her sorrows; and poor Frank, ‘t is many a hard thing, perhaps, he has to bear. I believe in reality we were better then!”

He arose, and walked about the room, now stopping before each well-remembered object, now shaking his head in mournful acquiescence with some unspoken regret; he went in turn through each chamber, and then, passing from the room that had been Nelly’s, he descended a little zigzag, rickety stair, by which Hans had contrived to avoid injuring the gnarled branches of a fig-tree that grew beneath. Dalton now found himself in the garden; but how unlike what it had been! Once the perfection of blooming richness and taste, – the beds without a weed, the gravel trimly raked and shining, bright channels of limpid water running amid the flowers, and beautiful birds of gay plumage caged beneath the shady shrubs, – now all was overrun with rank grass and tall weeds; the fountains were dried up, the flowers trodden down, – even the stately yew hedge, the massive growth of a century, was broken by the depredations of the mountain cattle. All was waste, neglect, and desolation.

“I ‘d not know the place, – it is not like itself,” muttered Dalton, sorrowfully. “I never saw the like of this before. There’s the elegant fine plants dying for want of care! and the rose-trees rotting just for want of a little water! To think of how he labored late and early here, and to see it now! He used to call them carnations his children: there was one Agnes, and there was another Undine – indeed, I believe that was a lily; and I think there was a Nelly, too; droll enough to make out they were Christians! but sure, they did as well; and he watched after them as close! and ay, and stranger than all, he’d sit and talk to them for hours. It’s a quare world altogether; but maybe it’s our own fault that it’s not better; and perhaps we ought to give in more to each other’s notions, and not sneer at whims and fancies when they don’t please ourselves.”

It was while thus ruminating, Dalton entered a little arbor, whose trellised walls and roofs had been one of the triumphs of Hanserl’s skill. Ruin, however, had now fallen on it, and the drooping branches and straggling tendrils hung mournfully down on all sides, covering the stone table, and even the floor, with their vegetation. As Dalton stood, sad and sorrow-struck at this desolation, he perceived the figure of Hans himself, as, half-hidden by the leaves, he sat in his accustomed seat. His head was uncovered, but his hair fell in great masses on either side, and with his long beard, now neglected and untrimmed, gave him an unusually wild and savage look. A book lay open on his knees, but his hands were crossed over it, and his eyes were upturned as if in revery.

Dalton felt half ashamed at accosting him; there was something ungracious in the way he had quitted the poor dwarfs dwelling; there had been a degree of estrangement for weeks before between them, and altogether he knew that he had ill-requited all the unselfish kindness of the little toy-seller; so that he would gladly have retired without being noticed, when Hans suddenly turned and saw him.

It was almost with a cry of surprise Hans called out his name.

“This is kind of you, Herr von Dalton. Is the Fräulein – ” He stopped and looked eagerly around.

“No, Hanserl,” said Dalton, answering to the half-expressed question, “Nelly is n’t with me; I came up alone. Indeed, to tell the truth, I found myself here without well knowing why or how. Old habit, I suppose, led me, for I was thinking of something else.”

“They were kind thoughts that guided your steps,” said the dwarf, in accents of deep gratitude, “for I have been lonely of late.”

“Why don’t you come down and see us, Hanserl? It’s not so far off, and you know Nelly is always glad to see you.”

“It is true,” said the dwarf, mournfully.

“You were always a good friend to us, Hanserl,” said Dalton, taking the other’s hand and pressing it cordially; “and faix! as the world goes,” added he, sighing, “there ‘s many a thing easier found than a friend.”

“The rich can have all, – even friendship,” muttered Hans, slowly.

“I don’t know that, Hans; I ‘m not so sure you ‘re right there.”

“They buy it,” said the dwarf, with a fierce energy, “as they can buy everything, – the pearl for which the diver hazards life, the gem that the polisher has grown blind over, the fur for which the hunter has shed his heart’s blood. And yet when they ‘ve got them they have not got content.”

“Ay, that’s true,” sighed Dalton. “I suppose nobody is satisfied in this world.”

“But they can be if they will but look upward,” cried Hans, enthusiastically; “if they will learn to think humbly of themselves, and on how slight a claim they possess all the blessings of their lot; if they will but bethink them that the sun and the flowers, the ever-rolling sea, and the leafy forest are all their inheritance, – that for them, as for all, the organ peals through the dim-vaulted aisle with promises of eternal happiness, – and lastly, that, with all the wild contentions of men’s passions, there is ever gushing up in the human heart a well of kind and affectionate thoughts; like those springs we read of, of pure water amid the salt ocean, and which, taken at the source, are sweet and good to drink from. Men are not so bad by nature; it is the prizes for which they struggle, the goals they strive for, corrupt them! Make of this fair earth a gaming-table, and you will have all the base passions of the gamester around it.”

“Bad luck to it for gambling,” said Dalton, whose intelligence was just able to grasp at the illustration; “I wish I ‘d never seen a card; and that reminds me, Hans, that maybe you ‘d give me a bit of advice. There was a run against me last night in that thieving place. The ‘red’ came up fourteen times, and I, backing against it every time, sometimes ten, sometimes twenty, – ay, faix! as high as fifty ‘Naps.’ you may think what a squeeze I got! And when I went to old Kraus this morning, this is what he sticks in my hand instead of a roll of banknotes.” With these words Dalton presented to Hans the printed summons of the “Tribunal.”