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

“They’d give him five hundred Naps, this moment if he ‘d cease to play,” said some one behind Dalton’s chair. “There ‘s nothing the bank dreads so much as a man with courage to back his luck.”

“I ‘d wish them a good-night,” said another, “if I ‘d have made so good a-thing of it as that old fellow; he has won some thousand Napoleons, I ‘m certain.”

“He knows better than that,” said the former. “This is a ‘run’ with him, and he feels it is. He ‘ll ‘break’ them before the night’s over.”

Dalton heard every word of this colloquy, and drank in the surmise as greedily as did Macbeth the Witches’ prophecy.

“He deserves to win, too,” resumed the last speaker, “for I never saw a man play more boldly.”

“So much for boldness,” cried the other; “he has just risked a fifth time on the red and lost. See if it be not two hundred ‘Naps.’”

The defeat did not dishearten him, for again Dalton covered the board with gold. As if that moment had been the turning-point of his destiny, his losses now began, and with all the rapidity of his previous gains. At first he bore the reverse calmly and patiently; after a while a slight gesture of impatience, a half-muttered exclamation would escape him; but when loss followed loss unceasingly, and one immense stake disappeared after another, Dalton’s fingers trembled, and his cheeks shook like one in ague. His straining bloodshot eyes were fixed on the play with the intensity of passion, and a convulsive shudder would shake his massive frame at each new tidings of loss. “Am I never to have luck again? Is it only to lead me on that I won? Can this go on forever?” were the low-muttered words which now he syllabled with difficulty, for already his utterance was thick, and his swollen tongue and flattened cheeks seemed threatened with paralysis.

His last stake was swept away before him, and Dalton, unable to speak, stretched forth his arms across the table to arrest the banker’s hand. “A hundred ‘Naps,’ on the red,” cried he, wildly; “no – two hundred – neck or nothing, I ‘ll go five – d’ ye hear me? – five hundred on the red!”

A short conversation in whispers ensued between the croupiers, after which one of them spoke a few words to Dalton in a low voice.

“You never said so when I was losing,” cried Peter, savagely. “I heard nothing about the rules of the tables then.”

“The stake is above our limit, sir; above the limit laid down by law,” said the chief banker, mildly.

“I don’t care for your laws. I lost my money, and I ‘ll have my revenge.”

“You can make half de stakes in my name, saar,” said a long-moustached and not over-clean-looking personage beside Dalton’s chair.

“That will do – thank you,” cried Dalton. “Bet two hundred and fifty for me and I’ll stake the rest.”

A moment more, and the low voice of the croupier proclaimed that red had lost!

“What does he say – why won’t he speak plainly?” cried Dalton, in a voice of passionate energy.

“You lose de stake,” muttered the man behind him.

“Of course I do; what other luck could I have? Lose – lose – lose!” said he to himself, in a low, moaning voice. “There they go – the fools! – betting away as fresh as ever. Why won’t they take warning by me? beggared, rained as it has left me. May I never! if the red isn’t winning every time now!” And, as he spoke, his eyes followed a great heap of gold which some fortunate gambler just drew in before him. “How much did he win, then?” cried Dalton; but none replied to a question so contrary to every etiquette of the table.

“He never counts it,” muttered Peter, as he continued to gaze on the lucky player with a kind of envious admiration. “They say it’s best not to count one’s winnings. I don’t know what’s best; I believe ‘t is only the devil knows – for it was he invented the game. – Red, again, the winner!”

“Why you no back de red?” whispered the man behind his chair.

Dalton started, and was about to give an angry reply, but corrected himself, and merely stared stupidly at him.

“You win eleven hundred Napoleons if you do go on,” said the other, showing in proof of his assertion the card on which he had marked all the chances.

“And where ‘s the money?” cried Dalton, as, with a hissing utterance, he spoke, and he pointed to the table before him. “Have I Coutts’s bank at my back, or is all Lombard Street in my pocket? ‘T is easy to say, go on! Red again, by Jingo!”

“I tell you dat!” said the other, gravely.

Dalton turned round in his chair, and stared steadfastly at the speaker. His mind was in that state of wild confusion when every conception, however vague and fanciful, assumes a certain degree of reality, and superstitions take on them all the force of warnings. What if his prompter were the devil himself! was it not exactly what he had often heard of? He never saw him there before, and certainly appearances were not much against the hypothesis. He was tall and spare, with a high, narrow forehead, and a pair of most treacherous-looking black eyes, that seemed to let nothing escape their vigilance. Unabashed by or indifferent to Dalton’s scrutiny, he went on with his chronicle of the game, noting down the chances, and only muttering a few words to himself.

“Nine times red,” said he, as he counted the scores.

“Will it go ten?” asked Dalton, with a purposelike energy that showed his faith in the oracle; but the other never heeded the question.

“Back de red, I say; back de red dis time,” whispered he in Dalton’s ear.

“Don’t you see that I have no money?” said Dalton, angrily.

“Dey will lend on your name; ask for a hundred Naps. Be quick, be quick.”

Dalton stooped across the table, and whispered the croupier, who returned a look of doubt and uncertainty. Peter grew more pressing, and the other bent over, and spoke to his colleague. This time the request was not met with a smile and a bland bow, and Dalton watched with angry impatience all the signs of hesitation and deliberation between them.

“Say your banker is closed, – that you must have de moneys,” whispered the dark man.

“Must I wait till the bank is open to-morrow morning,” said Dalton, “or do you mean to give me this trifle?”

“Our rules are strictly opposed to the practice of lending, Count,” whispered the croupier at his side; “we have already transgressed them in your favor, and – ”

“Oh, don’t inconvenience the Count,” interposed his colleague. “How much is it?”

“Say two hundred, – two!” muttered the unknown.

“Two hundred Naps.,” cried Dalton, resolutely.

“This will make five hundred and forty to-night, Count.”

“And if it was five thousand,” said Peter, running his fingers through the gold with ecstasy, “what matter? There goes fifty on the red.”

“Ah, you play too rash,” whispered the dark man.

“What business is it of yours? am I your ward?” cried Dalton, passionately, for the stake was lost in the instant. “Bed, again fifty. May I never! if I don’t believe ‘tis you brings me the bad luck,” said Dalton, darting a savage glance at the other, whose impassive face never betrayed the slightest emotion.

“I no wish to disturb your game, saar,” was the meek reply of the dark man; and with a bow of meek humility he backed through the crowd and disappeared.

In a moment Dalton felt shocked at his own rudeness, and would have given worlds to have recalled his words, or even apologized for them; but other thoughts soon supplanted these, and again his whole heart was in the game.

“You did n’t bet last time,” remarked some one near him, “and your favorite color won.”

“No, I was looking about me. I was thinking of something else,” replied he; and he sat fingering the gold pieces as though unwilling to part with them.

The game went on; luck came and went; the gold glittered and clinked; the same endless “refrain” – “Faîtes votre jeu, Messieurs,” followed by the same sing-song phrases, continued to roll on, and Dalton sat, now counting his money, and piling up the pieces into tens or twenties; or, with his head resting on his hand, deep in serious thought. Twice he placed a heavy stake upon the table, and recalled it at the very moment of the game’s beginning. Every gesture and action showed the terrible struggle between hope and fear that went on within him. A red spot glowed on one cheek, while the other was pale as death, and his lips from time to time were moved with a short spasmodic jerk, as if some sudden pain shot through him. At last, with a great effort, he pushed all the gold into the centre of the table, and cried out, but in a voice so strange and inarticulate that the words could not be distinguished.

“You said ‘rouge,’ Count, I think?” asked the croupier.

“I fancy the gentleman said ‘noir,’” remarked a bystander.

“Let him declare for himself,” observed another.

“But the game has already begun,” said the banker.

“So much the worse for the bank,” remarked another, laughing, “for it’s easy to see what will win.”

“Pray declare your color, sir,” said an impatient gambler at Dalton’s side; “the whole table is waiting for you.”

Dalton started, and, darting an angry look at the speaker, made an effort to rise from the table. He failed at first, but grasping the shoulder of the croupier, he arose to his full height, and stared around him. All was hushed and still, not a sound was heard, as in that assembly, torn with so many passions, every eye was turned towards the gigantic old man, who, with red eyeballs and outstretched hands, seemed to hurl defiance at them. Backwards and forwards he swayed for a second or two, and then, with a low, faint cry, – the last wail of a broken heart, – he fell with a crash upon the table. There he lay, his white hairs streaming over the gold and silver pieces, and his bony fingers flattened upon the cards. “A fit! – he’s in a fit!” cried some, as they endeavored to raise him. – “Worse still!” remarked another, and he passed his hand from the pulse to the heart, “he is dead!”

The hero of a hundred fights, he who has seen death in every shape and on every field, must yield the palm of indifference to its terrors to the gambler. All the glorious insanity of a battle, all the reckless enthusiasm of a storm, even the headlong impetuosity of a charge, cannot supply the cold apathy of the gambler’s heart; and so was it that they saw in that lifeless form nothing beyond a disagreeable interruption to their game, and muttered their impatience at the delay in its removal.

“Well,” said Mrs. Ricketts, as she sat in an adjoining apartment, “have you any tidings of our dear ‘Amphytrion?’ – is he winning to-night?” The question was addressed to the tall, dark man, who so lately had been standing behind Dalton’s chair, and was our old acquaintance, Count Petrolaffsky.

“He no win no more, Madame,” replied he, solemnly.

“Has he gone away, then? – has he gone home without us?”

“He has gone home, indeed – into the other world,” said he, shaking his head.

“What do you mean, Count? For Heaven’s sake, speak intelligibly.”

“I mean as I do say, Madame. He play a game as would ruin Rothschild; always change, and always at de wrong time, and never know when to make his ‘paroli.’ Ah, dat is de gran’ secret of all play; when you know when to make your ‘paroli’ you win de whole world! Well, he is gone now; poor man, he cannot play no more!”

“Martha – Scroope, do go – learn something – see what has happened.”

“Oh, here’s the Colonel. Colonel Haggerstone, what is this dreadful news I hear?”

“Your accomplished friend has taken French leave of you, Madame, and was in such a hurry to go that he wouldn’t wait for another turn of the cards.”

“He ain’t d-d-dead?” screamed Purvis.

“I’m very much afraid they insist on burying him tomorrow or next day, under that impression, sir,” said Haggerstone.

“What a terrible event! – how dreadful!” said Martha, feelingly; “and his poor daughter, who loved him so ardently!”

“That must be thought of,” interrupted Mrs. Ricketts, at once roused to activity by thoughts of self-interest. “Scroope, order the carriage at once. I must break it to her myself. Have you any particulars for me, Colonel?”

“None, Madame! If coroners were the fashion here, thay ‘d bring in a verdict of died from backing the wrong color, with a deodand against the rake!’”

“Yes, it is ver’ true, he always play bad,” muttered the Pole.

And now the room began to fill with people discussing the late incident in every possible mood and with every imaginable shade of sentiment. A few – a very few – dropped some expressions of pity and compassion. Many preferred to make a display of their own courage by a bantering, scornful tone, and some only saw in the event how unsuited certain natures were to contend with the changeful fortunes of high play. These were, for the most part, Dalton’s acquaintances, and who had often told him – at least, so they now took credit for – that “he had no head for play.” Interspersed with these were little discussions as to the immediate cause of death, as full of ignorance and as ingenious as such explanations usually are, all being contemptuously wound up by Haggerstone’s remark, “That death was like matrimony, – very difficult when wanted, but impossible to escape when you sought to avoid it!” As this remark had the benefit of causing a blush to poor Martha, he gave his arm to the ladies, with a sense of gratification that came as near happiness as anything he could imagine.

“Is Miss Dalton in the drawing-room?” said Mrs. Rick-etts, as with an air of deep importance she swept through the hall of the villa.

“She’s in her room, Madame,” said the maid.

“Ask if she will receive me, – if I may speak to her.”

The maid went out, and returned with the answer that Miss Dalton was sleeping.

“Oh, let her sleep!” cried Martha. “Who knows when she will taste such rest again?”

Mrs. Ricketts bestowed a glance of withering scorn on her sister, and pushed roughly past her, towards Nelly’s chamber. A few minutes after a wild, shrill shriek was heard through the house, and then all was still.

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.”

“Go on, sir, – go on. You never made a speech which cost you dearer,” said Kraus, as he took down the words in his pocket-book.

“I – I – I did n’t mean that; I did n’t say you were a housebreaker.”

“Speak lower,” said Hans, sternly. “And you, sir; what is this demand?”

“Two thousand francs, – rent of this house; which, with damage to the furniture and other charges, will make two thousand eight hundred.”

“I will pay it,” said Hans, stopping him.

“Your credit would be somewhat better, Master Hans, had you not given a certain bail bond that you know of,” said Kraus, sneeringly.

“I have wherewith to meet my debts,” said Hans, calmly.

“I will claim my bond within a week; I give you notice of it,” said Kraus.

“You shall be paid to-morrow. Let us be in peace to-night; bethink you what that room contains.”

“He ain’t black, is he? I – I would n’t look at him for a thousand pounds,” said Purvis, with a shudder.

“If she remain here after noon, to-morrow,” said Kraus, in a low voice, “a new month will have begun.”

“To-morrow afternoon; Lord! how close he r-ran it,” exclaimed Purvis.

“Once more, I say, be patient,” said Hans. “Let these good people go, you shall lose nothing; I pledge the word of a man who never told a falsehood. I will pay all. Have some pity, however, for this orphan, – one who has now neither a home nor a country.”

“Yes, yes, he ‘ll have p-pity; he ‘s an excellent man is Mr. Kraus. I shouldn’t wonder if we’d come to terms about this vi-villa for ourselves.”

Hans turned a look of anger towards him, and then said: “Go, sir, and take those that belong to you away also. This place no longer can suit you nor them. He who lies yonder can be flattered and fawned on no more; and, as for her, she is above your compassion, if it even lay in your heart to offer it.”

“He ain’t quite right here,” whispered Purvis to Kraus, as he tapped his forehead significantly. “They told me that in the town.” Kraus moved away without reply, and Purvis followed him. “He’s rich, too, they say,” added he, in a whisper.

“They’ll scarcely say as much this day week,” said Kraus, sneeringly; while, beckoning his people to follow him, he left the house.

No sooner did Mrs. Ricketts learn that her worldly possessions were safe, and that the harpy clutches of the law could make no seizure among those curious turbans and wonderful tunics which composed her wardrobe, than she immediately addressed herself to the active duties of the hour with a mind at ease, and, while packing her trunks, inadvertently stowed away such little stray articles as might not be immediately missed, and might serve hereafter to recall thoughts of “poor dear Miss Dalton,” for so she now preferred to name her.

“Those little box figures, Martha, don’t forget them. They of course don’t belong to the house; and Scroope suspects that the bracket for the hall lamp must have been her carving also.”

“I ‘ve p-put away two pencil drawings marked ‘N. D.,’ and a little sketch in oil of the Alten Schloss; and I ‘ve my pockets stuffed with the tulip roots.”

“Well thought of, Scroope; and there’s a beautiful paper-knife, – poor thing, she’s not likely to want it now. What a sad bereavement! And are his affairs really so bad?”

“Ov-over head and ears in debt There ain’t enough to bury him if the dwarf does not shell out, – but he will. They say he’s in love with Nelly, – he, he, he!”

“Shocking, quite shocking. Yes, Martha, that telescope is a very good one. What improvidence, what culpable improvidence!”

“And is she quite friendless?” asked Martha, feelingly.

“Not while she has our protection,” said Mrs. Rickett», grandly. “I ‘ve determined ‘to take her up.’”

Martha reddened slightly at the phrase, for she knew of some others who had been so “taken up,” and with what small profit to their prosperity.

“Her talents, when aided by our patronage, will always support her,” said Mrs. Ricketts; “and I mean, when the shock of this calamity is past, to employ her on a little group for a centrepiece for our dinner-table. She will, of course, be charmed to have her genius displayed to such advantage. It will afford us a suitable opportunity of introducing her name.”

“And we shall have the piece of carving for nothing,” said Martha, who innocently believed that she was supplying another argument of equal delicacy and force.

“You ‘re an idiot!” said Mrs. Ricketts, angrily; “and I begin to fear you will never be anything else.”

“I ‘m quite sure I shall not,” muttered the other, with a faint submissiveness, and continued the task of packing the trunks.

“Take care that you find out her sister’s address, Martha. I ‘m sadly in want of some furs; that tippet, I suppose, is only fit for you now, and my sable muff is like a dog in the mange. The opportunity is a most favorable one; for when the Princess, as they persist in calling her, knows that her sister is our dependant, we may make our own terms. It would be the very ruin of her in St Petersburg to publish such a fact.”

“But Miss Dalton will surely write to her herself.”

“She can be persuaded, I trust, to the contrary,” said Mrs. Ricketts, knowingly. “She can be shown that such an appeal would, in all likelihood, wreck her sister’s fortunes, that the confession of such a relationship would utterly destroy her position in that proud capital; and if she prove obstinate, the letter need not go; you understand that, at least,” added she, with a contemptuous glance that made poor Martha tremble.

Mrs. Ricketts was now silent, and sat revelling in the various thoughts that her active mind suggested. Upon the whole, although Dalton’s dying was an inconvenience, there were some compensating circumstances. She had gained a most useful protégée in Nelly, – one whose talents might be made of excellent use, and whose humble, unpretending nature would exact no requital. Again, the season at Baden was nearly over; a week or two more, at most, was all that remained. The “Villino,” which she had left for the summer to some confiding family, who believed that Florence was a paradise in July and August, would again be at her disposal; and, in fact, as she phrased it, “the conjunctures were all felicitous,” and her campaign had not been unfruitful. This latter fact attested itself in the aspect of her travelling-carriage, with its “spolia” on the roof, and its various acquired objects under the body. Pictures, china, plate, coins, brocades, old lace, books, prints, manuscripts, armor, stained glass, trinkets, and relics of all kinds, showed that travel with her was no unprofitable occupation, and that she had realized the grand desideratum of combining pleasure with solid advantage.