The little town was brilliant with September sunshine; the blue
smoke spired almost unbroken into the bluer vault above, and the
cream-coloured façades of the houses, with their faded blue shutters
and verandas, the gay striped awnings of the little fleet of rowing
boats, the gray of the stone parapet, and the dull green of the
mountainous opposite shore, were mirrored steeply in the bight of
narrowing, sunlit lake. The wide, dusty esplanade was almost empty,
except at the corners, where voluble market women gossiped over
their fruit-baskets, heaped with purple-brown figs, little
mountain-born strawberries, sweet, watery grapes, green almonds, and
stupendous pears. At rare intervals a steamboat, bright and neat as
a new toy, trailed a long feather of smoke from the foot of the
Rigi, shed a small and dusty crowd into the sleepy town, and then
bustled back, shearing the silken flood and strangely distorting its
reflections.
"The worst of Lucerne," said Mrs. Sylvester--"the worst of Lucerne
is that one can't escape from Mount Pilatus and the Lion. The
inhabitants all think that Pilatus regulates the weather, and they
would certainly give their Lion the preference over the Venus of
Milo."
They were all sitting on the terrace in front of the Schweitzerhof;
Lady Garnett and Mary, Mrs. Sylvester and Eve. Lady Garnett and her
companion were but newly arrived, and, as birds of passage,
preferred the hotel to a _pension_. The Sylvesters had been staying in
the quaint, rambling town for nearly a fortnight. It was their usual
summer resort, and although the spring of each year found them
deciding to go elsewhere for a change, in the end they nearly always
proved faithful to the familiar lake. Their _pension_--they regarded
it almost as a country house--was such an inducement! The Pension
Bungay was maintained by an old servant of the family, who, when he
began to find the duties of butler too exacting for his declining
years, gave a warning, which applied also to one of his
fellow-servants, the cook, to wit, a lady of Continental origin, who
had consented to become Madame Bungay; and the pair, having souls
above public-houses, and relying on their not inconsiderable
connection among the servants of Mayfair, had boldly and
successfully launched into an independent career as sole proprietors
and managers of the Pension Bungay, Lucerne.
"Yes," said Lady Garnett sympathetically; "I suppose Pilatus _is_
rather monotonous. It's rather too near, I think. It ought to be far
away, and covered with snow, more like the Jungfrau, which we have
been worshipping at Interlaken, where, by the way, there are
positively more Americans than natives."
"Oh," Mrs. Sylvester chimed in, "isn't it dreadful the way they
overrun Europe nowadays! There are two American families staying at
our _pension_, and you see them everywhere."
"I think I rather like them. They amuse me, you know, and somehow,
though it may be disloyal for me, as a naturalized Englishwoman, to
say so, as a rule they comport themselves much better than the
ordinary British tourist. Of course, the country is not so
accessible for the Americans; it's out of the reach of their cheap
excursionists. But how opportune that curious tower is, and the
bridge! of course, it's correct to admire them?"
Mary Masters and Eve, who had been quietly discussing _chiffons_, got
up from their chairs with a preconcerted air.
"We are so tired of sitting still," said the former, balancing
herself with an air of indecision, and giving Mrs. Sylvester time to
note the admirable taste of her simple, maize-coloured travelling
dress, which did not suffer from contrast with the younger girl's
brighter and more elaborately charming toilette. "Miss Sylvester
wants to show me the uncatchable trout in the lake, and I want to go
and see if the salon is empty, so that I can try the piano; and we
can't decide which to do. I suppose, Mrs. Sylvester, that the hotel
is more within the bounds of propriety?"
"Oh, well," said Eve, laughing, "I don't care; anyhow, let's go and
find the piano. Only, there is sure to be some one there already."
"By the way," said Lady Garnett, when the girls had vanished into
the building, "of course you know that Philip Rainham's friend--the
young man who paints and has a moustache, I mean--is here, or will
be very shortly? He was staying at our hotel at Berne."
"Mr. Lightmark, I suppose?" answered the other, without showing her
surprise except in her eyes. "We told him that we were coming to
Lucerne, and it was more or less arranged."
"Ah, yes," interposed Lady Garnett; "am I indiscreet in suggesting
an exceptional attraction?"
Mrs. Sylvester merely looked mysterious, and Lady Garnett was
encouraged to continue.
"Your daughter is very beautiful. This Mr. Lightmark has been
painting her portrait, _n'est ce pas_? I should think it ought to be a
success. Am I to congratulate him?"
"Oh," said Mrs. Sylvester hurriedly, "dear Lady Garnett, it hasn't
gone so far as that."
"The portrait?" murmured the other innocently. "Ah, I'm afraid you
misunderstood me."
Mrs. Sylvester cast a meaning glance in the direction of Eve, who,
sauntering along the terrace with Mary, was now behind their seat,
and the conversation, which promised to become interesting, dropped,
while Mary explained that they had found the music-stool occupied by
a lady, who was superfluously protesting her inability to sing "the
old songs"--the person who always _did_ monopolize hotel pianos, as
Mary laughingly asserted.
Two days later Lightmark presented himself at the Pension Bungay. He
had come to Lucerne with the fixed purpose of definitely proposing
marriage to Eve. He was far too worldly-wise to fail to perceive
that, so far at least, Mrs. Sylvester had certainly taken no trouble
to discourage his pretensions. His attentions, he argued, had been
by no means obscure; his studio had been singularly honoured by the
presence of Miss Sylvester and her mother, for the purposes of the
portrait; he had even been granted a sitting at the house in Park
Street, when a less rigid supervision had been exercised, and when,
in the absence of the mother, he had been able to assure himself
that the girl was far from despising his adoration. Before leaving
town he had dined with his uncle, the Colonel, at his club, and the
veteran had spontaneously and strenuously urged the step, and even
thrown out promising hints as to settlements. He broke in upon the
little circle at the hour of afternoon tea, and Eve found his gray
travelling suit, and the bronze of his complexion, exceedingly
becoming. He announced that he had come to stay for a week or two;
he was going to make some sketches, and he couldn't tear himself
away from that delightful bridge, and his lodgings!
"My dear fellow," he said to Charles Sylvester, with an air of
familiarity which gave one an insight as to the advance the artist
had made in his relations with the family, "you must come and see my
diggings. The most delightful old hostelry in Europe. Built straight
up out of the lake, like the castle of Chillon. It's called the
_Gasthof zum Pfistern_. I could fish out of my bedroom window. I
assure you, it's charming. You must come and dine with me there. I
hope you ladies will so far honour me?"
This project, however, fell through, and by way of compensation
Lightmark and Charles enjoyed the privilege of entertaining the
party, including Lady Garnett and Miss Masters, at Borghoni's; after
which the younger people chartered a boat, and floated idly about
the star-reflecting lake, while the dowagers maintained a discreet
surveillance from their seat on the esplanade.
Of this last incident it may be said that Lightmark and Eve found it
altogether delightful, the latter especially being struck by the
romance of the situation; while Charles was inclined to be
ponderously sentimental, and Miss Masters afterwards confessed to
having felt bored.
In the course of the next day Lightmark had the privilege of a
confidential interview with the mother of his adored. Mrs. Sylvester
had fully armed herself for the occasion, and presented an edifying
example of matronly affection and prudence.
"Of course, I was not altogether unprepared for this, Mr. Lightmark.
In fact, I may as well own that I have talked it over with my son,
and we agreed that the whole question resolved itself into--ah--into
settlements. You must not think me mercenary." This was said with a
dignified calm, which made the idea preposterous. "If you can"--here
she seemed to refer to some mental note-book--"ah--satisfy Charles
on that point, I am sure that it will give me great pleasure to
regard you as a prospective son-in-law. Of course, you know, I can't
answer for Eve, or Charles."
"Ah, my dear lady," said the other, gracefully overwhelmed, "if I
may count on your good offices I am very fortunate."
That evening, as the two men sat discussing their cigars and coffee,
Lightmark listened with wonderful patience to a disquisition on the
subject of--he couldn't afterwards remember whether it was Strikes
or the Sugar Bounty. He was rather afraid of the necessary interview
with Charles. It would require some tact, and he was prepared to
find him unpleasantly exacting as arbiter of his pecuniary status.
"You ought to be in the House, by Jove! that's your line, Sylvester,
with a clever wife, you know, to do the canvassing for you" ("and
write your speeches," he mentally added).
The other owned that he had thought of it.
"But the wife," he added, with an attempt at levity, "that's the
difficulty!"
And the connection of a subsequent remark with this topic, though
some conversation intervened, did not escape his astute companion,
and he was careful to sing Miss Masters' praises with an absence of
allusiveness, which showed the actor. Then he threw away the stump
of his cigar, and mentally braced himself.
"You have seen a good deal of me lately," he said. "I want to ask
you if you have any objection to me as a possible brother-in-law; in
fact, I want to marry your sister."
"Yes?" said the other encouragingly.
"I have, as you may know, spoken to Mrs. Sylvester about it, and I
believe she will--that is to say, I think she has no personal
objection to me."
"Oh, of course, my dear fellow, my mother and I are flattered, quite
flattered; but you will understand our anxiety that we should run no
risk of sacrificing any of the advantages she has enjoyed hitherto.
May I ask, er----"
"What is my income from all sources?" suggested Lightmark rather
flippantly. "Well, I have to confess that my profession, in which I
am said to be rising, brings me in about four hundred and fifty a
year, in addition to which I have a private income, which amounts
to, say, three hundred; total, seven hundred and fifty." Then,
seeing that Charles looked grave, he played his trump card: "And I
ought to add that my uncle, the Colonel, you know, has been good
enough to talk about making me an allowance, on my marrying with his
approval. In fact he is, I believe, prepared to make a settlement on
my marriage with your sister."
Charles Sylvester pronounced himself provisionally satisfied, and it
was arranged that he should communicate with Colonel Lightmark, and
that meanwhile the engagement should not be made public.
Eve was standing on the little balcony, appertaining to the
sitting-room which had been dedicated to the ladies as a special
mark of favour by the proprietor of the _pension_, and Lightmark
hastened to join her there; and while Charles and his mother played
a long game of chess, the two looked out at the line of moonlit
Alps, and were sentimentally and absurdly happy.
"Mrs. Sylvester," said Lightmark, when that lady thought it
advisable to warn her daughter that there was a cold wind blowing
off the lake, "we have arranged that a certain portrait shall figure
in the Academy catalogue next spring as 'Portrait of the Artist's
Wife.'"
After which Mrs. Sylvester began to call him Richard, and Charles
became oppressively genial: a development which led the embarrassed
recipient of these honours to console himself by reflecting that,
after all, he was not going to marry the entire family.
"_Ma cherie_," said Lady Garnett, as the Paris train steamed out of
Lucerne on the afternoon of the next day but one, "do you know that
I feel a sensation of positive relief at getting away from those
people? Eve is very _gentille_, but lovers are _so_ uninteresting, when
they are properly engaged; and the excellent Charles! My child, I am
afraid you have been very cruel."
"Cruel, aunt?" said Mary, with a demure look of astonishment. "I
like Eve very much, and I suppose Mr. Lightmark must be nice,
because he's such a friend of Philip's. But I don't quite like the
way he talks about Philip, and ... he's very clever."
"Yes," said the old lady drowsily; "he's cleverer than Philip."
"He may be cleverer, but----" Mary began with some warmth, and
paused.
Her companion opened her eyes widely, and darted a keen glance at
the girl. Then, settling herself into her corner:
"My dear child, to whom do you say it?"
It was eminently characteristic of Lady Garnett that, even when she
was sleepy, she understood what people were going to say long before
the words were spoken, and, especially with her familiars, she had a
habit of taking her anticipations as realized.
Mary found something embarrassing in the humour of the old lady's
expression, and devoted herself to gazing out of the window at the
mountain-bound landscape, in which houses, trees, and cattle all
seemed to be in miniature, until the sound of regular breathing
assured her that the inquisitive eyes were closed.