CHAPTER I.

WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED

HER PRICES

_AND OTHER STORIES_

WHY FRAU FROHMANN

RAISED HER PRICES

And other Stories

BY

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

AUTHOR OF “FRAMLEY PARSONAGE,” “SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON,” &c., &c.

LONDON

WM. ISBISTER, LIMITED

56, LUDGATE HILL

1882

LONDON:

PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED,

CITY ROAD.

CONTENTS.

WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED HER PRICES.

CHAP. PAGE

I. THE BRUNNENTHAL PEACOCK 1

II. THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES 17

III. THE QUESTION OF THE MITGIFT 29

IV. THE FRAU RETURNS TO THE SIMPLICITY OF THE OLD DAYS 40

V. A ZWANSIGER IS A ZWANSIGER 51

VI. HOFF THE BUTCHER 67

VII. “AND GOLD BECOMES CHEAP” 79

VIII. IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE TO ANY OF THEM 91

THE LADY OF LAUNAY.

I. HOW BESSY PRYOR BECAME A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE 105

II. HOW BESSY PRYOR WOULDN’T MARRY THE PARSON 111

III. HOW BESSY PRYOR CAME TO LOVE THE HEIR OF LAUNAY 120

IV. HOW BESSY PRYOR OWNED THAT SHE WAS ENGAGED 128

V. HOW BESSY PRYOR CEASED TO BE A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE 136

VI. HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS TO BE BANISHED 144

VII. HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BANISHED TO NORMANDY 151

VIII. HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED TWO LETTERS FROM LAUNAY 159

IX. HOW BESSY PRYOR ANSWERED THE TWO LETTERS, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 167

X. HOW BESSY PRYOR’S LOVER ARGUED HIS CASE 174

XI. HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED HER LOVER 182

XII. HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BROUGHT BACK, AND WHAT THEN BECAME OF HER 190

CHRISTMAS AT THOMPSON HALL.

I. MRS. BROWN’S SUCCESS 201

II. MRS. BROWN’S FAILURE 214

III. MRS. BROWN ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE 223

IV. MRS. BROWN DOES ESCAPE 234

V. MRS. BROWN AT THOMPSON HALL 249

THE TELEGRAPH GIRL.

I. LUCY GRAHAM AND SOPHY WILSON 263

II. ABRAHAM HALL 275

III. SOPHY WILSON GOES TO HASTINGS 286

IV. MR. BROWN THE HAIRDRESSER 298

V. ABRAHAM HALL MARRIED 310

ALICE DUGDALE.

I. THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY 323

II. MAJOR ROSSITER 333

III. LADY WANLESS 342

IV. THE BEETHAMITES 352

V. THE INVITATION 362

VI. THE ARCHERY MEETING 371

VII. AFTER THE PARTY 381

VIII. SIR WALTER UP IN LONDON 391

IX. LADY DEEPBELL 400

X. THE BIRD THAT PECKED AT THE WINDOW 409

WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED

HER PRICES.

CHAPTER I.

THE BRUNNENTHAL PEACOCK.

If ever there was a Tory upon earth, the Frau Frohmann was a Tory; for I

hold that landed possessions, gentle blood, a gray-haired butler behind

one’s chair, and adherence to the Church of England, are not necessarily

the distinguishing marks of Toryism. The Frau Frohmann was a woman who

loved power, but who loved to use it for the benefit of those around

her,--or at any rate to think that she so used it. She believed in the

principles of despotism and paternal government,--but always on the

understanding that she was to be the despot. In her heart of hearts she

disliked education, thinking that it unfitted the minds of her humbler

brethren for the duties of their lives. She hated, indeed, all

changes,--changes in costume, changes in hours, changes in cookery, and

changes in furniture; but of all changes she perhaps hated changes in

prices the most. Gradually there had come over her a melancholy

conviction that the world cannot go on altogether unaltered. There was,

she felt, a fate in things,--a necessity which, in some dark way within

her own mind, she connected with the fall of Adam and the general

imperfection of humanity,--which demanded changes, but they were always

changes for the worse; and therefore, though to those around her she was

mostly silent on this matter, she was afflicted by a general idea that

the world was going on towards ruin. That all things throve with herself

was not sufficient for her comfort; for, being a good woman with a large

heart, she was anxious for the welfare not only of herself and of her

children, but for that of all who might come after her, at any rate in

her own locality. Thus, when she found that there was a tendency to dine

at one instead of twelve, to wear the same clothes on week days as on

Sundays, to desire easy chairs, and linen that should be bleached

absolutely white, thoughts as to the failing condition of the world

would get the better of her and make her melancholy.

These traits are perhaps the evidences of the weakness of Toryism;--but

then Frau Frohmann also had all its strength. She was thoroughly

pervaded by a determination that, in as far as in her lay, all that had

aught to do with herself should be “well-to-do” in the world. It was a

grand ambition in her mind that every creature connected with her

establishment, from the oldest and most time-honoured guest down to the

last stray cat that had taken refuge under her roof, should always have

enough to eat. Hunger, unsatisfied hunger, disagreeable hunger, on the

part of any dependent of hers, would have been a reproach to her. Her

own eating troubled her little or not at all, but the cooking of the

establishment generally was a great care to her mind. In bargaining she

was perhaps hard, but hard only in getting what she believed to be her

own right. Aristides was not more just. Of bonds, written bonds, her

neighbours knew not much; but her word for twenty miles round was as

good as any bond. And though she was perhaps a little apt to domineer in

her bargains,--to expect that she should fix the prices and to resent

opposition,--it was only to the strong that she was tyrannical. The poor

sick widow and the little orphan could generally deal with her at their

own rates; on which occasions she would endeavour to hide her dealings

from her own people, and would give injunctions to the favoured ones

that the details of the transaction should not be made public. And then,

though the Frau was, I regret to say, no better than a Papist, she was a

thoroughly religious woman, believing in real truth what she professed

to believe, and complying, as far as she knew how, with the ordinances

of her creed.

Therefore I say that if ever there was a Tory, the Frau Frohmann was

one.

And now it will be well that the reader should see the residence of the

Frau, and learn something of her condition in life. In one of the

districts of the Tyrol, lying some miles south of Innsbruck, between

that town and Brixen, there is a valley called the Brunnenthal, a most

charming spot, in which all the delights of scenery may be found without

the necessity of climbing up heart-rending mountains, or sitting in oily

steamboats, or paying for greedy guides, or riding upon ill-conditioned

ponies. In this valley Frau Frohmann kept an hotel called the Peacock,

which, however, though it was known as an inn, and was called by that

name, could hardly be regarded as a house of common public

entertainment. Its purpose was to afford recreation and comfort to a

certain class of customers during the summer months,--persons well

enough to do in the world to escape from their town work and their town

residences for a short holiday, and desirous during that time of

enjoying picturesque scenery, good living, moderate comfort, and some

amount of society. Such institutions have now become so common that

there is hardly any one who has not visited or at any rate seen such a

place. They are to be found in every country in Europe, and are very

common in America. Our own Scotland is full of them. But when the

Peacock was first opened in Brunnenthal they were not so general.

Of the husband of the Frau there are not many records in the

neighbourhood. The widow has been a widow for the last twenty years at

least, and her children,--for she has a son and daughter,--have no vivid

memories of their father. The house and everything in it, and the

adjacent farm, and the right of cutting timber in the forests, and the

neighbouring quarry, are all the undoubted property of the Frau, who

has a reputation for great wealth. Though her son is perhaps nearly

thirty, and is very diligent in the affairs of the establishment, he has

no real authority. He is only, as it were, the out-of-doors right hand

of his mother, as his sister, who is perhaps five years younger, is an

in-doors right hand. But they are only hands. The brain, the

intelligence, the mind, the will by which the Brunnenthal Peacock is

conducted and managed, come all from the Frau Frohmann herself. To this

day she can hardly endure a suggestion either from Peter her son or from

her daughter Amalia, who is known among her friends as Malchen, but is

called “the fraulein” by the Brunnenthal world at large. A suggestion as

to the purchase of things new in their nature she will not stand at all,

though she is liberal enough in maintaining the appurtenances of the

house generally.

But the Peacock is more than a house. It is almost a village; and yet

every shed, cottage, or barn at or near the place forms a part of the

Frau’s establishment. The centre or main building is a large ordinary

house of three stories,--to the lower of which there is an ascent by

some half-dozen stone steps,--covered with red tiles, and with gable

ends crowded with innumerable windows. The ground-floor is devoted to

kitchens, offices, the Frau’s own uses, and the needs of the servants.

On the first-story are the two living rooms of the guests, the greater

and by far the more important being devoted to eating and drinking.

Here, at certain hours, are collected all the forces of the

establishment,--and especially at one o’clock, when, with many ringing

of bells and great struggles in the culinary department, the dinner is

served. For to the adoption of this hour has the Frau at last been

driven by the increasing infirmities of the world around her. The

scenery of the locality is lovely; the air is considered to be

peculiarly health-compelling; the gossipings during the untrammelled

idleness of the day are very grateful to those whose lives are generally

laborious; the love-makings are frequent, and no doubt sweet; skittles

and bowls and draughts and dominoes have their devotees; and the smoking

of many pipes fills up the vacant hours of the men.

But, at the Brunnenthal, dinner is the great glory of the day. It would

be vain for any æsthetical guest, who might conceive himself to be

superior to the allurements of the table, to make little of the Frau’s

dinner. Such a one had better seek other quarters for his summer’s

holiday. At the Brunnenthal Peacock it is necessary that you should

believe in the paramount importance of dinner. Not to come to it at the

appointed time would create, first marvel, in the Frau’s mind, then

pity,--as to the state of your health,--and at last hot anger should it

be found that such neglect arose from contempt. What muse will assist me

to describe these dinners in a few words? They were commenced of course

by soup,--real soup, not barley broth with a strong prevalence of the

barley. Then would follow the boiled meats, from which the soup was

supposed to have been made,--but such boiled meat, so good, that the

supposition must have contained a falsehood. With this there would be

always potatoes and pickled cabbages and various relishes. Then there

would be two other kinds of meat, generally with accompaniment of stewed

fruit; after that fish,--trout from the neighbouring stream, for the

preservation of which great tanks had been made. Vegetables with unknown

sauces would follow,--and then would come the roast, which consisted

always of poultry, and was accompanied of course by salad. But it was

after this that were made the efforts on which the Frau’s fame most

depended. The puddings, I think, were the subject of her greatest

struggles and most complete success. Two puddings daily were, by the

rules of the house, required to be eaten; not two puddings brought

together so that you might choose with careless haste either one or the

other; but two separate courses of puddings, with an interval between

for appreciation, for thought, and for digestion. Either one or both

can, no doubt, be declined. No absolute punishment,--such as notice to

leave the house,--follows such abstention. But the Frau is displeased,

and when dressed in her best on Sundays does not smile on those who

abstain. After the puddings there is dessert, and there are little cakes

to nibble if you will. They are nibbled very freely. But the heat of the

battle is over with the second pudding.

They have a great fame, these banquets; so that ladies and gentlemen

from Innsbruck have themselves driven out here to enjoy them. The

distance each way is from two to three hours, so that a pleasant

holiday is made by a visit to the Frau’s establishment. There is a

ramble up to the waterfall and a smoking of pipes among the rocks, and

pleasant opportunities for secret whispers among young people;--but the

Frau would not be well pleased if it were presumed that the great

inducement for the visit were not to be found in the dinner which she

provides. In this way, though the guests at the house may not exceed

perhaps thirty in number, it will sometimes be the case that nearly

twice as many are seated at the board. That the Frau has an eye to

profit cannot be doubted. Fond of money she is certainly;--fond of

prosperity generally. But, judging merely from what comes beneath his

eye, the observer will be led to suppose that her sole ambition on these

occasions is to see the food which she has provided devoured by her

guests. A weak stomach, a halting appetite, conscientious scruples as to

the over-enjoyment of victuals, restraint in reference to subsequent

excesses or subsequent eatings,--all these things are a scandal to her.

If you can’t, or won’t, or don’t eat your dinner when you get it, you

ought not to go to the Brunnenthal Peacock.

This banqueting-hall, or Speise-Saal, occupies a great part of the

first-floor; but here also is the drawing-room, or reading-room, as it

is called, having over the door “Lese-Saal” painted, so that its purpose

may not be doubted. But the reading-room is not much, and the guests

generally spend their time chiefly out of doors or in their bedrooms

when they are not banqueting. There are two other banquets, breakfast

and supper, which need not be specially described;--but of the latter it

may be said that it is a curtailed dinner, having limited courses of hot

meat, and only one pudding.

On this floor there is a bedroom or two, and a nest of others above; but

the accommodation is chiefly afforded in other buildings, of which the

one opposite is longer, though not so high, as the central house; and

there is another, a little down the road, near the mill, and another as

far up the stream, where the baths have been built,--an innovation to

which Frau Frohmann did not lend herself without much inward suffering.

And there are huge barns and many stables; for the Frau keeps a posting

establishment, and a diligence passes the door three times each way in

the course of the day and night, and the horses are changed at the

Peacock;--or it was so, at any rate, in the days of which I am speaking,

not very long ago. And there is the blacksmith’s forge, and the great

carpenter’s shed, in which not only are the carts and carriages mended,

but very much of the house furniture is made. And there is the mill, as

has been said before, in which the corn is ground, and three or four

cottages for married men, and a pretty little chapel, built by the Frau

herself, in which mass is performed by her favourite priest once a

month,--for the parish chapel is nearly three miles distant if you walk

by the mountain path, but is fully five if you have yourself carried

round by the coach road. It must, I think, be many years since the Frau

can have walked there, for she is a dame of portly dimensions.

Whether the buildings are in themselves picturesque I will not pretend

to say. I doubt whether there has been an attempt that way in regard to

any one except the chapel. But chance has so grouped them, and nature

has so surrounded them, that you can hardly find anywhere a prettier

spot. Behind the house, so as to leave only space for a little meadow

which is always as green as irrigation can make it, a hill rises, not

high enough to be called a mountain, which is pine-clad from the foot to

the summit. In front and around the ground is broken, but immediately

before the door there is a way up to a lateral valley, down which comes

a nameless stream which, just below the house, makes its way into the

Ivil, the little river which runs from the mountain to the inn, taking

its course through that meadow which lies between the hill and the

house. It is here, a quarter of a mile perhaps up this little stream, at

a spot which is hidden by many turnings from the road, that visitors

come upon the waterfall,--the waterfall which at Innsbruck is so often

made to be the excuse of these outings which are in truth performed in

quest of Frau Frohmann’s dinners. Below the Peacock, where the mill is

placed, the valley is closely confined, as the sombre pine-forests rise

abruptly on each side; and here, or very little lower, is that gloomy or

ghost-like pass through the rocks, which is called the Höllenthor; a

name which I will not translate. But it is a narrow ravine, very dark

in dark weather, and at night as black as pitch. Among the superstitious

people of the valley the spot is regarded with the awe which belonged to

it in past ages. To visitors of the present day it is simply picturesque

and sublime. Above the house the valley spreads itself, rising, however,

rapidly; and here modern engineering has carried the road in various

curves and turns round knolls of hills and spurs of mountains, till the

traveller as he ascends hardly knows which way he is going. From one or

two points among these curves the view down upon the Peacock with its

various appendages, with its dark-red roofs, and many windows glittering

in the sun, is so charming, that the tourist is almost led to think that

they must all have been placed as they are with a view to effect.

The Frau herself is what used to be called a personable woman. To say

that she is handsome would hardly convey a proper idea. Let the reader

suppose a woman of about fifty, very tall and of large dimensions. It

would be unjust to call her fat, because though very large she is still

symmetrical. When she is dressed in her full Tyrolese costume,--which is

always the case at a certain hour on Sunday, and on other stated and by

no means unfrequent days as to which I was never quite able to learn the

exact rule,--when she is so dressed her arms are bare down from her

shoulders, and such arms I never saw on any human being. Her back is

very broad and her bust expansive. But her head stands erect upon it as

the head of some old Juno, and in all her motions,--though I doubt

whether she could climb by the mountain path to her parish church,--she

displays a certain stately alertness which forbids one to call her fat.

Her smile,--when she really means to smile and to show thereby her

good-will and to be gracious,--is as sweet as Hebe’s. Then it is that

you see that in her prime she must in truth have been a lovely woman.

There is at these moments a kindness in her eyes and a playfulness about

her mouth which is apt to make you think that you can do what you like

with the Frau. Who has not at times been charmed by the frolic

playfulness of the tiger? Not that Frau Frohmann has aught of the tiger

in her nature but its power. But the power is all there, and not

unfrequently the signs of power. If she be thwarted, contradicted,

counselled by unauthorised counsellors,--above all if she be

censured,--then the signs of power are shown. Then the Frau does not

smile. At such times she is wont to speak her mind very plainly, and to

make those who hear her understand that, within the precincts and

purlieus of the Brunnenthal Peacock, she is an irresponsible despot.

There have been guests there rash enough to find some trifling faults

with the comforts provided for them,--whose beds perhaps have been too

hard, or their towels too limited, or perhaps their hours not agreeably

arranged for them. Few, however, have ever done so twice, and they who

have so sinned,--and have then been told that the next diligence would

take them quickly to Innsbruck if they were discontented,--have rarely

stuck to their complaints and gone. The comforts of the house, and the

prices charged, and the general charms of the place have generally

prevailed,--so that the complainants, sometimes with spoken apologies,

have in most cases sought permission to remain. In late years the Frau’s

certainty of victory has created a feeling that nothing is to be said

against the arrangements of the Peacock. A displeased guest can exercise

his displeasure best by taking himself away in silence.

The Frau of late years has had two counsellors; for though she is but

ill inclined to admit advice from those who have received no authority

to give it, she is not therefore so self-confident as to feel that she

can live and thrive without listening to the wisdom of others. And those

two counsellors may be regarded as representing--the first or elder her

conscience, and the second and younger her worldly prudence. And in the

matter of her conscience very much more is concerned than simple

honesty. It is not against cheating or extortion that her counsellor is

sharp to her; but rather in regard to those innovations which he and she

think to be prejudicial to the manner and life of Brunnenthal, of

Innsbruck, of the Tyrol, of the Austrian empire generally, and, indeed,

of the world at large. To be as her father had been before her,--for her

father, too, had kept the Peacock; to let life be cheap and simple, but

yet very plentiful as it had been in his days, this was the counsel

given by Father Conolin the old priest, who always spent two nights in

each month at the establishment, and was not unfrequently to be seen

there on other occasions. He had been opposed to many things which had

been effected,--that alteration of the hour of dinner, the erection of

the bathhouse, the changing of plates at each course, and especially

certain, notifications and advertisements by which foreigners may have

been induced to come to the Brunnenthal. The kaplan, or chaplain, as he

was called, was particularly averse to strangers, seeming to think that

the advantages of the place should be reserved, if not altogether for

the Tyrolese, at any rate for the Germans of Southern Germany, and was

probably of opinion that no real good could be obtained by harbouring

Lutherans. But, of late, English also had come, to whom, though he was

personally very courteous, he was much averse in his heart of hearts.

Such had ever been the tendency of his advice, and it had always been

received with willing, nay, with loving ears. But the fate of the kaplan

had been as is the fate of all such counsellors. Let the toryism of the

Tory be ever so strong, it is his destiny to carry out the purposes of

his opponents. So it had been, and was, with the Frau. Though she was

always in spirit antagonistic to the other counsellor, it was the other

counsellor who prevailed with her.

At Innsbruck for many years there had lived a lawyer, or rather a family

of lawyers, men always of good repute and moderate means, named

Schlessen; and in their hands had been reposed by the Frau that

confidence as to business matters which almost every one in business

must have in some lawyer. The first Schlessen whom the Frau had known

in her youth, and who was then a very old man, had been almost as

Conservative as the priest. Then had come his son, who had been less so,

but still lived and died without much either of the light of progress or

contamination of revolutionary ideas from the outer world. But about

three years before the date of our tale he also had passed away, and now

young Fritz Schlessen sat in the chair of his forefathers. It was the

opinion of Innsbruck generally that the young lawyer was certainly

equal, probably superior, in attainments and intellect to any of his

predecessors. He had learned his business both at Munich and Vienna, and

though he was only twenty-six when he was left to manage his clients

himself, most of them adhered to him. Among others so did our Frau, and

this she did knowing the nature of the man and of the counsel she might

expect to receive from him. For though she loved the priest, and loved

her old ways, and loved to be told that she could live and thrive on the

rules by which her father had lived and thriven before her,--still,

there was always present to her mind the fact that she was engaged in

trade, and that the first object of a tradesman must be to make money.

No shoemaker can set himself to work to make shoes having as his first

intention an ambition to make the feet of his customers comfortable.

That may come second, and to him, as a conscientious man, may be

essentially necessary. But he sets himself to work to make shoes in

order that he may earn a living. That law,--almost of nature we may

say,--had become so recognised by the Frau that she felt that it must

be followed, even in spite of the priest if need were, and that, in

order that it might be followed, it would be well that she should listen

to the advice of Herr Schlessen. She heard, therefore, all that her

kaplan would say to her with gracious smiles, and something of what her

lawyer would say to her, not always very graciously; but in the long-run

she would take her lawyer’s advice.

It will have to be told in a following chapter how it was that Fritz

Schlessen had a preponderating influence in the Brunnenthal, arising

from other causes than his professional soundness and general prudence.

It may, however, be as well to explain here that Peter Frohmann the son

sided always with the priest, and attached himself altogether to the

conservative interest. But he, though he was honest, diligent, and

dutiful to his mother, was lumpy, uncouth, and slow both of speech and

action. He understood the cutting of timber and the making of

hay,--something perhaps of the care of horses and of the nourishment of

pigs; but in money matters he was not efficient. Amalia, or Malchen, the

daughter, who was four or five years her brother’s junior, was much

brighter, and she was strong on the reforming side. British money was to

her thinking as good as Austrian, or even Tyrolese. To thrive even

better than her forefathers had thriven seemed to her to be desirable.

She therefore, though by her brightness and feminine ways she was very

dear to the priest, was generally opposed to him in the family

conclaves. It was chiefly in consequence of her persistency that the

table napkins at the Peacock were now changed twice a week.

CHAPTER II.

THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES.

Of late days, and up to the time of which we are speaking, the chief

contest between the Frau, with the kaplan and Peter on one side, and

Malchen with Fritz Schlessen on the other, was on that most important

question whether the whole rate of charges should not be raised at the

establishment. The prices had been raised, no doubt, within the last

twenty years, or the Frau could not have kept her house open;--but this

had been done indirectly. That the matter may not be complicated for our

readers, we will assume that all charges are made at the Peacock in

zwansigers and kreutzers, and that the zwansiger, containing twenty

kreutzers, is worth eightpence of English money. Now it must be

understood that the guests at the Peacock were entertained at the rate

of six zwansigers, or four shillings, a day, and that this included

everything necessary,--a bed, breakfast, dinner, a cup of coffee after

dinner, supper, as much fresh milk as anybody chose to drink when the

cows were milked, and the use of everything in and about the

establishment. Guests who required wine or beer, of course, were charged

for what they had. Those who were rich enough to be taken about in

carriages paid so much per job,--each separate jaunt having been

inserted in a tariff. No doubt there were other possible and probable

extras; but an ordinary guest might live for his six zwansigers a

day;--and the bulk of them did so live, with the addition of whatever

allowance of beer each might think appropriate. From time to time a

little had been added to the cost of luxuries. Wine had become dearer,

and perhaps the carriages. A bath was an addition to the bill, and

certain larger and more commodious rooms were supposed to be entitled to

an extra zwansiger per week;--but the main charge had always remained

fixed. In the time of the Frau’s father guests had been entertained at,

let us say, four shillings a head, and guests were so entertained now.

All the world,--at any rate all the Tyrolese world south of

Innsbruck,--knew that six zwansigers was the charge in the Brunnenthal.

It would be like adding a new difficulty to the path of life to make a

change. The Frau had always held her head high,--had never been ashamed

of looking her neighbour in the face, but when she was advised to rush

at once up to seven zwansigers and a half (or five shillings a day), she

felt that, should she do so, she would be overwhelmed with shame. Would

not her customers then have cause of complaint? Would not they have such

cause that they would in truth desert her? Did she not know that Herr

Weiss, the magistrate from Brixen, with his wife, and his wife’s sister,

and the children, who came yearly to the Peacock, could not afford to

bring his family at this increased rate of expenses? And the Fraulein

Tendel with her sister would never come from Innsbruck if such an

announcement was made to her. It was the pride of this woman’s heart to

give all that was necessary for good living, to those who would come and

submit themselves to her, for four shillings a day. Among the “extras”

she could endure some alteration. She did not like extras, and if people

would have luxuries they must be made to pay for them. But the Peacock

had always been kept open for six zwansigers, and though Fritz Schlessen

was very eloquent, she would not give way to him.

Fritz Schlessen simply told her that the good things which she provided

for her guests cost at present more than six zwansigers, and could not

therefore be sold by her at that price without a loss. She was rich,

Fritz remarked, shrugging his shoulders, and having amassed property

could if she pleased dispose of it gradually by entertaining her guests

at a loss to herself;--only let her know what she was doing. That might

be charity, might be generosity, might be friendliness; but it was not

trade. Everything else in the world had become dearer, and therefore

living at the Peacock should be dearer. As to the Weisses and the

Tendels, no doubt they might be shocked, and perhaps hindered from

coming. But their places would surely be filled by others. Was not the

house always full from the 1st of June till the end of September? Were

not strangers refused admittance week after week from want of

accommodation? If the new prices were found to be too high for the

Tyrolese and Bavarians, they would not offend the Germans from the

Rhine, or the Belgians, or the English. Was it not plain to every one

that people now came from greater distances than heretofore?

These were the arguments which Herr Schlessen used; and, though they

were very disagreeable, they were not easily answered. The Frau

repudiated altogether the idea of keeping open her house on other than

true trade principles. When the young lawyer talked to her about

generosity she waxed angry, and accused him of laughing at her. “Dearest

Frau Frohmann,” he said, “it is so necessary you should know the truth!

Of course you intend to make a profit;--but if you cannot do so at your

present prices, and yet will not raise them, at any rate understand what

it is that you are doing.” Now the last year had been a bad year, and

she knew that she had not increased her store. This all took place in

the month of April, when a proposition was being made as to the prices

for the coming season. The lawyer had suggested that a circular should

be issued, giving notice of an altered tariff.

Malchen was clearly in favour of the new idea. She could not see that

the Weisses and Tendels, and other neighbours, should be entertained at

a manifest loss; and, indeed, she had prepossessions in favour of

foreigners, especially of the English, which, when expressed, brought

down upon her head sundry hard words from her mother, who called her a

“pert hussey,” and implied that if Fritz Schlessen wanted to pull the

house down she, Malchen, would be willing that it should be done.

“Better do that, mother, than keep the roof on at a loss,” said Malchen;

who upon that was turned at once out of the little inner room in which

the conference was being held.

Peter, who was present on the occasion, was decidedly opposed to all

innovations, partly because his conservative nature so prompted him, and

partly because he did not regard Herr Schlessen with a friendship so

warm as that entertained by his sister. He was, perhaps, a little

jealous of the lawyer. And then he had an idea that as things were

prosperous to the eye, they would certainly come right at last. The

fortunes of the house had been made at the rate of six zwansigers a day,

and there was, he thought, no wisdom more clear than that of adhering to

a line of conduct which had proved itself to be advantageous.

The kaplan was clear against any change of prices; but then he burdened

his advice on the question with a suggestion which was peculiarly

disagreeable to the Frau. He acknowledged the truth of much that the

lawyer had said. It appeared to him that the good things provided could

not in truth be sold at the terms as they were now fixed. He was quite

alive to the fact that it behoved the Frau as a wise woman to make a

profit. Charity is one thing, and business is another. The Frau did her

charities like a Christian, generally using Father Conolin as her

almoner in such matters. But, as a keeper of a house of public

entertainment, it was necessary that she should live. The kaplan was as

wide awake to this as was the Frau herself, or the lawyer. But he

thought that the changes should not be in the direction indicated by

Schlessen. The condition of the Weisses and of the Tendels should be

considered. How would it be if one of the “meats” and one of the

puddings were discontinued, and if the cup of coffee after dinner were

made an extra? Would not that so reduce the expenditure as to leave a

profit? And in that case the Weisses and the Tendels need not

necessarily incur any increased charges.

When the kaplan had spoken the lawyer looked closely into the Frau’s

face. The proposition might no doubt for the present meet the

difficulty, but he knew that it would be disagreeable. There came a

cloud upon the old woman’s brow, and she frowned even upon the priest.

“They’d want to be helped twice out of the one pudding, and you’d gain

nothing,” said Peter.

“According to that,” said the lawyer, “if there were only one course the

dinner would cost the same. The fewer the dishes, the less the cost, no

doubt.”

“I don’t believe you know anything about it,” said the Frau.

“Perhaps not,” said the lawyer. “On those little details no doubt you

are the best judge. But I think I have shown that something should be

done.”

“You might try the coffee, Frau Frohmann,” said the priest.

“They would not take any. You’d only save the coffee,” said the lawyer.

“And the sugar,” said the priest.

“But then they’d never ask for brandy,” suggested Peter.

The Frau on that occasion said not a word further, but after a little

while got up from her chair and stood silent among them; which was known

to be a sign that the conference was dismissed.

All this had taken place immediately after dinner, which at this period

of the year was eaten at noon. It had simply been a family meal, at

which the Frau had sat with her two children and her two friends. The

kaplan on such occasions was always free. Nothing that he had in that

house ever cost him a kreutzer. But the attorney paid his way like any

one else. When called on for absolute work done,--not exactly for advice

given in conference,--he made his charges. It might be that a time was

coming in which no money would pass on either side, but that time had

not arrived as yet. As soon as the Frau was left alone, she reseated

herself in her accustomed arm-chair, and set herself to work in sober

and almost solemn sadness to think over it all. It was a most perplexing

question. There could be no doubt that all the wealth which she at

present owned had been made by a business carried on at the present

prices and after the existing fashion. Why should there be any change?

She was told that she must make her customers pay more because she

herself was made to pay more. But why should she pay more? She could

understand that in the general prosperity of the Brunnenthal those about

her should have somewhat higher wages. As she had prospered, why should

not they also prosper? The servants of the poor must, she thought, be

poorer than the servants of the rich. But why should poultry be dearer,

and meat? Some things she knew were cheaper, as tea and sugar and

coffee. She had bought three horses during the winter, and they

certainly had been costly. Her father had not given such prices, nor,

before this, had she. But that probably had been Peter’s fault, who had

too rashly acceded to the demands made upon him. And now she remembered

with regret that, on the 1st of January, she had acceded to a petition

from the carpenter for an addition of six zwansigers to his monthly

wages. He had made the request on the plea of a sixth child, adding

also, that journeymen carpenters both at Brixen and at Innsbruck were

getting what he asked. She had granted to the coming of the additional

baby that which she would probably have denied to the other argument;

but it had never occurred to her that she was really paying the

additional four shillings a month because carpenters were becoming

dearer throughout the world. Malchen’s clothes were certainly much more

costly than her own had been, when she was young; but then Malchen was a

foolish girl, fond of fashion from Munich, and just at this moment was

in love. It could hardly be right that those poor Tendel females, with

their small and fixed means, should be made to pay more for their

necessary summer excursions because Malchen would dress herself in

so-called French finery, instead of adhering, as she ought, to Tyrolese

customs.

The Frau on this occasion spent an hour in solitude, thinking over it

all. She had dismissed the conference, but that could not be regarded as

an end to the matter. Herr Schlessen had come out from Innsbruck with a

written document in his pocket, which he was proposing to have printed

and circulated, and which, if printed and circulated, would intimate to

the world at large that the Frau Frohmann had raised her prices. Therein

the new rates, seven zwansigers and a half a head, were inserted

unblushingly at full length, as though such a disruption of old laws was

the most natural thing in the world. There was a flippancy about it

which disgusted the old woman. Malchen seemed to regard an act which

would banish from the Peacock the old friends and well-known customers

of the house as though it were an easy trifle; and almost desirable with

that very object. The Frau’s heart warmed to the well-known faces as she

thought of this. Would she not have infinitely greater satisfaction in

cooking good dinners for her simple Tyrolese neighbours, than for rich

foreigners who, after all, were too often indifferent to what was done

for them? By those Tendel ladies her puddings were recognised as real

works of art. They thought of them, talked of them, ate them, and no

doubt dreamed of them. And Herr Weiss--how he enjoyed her dinners, and

how proud he always was as he encouraged his children around him to help

themselves to every dish in succession! And the Frau Weiss--with all

her cares and her narrow means--was she to be deprived of that cheap

month’s holiday which was so necessary for her, in order that the

Peacock and the charms of the Brunnenthal generally might be devoted to

Jews from Frankfort, or rich shopkeepers from Hamburg, or, worse still,

to proud and thankless Englishmen? At the end of the hour the Frau had

determined that she would not raise her prices.

But yet something must be done. Had she resolved, even silently

resolved, that she would carry on her business at a loss, she would have

felt that she was worthy of restraint as a lunatic. To keep a house of

public entertainment and to lose by it was, to her mind, a very sad

idea! To work and be out of pocket by working! To her who knew little or

nothing of modern speculation, such a catastrophe was most melancholy.

But to work with the intention of losing could be the condition only of

a lunatic. And Schlessen had made good his point as to the last season.

The money spent had been absolutely more than the money received.

Something must be done. And yet she would not raise her prices.

Then she considered the priest’s proposition. Peter, she knew, had shown

himself to be a fool. Though his feelings were good, he always was a

fool. The expenses of the house no doubt might be much diminished in the

manner suggested by Herr Conolin. Salt butter could be given instead of

fresh at breakfast. Cheaper coffee could be procured. The courses at

dinner might be reduced. The second pudding might be discontinued with

economical results. But had not her success in these things been the

pride of her life; and of what good would her life be to her if its

pride were crushed? The Weisses no doubt would come all the same, but

how would they whisper and talk of her among themselves when they found

these parsimonious changes! The Tendel ladies would not complain. It was

not likely that a breath of complaint would ever pass their humble lips;

but she herself, she, Frau Frohmann, who was perhaps somewhat unduly

proud of her character for wealth, would have to explain to them why it

was that that second pudding had been abolished. She would be forced to

declare that she could no longer afford to supply it, a declaration

which to her would have in it something of meanness, something of

degradation. No! she could not abandon the glory of her dinner. It was

as though you should ask a Royal Academician to cease to exhibit his

pictures, or an actor to consent to have his name withdrawn from the

bills. Thus at last she came to that further resolve. The kaplan’s

advice must be rejected, as must that of the lawyer.

But something must be done. For a moment there came upon her a sad idea

that she would leave the whole thing to others, and retire into

obscurity at Schwatz, the village from whence the Frohmanns had

originally come. There would be ample means for private comfort. But

then who would carry on the Peacock, who would look after the farm, and

the timber, and the posting, and the mill? Peter was certainly not

efficient for all that. And Malchen’s ambition lay elsewhere. There

was, too, a cowardice in this idea of running away which was very

displeasing to her.

Why need there be any raising of prices at all,--either in one direction

or in the other?--Had she herself never been persuaded into paying more

to others, then she would not have been driven to demand more from

others. And those higher payments on her part had, she thought, not been

obligatory on her. She had been soft and good-natured, and therefore it

was that she was now called upon to be exorbitant. There was something

abominable to her in this general greed of the world for more money. At

the moment she felt almost a hatred for poor Seppel the carpenter, and

regarded that new baby of his as an impertinent intrusion. She would

fall back upon the old wages, the old prices for everything. There would

be a difficulty with that Innsbruck butcher; but unless he would give

way she would try the man at Brixen. In that matter of fowls she would

not yield a kreutzer to the entreaties of her poor neighbours who

brought them to her for sale.

Then she walked forth from the house to a little arbour or summer-house

which was close to the chapel opposite, in which she found Schlessen

smoking his pipe with a cup of coffee before him, and Malchen by his

side. “I have made up my mind. Herr Schlessen,” she said. It was only

when she was very angry with him that she called him Herr Schlessen.

“And what shall I do?” asked the lawyer.

“Do nothing at all; but just destroy that bit of paper.” So saying, the

Frau walked back to the house, and Fritz Schlessen, looking round at

Malchen, did destroy that bit of paper.

CHAPTER III.

THE QUESTION OF THE MITGIFT.

About two months after the events described in the last chapter, Malchen

and Fritz Schlessen were sitting in the same little arbour, and he was

again smoking his pipe, and again drinking his coffee. And they were

again alone. When these two were seated together in the arbour, at this

early period of the season, they were usually left alone, as they were

known to be lovers by the guests who would then be assembled at the

Peacock. When the summer had grown into autumn, and the strangers from a

distance had come, and the place was crowded, then the ordinary

coffee-drinkers and smokers would crowd round the arbour, regardless of

the loves of Amalia and Fritz.

The whole family of the Weisses were now at the Peacock, and the two

Tendel ladies and three or four others, men with their wives and

daughters, from Botzen, Brunecken, and places around at no great

distance. It was now the end of June; but it is not till July that the

house becomes full, and it is in August that the real crowd is gathered

at Frau Frohmann’s board. It is then that folk from a distance cannot

find beds, and the whole culinary resources of the establishment are put

to their greatest stress. It was now Monday, and the lawyer had been

making a holiday, having come to the Brunnenthal on the previous

Saturday. On the Sunday there had been perhaps a dozen visitors from

Innsbruck who had been driven out after early mass for their dinner and

Sunday holiday. Everything had been done at the Peacock on the old

style. There had been no diminution either in the number or in the

excellence of the dishes, nor had there been any increase in the tariff.

It had been the first day of the season at which there had been a full

table, and the Frau had done her best. Everybody had known that the

sojourners in the house were to be entertained at the old rates; but it

had been hoped by the lawyer and the priest, and by Malchen,--even by

Peter himself--that a zwansiger would be added to the charge for dinner

demanded from the townspeople. But at the last moment word had gone

forth that there should be no increase. All the morning the old lady had

been very gloomy. She had heard mass in her own chapel, and had then

made herself very busy in the kitchen. She had spoken no word to any one

till, at the moment before dinner, she gave her instructions to Malchen,

who always made out the bills, and saw that the money was duly received.

There was to be no increase. Then, when the last pudding had been sent

in, she went, according to her custom, to her room and decorated herself

in her grand costume. When the guests had left the dining-room and were

clustering about in the passages and on the seats in front of the house,

waiting for their coffee, she had come forth, very fine, with her grand

cap on her head, with her gold and silver ornaments, with her arms bare,

and radiant with smiles. She shook Madame Weiss very graciously by the

hand and stooped down and kissed the youngest child. To one fraulein

after another she said a civil word. And when, as it happened, Seppel

the carpenter went by, dressed in his Sunday best, with a child in each

hand, she stopped him and asked kindly after the baby. She had made up

her mind that, at any rate for a time, she would not submit to the

humiliation of acknowledging that she was driven to the necessity of

asking increased prices.

That had taken place on the Sunday, and it was on the following day that

the two lovers were in the arbour together. Now it must be understood

that all the world knew that these lovers were lovers, and that all the

world presumed that they were to become husband and wife. There was not

and never had been the least secrecy about it. Malchen was four or five

and twenty, and he was perhaps thirty. They knew their own minds, and

were, neither of them, likely to be persuaded by others either to marry

or not to marry. The Frau had given her consent,--not with that ecstacy

of joy with which sons-in-law are sometimes welcomed,--but still

without reserve. The kaplan had given in his adhesion. The young lawyer

was not quite the man he liked,--entertained some of the new ideas about

religion, and was given to innovations; but he was respectable and

well-to-do. He was a lover against whom he, as a friend of the family,

could not lift up his voice. Peter did not like the man, and Peter, in

his way, was fond of his sister. But he had not objected. Had he done

so, it would not have mattered much. Malchen was stronger at the

Brunnenthal than Peter. Thus it may be said that things generally smiled

upon the lovers. But yet no one had ever heard that a day was fixed for

their marriage. Madame Weiss had once asked Malchen, and Malchen had

told her--not exactly to mind her own business; but that had been very

nearly the meaning of what she had said.

There was, indeed, a difficulty; and this was the difficulty. The Frau

had assented--in a gradual fashion, rather by not dissenting as the

thing had gone on, so that it had come to be understood that the thing

was to be. But she had never said a word as to the young lady’s

fortune--as to that “mitgift” which in such a case would certainly be

necessary. Such a woman as the Frau in giving her daughter would surely

have to give something with her. But the Frau was a woman who did not

like parting with her money; and was such a woman that even the lawyer

did not like asking the question. The fraulein had once inquired, but

the mother had merely raised her eyebrows and remained silent. Then the

lawyer had told the priest that in the performance of her moral duties

the Frau ought to settle something in her own mind. The priest had

assented, but had seemed to imply that in the performance of such a duty

an old lady ought not to be hurried. A year or two, he seemed to think,

would not be too much for consideration. And so the matter stood at the

present moment.

Perhaps it is that the Germans are a slow people. It may be that the

Tyrolese are especially so. Be that as it may, Herr Schlessen did not

seem to be driven into any agony of despair by these delays. He was

fondly attached to his Malchen; but as to offering to take her without

any mitgift,--quite empty-handed, just as she stood,--that was out of

the question. No young man who had anything, ever among his

acquaintances, did that kind of thing. Scales should be somewhat equally

balanced. He had a good income, and was entitled to some substantial

mitgift. He was quite ready to marry her to-morrow, if only this

important question could get itself settled.

Malchen was quite as well aware as was he that her mother should be

brought to do her duty in this matter; but, perhaps of the two, she was

a little the more impatient. If there should at last be a slip between

the cup and the lip, the effect to her would be so much more disastrous

than to him! He could very easily get another wife. Young women were as

plenty as blackberries. So the fraulein told herself. But she might

find it difficult to suit herself, if at last this affair were to be

broken off. She knew herself to be a fair, upstanding, good-looking

lass, with personal attractions sufficient to make such a young man as

Fritz Schlessen like her society; but she knew also that her good looks,

such as they were, would not be improved by fretting. It might be

possible that Fritz should change his mind some day, if he were kept

waiting till he saw her becoming day by day more commonplace under his

eyes. Malchen had good sense enough not to overrate her own charms, and

she knew the world well enough to be aware that she would be wise to

secure, if possible, a comfortable home while she was at her best. It

was not that she suspected Fritz; but she did not think that she would

be justified in supposing him to be more angelic than other young men

simply because he was her lover. Therefore, Malchen was impatient, and

for the last month or two had been making up her mind to be very “round”

with her mother on the subject.

At the present moment, however, the lovers, as they were sitting in the

arbour, were discussing rather the Frau’s affairs in regard to the

establishment than their own. Schlessen had, in truth, come to the

Brunnenthal on this present occasion to see what would be done, thinking

that if the thin edge of the wedge could have been got in,--if those

people from the town could have been made to pay an extra zwansiger each

for their Sunday dinner,--then, even yet, the old lady might be induced

to raise her prices in regard to the autumn and more fashionable

visitors. But she had been obstinate, and had gloried in her obstinacy,

dressing herself up in her grandest ornaments and smiling her best

smiles, as in triumph at her own victory.

“The fact is, you know, it won’t do,” said the lawyer to his love. “I

don’t know how I am to say any more, but anybody can see with half an

eye that she will simply go on losing money year after year. It is all

very fine for the Weisses and Tendels, and very fine for old

Trauss,”--old Trauss was a retired linen-draper from Vienna, who lived

at Innsbruck, and was accustomed to eat many dinners at the Peacock; a

man who could afford to pay a proper price, but who was well pleased to

get a good dinner at a cheap rate,--“and very well for old Trauss,”

continued the lawyer, becoming more energetic as he went on, “to regale

themselves at your mother’s expense;--but that’s what it comes to.

Everybody knows that everybody has raised the price of everything. Look

at the Golden Lion.” The Golden Lion was the grand hotel in the town.

“Do you think they haven’t raised their prices during the last twenty

years?”

“Why is it, Fritz?”

“Everything goes up together, of course. If you’ll look into old

accounts you’ll see that three hundred years ago you could buy a sheep

at Salzburg for two florins and a half. I saw, it somewhere in a book.

If a lawyer’s clerk then had eighty florins a year he was well off. That

would not surprise her. She can understand that there should be an

enormous change in three hundred years; but she can’t make out why there

should be a little change in thirty years.”

“But many things have got cheaper, Fritz.”

“Living altogether hasn’t got cheaper. Look at wages!”

“I don’t know why we should pay more. Everybody says that bread is lower

than it used to be.”

“What sort of bread do the people eat now? Look at that man.” The man

was Seppel, who was dragging a cart which he had just mended out of the

shed which was close by,--in which cart were seated his three eldest

children, so that he might help their mother as assistant nurse even

while he was at his work. “Don’t you think he gets more wheaten flour

into his house in a week than his grandfather did in a year? His

grandfather never saw white bread.”

“Why should he have it?”

“Because he likes it, and because he can get it. Do you think he’d have

stayed here if his wages had not been raised?”

“I don’t think Seppel ever would have moved out of the Brunnenthal,

Fritz.”

“Then Seppel would have been more stupid than the cow, which knows very

well on which side of the field it can find the best grass. Everything

gets dearer;--and if one wants to live one has to swim with the stream.

You might as well try to fight with bows and arrows, or with the

old-fashioned flint rifles, as to live at the same rate as your

grandfather.” The young lawyer, as he said this, rapped his pipe on the

table to knock out the ashes, and threw himself back on his seat with a

full conviction that he had spoken words of wisdom.

“What will it all come to, Fritz?” This Malchen asked with real anxiety

in her voice. She was not slow to join two things together. It might

well be that her mother should be induced by her pride to carry on the

business for a while, so as to lose some of her money, but that she

should, at last, be induced to see the error of her ways before serious

damage had been done. Her financial position was too good to be brought

to ruin by small losses. But during the period of her discomfiture she

certainly would not be got to open her hand in that matter of the

mitgift. Malchen’s own little affair would never get itself settled till

this other question should have arranged itself satisfactorily. There

could be no mitgift from a failing business. And if the business were to

continue to fail for the next year or two, where would Malchen be then?

It was not, therefore, wonderful that she should be in earnest.

“Your mother is a very clever woman,” said the lover.

“It seems to me that she is very foolish about this,” said Malchen,

whose feeling of filial reverence was not at the moment very strong.

“She is a clever woman, and has done uncommonly well in the world. The

place is worth double as much as when she married your father. But it is

that very success which makes her obstinate. She thinks that she can

see her way. She fancies that she can compel people to work for her and

deal with her at the old prices. It will take her, perhaps, a couple of

years to find out that this is wrong. When she has lost three or four

thousand florins she’ll come round.”

Fritz, as he said this, seemed to be almost contented with this view of

the case,--as though it made no difference to him. But with the fraulein

the matter was so essentially personal that she could not allow it to

rest there. She had made up her mind to be round with her mother; but it

seemed to her to be necessary, also, that something should be said to

her lover. “Won’t all that be very bad for you, Fritz?”

“Her business with me will go on just the same.”

This was felt to be unkind and very unloverlike. But she could not

afford at the present moment to quarrel with him. “I mean about our

settling,” she said.

“It ought not to make a difference.”

“I don’t know about ought;--but won’t it? You don’t see her as I do,

but, of course, it puts her into a bad temper.”

“I suppose she means to give you some fixed sum. I don’t doubt but she

has it all arranged in her own mind.”

“Why doesn’t she name it, then?”

“Ah, my dear,--mein schatz,--there is nobody who likes too well to part

with his money.”

“But when is there to be an end of it?”

“You should find that out. You are her child, and she has only two. That

she should hang back is a matter of course. When one has the money of

his own one can do anything. It is all in her own hand. See what I bear.

When I tell her this or that she turns upon me as if I were nobody. Do

you think I should suffer it if she were only just a client? You must

persuade her, and be gentle with her; but if she would name the sum it

would be a comfort, of course.”

The fraulein herself did not in the least know what the sum ought to be;

but she thought she did know that it was a matter which should be

arranged between her lover and her parent. What she would have liked to

have told him was this,--that as there were only two children, and as

her mother was at any rate an honest woman, he might be sure that a

proper dowry would come at last. But she was well aware that he would

think that a mitgift should be a mitgift. The bride should come with it

in her hand, so that she might be a comfort to her husband’s household.

Schlessen would not be at all willing to wait patiently for the Frau’s

death, or even for some final settlement of her affairs when she might

make up her mind to leave the Peacock and betake herself to Schwatz.

“You would not like to ask her yourself?” she said.

He was silent for a while, and then he answered her by another question.

“Are you afraid of her?”

“Not afraid. But she would just tell me I was impertinent. I am not a

bit afraid, but it would do no good. It would be so reasonable for you

to do it.”

“There is just the difference, Malchen. I am afraid of her.”

“She could not bite you.”

“No;--but she might say something sharp, and then I might answer her

sharply. And then there might be a quarrel. If she were to tell me that

she did not want to see me any more in the Brunnenthal, where should we

be then? Mein schatz, if you will take my advice, you will just say a

word yourself, in your softest, sweetest way.” Then he got up and made

his way across to the stable, where was the horse which was to take him

back to Innsbruck. Malchen was not altogether well pleased with her

lover, but she perceived that on the present occasion she must,

perforce, follow his advice.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FRAU RETURNS TO THE SIMPLICITY OF THE OLD DAYS.

Two or three weeks went by in the Brunnenthal without any special

occurrence, and Malchen had not as yet spoken to her mother about her

fortune. The Frau had during this time been in more than ordinary good

humour with her own household. July had opened with lovely weather, and

the house had become full earlier than usual. The Frau liked to have the

house full, even though there might be no profit, and therefore she was

in a good humour. But she had been exceptionally busy, and was trying

experiments in her housekeeping, as to which she was still in hope that

they would carry her through all her difficulties. She had been both to

Brixen on one side of the mountain and to Innsbruck on the other, and

had changed her butcher. Her old friend Hoff, at the latter place, had

altogether declined to make any reduction in his prices. Of course they

had been raised within the last five or six years. Who did not know that

that had been the case with butchers’ meat all the world over? As it

was, he charged the Frau less than he charged the people at the Golden

Lion. So at least he swore; and when she told him that unless an

alteration was made she must take her custom elsewhere--he bade her go

elsewhere. Therefore she did make a contract with the butcher at Brixen

on lower terms, and seemed to think that she had got over her

difficulty. But Brixen was further than Innsbruck, and the carriage was

more costly. It was whispered also about the house that the meat was not

equally good. Nobody, however, had as yet dared to say a word on that

subject to the Frau. And she, though in the midst of her new efforts she

was good-humoured herself,--as is the case with many people while they

have faith in the efforts they are making,--had become the cause of much

unhappiness among others. Butter, eggs, poultry, honey, fruit, and

vegetables, she was in the habit of buying from her neighbours, and had

been so excellent a customer that she was as good as a market to the

valley in general. There had usually been some haggling; but that, I

think, by such vendors is considered a necessary and almost an agreeable

part of the operation. The produce had been bought and sold, and the

Frau had, upon the whole, been regarded as a kind of providence to the

Brunnenthal. But now there were sad tales told at many a cottage and

small farmstead around. The Frau had declared that she would give no

more than three zwansigers a pair for chickens, and had insisted on

having both butter and eggs at a lower price than she had paid last

year. And she had succeeded, after infinite clamours. She had been their

one market, their providence, and they had no other immediate customers

to whom to betake themselves. The eggs and the butter, the raspberries

and the currants, must be sold. She had been imperious and had

succeeded, for a while. But there were deep murmurs, and already a

feeling was growing up in favour of Innsbruck and a market cart. It was

very dreadful. How were they to pay their taxes, how were they to pay

anything, if they were to be crimped and curtailed in this way? One poor

woman had already walked to Innsbruck with three dozen eggs, and had got

nearly twice the money which the Frau had offered. The labour of the

walk had been very hard upon her, and the economy of the proceeding

generally may have been doubtful; but it had been proved that the thing

could be done.

Early in July there had come a letter, addressed to Peter, from an

English gentleman who, with his wife and daughter, had been at the

Brunnenthal on the preceding year. Mr. Cartwright had now written to

say, that the same party would be glad to come again early in August,

and had asked what were the present prices. Now the very question seemed

to imply a conviction on the gentleman’s mind that the prices would be

raised. Even Peter, when he took the letter to his mother, thought that

this would be a good opportunity for taking a step in advance. These

were English people, and entitled to no loving forbearance. The

Cartwrights need know nothing as to the demands made on the Weisses and

Tendels. Peter who had always been on his mother’s side, Peter who hated

changes, even he suggested that he might write back word that seven

zwansigers and a half was now the tariff. “Don’t you know I have settled

all that?” said the old woman, turning upon him fiercely. Then he wrote

to Mr. Cartwright to say that the charge would be six zwansigers a day,

as heretofore. It was certainly a throwing away of money. Mr. Cartwright

was a Briton, and would, therefore, almost have preferred to pay another

zwansiger or two. So at least Peter thought. And he, even an Englishman,

with his wife and daughter, was to be taken in and entertained at a

loss! At a loss!--unless, indeed, the Frau could be successful in her

new mode of keeping her house. Father Conolin in these days kept away.

The complaints made by the neighbours around reached his ears,--very sad

complaints,--and he hardly knew how to speak of them to the Frau. It was

becoming very serious with him. He had counselled her against any rise

in her own prices, but had certainly not intended that she should make

others lower. That had not been his plan; and now he did not know what

advice to give.

But the Frau, resolute in her attempt, and proud of her success as far

as it had gone, constantly adducing the conduct of these two rival

butchers as evidence of her own wisdom, kept her ground like a Trojan.

All the old courses were served, and the puddings and the fruit were at

first as copious as ever. If the meat was inferior in quality,--and it

could not be so without her knowledge, for she had not reigned so long

in the kitchen of the Peacock without having become a judge in such

matters,--she was willing to pass the fault over for a time. She tried

to think that there was not much difference. She almost tried to believe

that second-rate meat would do as well as first-rate. There should at

least be no lack of anything in the cookery. And so she toiled and

struggled, and was hopeful that she might have her own way and prove to

all her advisers that she knew how to manage the house better than any

of them.

There was great apparent good humour. Though she had frowned upon Peter

when he had shown a disposition to spoil those Egyptians the

Cartwrights, she had only done so in defence of her own resolute

purpose, and soon returned to her kind looks. She was, too, very civil

to Malchen, omitting for the time her usual gibes and jeers as to her

daughter’s taste for French finery and general rejection of Tyrolese

customs. And she said nothing of the prolonged absence of her two

counsellors, the priest and the lawyer. A great struggle was going on

within her own bosom, as to which she in these days said not a word to

anybody. One counsellor had told her to raise her prices; another had

advised her to lessen the luxuries supplied. As both the one proposition

and the other had gone against her spirit, she had looked about her to

find some third way out of her embarrassments. She had found it, and the

way was one which recommended itself to her own sense of abstract

justice. The old prices should prevail in the valley everywhere. She

would extort nothing from Mr. Cartwright, but then neither should her

neighbours extort anything from her. Seppel’s wife was ill, and she had

told him that in consequence of that misfortune the increased wages

should be continued for three months, but that after that she must

return to the old rate. In the softness of her heart she would have

preferred to say six months, but that in doing so she would have seemed

to herself to have departed from the necessary rigour of her new

doctrine. But when Seppel stood before her, scratching his head, a

picture of wretchedness and doubt, she was not comfortable in her mind.

Seppel had a dim idea of his own rights, and did not like to be told

that his extra zwansigers came to him from the Frau’s charity. To go

away from the Brunnenthal at the end of the summer, to go away at all,

would be terrible to him; but to work for less than fair wages, would

that not be more terrible? Of all which the Frau, as she looked at him,

understood much.

And she understood much also of the discontent and almost despair which

was filling the minds of the poor women all around her. All those poor

women were dear to her. It was in her nature to love those around her,

and especially those who were dependent on her. She knew the story of

every household,--what children each mother had reared and what she had

lost, when each had been brought to affliction by a husband’s illness or

a son’s misconduct. She had never been deaf to their troubles; and

though she might have been heard in violent discussions, now with one

and now with another, as to the selling value of this or that article,

she had always been held by them to be a just woman and a constant

friend. Now they were up in arms against her, to the extreme grief of

her heart.

Nevertheless it was necessary that she should support herself by an

outward appearance of tranquillity, so that the world around her might

know that she was not troubled by doubts as to her own conduct. She had

heard somewhere that no return can be made from evil to good courses

without temporary disruptions, and that all lovers of justice are

subject to unreasonable odium. Things had gone astray because there had

been unintentional lapses from justice. She herself had been the

delinquent when she had allowed herself to be talked into higher

payments than those which had been common in the valley in her young

days. She had not understood, when she made these lapses gradually, how

fatal would be their result. Now she understood, and was determined to

plant her foot firmly down on the old figures. All this evil had come

from a departure from the old ways. There must be sorrow and trouble,

and perhaps some ill blood, in this return. That going back to

simplicity is always so difficult! But it should be done. So she smiled,

and refused to give more than three zwansigers a pair for her chickens.

One old woman came to her with the express purpose of arguing it all

out. Suse Krapp was the wife of an old woodman who lived high up above

the Peacock, among the pines, in a spot which could only be reached by a

long and very steep ascent, and who being old, and having a daughter and

granddaughters whom she could send down with her eggs and wild fruit,

did not very often make her appearance in the valley. But she had known

the Frau well for many years, having been one of those to welcome her

when she had arrived there as a bride, and had always been treated with

exceptional courtesy. Suse Krapp was a woman who had brought up a large

family, and had known troubles; but she had always been able to speak

her own mind; and when she arrived at the house, empty-handed, with

nothing to sell, declaring at once her purpose of remonstrating with the

Frau, the Frau regarded her as a delegate from the commercial females of

the valley generally; and she took the coming in good part, asking Suse

into her own inner room.

After sundry inquiries on each side, respecting the children and the

guests, and the state of things in the world at large, the real question

was asked, “Ah, meine liebe Frau Frohmann,--my very dear Mrs. Frohmann,

as one might say here,--why are you dealing with us all in the

Brunnenthal after this hard fashion?”

“What do you call a hard fashion, Suse?”

“Only giving half price for everything that you buy. Why should anything

be cheaper this year than it was last? Ah, alas! does not everybody know

that everything is dearer?”

“Why should anything be dearer, Suse? The people who come here are not

charged more than they were twenty years ago.”

“Who can tell? How can an old woman say? It is all very bad. The world,

I suppose, is getting worse. But it is so. Look at the taxes.”

The taxes, whether imperial or municipal, was a matter on which Frau did

not want to speak. She felt that they were altogether beyond her reach.

No doubt there had been a very great increase in such demands during her

time, and it was an increase against which nobody could make any stand

at all. But, if that was all, there had been a rise in prices quite

sufficient to answer that. She was willing to pay three zwansigers a

pair for chickens, and yet she could remember when they were to be

bought for a zwansiger each.

“Yes, taxes,” she said; “they are an evil which we must all endure. It

is no good grumbling at them. But we have had the roads made for us.”

This was an unfortunate admission, for it immediately gave Suse Krapp an

easy way to her great argument. “Roads, yes! and they are all saying

that they must make use of them to send the things into market.

Josephine Bull took her eggs into the city and got two kreutzers apiece

for them.”

The Frau had already heard of that journey, and had also heard that poor

Josephine Bull had been very much fatigued by her labours. It had

afflicted her much, both that the poor woman should have been driven to

such a task, and that such an innovation should have been attempted. She

had never loved Innsbruck dearly, and now she was beginning to hate the

place. “What good did she get by that, Suse? None, I fear. She had

better have given her eggs away in the valley.”

“But they will have a cart.”

“Do you think a cart won’t cost money? There must be somebody to drive

the cart, I suppose.” On this point the Frau spoke feelingly, as she was

beginning to appreciate the inconvenience of sending twice a week all

the way to Brixen for her meat. There was a diligence, but though the

horses were kept in her own stables, she had not as yet been able to

come to terms with the proprietor.

“There is all that to think of certainly,” said Suse. “But----. Wouldn’t

you come back, meine liebe Frau, to the prices you were paying last

year? Do you not know that they would sooner sell to you than to any

other human being in all the world, and they must live by their little

earnings?”

But the Frau could not be persuaded. Indeed had she allowed herself to

be persuaded, all her purpose would have been brought to an end. Of

course there must be trouble, and her refusal of such a prayer as this

was a part of her trouble. She sent for a glass of kirsch-wasser to

mitigate the rigour of her denial, and as Suse drank the cordial she

endeavoured to explain her system. There could be no happiness, no real

prosperity in the valley, till they had returned to their old ways. “It

makes me unhappy,” said the Frau, shaking her head, “when I see the

girls making for themselves long petticoats.” Suse quite agreed with the

Frau as to the long petticoats; but, as she went, she declared that the

butter and eggs must be taken into Innsbruck, and another allusion to

the cart was the last word upon her tongue.

It was on the evening of that same day that Malchen, unaware that her

mother’s feelings had just then been peculiarly stirred up by an appeal

from the women of the valley, came at last to the determination of

asking that something might be settled as to the “mitgift.” “Mother,”

she said, “Fritz Schlessen thinks that something should be arranged.”

“Arranged as how?”

“I suppose he wants--to be married.”

“If he don’t, I suppose somebody else does,” said the mother smiling.

“Well, mother! Of course it is not pleasant to be as we are now. You

must feel that yourself. Fritz is a good young man, and there is nothing

about him that I have a right to complain of. But of course, like all

the rest of ’em, he expects some money when he takes a wife. Couldn’t

you tell him what you mean to give?”

“Not at present, Malchen.”

“And why not now? It has been going on two years.”

“Nina Cobard at Schwatz was ten years before her people would let it

come off. Just at present I am trying a great experiment, and I can say

nothing about money till the season is over.” With this answer Malchen

was obliged to be content, and was not slow in perceiving that it almost

contained a promise that the affairs should be settled when the season

was over.

CHAPTER V.

A ZWANSIGER IS A ZWANSIGER.

In the beginning of August, the Weisses and the Tendels and Herr Trauss

had all left the Brunnenthal, and our friend Frau Frohmann was left with

a house full of guests who were less intimately known to her, but who

not the less demanded and received all her care. But, as those departed

whom she had taught herself to regard as neighbours and who were

therefore entitled to something warmer and more generous than mere

tavern hospitality, she began to feel the hardness of her case in

having to provide so sumptuously for all these strangers at a loss.

There was a party of Americans in the house who had absolutely made no

inquiry whatsoever as to prices till they had shown themselves at her

door. Peter had been very urgent with her to mulct the Americans, who

were likely, he thought, to despise the house merely because it was

cheap. But she would not give way. If the American gentleman should find

out the fact and turn upon her, and ask her why he was charged more than

others, how would she be able to answer him? She had never yet been so

placed as not to be able to answer any complaints, boldly and even

indignantly. It was hard upon her; but if the prices were to be raised

to any, they must be raised to all.

The whole valley now was in a hubbub. In the matter of butter there had

been so great a commotion that the Frau had absolutely gone back to the

making of her own, a system which had been abandoned at the Peacock a

few years since, with the express object of befriending the neighbours.

There had been a dairy with all its appurtenances; but it had come to

pass that the women around had got cows, and that the Frau had found

that without damage to herself she could buy their supplies. And in this

way her own dairy had gone out of use. She had kept her cows because

there had grown into use a great drinking of milk at the Peacock, and as

the establishment had gradually increased, the demand for cream,

custards, and such luxuries had of course increased also. Now, when,

remembering this, she conceived that she had a peculiar right to receive

submission as to the price of butter, and yet found more strong

rebellion here than on any other point, she at once took the bull by the

horns, and threw not only her energies, but herself bodily into the

dairy. It was repaired and whitewashed, and scoured and supplied with

all necessary furniture in so marvellously short a time, that the owners

of cows around could hardly believe their ears and their eyes. Of course

there was a spending of money, but there had never been any slackness as

to capital at the Peacock when good results might be expected from its

expenditure. So the dairy was set agoing.

But there was annoyance, even shame, and to the old woman’s feeling

almost disgrace, arising from this. As you cannot eat your cake and have

it, so neither can you make your butter and have your cream. The supply

of new milk to the milk-drinkers was at first curtailed, and then

altogether stopped. The guests were not entitled to the luxury by any

contract, and were simply told that as the butter was now made at home,

the milk was wanted for that purpose. And then there certainly was a

deterioration in the puddings. There had hitherto been a rich plenty

which was now wanting. No one complained; but the Frau herself felt the

falling off. The puddings now were such as might be seen at other

places,--at the Golden Lion for instance. Hitherto her puddings had been

unrivalled in the Tyrol.

Then there had suddenly appeared a huckster, a pedlar, an itinerant

dealer in the valley who absolutely went round to the old women’s houses

and bought the butter at the prices which she had refused to give. And

this was a man who had been in her own employment, had been brought to

the valley by herself, and had once driven her own horses! And it was

reported to her that this man was simply an agent for a certain

tradesman in Innsbruck. There was an ingratitude in all this which

nearly broke her heart. It seemed to her that those to whom in their

difficulties she had been most kind were now turning upon her in her

difficulty. And she thought that there was no longer left among the

people any faith, any feeling of decent economy, any principle.

Disregarding right or wrong, they would all go where they could get half

a zwansiger more! They knew what it was she was attempting to do; for

had she not explained it all to Suse Krapp? And yet they turned against

her.

The poor Frau knew nothing of that great principle of selling in the

dearest market, however much the other lesson as to buying in the

cheapest had been brought home to her. When a fixed price had become

fixed, that, she thought, should not be altered. She was demanding no

more than she had been used to demand, though to do so would have been

so easy! But her neighbours, those to whom she had even been most

friendly, refused to assist her in her efforts to re-establish the old

and salutary simplicity. Of course when the butter was taken into

Innsbruck, the chickens and the eggs went with the butter. When she

learned how all this was she sent for Suse Krapp, and Suse Krapp again

came down to her.

“They mean then to quarrel with me utterly?” said the Frau with her

sternest frown.

“Meine liebe Frau Frohmann!” said the old woman, embracing the arm of

her ancient friend.

“But they do mean it?”

“What can we do, poor wretches? We must live.”

“You lived well enough before,” said the Frau, raising her fist in the

unpremeditated eloquence of her indignation. “Will it be better for you

now to deal with strangers who will rob you at every turn? Will Karl

Muntz, the blackguard that he is, advance money to any of you at your

need? Well; let it be so. I too can deal with strangers. But when once I

have made arrangements in the town, I will not come back to the people

of the valley. If we are to be severed, we will be severed. It goes

sadly against the grain with me, as I have a heart in my bosom.”

“You have, you have, my dearest Frau Frohmann.”

“As for the cranberries, we can do without them.” Now it had been the

case that Suse Krapp with her grandchildren had supplied the Peacock

with wild fruits in plentiful abundance, which wild fruits, stewed as

the Frau knew how to stew them, had been in great request among the

guests at the Brunnenthal. Great bowls of cranberries and bilberries had

always at this period of the year turned the Frau’s modest suppers into

luxurious banquets. But there must be an end to that now; not in any way

because the price paid for the fruit was grudged, but because the

quarrel, if quarrel there must be, should be internecine at all points.

She had loved them all; but, if they turned against her, not the less

because of her love would she punish them. Poor old Suse wiped her eyes

and took her departure, without any kirsch-wasser on this occasion.

It all went on from bad to worse. Seppel the carpenter gave her notice

that he would leave her service at the end of August. “Why at the end of

August?” she asked, remembering that she had promised to give him the

higher rate of wages up to a later date than that. Then Seppel

explained, that as he must do something for himself,--that is, find

another place,--the sooner he did that the better. Now Seppel the

carpenter was brother to that Anton who had most wickedly undertaken the

huckstering business, on the part of Karl Muntz the dealer in Innsbruck,

and it turned out that Seppel was to join him. There was an ingratitude

in this which almost drove the old woman frantic. If any one in the

valley was more bound to her by kindly ties than another, it was Seppel,

with his wife and six children. Wages! There had been no question of

wages when Babette, Seppel’s wife, had been ill; and Babette had always

been ill. And when he had chopped his own foot with his own axe, and had

gone into the hospital for six weeks, they had wanted nothing! That he

should leave her for a matter of six zwansigers a month, and not only

leave her, but become her active enemy, was dreadful to her. Nor was her

anger at all modified when he explained it all to her. As a man, and as

a carpenter who was bound to keep up his own respect among carpenters,

he could not allow himself to work for less than the ordinary wages. The

Frau had been very kind to him, and he and his wife and children were

all grateful. But she would not therefore wish him,--this was his

argument,--she would not on that account require him to work for less

than his due. Seppel put his hand on his heart, and declared that his

honour was concerned. As for his brother’s cart and his huckstery trade

and Karl Muntz, he was simply lending a hand to that till he could get a

settled place as carpenter. He was doing the Frau no harm. If he did not

look after the cart, somebody else would. He was very submissive and

most anxious to avoid her anger; but yet would not admit that he was

doing wrong. But she towered in her wrath, and would listen to no

reason. It was to her all wrong. It was innovation, a spirit of change

coming from the source of all evil, bringing with it unkindness, absence

of charity, ingratitude! It was flat mutiny, and rebellion against their

betters. For some weeks it seemed to the Frau that all the world was

going to pieces.

Her position was the more painful because at the time she was without

counsellors. The kaplan came indeed as usual, and was as attentive and

flattering to her as of yore; but he said nothing to her about her own

affairs unless he was asked; and she did not ask him, knowing that he

would not give her palatable counsel. The kaplan himself was not well

versed in political economy or questions of money generally; but he had

a vague idea that the price of a chicken ought to be higher now than it

was thirty years ago. Then why not also the price of living to the

guests at the Peacock? On that matter he argued with himself that the

higher prices for the chickens had prevailed for some time, and that it

was at any rate impossible to go back. And perhaps the lawyer had been

right in recommending the Frau to rush at once to seven zwansigers and a

half. His mind was vacillating and his ideas misty; but he did agree

with Suse Krapp when she declared that the poor people must live. He

could not, therefore, do the Frau any good by his advice.

As for Schlessen he had not been at the Brunnenthal for a month, and had

told Malchen in Innsbruck that unless he were specially wanted, he would

not go to the Peacock until something had been settled as to the

mitgift. “Of course she is going to lose a lot of money,” said

Schlessen. “Anybody can see that with half an eye. Everybody in the town

is talking about it. But when I tell her so, she is only angry with me.”

Malchen of course could give no advice. Every step which her mother took

seemed to her to be unwise. Of course the old women would do the best

they could with their eggs. The idea that any one out of gratitude

should sell cheaper to a friend than to an enemy was to her monstrous.

But when she found that her mother was determined to swim against the

stream, to wound herself by kicking against the pricks, to set at

defiance all the common laws of trade, and that in this way money was

to be lost, just at that very epoch of her own life in which it was so

necessary that money should be forthcoming for her own advantage,--then

she became moody, unhappy, and silent. What a pity it was that all this

power should be vested in her mother’s hands.

As for Peter, he had been altogether converted. When he found that a

cart had to be sent twice a week to Brixen, and that the very poultry

which had been carried from the valley to the town had to be brought

back from the town to the valley, then his spirit of conservatism

deserted him. He went so far as to advise his mother to give way. “I

don’t see that you do any good by ruining yourself,” he said.

But she turned at him very fiercely. “I suppose I may do as I like with

my own,” she replied.

Yes; she could do what she liked with her own. But now it was declared

by all those around her, by her neighbours in the valley, and by those

in Innsbruck who knew anything about her, that it was a sad thing and a

bad thing that an old woman should be left with the power of ruining all

those who belonged to her, and that there should be none to restrain

her! And yet for the last twenty-five years previous to this it had been

the general opinion in these parts that nobody had ever managed such a

house as well as the Frau Frohmann. As for being ruined,--Schlessen, who

was really acquainted with her affairs, knew better than that. She might

lose a large sum of money, but there was no fear of ruin. Schlessen was

inclined to think that all this trouble would end in the Frau retiring

to Schwatz, and that the settlement of the mitgift might thus be

accelerated. Perhaps he and the Frau herself were the only two persons

who really knew how well she had thriven. He was not afraid, and, being

naturally patient, was quite willing to let things take their course.

The worst of it to the Frau herself was that she knew so well what

people were saying of her. She had enjoyed for many years all that

delight which comes from success and domination. It had not been merely,

nor even chiefly, the feeling that money was being made. It is not that

which mainly produces the comfortable condition of mind which attends

success. It is the sense of respect which it engenders. The Frau had

held her head high, and felt herself inferior to none, because she had

enjoyed to the full this conviction. Things had gone pleasantly with

her. Nothing is so enfeebling as failure; but she, hitherto, had never

failed. Now a new sensation had fallen upon her, by which at certain

periods she was almost prostrated. The woman was so brave that at her

worst moments she would betake herself to solitude and shed her tears

where no one could see her. Then she would come out and so carry herself

that none should guess how she suffered. To no ears did she utter a word

of complaint, unless her indignation to Seppel, to Suse, and the others

might be called complaining. She asked for no sympathy. Even to the

kaplan she was silent, feeling that the kaplan, too, was against her. It

was natural that he should take part with the poor. She was now for the

first time in her life, driven, alas, to feel that the poor were against

her.

The house was still full, but there had of late been a great falling off

in the midday visitors. It had, indeed, almost come to pass that that

custom had died away. She told herself, with bitter regret, that this

was the natural consequence of her deteriorated dinners. The Brixen meat

was not good. Sometimes she was absolutely without poultry. And in those

matters of puddings, cream, and custards, we know what a falling off

there had been. I doubt, however, whether her old friends had been

stopped by that cause. It may have been so with Herr Trauss, who in

going to Brunnenthal, or elsewhere, cared for little else but what he

might get to eat and drink. But with most of those concerned the feeling

had been that things were generally going wrong in the valley, and that

in existing circumstances the Peacock could not be pleasant. She at any

rate felt herself to be deserted, and this feeling greatly aggravated

her trouble.

“You are having beautiful weather,” Mr. Cartwright said to her one day

when in her full costume she came out among the coffee-drinkers in the

front of the house. Mr. Cartwright spoke German, and was on friendly

terms with the old lady. She was perhaps a little in awe of him as being

a rich man, an Englishman, and one with a white beard and a general

deportment of dignity.

“The weather is well enough, sir,” she said.

“I never saw the place all round look more lovely. I was up at

Sustermann’s saw-mills this morning, and I and my daughter agreed that

it is the most lovely spot we know.”

“The saw-mill is a pretty spot, sir, no doubt.”

“It seems to me that the house becomes fuller and fuller every year,

Frau Frohmann.”

“The house is full enough, sir; perhaps too full.” Then she hesitated as

though she would say something further. But the words were wanting to

her in which to explain her difficulties with sufficient clearness for

the foreigner, and she retreated, therefore, back into her own domains.

He, of course, had heard something of the Frau’s troubles, and had been

willing enough to say a word to her about things in general if the

occasion arose. But he had felt that the subject must be introduced by

herself. She was too great a potentate to have advice thrust upon her

uninvited.

A few days after this she asked Malchen whether Schlessen was ever

coming out to the Brunnenthal again. This was almost tantamount to an

order for his presence. “He will come directly, mother, if you want to

see him,” said Malchen. The Frau would do no more than grunt in answer

to this. It was too much to expect that she should say positively that

he must come. But Malchen understood her, and sent the necessary word to

Innsbruck.

On the following day Schlessen was at the Peacock, and took a walk up to

the waterfall with Malchen before he saw the Frau. “She won’t ruin

herself,” said Fritz. “It would take a great deal to ruin her. What she

is losing in the house she is making up in the forests and in the land.”

“Then it won’t matter if it does go on like this?”

“It does matter because it makes her so fierce and unhappy, and because

the more she is knocked about the more obstinate she will get. She has

only to say the word, and all would be right to-morrow.”

“What word?” asked Malchen.

“Just to acknowledge that everything has got to be twenty-five per cent.

dearer than it was twenty-five years ago.”

“But she does not like paying more, Fritz. That’s just the thing.”

“What does it matter what she pays?”

“I should think it mattered a great deal.”

“Not in the least. What does matter is whether she makes a profit out of

the money she spends. Florins and zwansigers are but names. What you can

manage to eat, and drink, and wear, and what sort of a house you can

live in, and whether you can get other people to do for you what you

don’t like to do yourself,--that is what you have got to look after.”

“But, Fritz;--money is money.”

“Just so; but it is no more than money. If she could find out suddenly

that what she has been thinking was a zwansiger was in truth only half a

zwansiger, then she would not mind paying two where she had hitherto

paid one, and would charge two where she now charges one,--as a matter

of course. That’s about the truth.”

“But a zwansiger is a zwansiger.”

“No;--not in her sense. A zwansiger now is not much more than half what

it used to be. If the change had come all at once she could have

understood it better.”

“But why is it changed?”

Here Schlessen scratched his head. He was not quite sure that he knew,

and felt himself unable to explain clearly what he himself only

conjectured dimly. “At any rate it is so. That’s what she has got to be

made to understand, or else she must give it up and go and live quietly

in private. It’ll come to that, that she won’t have a servant about the

place if she goes on like this. Her own grandfather and grandmother were

very good sort of people, but it is useless to try and live like them.

You might just as well go back further, and give up knives and forks and

cups and saucers.”

Such was the wisdom of Herr Schlessen; and when he had spoken it he was

ready to go back from the waterfall, near which they were seated, to the

house. But Malchen thought that there was another subject as to which he

ought to have something to say to her. “It is all very bad for

us;--isn’t it, Fritz?”

“It will come right in time, my darling.”

“Your darling! I don’t think you care for me a bit.” As she spoke she

moved herself a little further away from him. “If you did, you would

not take it all so easily.”

“What can I do, Malchen?” She did not quite know what he could do, but

she was sure that when her lover, after a month’s absence, got an

opportunity of sitting with her by a waterfall, he should not confine

his conversation to a discussion on the value of zwansigers.

“You never seem to think about anything except money now.”

“That is very unfair, Malchen. It was you asked me, and so I endeavoured

to explain it.”

“If you have said all that you’ve got to say, I suppose we may go back

again.”

“Of course, Malchen, I wish she’d settle what she means to do about you.

We have been engaged long enough.”

“Perhaps you’d like to break it off.”

“You never knew me break off anything yet.” That was true. She did know

him to be a man of a constant, if not of an enthusiastic temperament.

And now, as he helped her up from off the rock, and contrived to snatch

a kiss in the process, she was restored to her good humour.

“What’s the good of that?” she said, thumping him, but not with much

violence. “I did speak to mother a little while ago, and asked her what

she meant to do.”

“Was she angry?”

“No;--not angry; but she said that everything must remain as it is till

after the season. Oh, Fritz! I hope it won’t go on for another winter.

I suppose she has got the money.”

“Oh, yes; she has got it; but, as I’ve told you before, people who have

got money do not like to part with it.” Then they returned to the house;

and Malchen, thinking of it all, felt reassured as to her lover’s

constancy, but was more than ever certain that, though it might be for

five years, he would never marry her till the mitgift had been arranged.

Shortly afterwards he was summoned into the Frau’s private room, and

there had an interview with her alone. But it was very short; and, as he

afterwards explained to Malchen, she gave him no opportunity of

proffering any advice. She had asked him nothing about prices, and had

made no allusion whatever to her troubles with her neighbours. She said

not a word about the butcher, either at Innsbruck or at Brixen, although

they were both at this moment very much on her mind. Nor did she tell

him anything of the wickedness of Anton, nor of the ingratitude of

Seppel. She had simply wanted so many hundred florins,--for a purpose,

as she said,--and had asked him how she might get them with the least

inconvenience. Hitherto the money coming in, which had always gone into

her own hands, had sufficed for her expenditure, unless when some new

building was required. But now a considerable sum was necessary. She

simply communicated her desire, and said nothing of the purpose for

which it was wanted. The lawyer told her that she could have the money

very easily,--at a day’s notice, and without any peculiar damage to her

circumstances. With that the interview was over, and Schlessen was

allowed to return to his lady love,--or to the amusements of the Peacock

generally.

“What did she want of you?” asked Peter.

“Only a question about business.”

“I suppose it was about business. But what is she going to do?”

“You ought to know that, I should think. At any rate, she told me

nothing.”

“It is getting very bad here,” said Peter, with a peculiarly gloomy

countenance. “I don’t know where we are to get anything soon. We have

not milk enough, and half the time the visitors can’t have eggs if they

want them. And as for fowls, they have to be bought for double what we

used to give. I wonder the folk here put up with it without grumbling.”

“It’ll come right after this season.”

“Such a name as the place is getting!” said Peter. “And then I sometimes

think it will drive her distracted. I told her yesterday we must buy

more cows,--and, oh, she did look at me!”

CHAPTER VI.

HOFF THE BUTCHER.

The lawyer returned to town, and on the next day the money was sent out

to the Brunnenthal. Frau Frohmann had not winced when she demanded the

sum needed, nor had she shown by any contorted line in her countenance

that she was suffering when she asked for it; but, in truth, the thing

had not been done without great pain. Year by year she had always added

something to her store, either by investing money, or by increasing her

property in the valley, and it would generally be at this time of the

year that some deposit was made; but now the stream, which had always

run so easily and so prosperously in one direction, had begun to flow

backwards. It was to her as though she were shedding her blood. But, as

other heroes have shed their blood in causes that have been dear to

them, so would she shed hers in this. If it were necessary that these

veins of her heart should be opened, she would give them to the knife.

She had scowled when Peter had told her that more cows must be bought;

but before the week was over the cows were there. And she had given a

large order at Innsbruck for poultry to be sent out to her, almost

irrespective of price. All idea of profit was gone. It was pride now for

which she was fighting. She would not give way, at any rate till the end

of this season. Then--then--then! There had come upon her mind an idea

that some deluge was about to flow over her; but also an idea that even

among the roar of the waters she would hold her head high, and carry

herself with dignity.

But there had come to her now a very trouble of troubles, a crushing

blow, a misfortune which could not be got over, which could not even be

endured, without the knowledge of all those around her. It was not only

that she must suffer, but that her sufferings must be exposed to all the

valley,--to all Innsbruck. When Schlessen was closeted with her, at that

very moment, she had in her pocket a letter from that traitorous butcher

at Brixen, saying that after such and such a date he could not continue

to supply her with meat at the prices fixed. And this was the answer

which the man had sent to a remonstrance from her as to the quality of

the article! After submitting for weeks to inferior meat she had told

him that there must be some improvement, and he had replied by throwing

her over altogether!

What was she to do? Of all the blows which had come to her this was the

worst. She must have meat. She could, when driven to it by necessity,

make her own butter; but she could not kill her own beef and mutton. She

could send into the town for ducks and chickens, and feel that in doing

so she was carrying out her own project,--that, at any rate, she was

encountering no public disgrace. But now she must own herself beaten,

and must go back to Innsbruck.

And there came upon her dimly a conviction that she was bound, both by

prudence and justice, to go back to her old friend Hoff. She had clearly

been wrong in this matter of meat. Hoff had plainly told her that she

was wrong, explaining to her that he had to give much more for his

beasts and sheep than he did twenty years ago, to pay more wages to the

men who killed them and cut them up, and also to make a greater profit

himself, so as to satisfy the increased needs of his wife and daughters.

Hoff had been outspoken, and had never wavered for a moment. But he had

seemed to the Frau to be almost insolent; she would have said, too

independent. When she had threatened to take away her custom he had

shrugged his shoulders, and had simply remarked that he would endeavour

to live without it. The words had been spoken with, perhaps, something

of a jeer, and the Frau had left the shop in wrath. She had since

repented herself of this, because Hoff had been an old friend, and had

attended to all her wishes with friendly care. But there had been the

quarrel, and her custom had been transferred to that wretch at Brixen.

If it had been simply a matter of forgiving and forgetting she could

have made it up with Hoff, easily enough, an hour after her anger had

shown itself. But now she must own herself to have been beaten. She must

confess that she had been wrong. It was in that matter of meat, from

that fallacious undertaking made by the traitor at Brixen, that she, in

the first instance, had been led to think that she could triumph. Had

she not been convinced of the truth of her own theory by that success,

she would not have been led on to quarrel with all her neighbours, and

to attempt to reduce Seppel’s wages. But now, when this, her great

foundation, was taken away from her, she had no ground on which to

stand. She had the misery of failure all around her, and, added to that,

the growing feeling that, in some step of her argument, she must have

been wrong. One should be very sure of all the steps before one allows

oneself to be guided in important matters by one’s own theories!

But after some ten days’ time the supply of meat from Brixen would

cease, and something therefore must be done. The Brixen traitor demanded

now exactly the price which Hoff had heretofore charged. And then there

was the carriage! That was not to be thought of. She would not conceal

her failure from the world by submission so disgraceful as that. With

the Brixen man she certainly would deal no more. She took twenty-four

hours to think of it, and then she made up her mind that she would

herself go into the town and acknowledge her mistake to Hoff. As to the

actual difference of price, she did not now care very much about it.

When a deluge is coming, one does not fret oneself as to small details

of cost; but even when a deluge is coming one’s heart and pride, and

perhaps one’s courage, may remain unchanged.

On a certain morning it was known throughout the Peacock at an early

hour that the Frau was going into town that day. But breakfast was over

before any one was told when and how she was to go. Such journeyings,

which were not made very often, had always about them something of

ceremony. On such occasions her dress would be, not magnificent as when

she was arrayed for festive occasions at home, but yet very carefully

arranged and equally unlike her ordinary habiliments. When she was first

seen on this day,--after her early visit to the kitchen, which was not

a full-dress affair,--she was clad in what may be called the beginnings

or substratum of her travelling gear. She wore a very full,

rich-looking, dark-coloured merino gown, which came much lower to the

ground than her usual dress, and which covered her up high round the

throat. Whenever this was seen it was known as a certainty that the Frau

was going to travel. Then there was the question of the carriage and the

horses. It was generally Peter’s duty and high privilege to drive her in

to town; and as Peter seldom allowed himself a holiday, the occasion was

to him always a welcome one. It was her custom to let him know what was

to befall him at any rate the night before; but now not a word had been

said. After breakfast, however, a message went out that the carriage and

horses would be needed, and Peter prepared himself accordingly. “I don’t

think I need take you,” said the Frau.

“Why not me? There is no one else to drive them. The men are all

employed.” Then she remembered that when last she had dispensed with

Peter’s services Anton had driven her,--that Anton who was now carrying

the butter and eggs into market. She shook her head, and was silent for

a while in her misery. Then she asked whether the boy, Jacob, could not

take her. “He would not be safe with those horses down the mountains,”

said Peter. At last it was decided that Peter should go;--but she

yielded unwillingly, being very anxious that no one in the valley should

be informed that she was about to visit Hoff. Of course it would be

known at last. Everybody about the place would learn whence the meat

came. But she could not bear to think that those around her should talk

of her as having been beaten in the matter.

About ten they started, and on the whole road to Innsbruck hardly a word

was spoken between the mother and son. She was quite resolved that she

would not tell him whither she was going, and resolved also that she

would pay the visit alone. But, of course, his curiosity would be

excited. If he chose to follow her about and watch her, there could be

no help for that. Only he had better not speak to her on the subject, or

she would pour out upon him all the vials of her wrath! In the town

there was a little hostel called the Black Eagle, kept by a cousin of

her late husband, which on these journeys she always frequented: there

she and Peter ate their dinner. At table they sat, of course, close to

each other; but still not a word was spoken as to her business. He made

no inquiry, and when she rose from the table simply asked her whether

there was anything for him to do. “I am going--alone--to see a friend,”

she said. No doubt he was curious, probably suspecting that Hoff the

butcher might be the friend; but he asked no further question. She

declared that she would be ready to start on the return journey at four,

and then she went forth alone.

So great was her perturbation of spirit that she did not take the

directest way to the butcher’s house, which was not, indeed, above two

hundred yards from the Black Eagle, but walked round slowly by the

river, studying as she went the words with which she would announce her

purpose to the man,--studying, also, by what wiles and subtlety she

might get the man all to herself,--so that no other ears should hear her

disgrace. When she entered the shop Hoff himself was there, conspicuous

with the huge sharpening-steel which hung from his capacious girdle, as

though it were the sword of his knighthood. But with him there was a

crowd either of loungers or customers, in the midst of whom he stood,

tall above all the others, laughing and talking. To our poor Frau it was

terrible to be seen by so many eyes in that shop;--for had not her

quarrel with Hoff and her dealings at Brixen been so public that all

would know why she had come? “Ah, my friend, Frau Frohmann,” said the

butcher, coming up to her with hand extended, “this is good for sore

eyes. I am delighted to see thee in the old town.” This was all very

well, and she gave him her hand. As long as no public reference was made

to that last visit of hers, she would still hold up her head. But she

said nothing. She did not know how to speak as long as all those eyes

were looking at her.

The butcher understood it all, being a tender-hearted man, and

intelligent also. From the first moment of her entrance he knew that

there was something to be said intended only for his own ears. “Come in,

come in, Frau Frohmann,” he said; “we will sit down within, out of the

noise of the street and the smell of the carcases.” With that he led

the way into an inner room, and the Frau followed him. There were

congregated three or four of his children, but he sent them away,

bidding them join their mother in the kitchen. “And now, my friend,” he

said, again taking her hand, “I am glad to see thee. Thirty years of

good fellowship is not to be broken by a word.” By this time the Frau

was endeavouring to hide with her handkerchief the tears which were

running down her face. “I was thinking I would go out to the valley one

of these days, because my heart misgave me that there should be anything

like a quarrel between me and thee. I should have gone, but that, day

after day, there comes always something to be done. And now thou art

come thyself. What, shall the price of a side of beef stand betwixt thee

and me?”

Then she told her tale,--quite otherwise than as she had intended to

tell it. She had meant to be dignified and very short. She had meant to

confess that the Brixen arrangement had broken down, and that she would

resort to the old plan and the old prices. To the saying of this she had

looked forward with an agony of apprehension, fearing that the man would

be unable to abstain from some killing expression of triumph,--fearing

that, perhaps, he might decline her offer. For the butcher was a wealthy

man, who could afford himself the luxury of nursing his enmity. But his

manner with her had been so gracious that she was altogether unable to

be either dignified or reticent. Before half an hour was over she had

poured out to him, with many tears, all her troubles;--how she had

refused to raise her rate of charges, first out of consideration for her

poorer customers, and then because she did not like to demand from one

class more than from another. And she explained how she had endeavoured

to reduce her expenditure, and how she had failed. She told him of

Seppel and Anton, of Suse Krapp and Josephine Bull,--and, above all, of

that traitor at Brixen. With respect to the valley folk Hoff expressed

himself with magnanimity and kindness; but in regard to the rival

tradesman at Brixen his scorn was so great that he could not restrain

himself from expressing wonder that a woman of such experience should

have trusted to so poor a reed for support. In all other respects he

heard her with excellent patience, putting in a little word here and

there to encourage her, running his great steel all the while through

his fingers, as he sat opposite to her on a side of the table.

“Thou must pay them for their ducks and chickens as before,” he said.

“And you?”

“I will make all that straight. Do not trouble thyself about me. Thy

guests at the Peacock shall once again have a joint of meat fit for the

stomach of a Christian. But, my friend----!”

“My friend!” echoed the Frau, waiting to hear what further the butcher

would say to her.

“Let a man who has brought up five sons and five daughters, and who has

never owed a florin which he could not pay, tell thee something that

shall be useful. Swim with the stream.” She looked up into his face,

feeling rather than understanding the truth of what he was saying. “Swim

with the stream. It is the easiest and the most useful.”

“You think I should raise my prices.”

“Is not everybody doing so? The Tendel ladies are very good, but I

cannot sell them meat at a loss. That is not selling; it is giving. Swim

with the stream. When other things are dearer, let the Peacock be dearer

also.”

“But why are other things dearer?”

“Nay;--who shall say that? Young Schlessen is a clear-headed lad, and he

was right when he told thee of the price of sheep in the old days. But

why----? There I can say nothing. Nor is there reason why I should

trouble my head about it. There is a man who has brought me sheep from

the Achensee these thirty years,--he and his father before him. I have

to pay him now,--ay, more than a third above his first prices.”

“Do you give always what he asks?”

“Certainly not that, or there would be no end to his asking. But we can

generally come to terms without hard words. When I pay him more for

sheep, then I charge more for mutton; and if people will not pay it,

then they must go without. But I do sell my meat, and I live at any rate

as well now as I did when the prices were lower.” Then he repeated his

great advice, “Swim with the stream, my friend; swim with the stream.

If you turn your head the other way, the chances are you will go

backwards. At any rate you will make no progress.”

Exactly at four o’clock she started on her return with her son, who,

with admirable discretion, asked no question as to her employment during

the day. The journey back took much longer than that coming, as the road

was up hill all the way, so that she had ample time to think over the

advice which had been given her as she leaned back in the carriage. She

certainly was happier in her mind than she had been in the morning. She

had made no step towards success in her system,--had rather been made to

feel that no such step was possible. But, nevertheless, she had been

comforted. The immediate trouble as to the meat had been got over

without offence to her feelings. Of course she must pay the old

prices,--but she had come to understand that the world around her was,

in that matter, too strong for her. She knew now that she must give up

the business, or else raise her own terms at the end of the season. She

almost thought that she would retire to Schwatz and devote the remainder

of her days to tranquillity and religion. But her immediate anxiety had

reference to the next six weeks, so that when she should have gone to

Schwatz it might be said of her that the house had not lost its

reputation for good living up to the very last. At any rate, within a

very few days, she would again have the pleasure of seeing good meat

roasting in her oven.

Peter, as was his custom, had walked half the hill, and then, while the

horses were slowly advancing, climbed up to his seat on the box.

“Peter,” she said, calling to him from the open carriage behind. Then

Peter looked back. “Peter, the meat is to come from Hoff again after

next Thursday.”

He turned round quick on hearing the words. “That’s a good thing,

mother.”

“It is a good thing. We were nearly poisoned by that scoundrel at

Brixen.”

“Hoff is a good butcher,” said Peter.

“Hoff is a good man,” said the Frau. Then Peter pricked up, because he

knew that his mother was happy in her mind, and became eloquent about

the woods, and the quarry, and the farm.

CHAPTER VII.

AND GOLD BECOMES CHEAP.

“But if there is more money, sir, that ought to make us all more

comfortable.” This was said by the Frau to Mr. Cartwright a few days

after her return from Innsbruck, and was a reply to a statement made by

him. She had listened to advice from Hoff the butcher, and now she was

listening to advice from her guest. He had told her that these troubles

of hers had come from the fact that gold had become more plentiful in

the world than heretofore, or rather from that other fact that she had

refused to accommodate herself to this increased plenty of gold. Then

had come her very natural suggestion, “If there is more money that ought

to make us all more comfortable.”

“Not at all, Frau Frohmann.”

“Well, sir!” Then she paused, not wishing to express an unrestrained

praise of wealth, and so to appear too worldly-minded, but yet feeling

that he certainly was wrong according to the clearly expressed opinion

of the world.

“Not at all. Though you had your barn and your stores filled with gold,

you could not make your guests comfortable with that. They could not eat

it, nor drink it, nor sleep upon it, nor delight themselves with looking

at it as we do at the waterfall, or at the mill up yonder.”

“But I could buy all those things for them.”

“Ah, if you could buy them! That’s just the question. But if everybody

had gold so common, if all the barns were full of it, then people would

not care to take it for their meat and wine.”

“It never can be like that, surely.”

“There is no knowing; probably not. But it is a question of degree. When

you have your hay-crop here very plentiful, don’t you find that hay

becomes cheap?”

“That’s of course.”

“And gold becomes cheap. You just think it over, and you’ll find how it

is. When hay is plentiful, you can’t get so much for a load because it

becomes cheap. But you can feed more cows, and altogether you know that

such plenty is a blessing. So it is with gold. When it is plentiful, you

can’t get so much meat for it as you used to do; but, as you can get the

gold much easier, it will come to the same thing,--if you will swim with

the stream, as your friend in Innsbruck counselled you.”

Then the Frau again considered, and again found that she could not

accept this doctrine as bearing upon her own case. “I don’t think it can

be like that here, sir,” she said.

“Why not here as well as elsewhere?”

“Because we never see a bit of gold from one year’s end to the other.

Barns full of it! Why, it’s so precious that you English people, and the

French, and the Americans always change it for paper before you come

here. If you mean that it is because bank-notes are so common----”

Then Mr. Cartwright scratched his head, feeling that there would be a

difficulty in making the Frau understand the increased use of an article

which, common as it had become in the great marts of the world, had not

as yet made its way into her valley. “It is because bank-notes are less

common.” The Frau gazed at him steadfastly, trying to understand

something about it. “You still use bank-notes at Innsbruck?”

“Nothing else,” she said. “There is a little silver among the shops, but

you never see a bit of gold.”

“And at Munich?”

“At Munich they tell me the French pieces have become--well, not common,

but not so very scarce.”

“And at Dresden?”

“I do not know. Perhaps Dresden is the same.”

“And at Paris?”

“Ah, Paris! Do they have gold there?”

“When I was young it was all silver at Paris. Gold is now as plentiful

as blackberries. And at Berlin it is nearly the same. Just here in

Austria, you have not quite got through your difficulties.”

“I think we are doing very well in Austria;--at any rate, in the Tyrol.”

“Very well, Frau Frohmann; very well indeed. Pray do not suppose that I

mean anything to the contrary. But though you haven’t got into the way

of using gold money yourself, the world all around you has done so; and,

of course, if meat is dear at Munich because gold won’t buy so much

there as it used to do, meat will be dearer also at Innsbruck, even

though you continue to pay for it with bank-notes.”

“It is dearer, sir, no doubt,” said the Frau, shaking her head. She had

endeavoured to contest that point gallantly, but had been beaten by the

conduct of the two butchers. The higher prices of Hoff at Innsbruck had

become at any rate better than the lower prices of that deceitful enemy

at Brixen.

“It is dearer. For the world generally that may suffice. Your friend’s

doctrine is quite enough for the world at large. Swim with the stream.

In buying and selling,--what we call trade,--things arrange themselves

so subtly, that we are often driven to accept them without quite knowing

why they are so. Then we can only swim with the stream. But, in this

matter, if you want to find out the cause, if you cannot satisfy your

mind without knowing why it is that you must pay more for everything,

and must, therefore, charge more to other people, it is because the gold

which your notes represent has become more common in the world during

the last thirty years.”

She did want to know. She was not satisfied to swim with the stream as

Hoff had done, not caring to inquire, but simply feeling sure that as

things were so, so they must be. That such changes should take place had

gone much against the grain of her conservative nature. She, in her own

mind, had attributed these pestilently increased expenses to elongated

petticoats, French bonnets, swallow-tailed coats, and a taste for sour

wine. She had imagined that Josephine Bull might have been contented

with the old price for her eggs if she would also be contented with the

old raiment and the old food. Grounding her resolutions on that belief,

she had endeavoured not only to resist further changes, but even to go

back to the good old times. But she now was quite aware that in doing so

she had endeavoured to swim against the stream. Whether it ought to be

so or not, she was not as yet quite sure, but she was becoming sure that

such was the fact, and that the fact was too strong for her to combat.

She did not at all like swimming with the stream. There was something

conveyed by the idea which was repugnant to her sense of honour. Did it

not mean that she was to increase her prices because other people

increased theirs, whether it was wrong or right? She hated the doing of

anything because other people did it. Was not that base propensity to

imitation the cause of the long petticoats which all the girls were

wearing? Was it not thus that all those vile changes were effected which

she saw around her on every side? Had it not been her glory, her great

resolve, to stand as fast as possible on the old ways? And now in her

great attempt to do so, was she to be foiled thus easily?

It was clear to her that she must be foiled, if not in one way, then in

another. She must either raise her prices, or else retire to Schwatz.

She had been thoroughly beaten in her endeavour to make others carry on

their trade in accordance with her theories. On every side she had been

beaten. There was not a poor woman in the valley, not one of those who

had wont to be so submissive and gracious to her, who had not deserted

her. A proposed reduction of two kreutzers on a dozen of eggs had

changed the most constant of humble friends into the bitterest foes.

Seppel would have gone through fire and water for her. Anything that a

man’s strength or courage could do, he would have done. But a threat of

going back to the old wages had conquered even Seppel’s gratitude.

Concurrent testimony had convinced her that she must either yield--or

go. But, when she came to think of it in her solitude, she did not wish

to go. Schwatz! oh yes; it would be very well to have a quiet place

ready chosen for retirement when retirement should be necessary. But

what did retirement mean? Would it not be to her simply a beginning of

dying? A man, or a woman, should retire when no longer able to do the

work of the world. But who in all the world could keep the Brunnenthal

Peacock as well as she? Was she fatigued with her kitchen, or worn out

with the charge of her guests, or worried inwardly by the anxieties of

her position? Not in the least, not at all, but for this later

misfortune which had come upon her, a misfortune which she knew how to

remedy at once if only she could bring herself to apply the remedy. The

kaplan had indiscreetly suggested to her that as Malchen was about to

marry and be taken away into the town, it would be a good thing that

Peter should take a wife, so that there might be a future mistress of

the establishment in readiness. The idea caused her to arm herself

instantly with renewed self-assertion. So;--they were already preparing

for her departure to Schwatz! It was thus she communed with herself.

They had already made up their minds that she must succumb to these

difficulties and go! The idea had come simply from the kaplan without

consultation with any one, but to the Frau it seemed as though the whole

valley were already preparing for her departure. No, she would not go!

With her strength and her energy, why should she shut herself up as

ready for death? She would not go to Schwatz yet awhile.

But if not, then she must raise her prices. To waste her substance, to

expend the success of her life in entertaining folk gratis who, after

all, would believe that they were paying for their entertainment, would

be worse even than going to Schwatz. “I have been thinking over what you

were telling me,” she said to Mr. Cartwright about a week after their

last interview, on the day before his departure from the valley.

“I hope you do not find I was wrong, Frau Frohmann.”

“As for wrong and right, that is very difficult to get at in this wicked

world.”

“But one can acknowledge a necessity.”

“That is where it is, sir. One can see what is necessary; but if one

could only see that it were right also, one would be so much more

comfortable.”

“There are things so hard to be seen, my friend, that let us do what we

will we cannot see clearly into the middle of them. Perhaps I could have

explained to you better all this about the depreciation of money, and

the nominal rise in the value of everything else, if I had understood it

better myself.”

“I am sure you understand all about it,--which a poor woman can’t ever

do.”

“But this at any rate ought to give you confidence, that that which you

purpose to do is being done by everybody around you. You were talking to

me about the Weisses. Herr Weiss, I hear, had his salary raised last

spring.”

“Had he?” asked the Frau with energy and a little start. For this piece

of news had not reached her before.

“Somebody was saying so the other day. No doubt it was found that he

must be paid more because he had to pay more for everything he wanted.

Therefore he ought to expect to have to pay you more.”

This piece of information gave the Frau more comfort than anything she

had yet heard. That gold should be common, what people call a drug in

the market, did not come quite within the scope of her comprehension.

Gold to her was gold, and a zwansiger a zwansiger. But if Herr Weiss got

more for his services from the community, she ought to get more from him

for her services. That did seem plain to her. But then her triumph in

that direction was immediately diminished by a tender feeling as to

other customers. “But what of those poor Fraulein Tendels?” she said.

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Cartwright. “There you come to fixed incomes.”

“To what?”

“To people with fixed incomes. They must suffer, Frau Frohmann. There is

an old saying that in making laws you cannot look after all the little

things. The people who work and earn their living are the multitude, and

to them these matters adjust themselves. The few who live upon what they

have saved or others have saved for them must go to the wall.” Neither

did the Frau understand this; but she at once made up her mind that,

however necessary it might be to raise her prices against the Weisses

and the rest of the world, she would never raise them against those two

poor desolate frauleins.

So Herr Weiss had had his salary raised, and had said nothing to her

about it, no doubt prudently wishing to conceal the matter! He had said

nothing to her about it, although he had talked to her about her own

affairs, and had applauded her courage and her old conservatism in that

she would not demand that extra zwansiger and a half! This hardened her

heart so much that she felt she would have a pleasure in sending a

circular to him as to the new tariff. He might come or let it alone, as

he pleased,--certainly he ought to have told her that his own salary had

been increased!

But there was more to do than sending out the new circular to her

customers. How was she to send a circular round the valley to the old

women and the others concerned? How was she to make Seppel, and Anton,

and Josephine Bull understand that they should be forgiven, and have

their old prices and their increased wages if they would come back to

their allegiance, and never say a word again as to the sad affairs of

the past summer? This circular must be of a nature very different from

that which would serve for her customers. Thinking over it, she came to

the opinion that Suse Krapp would be the best circular. A day or two

after the Cartwrights were gone, she sent for Suse.

Suse was by no means a bad diplomate. When gaining her point she had no

desire to triumph outwardly. When feeling herself a conqueror, she was

quite ready to flatter the conquered one. She had never been more

gracious, more submissive, or more ready to declare that in all matters

the Frau’s will was the law of the valley than now, when she was given

to understand that everything should be bought on the same terms as

heretofore, that the dairy should be discontinued during the next

season, and that the wild fruits of the woods and mountains should be

made welcome at the Peacock as had heretofore always been the case.

“To-morrow will be the happiest day that ever was in the valley,” said

Suse in her enthusiasm. “And as for Seppel, he was telling me only

yesterday that he would never be a happy man again till he could find

himself once more at work in the old shed behind the chapel.”

Then Suse was told that Seppel might come as soon as he pleased.

“He’ll be there the morning after next if I’m a living woman,” continued

Suse energetically; and then she said another word, “Oh, meine liebe

Frau Frohmann, it broke my heart when they told me you were going away.”

“Going away!” said the Frau, as though she had been stung. “Who said

that I was going away?”

“I did hear it.”

“Psha! it was that stupid priest.” She had never before been heard to

say a word against the kaplan; but now she could hardly restrain

herself. “Why should I go away?”

“No, indeed!”

“I am not thinking of going away. It would be a bad thing if I were to

be driven out of my house by a little trouble as to the price of eggs

and butter! No, Suse Krapp, I am not going away.”

“It will be the best word we have all of us heard this many a day, Frau

Frohmann. When it came to that, we were all as though we would have

broken our hearts.” Then she was sent away upon her mission, not, upon

this occasion, without a full glass of kirsch-wasser.

On the very day following Seppel was back. There was nothing said

between him and his mistress, but he waited about the front of the house

till he had an opportunity of putting his hand up to his cap and smiling

at her as she stood upon the doorstep. And then, before the week was

over, all the old women and all the young girls were crowding round the

place with little presents which, on this their first return to their

allegiance, they brought to the Frau as peace-offerings.

The season was nearly over when she signified to Malchen her desire that

Fritz Schlessen should come out to the valley. This she did with much

good humour, explaining frankly that Fritz would have to prepare the new

circulars, and that she must discuss with him the nature of the altered

propositions which were to be made to the public. Fritz of course came,

and was closeted with her for a full hour, during which he absolutely

prepared the document for the Innsbruck printer. It was a simple

announcement that for the future the charge made at the Brunnenthal

Peacock would be seven and a half zwansigers per head per day. It then

went on to declare that, as heretofore, the Frau Frohmann would

endeavour to give satisfaction to all those who would do her the honour

of visiting her establishment. And instructions were given to Schlessen

as to sending the circulars out to the public. “But whatever you do,”

said the Frau, “don’t send one to those Tendel ladies.”

And something else was settled at this conference. As soon as it was

over Fritz Schlessen was encountered by Malchen, who on such occasions

would never be far away. Though the spot on which they met was one which

might not have been altogether secure from intrusive eyes, he took her

fondly by the waist and whispered a word in her ear.

“And will that do?” asked Malchen anxiously; to which question his reply

was made by a kiss. In that whisper he had conveyed to her the amount

now fixed for the mitgift.

CHAPTER VIII.

IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE TO ANY OF THEM.

And so Frau Frohmann had raised her prices, and had acknowledged herself

to all the world to have been beaten in her enterprise. There are,

however, certain misfortunes which are infinitely worse in their

anticipation than in their reality; and this, which had been looked

forward to as a terrible humiliation, was soon found to be one of them.

No note of triumph was sounded; none at least reached her ear. Indeed,

it so fell out that those with whom she had quarrelled for awhile seemed

now to be more friendly with her than ever. Between her and Hoff things

were so sweet that no mention was ever made of money. The meat was sent

and the bills were paid with a reticence which almost implied that it

was not trade, but an amiable giving and taking of the good things of

the world. There had never been a word of explanation with Seppel; but

he was late and early about the carts and the furniture, and innumerable

little acts of kindnesses made their way up to the mother and her many

children. Suse and Josephine had never been so brisk, and the eggs had

never been so fresh or the vegetables so good. Except from the working

of her own mind, she received no wounds.

But the real commencement of the matter did not take place till the

following summer,--the commencement as regarded the public. The

circulars were sent out, but to such letters no answers are returned;

and up to the following June the Frau was ignorant what effect the

charge would have upon the coming of her customers. There were times at

which she thought that her house would be left desolate, that the extra

charge would turn away from her the hearts of her visitors, and that in

this way she would be compelled to retire to Schwatz.

“Suppose they don’t come at all,” she said to Peter one day.

“That would be very bad,” said Peter, who also had his fears in the same

direction.

“Fritz Schlessen thinks it won’t make any difference,” said the Frau.

“A zwansiger and a half a day does make a difference to most men,”

replied Peter uncomfortably.

This was uncomfortable; but when Schlessen came out he raised her

spirits.

“Perhaps old Weiss won’t come,” he said, “but then there will be plenty

in his place. There are houses like the Peacock all over the country

now, in the Engadine, and the Bregenz, and the Salzkammergut; and it

seems to me the more they charge the fuller they are.”

“But they are for the grand folk.”

“For anybody that chooses. It has come to that, that the more money

people are charged the better they like it. Money has become so

plentiful with the rich, that they don’t know what to do with it.”

This was a repetition of Mr. Cartwright’s barn full of gold. There was

something in the assertion that money could be plentiful, in the idea

that gold could be a drug, which savoured to her of innovation, and was

therefore unpleasant. She still felt that the old times were good, and

that no other times could be so good as the old times. But if the people

would come and fill her house, and pay her the zwansiger and a half

extra without grumbling, there would be some consolation in it.

Early in June Malchen made a call at the house of the Frauleins Tendel.

Malchen at this time was known to all Innsbruck as the handsome Frau

Schlessen who had been brought home in the winter to her husband’s house

with so very comfortable a mitgift in her hand. That was now quite an

old story, and there were people in the town who said that the young

wife already knew quite as much about her husband’s business as she had

ever done about her mother’s. But at this moment she was obeying one of

her mother’s commands.

“Mother hopes you are both coming out to the Brunnenthal this year,”

said Malchen. The elder fraulein shook her head sadly. “Because----”

Then Malchen paused, and the younger of the two ladies shook her head.

“Because you always have been there.”

“Yes, we have.”

“Mother means this. The change in the price won’t have anything to do

with you if you will come.”

“We couldn’t think of that, Malchen.”

“Then mother will be very unhappy;--that’s all. The new circular was not

sent to you.”

“Of course we heard of it.”

“If you don’t come mother will take it very bad.” Then of course the

ladies said they would come, and so that little difficulty was overcome.

This took place in June. But at that time the young wife was staying out

in the valley with her mother, and had only gone into Innsbruck on a

visit. She was with her mother preparing for the guests; but perhaps,

as the Frau too often thought, preparing for guests who would never

arrive. From day to day, however, there came letters bespeaking rooms as

usual, and when the 21st of June came there was Herr Weiss with all his

family.

She had taught herself to regard the coming of the Weisses as a kind of

touchstone by which she might judge of the success of what she had done.

If he remained away it would be because, in spite of the increase in his

salary, he could not encounter the higher cost of this recreation for

his wife and family. He was himself too fond of the good living of the

Peacock not to come if he could afford it. But if he could not pay so

much, then neither could others in his rank of life; and it would be sad

indeed to the Frau if her house were to be closed to her neighbour

Germans, even though she might succeed in filling it with foreigners

from a distance. But now the Weisses had come, not having given their

usual notice, but having sent a message for rooms only two days before

their arrival. And at once there was a little sparring match between

Herr Weiss and the Frau.

“I didn’t suppose that there would be much trouble as to finding rooms,”

said Herr Weiss.

“Why shouldn’t there be as much trouble as usual?” asked the Frau in

return. She had felt that there was some slight in this arrival of the

whole family without the usual preliminary inquiries,--as though there

would never again be competition for rooms at the Peacock.

“Well, my friend, I suppose that that little letter which was sent about

the country will make a difference.”

“That’s as people like to take it. It hasn’t made any difference with

you, it seems.”

“I had to think a good deal about it, Frau Frohmann; and I suppose we

shall have to make our stay shorter. I own I am a little surprised to

see the Tendel women here. A zwansiger and a half a day comes to a deal

of money at the end of a month, when there are two or three.”

“I am happy to think it won’t hurt you, Herr Weiss, as you have had your

salary raised.”

“That is neither here nor there, Frau Frohmann,” said the magistrate,

almost with a touch of anger. All the world knew, or ought to know, how

very insufficient was his stipend when compared with the invaluable

public services which he rendered. Such at least was the light in which

he looked at the question.

“At any rate,” said the Frau as he stalked away, “the house is like to

be as full as ever.”

“I am glad to hear it. I am glad to hear it.” These were his last words

on the occasion. But before the day was over he told his wife that he

thought the place was not as comfortable as usual, and that the Frau

with her high prices was more upsetting than ever.

His wife, who took delight in being called Madame Weiss at Brixen, and

who considered herself to be in some degree a lady of fashion, had

nevertheless been very much disturbed in her mind by the increased

prices, and had suggested that the place should be abandoned. A raising

of prices was in her eyes extortion;--though a small raising of salary

was simply justice, and, as she thought, inadequate justice. But the

living at the Peacock was good. Nobody could deny that. And when a

middle-aged man is taken away from the comforts of his home, how is he

to console himself in the midst of his idleness unless he has a good

dinner? Herr Weiss had therefore determined to endure the injury, and as

usual to pass his holiday in the Brunnenthal. But when Madame Weiss saw

those two frauleins from Innsbruck in the house, whose means she knew

down to the last kreutzer, and who certainly could not afford the

increased demand, she thought that there must be something not apparent

to view. Could it be possible that the Frau should be so unjust, so

dishonest, so extortious as to have different prices for different

neighbours! That an Englishman, or even a German from Berlin, should be

charged something extra, might not perhaps be unjust or extortious. But

among friends of the same district, to put a zwansiger and a half on to

one and not to another seemed to Madame Weiss to be a sin for which

there should be no pardon. “I am so glad to see you here,” she said to

the younger fraulein.

“That is so kind of you. But we always are here, you know.”

“Yes;--yes. But I feared that perhaps----. I know that with us we had to

think more than once about it before we could make up our minds to pay

the increased charges. The ‘Magistrat’ felt a little hurt about it.” To

this the fraulein at first answered nothing, thinking that perhaps she

ought not to make public the special benevolence shown by the Frau to

herself and her sister. “A zwansiger and a half each is a great deal of

money to add on,” said Madame Weiss.

“It is, indeed.”

“We might have got it cheaper elsewhere. And then I thought that perhaps

you might have done so too.”

“She has made no increase to us,” said the poor lady, who at last was

forced to tell the truth, as by not doing so she would have been guilty

of a direct falsehood in allowing it to be supposed that she and her

sister paid the increased price.

“Soh--oh--oh!” exclaimed Madame Weiss, clasping her hands together and

bobbing her head up and down. “Soh--oh--oh!” She had found it all out.

Then, shortly after that,--the next day,--there was an uncomfortable

perturbation of affairs at the Peacock, which was not indeed known to

all the guests, but which to those who heard it, or heard of it, seemed

for the time to be very terrible. Madame Weiss and the Frau had,--what

is commonly called,--a few words together.

“Frau Frohmann,” said Madame Weiss, “I was quite astonished to hear from

Agatha Tendel that you were only charging them the old prices.”

“Why shouldn’t I charge them just what I please,--or nothing at all, if

I pleased?” asked the Frau sharply.

“Of course you can. But I do think, among neighbours, there shouldn’t be

one price to one and one to another.”

“Would it do you any good, Frau Weiss, if I were to charge those ladies

more than they can pay? Does it do you any harm if they live here at a

cheap rate?”

“Surely there should be one price--among neighbours!”

“Herr Weiss got my circular, no doubt. He knew. I don’t suppose he wants

to live here at a rate less than it costs me to keep him. You and he can

do what you like about coming. And you and he can do what you like about

staying away. You knew my prices. I have not made any secret about the

change. But as for interference between me and my other customers, it is

what I won’t put up with. So now you know all about it.”

By the end of her speech the Frau had worked herself up into a grand

passion, and spoke aloud, so that all near her heard her. Then there was

a great commotion in the Peacock, and it was thought that the Weisses

would go away. But they remained for their allotted time.

This was the only disturbance which took place, and it passed off

altogether to the credit of the Frau. Something in a vague way came to

be understood about fixed incomes;--so that Peter and Malchen, with the

kaplan, even down to Seppel and Suse Krapp, were aware that the two

frauleins ought not to be made to pay as much as the prosperous

magistrate who had had his salary raised. And then it was quite

understood that the difference made in favour of those two poor ladies

was a kindness shown to them, and could not therefore be an injury to

any one else.

Later in the year, when the establishment was full and everything was

going on briskly, when the two puddings were at the very height of their

glory, and the wild fruits were brought up on the supper-table in huge

bowls, when the Brunnenthal was at its loveliest, and the Frau was

appearing on holidays in her gayest costume, the Cartwrights returned to

the valley. Of course they had ordered their rooms much beforehand; and

the Frau, trusting altogether to the wisdom of those counsels which she

did not even yet quite understand, had kept her very best apartments for

them. The greeting between them was most friendly,--the Frau

condescending to put on something of her holiday costume to add honour

to their arrival;--a thing which she had never been known to do before

on behalf of any guests. Of course there was not then time for

conversation; but a day or two had not passed before she made known to

Mr. Cartwright her later experience. “The people have come, sir, just

the same,” she said.

“So I perceive.”

“It don’t seem to make any difference to any of them.”

“I didn’t think it would. And I don’t suppose anybody has complained.”

“Well;--there was a little said by one lady, Mr. Cartwright. But that

was not because I charged her more, but because another old friend was

allowed to pay less.”

“She didn’t do you any harm, I dare say.”

“Harm;--oh dear no! She couldn’t do me any harm if she tried. But I

thought I’d tell you, sir, because you said it would be so. The people

don’t seem to think any more of seven zwansigers and a half than they do

of six! It’s very odd,--very odd, indeed. I suppose it’s all right,

sir?” This she asked, still thinking that there must be something wrong

in the world when so monstrous a condition of things seemed to prevail.

“They’d think a great deal of it if you charged them more than they

believed sufficient to give you a fair profit for your outlay and

trouble.”

“How can they know anything about it, Mr. Cartwright?”

“Ah,--indeed. How do they? But they do. You and I, Frau Frohmann, must

study these matters very closely before we can find out how they adjust

themselves. But we may be sure of this, that the world will never

complain of fair prices, will never long endure unfair prices, and will

give no thanks at all to those who sell their goods at a loss.”

The Frau curtseyed and retired,--quite satisfied that she had done the

right thing in raising her prices; but still feeling that she had many a

struggle to make before she could understand the matter.

THE LADY OF LAUNAY.

CHAPTER I.

HOW BESSY PRYOR BECAME A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE.

How great is the difference between doing our duty and desiring to do

it; between doing our duty and a conscientious struggle to do it;

between duty really done and that satisfactory state of mind which comes

from a conviction that it has been performed. Mrs. Miles was a lady who

through her whole life had thought of little else than duty. Though she

was possessed of wealth and social position, though she had been a

beautiful woman, though all phases of self-indulgent life had been open

to her, she had always adhered to her own idea of duty. Many delights

had tempted her. She would fain have travelled, so as to see the

loveliness of the world; but she had always remained at home. She could

have enjoyed the society of intelligent sojourners in capitals; but she

had confined herself to that of her country neighbours. In early youth

she had felt herself to be influenced by a taste for dress; she had

consequently compelled herself to use raiment of extreme simplicity.

She would buy no pictures, no gems, no china, because when young she

found that she liked such things too well. She would not leave the

parish church to hear a good sermon elsewhere, because even a sermon

might be a snare. In the early days of her widowed life it became, she

thought, her duty to adopt one of two little motherless, fatherless

girls, who had been left altogether unprovided for in the world; and

having the choice between the two, she took the plain one, who had weak

eyes and a downcast, unhappy look, because it was her duty to deny

herself. It was not her fault that the child, who was so unattractive at

six, had become beautiful at sixteen, with sweet soft eyes, still

downcast occasionally, as though ashamed of their own loveliness; nor

was it her fault that Bessy Pryor had so ministered to her in her

advancing years as almost to force upon her the delights of

self-indulgence. Mrs. Miles had struggled manfully against these wiles,

and, in the performance of her duty, had fought with them, even to an

attempt to make herself generally disagreeable to the young child. The

child, however, had conquered, having wound herself into the old woman’s

heart of hearts. When Bessy at fifteen was like to die, Mrs. Miles for

awhile broke down altogether. She lingered by the bedside, caressed the

thin hands, stroked the soft locks, and prayed to the Lord to stay his

hand, and to alter his purpose. But when Bessy was strong again she

strove to return to her wonted duties. But Bessy, through it all, was

quite aware that she was loved.

Looking back at her own past life, and looking also at her days as they

were passing, Mrs. Miles thought that she did her duty as well as it is

given to frail man or frail woman to perform it. There had been lapses,

but still she was conscious of great strength. She did believe of

herself that should a great temptation come in her way she would stand

strong against it. A great temptation did come in her way, and it is the

purport of this little story to tell how far she stood and how far she

fell.

Something must be communicated to the reader of her condition in life,

and of Bessy’s; something, but not much. Mrs. Miles had been a Miss

Launay, and, by the death of four brothers almost in their infancy, had

become heiress to a large property in Somersetshire. At twenty-five she

was married to Mr. Miles, who had a property of his own in the next

county, and who at the time of their marriage represented that county in

Parliament. When she had been married a dozen years she was left a

widow, with two sons, the younger of whom was then about three years

old. Her own property, which was much the larger of the two, was

absolutely her own; but was intended for Philip, who was her younger

boy. Frank Miles, who was eight years older, inherited the other.

Circumstances took him much away from his mother’s wings. There were

troubles among trustees and executors; and the father’s heir, after he

came of age, saw but little of his mother. She did her duty, but what

she suffered in doing it may be imagined.

Philip was brought up by his mother, who, perhaps, had some consolation

in remembering that the younger boy, who was always good to her, would

become a man of higher standing in the world than his brother. He was

called Philip Launay, the family name having passed on through the

mother to the intended heir of the Launay property. He was thirteen when

Bessy Pryor was brought home to Launay Park, and, as a school-boy, had

been good to the poor little creature, who for the first year or two had

hardly dared to think her life her own amidst the strange huge spaces of

the great house. He had despised her, of course; but had not been

boyishly cruel to her, and had given her his old playthings. Everybody

at Launay had at first despised Bessy Pryor; though the mistress of the

house had been thoroughly good to her. There was no real link between

her and Launay. Mrs. Pryor had, as a humble friend, been under great

obligations to Mrs. Launay, and these obligations, as is their wont, had

produced deep love in the heart of the person conferring them. Then both

Mr. and Mrs. Pryor had died, and Mrs. Miles had declared that she would

take one of the children. She fully intended to bring the girl up

sternly and well, with hard belongings, such as might suit her

condition. But there had been lapses, occasioned by those unfortunate

female prettinesses, and by that equally unfortunate sickness. Bessy

never rebelled, and gave, therefore, no scope to an exhibition of

extreme duty; and she had a way of kissing her adopted mamma which Mrs.

Miles knew to be dangerous. She struggled not to be kissed, but

ineffectually. She preached to herself, in the solitude of her own room,

sharp sermons against the sweet softness of the girl’s caresses; but she

could not put a stop to them. “Yes; I will,” the girl would say, so

softly, but so persistently! Then there would be a great embrace, which

Mrs. Miles felt to be as dangerous as a diamond, as bad as a box at the

opera.

Bessy had been despised at first all around Launay. Unattractive

children are despised, especially when, as in this case, they are

nobodies. Bessy Pryor was quite nobody. And certainly there had never

been a child more powerless to assert herself. She was for a year or two

inferior to the parson’s children, and was not thought much of by the

farmers’ wives. The servants called her Miss Bessy, of course; but it

was not till after that illness that there existed among them any of

that reverence which is generally felt in the servants’ hall for the

young ladies of the house. It was then, too, that the parson’s daughters

found that Bessy was nice to walk with, and that the tenants began to

make much of her when she called. The old lady’s secret manifestations

in the sick bedroom had, perhaps, been seen. The respect paid to Mrs.

Miles in that and the next parish was of the most reverential kind. Had

she chosen that a dog should be treated as one of the Launays, the dog

would have received all the family honours. It must be acknowledged of

her that in the performance of her duty she had become a rural tyrant.

She gave away many petticoats; but they all had to be stitched according

to her idea of stitching a petticoat. She administered physic gratis to

the entire estate; but the estate had to take the doses as she chose to

have them mixed. It was because she had fallen something short of her

acknowledged duty in regard to Bessy Pryor that the parson’s daughters

were soon even proud of an intimacy with the girl, and that the old

butler, when she once went away for a week in the winter, was so careful

to wrap her feet up warm in the carriage.

In this way, during the two years subsequent to Bessy’s illness, there

had gradually come up an altered condition of life at Launay. It could

not have been said before that Bessy, though she had been Miss Bessy,

was as a daughter in the house. But now a daughter’s privileges were

accorded to her. When the old squiress was driven out about the county,

Bessy was expected, but was asked rather than ordered to accompany her.

She always went; but went because she decided on going, not because she

was told. And she had a horse to ride; and she was allowed to arrange

flowers for the drawing-room; and the gardener did what she told him.

What daughter could have more extensive privileges? But poor Mrs. Miles

had her misgivings, often asking herself what would come of it all.

When Bessy had been recovering from her illness, Philip, who was seven

years her senior, was making a grand tour about the world. He had

determined to see, not Paris, Vienna, and Rome, which used to make a

grand tour, but Japan, Patagonia, and the South Sea Islands. He had gone

in such a way as to ensure the consent of his mother. Two other

well-minded young men of fortune had accompanied him, and they had been

intent on botany, the social condition of natives, and the progress of

the world generally. There had been no harum-scarum rushing about

without an object. Philip had been away for more than two years, and had

seen all there was to be seen in Japan, Patagonia, and the South Sea

Islands. Between them, the young men had written a book, and the critics

had been unanimous in observing how improved in those days were the

aspirations of young men. On his return he came to Launay for a week or

two, and then went up to London. When, after four months, he returned to

his mother’s house, he was twenty-seven years of age; and Bessy was just

twenty. Mrs. Miles knew that there was cause for fear; but she had

already taken steps to prevent the danger which she had foreseen.