Читать книгу The Daltons (Historical Novel) - Charles James Lever - Страница 19

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How far were the Daltons from suspecting that they were the subject of so much and such varied solicitude, and that, while Lady Hester was fancying to herself all the fashionable beauties whom Kate would eclipse in loveliness, and what an effect charms like hers would produce on society, Sir Stafford was busily concerting with his lawyer the means of effectually benefiting them; and George Onslow for want of better speculated, as he smoked, on “the kind of people” they would prove, and wondered whether the scheme were worth the light trouble it was to cost him. Little did they know of all this, little imagine that outside of their humble roof there lived one save “dear Frank” whose thoughts included them. “The purple and fine linen” category of this world cannot appreciate the force of this want of sympathy! They, whose slightest griefs and least afflictions in life are always certain of the consolations of friends, and the even more bland solace of a fashionable physician whose woes are re-echoed by the “Morning Post,” and whose sorrows are mourned in Court Journals cannot frame to themselves the sense of isolation which narrow fortune impresses. “Poverty,” says a classical authority, “has no heavier evil than that it makes men ridiculous.” But this wound to self-love, deep and poignant though it be, is light in comparison with the crushing sense of isolation, that abstraction from sympathy in which poor men live!

The Daltons were seated around Hanserl's bed, silently ministering to the sick man, and watching with deep and anxious interest the labored respiration and convulsive twitches of his fever. The wild and rapid utterance of his lips, and the strange fancies they syllabled, often exciting him to laughter, only deepened the gravity of their countenances, and cast over the glances they interchanged a tinge of sadder meaning.

“He could n't have better luck,” muttered Dalton, sorrowfully; “just from being a friend to us! If he had never seen nor heard of us, maybe 't is happy and healthy he 'd be to-day!”

“Nay, nay, papa,” said Nelly, gently; “this is to speak too gloomily; nor is it good for us to throw on fortune the burden that we each should bear patiently.”

“Don't tell me that there is not such a thing as luck!” replied Dalton, in a tone of irritation. “I know well whether there is or no! For five-and-thirty years whatever I put my hand to in life turned out badly. It was the same whether I did anything on the spur of the moment, or thought over it for weeks. If I wished a thing, that was reason enough for it to come out wrong!”

“And even were it all as you fancy, papa dearest,” said Nelly, as she fondly drew her arm round him, “is it nothing that these reverses have found you strong of heart and high of courage to bear them? Over and over again have you told me that the great charm of field sports lay in the sense of fatigue bravely endured, and peril boldly confronted; that, devoid of these, they were unworthy of men. Is there not a greater glory, then, in stemming the tide of adverse fortune; and is it not a higher victory that carries you triumphant over the real trials of life, kind of heart, trustful, and generous, as in the best days of your prosperity, and with a more gentle and forbearing spirit than prosperity ever taught?”

“That 's nothing against what I was saying,” said Dalton, but with a more subdued face. “There 's poor little Hans, and till a couple of clays ago he never knew what it was to be unlucky. As he told us himself, his life was a fairy tale.”

“True,” interposed Nelly; “and happy as it was, and blameless and guileless he who led it, mark how many a gloomy thought, what dark distressing fancies, hover round his brain, and shadow his sick-bed! No, no! the sorrows of this world are more equally distributed than we think for, and he who seems to have fewest is oftentimes but he who best conceals them!”

Her voice shook, and became weaker as she spoke; and the last few words were barely audible. Dalton did not notice her emotion; but Kate's looks were bent upon her with an expression of fond and affectionate meaning.

“There's somebody at the door,” whispered Daltou; “see who it is, Kate.”

Kate arose, and opening the door softly, beheld old Andy; his shrivelled features and lustreless eyes appearing in a state of unusual excitement.

“What's the matter, Andy? what is it you want?” said she.

“Is the master here? Where 's the master?”

“He 's here; what do you want with him?” rejoined she.

“I want himself,” said he, as with his palsied hand he motioned to Dalton to come out.

“What is it, you old fool?” said Dalton, impatiently, as he arose and followed him outside of the room.

“There's one of them again!” said Andy, putting his mouth to Dalton's ear, and whispering in deep confidence.

“One of what? one of whom?”

“He's upstairs,” muttered Andy.

“Who's upstairs, who is he?” cried Dalton, angrily.

“Didn't I know him the minit I seen him! Ayeh! Ould as I am, my eyes isn't that dim yet.”

“God give me patience with you!” said Dalton; and, to judge from his face, he was not entreating a vain blessing. “Tell me, I say, what do you mean, or who is it is upstairs?”

Andy put his lips once more to the other's ear, and whispered, “An attorney!”

“An attorney!” echoed Dalton.

“Iss!” said Andy, with a significant nod.

“And how do you know he 's an attorney?”

“I seen him!” replied the other, with a grin; “and I locked the door on him.”

“What for?”

“What for! what for, is it? Oh, murther, murther!” whined the old creature, who in this unhappy question thought he read the evidence of his poor master's wreck of intellect. It was indeed no slight shock to him to hear that Peter Dalton had grown callous to danger, and could listen to the terrible word he had uttered without a sign of emotion.

“I seen the papers with a red string round 'em,” said Andy, as though by this incidental trait he might be able to realize all the menaced danger.

“Sirrah, ye 're an old fool!” said Dalton, angrily; and, jerking the key from his trembling fingers, he pushed past him, and ascended the stairs.

If Dalton's impatience had been excited by the old man's absurd terrors and foolish warnings, his own heart was not devoid of a certain vague dread, as he slowly wended his way upwards. It was true he did not partake of old Andy's fear of the dread official of the law. Andy, who, forgetting time and place, not knowing that they were in another land, where the King's writ never ran, saw in the terrible apparition the shadows of coming misfortune. Every calamity of his master's house had been heralded by such a visit, and he could as soon have disconnected the banshee with a sudden death, as the sight of an attorney with an approaching disaster.

It is true, Dalton did not go this far; but still old impressions were not so easily effaced. And as the liberated captive is said to tremble at the clanking of a chain, so his heart responded to the fear that memory called up of past troubles and misfortunes.

“What can he want with me now?” muttered he, as he stopped to take breath. “They 've left me nothing but life, and they can't take that. It 's not that I 'd care a great deal if they did! Maybe it's more bother about them titles; but I'll not trouble my head about them. I sold the land, and I spent the money; ay, and what 's more, I spent it at home among my own people, like a gentleman! and if I 'm an absentee it 's not my fault. I suppose he couldn't arrest me,” said he, after a pause; “but, God knows, they 're making new laws every day, and it 's hard to say if they 'll let a man have peace or ease in any quarter of the world before long. Well, well! there's no use guessing. I have nothing to sell nothing to lose; I suppose they don't make it a hanging matter even for an Irishman to live a trifle too fast.” And with this piece of reassuring comfort, he pulled up his cravat, threw back the breast of his coat, and prepared to confront the enemy bravely.

Although Dalton made some noise in unlocking the door, and not less in crossing the little passage that led to the sitting-room, his entrance was unperceived by the stranger, who was busily engaged in examining a half-finished group by Nelly. It represented an old soldier, whose eyes were covered by a bandage, seated beside a well, while a little drummer-boy read to him the bulletin of a great victory. She had destined the work for a present to Frank, and had put forth all her genius in its composition. The glowing enthusiasm of the blind veteran, his half-opened lips,' his attitude of eagerness as he drank in the words, were finely contrasted with the childlike simplicity of the boy, more intent, as it seemed, in spelling out the lines than following the signification.

If the stranger was not a finished connoisseur, he was certainly not ignorant of art, and was deep in its contemplation when Dalton accosted him.

“I beg pardon, Mr. Dalton, I presume; really this clever composition has made me forget myself totally. May I ask, is it the work of a native artist?”

“It was done in this place, sir,” replied Dalton, whose pride in his daughter's skill was overlaid by a less worthy feeling, shame that a Dalton should condescend to such an occupation.

“I have seen very inferior productions highly prized and praised; and if I am not indiscreet—”

“To prevent any risk of that kind,” observed Dalton, interrupting him, “I 'll take the liberty of asking your name, and the object of this visit.”

“Prichard, sir; of the firm of Prichard and Harding, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields,” replied the other, whose voice and manner at once assumed a business-like tone.

“I never heard the names before,” said Dalton, motioning to a chair. The stranger seated himself, and, placing a large roll of papers before him on the table, proceeded to untie and arrange them most methodically, and with the air of a man too deeply impressed with the importance of his occupation to waste a thought upon the astonishment of a bystander.

“Prichard and Harding are mighty cool kind of gentlemen,” thought Dalton, as he took his seat at the opposite side of the table, trying, but not with any remarkable success, to look as much at ease as his visitor.

“Copy of deed draft of instructions bill of sale of stock no, here it is! This is what we want,” muttered Prichard, half aloud. “I believe that letter, sir, is in your handwriting?”

Dalton put on his spectacles and looked at the document for a few seconds, during which his countenance gradually appeared to light up with an expression of joyful meaning; for his eye glistened, and a red flush suffused his cheek.

“It is, sir, that's mine, every word of it; and what's more, I 'm as ready to stand to it to-day as the hour I wrote it.”

Mr. Prichard, scarcely noticing the reply, was again deep in his researches; but the object of them must be reserved for another chapter.