The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume I. Lever Charles James
intelligence – ”
“Oh, that, of course,” interrupted she; “they are rarely deficient in acuteness, but so spiteful, so full of malice. My dear child, there ‘s no trusting them. They never forget an injury, nor even an imaginary slight. There was that creature what was his name? that Polish thing, Benywowski, I think you remember, they baked him in a pie, to amuse Charles II. well, he never forgave it after wards, and to the day of his death could never bear the sight of pastry.”
“I must except poor Hans from this category,” said Nelly, mildly, and with difficulty restraining a smile. “He is amiability itself.”
Lady Hester shook her head doubtfully, and went on.
“Their very caprices, my dear, lead them into all kinds of extravagances. For instance, this poor thing, it would seem, is so enamored of these wooden toys that he makes himself, that he cannot bear to part with them. Now, there ‘s no saying to what excesses he might be carried by this absurd passion. I have read of the most atrocious murders committed under a similar fanaticism.”
“I assure you, madam, there need be no fear of such in the present instance. In the first case, Hans is too good; in the second, the objects are too valueless.”
“Very true, so they are; but he doesn’t think them so, you know.”
“Nay, my Lady; nor would you either, were you to regard them with attention,” broke in Kate, whose cheek was now one glow of scarlet. “Even this, half finished as it is, may lay claim to merit.” And as she spoke, she removed a napkin from a little statue, before which she held the candle.
“For shame, Kate, dearest Kate!” cried Nelly, standing up in bashful discomfiture.
“It is a statuette of poor Frank, madam,” continued Kate, who, totally regardless of her sister’s interruption now exhibited the figure nearer. “You see him just as he left us, his knapsack on his shoulder, his sword fastened across it, his little cap on one side of his head, and that happy smile upon his lips. Poor dear fellow! how sad a heart it covered!”
“And was this his work?” asked Lady Hester, in astonishment.
“No, madam; my sister Nelly was the artist of this, as of all the others. Unaided and untaught, her own ingenuity alone suggesting the means, as her imagination supplied the conception.”
“Kate! dear, dear Kate!” said Ellen, with a voice of almost rebuke. “You forget how unworthy these poor efforts are of such high-sounding epithets.” Then, turning to Lady Hester, she continued: “Were it to ears less charitable than yours, madam, these foolish words were spoken, I should fear the criticism our presumption would seem to call forth. But you will not think harshly of us for ignorance.”
“But this figure is admirable; the attitude is graceful; the character of the head, the features, are in good keeping. I know, of course, nothing of the resemblance to your brother, but, as a work of art, I am competent to say it has high merit. Do tell me how the thought of doing these things first occurred to you.”
“I learned drawing as a child, madam, and was always fond of it,” said Ellen, with a degree of constraint that seemed as if the question were painful to answer.
“Yes, and so have I spent months ay, I believe I might say years at the easel, copying every Giorgione at Venice and every Vandyk at Genoa, and yet such a thought never suggested itself to me.”
“I am happy to think so, madam,” was the low response.
“Why so? how do you mean?” asked Lady Hester, eagerly.
“That the motive in my case never could have been yours, madam.”
“And what was the motive?”
“Poverty, madam. The word is not a pleasant word to syllable, but it is even better than any attempt at disguise. These trifles, while beguiling many a dreary hour, have helped us through a season of more than usual difficulty.”
“Yes, madam,” broke in Kate. “You are aware that papa’s property is in Ireland, and for some years back it has been totally unproductive.”
“How very sad how dreadful!” exclaimed Lady Hester. But whether the expressions referred to the condition of the Daltons or of Ireland, it is not quite clear.
“I doubt, madam, if I should have ventured on the confession,” said Ellen, with a voice of calm firmness, “were it not for the opportunity it offers of bearing testimony to the kindness of our poor friend yonder, Hans Roeckle. These efforts of mine have met such favor in his eyes that he accepts them all, taking them as rapidly as they are finished, and, I need not say, treating me with a generosity that would become a more exalted patron and a better artist.”
“It is quite a romance, I declare!” cried Lady Hester. “The Wood Demon and the Maiden. Only he is not in love with you, I hope?”
“I’m not quite sure of that,” said Kate, laughing; “at least, when some rivalry of her own wooden images does not intervene.”
“Hush! Hans is awaking,” said Ellen, as on tiptoe she crossed the room noiselessly, and opened the door of the chamber where the dwarf lay. Lady Hester and Kate now drew near and peeped in. On a low settle over which an old scarlet saddle-cloth, fringed with tarnished lace, was spread as a quilt lay Hans Roeckle, his wounded arm supported by a pillow at his side; his dark eyes glistened with the bright glare of fever, and his cheeks were flushed and burning, as his lips moved unceasingly, with a low muttering, which he continued, regardless of the presence of those who now approached his bedside.
“What is it he is saying? Does he complain of pain?” asked Lady Hester.
“I cannot understand him,” said Nelly; “for ever since his accident he has spoken in his native dialect the patois of the Bregentzer Wald of which I am utterly ignorant; still he will reply to me in good German when questioned.” Then, stooping down, she asked, “Are you better, Hans?”
Hans looked up steadfastly in her face without speaking; it seemed as if her voice had arrested his wandering faculties, but yet not awakened any intelligence.
“You are thirsty, Hans,” said she, gently, as she lifted a cup of water to his lips. He drank greedily, and then passed his hand across his brow, as if trying to dispel some tormenting fancies. After a second or two, he said: “It was in Nuremberg, in the Oden Gasse, it happened. The Ritter von Ottocar stabbed her as she knelt at the cross; and the dwarf, Der Mohrchen, as they called him, tore off his turban to bind up the wound; and what was his reward, maiden? tell me that! Are ye all so shamed that ye dare not speak it?”
“We know it not, Hans; we never heard of the Ritter nor the Mohrchen before.”
“I ‘ll tell you, then. They burned him as a warlock in the Hohen Platz next morning.” With a wild burst of savage laughter he closed this speech, which he spoke in good German; but immediately after his thoughts seemed to turn to his old Tyrol haunts and the familiar language of his native land, as he sang, in a low voice, the following words:
“A Buchsel zu schiessen,
A Stossring zu schlagn,
A Dienal zu Liebn,
Muss a Rue hahn.”
“What does he mean? Do tell me,” said Lady Hester, whose interest in the scene was more that of curiosity than compassion.
“It is a peasant dialect; but means, that a rifle to shoot with, a weapon to wield, and a maiden to love, are all that a good Tyroler needs in life,” said Kate, while Nelly busied herself in arranging the position of the wounded limb, little offices for which the poor dwarf looked his gratitude silently.
“How wild his looks are!” said Lady Hester. “See how his eyes glance along the walls, as if some objects were moving before them!” And so in reality was it. Hanserl’s looks were riveted upon the strange and incongruous assemblage of toys which, either suspended from nails or ranged on shelves, decorated the sides of the chamber. “Ay,” said he at last, with a melancholy smile, “thou ‘lt have to put off all this bravery soon, my pretty damsels, and don the black veil and