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

Meanwhile, so ingenious is thorough selfishness, she fancied herself a benefactor of the whole human race. All the cajoleries she used to practise, she thought were the amiable overflowings of a kindly nature; her coarse flatteries she deemed irresistible fascinations; her duperies even seemed only the triumphs of a mind transcendently rich in resources, and never for a moment suspected that the false coin she was uttering could be called in question, though the metal was too base for imposition. There is no supply without demand, and if the world did not like such characters there would be none of them. The Rickettses are, however, a large and an increasing class of society, and, to our national shame be it said, they are distinctively English in origin. And now we leave her, little regretting if it be forever; and if we turn to a darker page in our story, it is, at least, to one wherein our sympathies are more fairly enlisted.

That long night passed over like a dreary dream, and morning was now mingling its beams with the glare of the tapers, as Nelly sat beside the death-bed.

“Come with me, Fräulein! come away from this,” said Hanserl, as with a tearful eye and quivering lip he stood before her.

Nelly shook her head slowly, and for answer turned her gaze on the dead man.

“You shall come back again; I promise you, you shall come back again,” said he, softly.

She arose without a word and followed him. They passed through an outer room, and entered the garden, where Hans, taking her hand, led her to a seat.

“You will be better here, Fräulein,” said he, respectfully; “the air is fresh and balmy.”

“He sat beside me on this bench three nights ago,” said she, as if talking to herself, “and said how he wished I could be with Kate, but that he could not part with me; and see, – we are parted, and for a longer separation! Oh, Hanserl! what we would give to recall some of the past, when death has closed it forever against us!”

“Remember Wieland, Fräulein; he tells us that ‘the Impossible is a tree without fruit or flowers.’”

“And yet my mind will dwell on nothing else. The little thwartings of his will, the cold compliance which should have been yielded in a better spirit, the counsels that often only irritated, – how they rise up now, like stern accusers, before me, and tell me that I failed in my duty.”

“Not so, Fräulein, not so,” said Hans, reverently.

“But there is worse than that, Hanserl, far worse,” said she, trembling. “To smooth the rough path of life, I descended to deception. I told him the best when my heart felt the worst. Had he known of Kate’s real life, and had he sorrowed over her fortunes, might not such grief have been hallowed to him! To have wept over Frank – the poor boy in prison – might have raised his thoughts to other themes than the dissipation that surrounded him. All this was my fault I would have his love, and see the price it has cost me!” She hid her face between her hands, and never spoke for a long time. And at length she lifted up her eyes, red as they were with weeping, and with a heavy sigh said, “How far is it to Vienna, Hanserl?”

“To Vienna, Fräulein! It is a long journey, – more than four hundred miles. But why do you ask?”

“I was thinking that if I saw Count Stephen – if I could but tell him our sad story myself – he might intercede for poor Frank, and perhaps obtain his freedom. His crime can scarcely be beyond the reach of mercy, and his youth will plead for him. And is it so far away, Hanserl?”

“At the very least; and a costly journey, too.”

“But I would go on foot, Hans. Lame as I am, I can walk for miles without fatigue, and I feel as if the exertion would be a solace to me, and that my mind, bent upon a good object, could the more easily turn away from my own desolation. Oh, Hans, think me not selfish that I speak thus; but thoughts of my own loneliness are so linked with all I have lost, I cannot separate them. Even the humble duty that I filled gave a value to my life, without which my worthlessness would have crushed me; for what could poor lame Nelly be, – I, that had no buoyancy for the young, no ripe judgment for the old? And yet, in caring for him that is gone, I found a taste of love and happiness.”

“I will go with you, Fräulein; you shall not take this weary road alone. Heaven knows that, without you, this place would be too dreary for me.”

“But your house, Hanserl, – all that you possess, – the fruits of all your hard industry – ”

“Speak not of them,” said Hans, reddening. “They who deem me rich are mistaken. I have speculated ill, I have made bad ventures, and what I have will but pay my debts, and I will be glad to quit this spot.”

“And I,” said Nelly, with a voice of deep emotion, – “I cannot say that I can help you. I know nothing of what may remain to me in this world; my father never spoke to me latterly of his means, and I may be, for aught I know, a beggar. Will you see his banker and speak with him?”

“I have done so,” said Hans, slowly. “He claims some small sum as due to him.”

“And how am I to pay it?” said Nelly, growing pale. “It is true, I can labor – ”

“Have no care for this, Fräulein. It shall be looked to, and you shall repay it hereafter.”

“Oh, Hanserl, beware!” said she, solemnly; “we are an unfortunate race to those who help us; my poor father often said so, and even his superstitions are hallowed to me now.”

A gesture from some one within the house called Hans away, and Nelly was left alone. She sat with her eyes closed and her arms firmly clasped, deep in her own sad thoughts, when she heard a footstep close by. It was only Andy, who, with a piece of ragged crape fastened round his arm, was slowly tottering towards her. His face was flushed, and his eyes wild and excited, as he continued to mutter and reply to himself, —

“A Dalton; one of the ould stock, and maybe the last of them, too.”

“And what is it, Andy? – tell me, what is it?” said she, kindly.

“There’s no wake, – there is n’t as much as a tenant’s child would have!”

“We are almost friendless here, Andy. It is not our own country.”

“Ain’t they Christians, though? Could n’t they keep the corpse company? Is it four candles and a deal coffin ought to be at a Dalton’s burial?”

“And we are poor also,” said she, meekly.

“And has n’t the poorest respect for the dead?” said he, sternly. “Wouldn’t they sell the cow, or the last pig, out of honor to him that’s gone to glory? I ‘ll not stay longer in the place; I ‘ll have my discharge; I ‘ll go back to Ireland.”

“Poor fellow,” said Nelly, taking his hand kindly, and seating him beside her. “You loved him so! and he loved you, Andy. He loved to hear you sing your old songs, and tell over the names of his favorite hounds.”

“Bessy and Countess were the sweetest among them,” said the old man, wandering away to old memories of the past, “but Nora was truer than either.” And so he fell into a low mumbling to himself, endeavoring, as it seemed, to recall the forgotten line of some hunting chant, while Nelly returned to the house to take her last farewell ere the coffin lid was closed.

CHAPTER XXII. A LAST ADIEU

The pleasure-seekers of Baden were not likely to be diverted from their pursuits by such humble calamities as Nelly Dalton’s, and the gay world went on its gay road as merrily as though death or ruin could have no concern for them. Already the happy groups were gathering before the Cur-saal. The sounds of music filled the air. Wealth was displaying its gorgeous attractions, beauty her fascinations, and wit its brilliancy; and none had a thought for that sad episode which a few hours had half obliterated from every mind. Under a spreading chestnut-tree, and around a table sumptuously spread for breakfast, a large party was assembled, discussing the news of the morning and the plans of pleasure for the day. Some had but thoughts for the play-table, and could attune their ears to no other sounds than the clink of the gold and the rake of the croupier; others chatted of the world of politics and fashion; and a few, with that love of the picturesque the taste for painting engenders, were admiring the changeful effects of passing clouds on the landscape, and pointing out spots of peculiar beauty and sublimity.

“How well the Alten Schloss looks, with that mass of shadow on it,” remarked a young man to a fair and delicate-looking girl beside him; “and see how the weeping ash waves over the old walls, like a banner.”

“And look!” cried she, “mark that little procession that is slowly winding up the pathway, – what effect a few figures give to the scene, as they appear and disappear with each turning of the road. Some pilgrimage to a holy shrine, I fancy.”

“No; it is a funeral. I can mark what Shelley calls the step of the bearers ‘heavy and slow;’ and if you listen, you’ll catch the sound of the death-bell.”

“It’s quite a picture, I declare,” said she. “I wish I had brought my sketch-book.”

And so it is ever! The sorrows that are rending some hearts in twain are but as objects of picturesque effect to others. And even the young and the tender-minded learn to look on the calamities that touch them not, as things of mere artistic meaning.

Up that steep road, over rock and rugged stone, brushing between the tangled briers, or with difficulty being turned around some sharp angle, was now borne the corpse of him who had so often wended the same path on his homeward way. Four peasants carried the coffin, which was followed by Nelly and old Andy; Hans, from a sense of respect, walking behind them. It was a long and arduous ascent, and they were often obliged to halt and take breath; and at such times Nelly would kneel down beside the coffin and pray. The sufferings of the last two days had left deep traces on her features, which had lost every tinge of color. Her eyes, too, were deep-set and heavy; but in the elevated expression of her brow at moments, and the compression of her lips, might be seen the energy of one who had a firm purpose, and was resolved to carry it through.

“Sit down and rest yourself, Fräulein,” said Hans, as he saw that she faltered in her step. “We are yet far from the top.”

“I will rest at the fountain,” said she, faintly. “It was a favorite spot of his.” And they moved slowly on once more.

The fountain was a little well, carved in the native rock, around which some rude seats were also fashioned, the whole sheltered by a thick roof of foliage, which, even in noonday, cast a deep shadow around, and effectually screened it from the path that wound along beside it.

Scarcely had the bearers deposited the coffin beside the well, when the sound of voices was heard as a considerable number of persons descended the path. Words in French, German, and English showed that the party consisted of representatives of these nations; but one voice, if once heard not readily forgotten, towered high above all the rest.

“I cannot offer my arm, madam,” cried a sharp, ringing accent, “as the infernal road will not admit of two abreast; but I can go before and pilot you.”

“Oh, thanks, sir,” replied a mild, meek tone; “I can get on very well indeed. I am only uneasy about my sister.”

“I don’t suspect that she incurs either much risk or fatigue, madam,” rejoined the other, “seeing that she is seated in an armchair, and carried by two of the stoutest fellows in Baden.”

“But the exertion, in her weak state – ”

“She might make the ascent of Mont Blanc, madam, with the same appliances; and if you only told her that there were bargains to be had at the top, I verily believe she would do so.”

“You don’t think the things were cheap here, Colonel?” said Miss Martha, who thought by a diversion to draw Haggerstone away from so dangerous a discussion.

“I am no connoisseur in Dutch dolls, nor Noah’s arks, madam, although modern society presents us with something very like both; but I concluded that the prices were not exorbitant. I went there myself from a sense of equity. I once put a bullet into the little rascal’s skin, and I have bought a salad-fork and a nut-crackers in requital.”

“It was kindly thought of,” sighed Martha, gently.

“They only cost me nine kreutzers, madam,” rejoined Haggerstone, who was more afraid of being thought a dupe than ill-natured, “so that my sense of generosity did not make a fool of me, as it did with the dwarf himself.”

“How so?”

“Why, in going security for that old Irishman, Dalton. It is to pay this debt that he has been sold out to-day, and I fancy that Swiss cottages and barking poodles will realize a very small dividend.”

“Oh, Hanserl!” said Nelly, “what do I hear?”

“Hush, Fräulein!” said he, with a gesture to enforce silence. “I will tell you of these things hereafter.”

And now the others passed, and were soon out of hearing.

“Oh, Hanserl!” cried Nelly, bitterly, “how misfortunes crowd upon me! It was but a moment back I was feeding my mind with the sad consolation that my griefs were all my own, – that the gloom of my dreary fortune cast no shadow on another; and now I see that I was wrong. You must pay the dear penalty of having befriended us! – the fruits of all your hard years of industry!”

“And you would rob me of their best reward, – the glorious sense of a generous action?” broke in Hans. “They were years of toil and privation, and they might have been years of pleasure if avarice and greed had grown upon me; but I could not become a miser.”

“The home you had made your own, lost to you forever!” sighed Nelly.

“It was no longer a home when you left it.”

“The well-won provision for old age, Hanserl.”

“And has not this event made me young again, and able to brave the world, were it twice as adverse as ever I found it? Oh, Fräulein, you know not the heart-bounding ecstasy of him who, from the depths of an humble station, can rise to do a service to those he looks up to! And yet it is that thought which now warms my blood, and gives an energy to my nature that, even in youth, I never felt.”

Nelly was silent; and now neither spoke a word, but sat with bent-down heads, deep sunk in their own reveries. At last she arose, and once more the sad procession resumed its way. They toiled slowly along till they reached the little level table-land, where the church stood, – a little chapel, scarcely larger than a shrine, but long venerated as a holy spot. Poor Dalton had often spent hours here, gazing on the wide expanse of plain and mountain and forest that stretched away beneath; and it was in one of his evening rambles that he had fixed upon the spot where they should lay him, if he could not “rest his bones with his forefathers.”

“Sixty-eight!” muttered the old priest, as he read the inscription on the coffin-lid; “in the pride and vigor of manhood! Was he noble, that I see these quarterings painted here?”

“Hush! that is his daughter,” whispered Hanserl.

“If he were of noble blood, he should have lain in the chapel and on a catafalque,” muttered the priest.

“The family is noble, but poor,” said Hans, in a low whisper.

“A low Mass, without the choir, would not ruin the poorest,” said the priest, who sprinkled the coffin with half impatience, and, mumbling a few prayers, retired. And now the body was committed to the earth, and the grave was filled. The last sod was patted down with the shovel; and Nelly, unable to bear her grief any longer in silence, threw herself on the spot, and wept bitterly. Hans withdrew, and motioned to the others to follow him; and none remained but old Andy, who, on his knees and with clasped hands, seemed to think that he was praying, although all his attention was directed to a little group of children who stood near, and whom he awed into reverence by many a threatening gesture.

And thus the long day stole over; and it was only as evening drew nigh that Nelly could be induced to take her last farewell, and breathe her last prayer over the grave of her father.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE TYROL JOURNEY

If our task as story-teller had not other claims on us, we would gladly linger with Nelly Dalton, as, in company with Hanserl and old Andy, she wended her slow way through the deep valleys of the Schwartz wald. The little party might have created astonishment in even more frequented districts than the primitive tract in which they journeyed, and have suggested many a puzzling doubt as to what rank or condition they belonged to. For Andy’s convenience Hans had purchased an ass and a small cart, such as are sometimes used by the travelling beggars of every land. Seated in this, and in his old hunting-cap and scarlet coat, the old man fancied it was some pleasure excursion, or that he was “trundling along” to “cover,” as he used to do sixty years ago. Nelly walked at his side, now roused from her deep musings to reply to some meaningless question of the old man, or now feeding her sad memories as she listened to the little snatches of song which occasionally broke from him. Hanserl formed the rear-guard, making with his redoubted battle-axe and a most formidable old Turkish pistol, not the least singular figure in the procession. Their very baggage too had something strange and incomprehensible to common eyes; for, amidst stray scraps of old armor, the little remnants of Hanserl’s collection, were to be seen an unfinished figure by Nelly’s hand, or the rude beginning of some new group. Along with these were books and tools, and an infinity of queer costumes, of the dwarfs own designing, for various seasons of the year.

Still, there was no impertinence in the curiosity that met them. If Andy’s strange equipage and stranger dress might have raised a smile, Nelly’s gentle look and modest air as rapidly checked it, and they who would have laughed outright at Hanserl’s mock-chieftainship were subdued to a respectful deference by the placid dignity of her who walked before him. It was in that memorable year whose doings are recorded in our memory with all the solemn force of History, and all the distinct and vivid effect of events passing before our own eyes; that era, when Thrones rocked and tottered, and kings, who seemed destined to transmit their crowns to unborn generations, became exiles, and cast away, their state a mockery, and their princely homes given up to pillage; when the brightest day-dreams of good men became bound up with the wildest imaginings of the bold and the bad, and the word Freedom comprehended all that was most glorious in self-devotion, and all that was most relentless in hate, – in that troubled time, Hanserl wisely sought out the districts of mountain and crag – the homes of the hunter – in preference to the more travelled roads, and prudently preferred even the devious windings of the solitary glens to the thronged and peopled highways that connected great cities.

His plan was to direct their steps through the Vorarlberg into the Tyrol, where, in a small village near Meran, his mother still lived. There, in case of need, Nelly would find a refuge, and, at all events, could halt while he explored the way to Vienna, and examined how far it might be safe for her to proceed thither. Even in all her affliction, out of the depths of a sorrow so devoid of hope, Nelly felt the glorious influence of the grand scenery through which they travelled. The giant mountains, snow-capped in early autumn; the boundless forests that stretched along their sides; the foaming cataracts as they fell in sheets of hissing water; the tranquil lakes that reflected tower and cliff and spire; the picturesque village, where life seemed to ripple on as peacefully as the clear stream before the peasant’s door; the song of the birds, the tolling of the bells, the laugh of the children; the Alp horn answered from cliff to cliff, and dying away in distant echo, – all these were realizations of many a girlish hope, when she wished her father to seek out some secluded village, and pass a life of obscure but united labor. There was no Quixotism in the fancy. She knew well what it was to toil and work; to rise early, and go late to rest; to feed on coarse fare, and be clad in mean attire. All that poverty can inflict of privation she had tasted, but fearlessly and with a bold heart; self-reliance elevating her thoughts above every little adverse incident, and giving to her struggle that character of a task, a holy and a righteous task, which made at once her life’s purpose and reward.

Scarcely a village at which they halted that did not strike her as like what her mind had often pictured for “their own,” and many a quaint old house, with its carved galleries and latticed porch, she stood to gaze on, fancying it their home and peopling every spot with the forms of those she loved. Oh! why had they not chosen this humble road? – why had their “Paths in Life” separated? – were the bitter reflections which now filled her eyes with tears and made her bosom heave almost to bursting. She did not foolishly suppose that the peasant can claim exemption from the trials and crosses of life, and that sorrow finds no entrance into remote and unfrequented tracts, but she knew that such burdens would not be too heavy for their strength, and that, while living a life of unpretending poverty, they should be free from the slavery of an assumed position, and able to combat the world fairly and honestly.

Of all lands the Tyrol is best suited to foster such feelings as these. There is a harmony and a keeping about it that is rarely found elsewhere. The dwellings of the people, so according with the character of the scenery; the costumes, the greetings, the songs of the peasantry; their simple and touching piety; their manners, so happily blending independence with courtesy, are felt at once as a charm, and give a color to the enjoyment of every one who sojourns amongst them. These were the sights and sounds which, better than all the blandishments of wealth, could soothe poor Nelly’s sorrow, and make her thankful in the midst of her afflictions even to have witnessed them. As for Hanserl, his excitement grew daily higher as he passed the Arlberg and drew near the spots he had seen in childhood. Now preparing some little surprise for Nelly, as they turned the angle of a cliff and gazed down upon a terrible gorge beneath; now apprising her of some little shrine where pious wayfarers were wont to halt and pray; now speculating if the old host of the village inn would be alive, or still remember him, he went along merrily, occasionally singing some “Alp Lied,” or calling to mind some ancient legend of the scene through which they journeyed. Above all, however, was his delight at the thought of seeing his old mother again. No sense of disappointment dashed this pleasure because he was returning poor and penniless. Home and the “Frau Mutter,” as he reverently called her, had their hold upon his heart quite distinct from every accident of fortune. To tell her of all he had seen in far-away lands, – for Hanserl thought himself a great traveller; to describe the great Cathedral of Worms, its vaulted aisles and painted windows, its saintly effigies and deep-toned organ, and the thousands who could kneel before the high altar! Then, what marvellous relics were there to describe! – not to speak of the memorable valley at Eschgau, where “Siegfried slew the Dragon.” Poor Hans! the scenes of his youth had made him young again, and it was the very triumph of his joy when he could interest Nelly in some story, or make her listen with attention to the rude verses of some “Tyroler” poem.

Gladly would we linger with them as they went slowly along through the deep valley of Landech, and, halting a day at the Pontlatzer Brücke, that Hans might describe the heroic defence of his countrymen against the French and Bavarian forces, and then, skirting along the Engadine, came in sight of the great Orteler Spitze, – the highest of the Tyrol Alps. And now they reached Nauders, and traversing a wild and dreary mountain tract, where even in autumn the snow is seen in clefts and crevices of the rock, they gradually gain the crest of the ridge, and look down at length on glorious Meran with the devotion of the pilgrim in sight of the Holy City. Hans knelt down and prayed fervently as his eyes beheld that garden valley with its vine-clad slopes and waving woods; its silvery river gliding along beneath bright villages and feudal castles. But soon he saw them no longer, for his eyes swam over with tears, and he sobbed like a child.

“There, Fräulein, yonder, where you see the river winding to the southward, you see an old tower, – ‘the Passayer Turm,’ it is called; the ‘Fräu Mutter’ lives there. I see some one in the garden.” And, overcome by emotion, he hid his face and wept.