As soon as Baroness Elmreich found herself alone in her bedroom, she
proceeded to examine its contents with minute care. Supper, she had been
told, was not till eight o'clock, and she had not much to unpack; so
laying aside her hat and cloak, and glancing at the reflection of her
little curls in the glass to see whether they were as they should be,
she began her inspection of each separate article in her room, taking
each one up and scrutinising it, holding the jars of hepaticas high
above her head in order to see whether the price was marked underneath,
untidying the bed to feel the quality of the sheets, poking the mattress
to discover the nature of the stuffing, and investigating with special
attention the embroidery on the pillow-cases. But everything was as
dainty and as perfect as enthusiasm could make it. Nowhere, with her
best endeavours, could she discover the signs she was looking for of
cheapness and shabbiness in less noticeable things that would have
helped her to understand her hostess. "This embroidery has cost at least
two marks the meter," she said to herself, fingering it. "She must roll
in money. And the wall-paper--how unpractical! It is so light that every
mark will be seen. The flies alone will ruin it in a month."
She shrugged her shoulders, and smiled; strange to say, the thought of
Anna's paper being spoiled pleased her.
Never had she been in a room the least like this one. If whitewash
prevailed downstairs, and in Anna's special haunts, it had not been
permitted to invade the bedrooms of the Chosen. Anna's reflections had
led her to the conclusion that the lives of these ladies had till then
probably been spent in bare places, and that they would accordingly feel
as much pleasure in the contemplation of carpets, papered walls, and
stuffed chairs, as she herself did in the severity of her whitewashed
rooms after the lavishly upholstered years of her youth. But the
daintiness and luxury only filled the baroness with doubts. She stood in
the middle of it looking round her when she had finished her tour of
inspection and had made guesses at the price of everything, and asked
herself who this Miss Estcourt could be. Anna would have been
considerably disappointed, and perhaps even moved to tears, if she had
known that the room she thought so pretty struck the baroness, whose
taste in furniture had not advanced beyond an appreciation for the dark
and heavy hangings and walnut-wood tables of her more prosperous years,
merely as odd. Odd, and very expensive. Where did the money come from
for this reckless furnishing with stuffs and colours that were bound to
show each stain? Her eye wandered along the shelves above the
writing-table--hers was the Heine and Maeterlinck room--and she wondered
what all the books were there for. She did not touch them as she had
touched everything else, for except an occasional novel, and, more
regularly, a journal beloved of German woman called the _Gartenlaube_,
she never read.
On the writing-table lay a blotter, a pretty, embroidered thing that
said as plainly as blotter could say that it had been chosen with
immense care; and opening it she found notepaper and envelopes stamped
with the Kleinwalde address and her own monogram. This was Anna's little
special gift, a childish addition, the making of which had given her an
absurd amount of pleasure. The happy idea, as she called it, had come to
her one night when she lay awake thinking about her new friends and
going through the familiar process of discovering their tastes by
imagining herself in their place. "_Sonderbar_," was the baroness's
comment; and she decided that the best thing she could do would be to
ring the bell and endeavour to obtain private information about Miss
Estcourt by means of a prolonged cross-examination of the housemaid.
She rang it, and then sat very straight and still on the sofa with her
hands folded in her lap, and waited. Her soul was full of doubts. Who
was this Miss, and where were the proofs that she was, as she had
pretended, of good birth? That she was not so very pious was evident;
for if she had been, some remark of a religious nature would inevitably
have been forthcoming when she first welcomed them to her house. No such
word, not the least approach to any such word, had been audible. There
had not even been an allusion, a sigh, or an upward glance. Yet the
pastor who had opened the correspondence had filled many pages with
expatiations on her zeal after righteousness. And then she was so young.
The baroness had expected to see an elderly person, or at least a person
of the age of everybody else, which was her own age; but this was a mere
girl, and a girl, too, who from the way she dressed, clearly thought
herself pretty. Surely it was strange that so young a woman should be
living here quite unattached, quite independent apparently of all
control, with a great deal of money at her disposal, and only one little
girl to give her a countenance? Suppose she were not a proper person at
all, suppose she were an outcast from society, a being on whom her own
countrypeople turned their backs? This desire to share her fortune with
respectable ladies could only be explained in two ways: either she had
been moved thereto by an enthusiastic piety of which not a trace had as
yet appeared, or she was an improper person anxious to rebuild her
reputation with the aid and countenance of the ladies of good family she
had entrapped into her house.
The baroness stiffened as she sat. It was her brother who had cheated at
cards and shot himself, and it was her sister of whom Axel Lohm had
heard strange tales; and few people are more savagely proper than the
still respectable relations of the demoralised. "The service in this
house is very bad," she said aloud and irascibly, getting up to ring
again. "No doubt she has trouble with her servants."
But there was a knock at the door while her hand was on the bell, and on
her calling "Come in," instead of the servant her hostess appeared,
dressed to the baroness's eye in a truly amazing and reprehensible
fashion, and looking as cheerful as an innocent infant for whom no such
thing as evil-doing exists. Also she seemed quite unconscious of her
clothes and bare neck, nor did she offer to explain why she was arrayed
as though she were going to a ball; and she stood a moment in the
doorway trying to say something in German and pretending to laugh at her
own ineffectual efforts, but really laughing, the baroness felt sure, in
order to show that she had dimples; which were not, after all, very
wonderful things to have--before she had grown so thin she almost had
one herself.
"May I come in?" said Anna at last, giving up the other and more
complicated speech.
"_Bitte_," said the baroness, with the smile the French call _pincé_.
"Has no one been to unpack your things?"
"I rang."
"And no one came? Oh, I shall scold Marie. It is the only thing I can do
well in German. Can you speak English?"
"No."
"Nor understand it?"
"No."
"French?"
"No."
"Oh, well, you must be patient then with my bad German. When I am alone
with anyone it goes better, but if there are many people listening I am
nervous and can hardly speak at all. How glad I am that you are here!"
Anna's shyness, now that she was by herself with one of her forlorn
ones, had vanished, and she prattled happily for some time, putting as
many mistakes into her sentences as they would hold, before she became
aware that the baroness's replies were monosyllabic, and that she was
examining her from head to foot with so much attention that there was
obviously none left over for the appreciation of her remarks.
This made her feel shy again. Clothes to her were such secondary
considerations, things of so little importance. Susie had provided them,
and she had put them on, and there it had ended; and when she found that
it was her dress and not herself that was interesting the baroness, she
longed to have the courage to say, "Don't waste time over it now--I'll
send it to your room to-night, if you like, and you can look at it
comfortably--only don't waste time now. I want to talk to you, to _you_
who have suffered so much; I want to make friends with you quickly, to
make you begin to be happy quickly; so don't let us waste the precious
time thinking of clothes." But she had neither sufficient courage nor
sufficient German.
She put out her hand rather timidly, and making an effort to bring her
companion's thoughts back to the things that mattered, said, "I hope you
will like living with me. I hope we shall be very happy together. I
can't tell you how happy it makes me to think that you are safely here,
and that you are going to stay with me always."
The baroness's hands were clasped in front of her, and they did not
unclasp to meet Anna's; but at this speech she left off eyeing the
dress, and began to ask questions. "You are very lonely, I can see," she
said with another of the pinched smiles. "Have you then no relations? No
one of your own family who will live with you? Will not your _Frau Mama_
come to Germany?"
"My mother is dead."
"_Ach_--mine also. And the _Herr Papa_?"
"He is dead."
"_Ach_--mine also."
"I know, I know," said Anna, stroking the unresponsive hands--a trick of
hers when she wanted to comfort that had often irritated Susie. "You
told me how lonely you were in your letters. I lived with my brother and
his wife till I came here. You have no brothers or sisters, I think you
wrote."
"None," said the baroness with a rigid look.
"Well, I am going to be your sister, if you will let me."
"You are very good."
"Oh, I am not good, only so happy--I have everything in the world that I
have ever wished to have, and now that you have come to share it all
there is nothing more I can think of that I want."
"_Ach_," said the baroness. Then she added, "Have you no aunts, or
cousins, who would come and stay with you?"
"Oh, heaps. But they are all well off and quite pleased, and they
wouldn't like staying here with me at all."
"They would not like staying with you? How strange."
"Very strange," laughed Anna. "You see they don't know how pleasant I
can be in my own house."
"And your friends--they too will not come?"
"I don't know if they would or not. I didn't ask them."
"You have no one, no one at all who would come and live with you so that
you should not be so lonely?"
"But I am not lonely," said Anna, looking down at the little woman with
a slightly amused expression, "and I don't in the least want to be lived
with."
"Then why do you wish to fill your house with strangers?"
"Why?" repeated Anna, a puzzled look coming into her eyes. Had not the
correspondence with the ultimately chosen been long? And were not all
her reasons duly set forth therein? "Why, because I want you to have
some of my nice things too."
"But not your own friends and relations?"
"They have everything they want."
There was a silence. Anna left off stroking the baroness's hands. She
was thinking that this was a queer little person--outside, that is.
Inside, of course, she was very different, poor little lonely thing; but
her outer crust seemed thick; and she wondered how long it would take
her to get through it to the soul that she was sure was sweet and
lovable. She was also unable to repress a conviction that most people
would call these questions rude.
But this train of thought was not one to be encouraged. "I am keeping
you here talking," she said, resuming her first cheerfulness, "and your
things are not unpacked yet. I shall go and scold Marie for not coming
when you rang, and I'll send her to you." And she went out quickly,
vexed with herself for feeling chilled, and left the baroness more full
of doubts than ever.
When she had rebuked Marie, who looked gloomy, she tapped at Frau von
Treumann's door. No one answered. She knocked again. No one answered.
Then she opened the door softly and looked in.
These were precious moments, she felt, these first moments of being
alone with each of her new friends, precious opportunities for breaking
ice. It is true she had not been able to break much of the ice encasing
the baroness, but she was determined not to be cast down by any of the
little difficulties she was sure to encounter at first, and she looked
into Frau von Treumann's room with fresh hope in her heart.
What, then, was her dismay to find that lady walking up and down with
the long strides of extreme excitement, her face bathed in tears.
"Oh--what's the matter?" gasped Anna, shutting the door quickly and
hurrying in.
Frau von Treumann had not heard the gentle taps, and when she saw her,
started, and tried to hide her face in her handkerchief.
"Tell me what is the matter," begged Anna, her voice full of tenderness.
"_Nichts, nichts_," was the hasty reply. "I did not hear you knock----"
"Tell me what is the matter," begged Anna again, fairly putting her arms
round the poor lady. "Our letters have said so much already--surely
there is nothing you cannot tell me now? And if I can help you----"
Frau von Treumann freed herself by a hasty movement, and began to walk
up and down again. "No, no, you can do nothing--you can do nothing," she
said, and wept as she walked.
Anna watched her in consternation.
"See to what I have come--see to what I have come!" said the agitated
lady under her breath but with passionate intensity, as she passed and
repassed her dismayed hostess; "oh, to have fallen so low! oh, to have
fallen so low!"
"So low?" echoed Anna, greatly concerned.
"At my age--I, a Treumann--I, a _geborene_ Gräfin Ilmas-Kadenstein--to
live on charity--to be a member of a charitable institution!"
"Institution? Charity? Oh no, no!" cried Anna. "It is a home here, and
there is no charity in it from the attic to the cellar." And she went
towards her with outstretched hands.
"A home! Yes, that is it," cried Frau von Treumann, waving her back, "it
is a home, a charitable home!"
"No, not a home like that--a real home, my home, your home--_ein Heim_,"
Anna protested; but vainly, because the German word _Heim_ and the
English word "home" have little meaning in common.
"_Ein Heim, ein Heim_," repeated Frau von Treumann with extraordinary
bitterness, "_ein Frauenheim_--yes, that is what it is, and everybody
knows it."
"Everybody knows it?"
"How could I think," she said, wringing her hands, "how could I think
when I decided to come here that the whole world was to be made
acquainted with your plans? I thought they were to be kept private, that
the world was to think we were your friends----"
"And so you are."
"--your guests----"
"Oh, more than guests--this is home."
"Home! Home! Always that word----" And she burst into a fresh torrent of
tears.
Anna stood helpless. What she said appeared only to aggravate Frau von
Treumann's sorrow and rage--for surely there was anger as well as
sorrow? She was at a complete loss for the reason of this outburst. Had
not every detail been discussed in the correspondence? Had not that
correspondence been exhaustive even to boredom?
"You have told your servants----"
"My servants?"
"You have told them that we are objects of charity----"
"I----" began Anna, and then was silent.
"It is not true--I have come here from very different motives--but they
think me an object of charity. I rang the bell--I cannot unstrap my
trunks--I never have been expected to unstrap trunks." The sobs here
interfered for a moment with further speech. "After a long while--your
servant came--she was insolent--the trunks are there still
unstrapped--you see them--she knows--everything."
"She shall go to-morrow."
"The others think the same thing."
"They shall go to-morrow--that is, have they been rude to you?"
"Not yet, but they will be."
"When they are, they shall go."
"I went into the corridor to seek other assistance, and I met--I
met----"
"Who?"
"Oh, to have fallen so low!" cried Frau von Treumann, clasping her
hands, and raising her streaming eyes to the ceiling.
"But who did you meet?"
"I met--I met the Penheim."
"The Penheim? Do you mean Princess Ludwig?"
"You never said she was here----"
"I did not know that it would interest you."
"--living on charity--she was always shameless--I was at school with
her. Oh, I would not have come for any inducement if I had known she was
here! She holds nothing sacred, she will boast of her own degradation,
she will write to all her friends that I am here too--I told them I was
coming only on a visit to you--they knew I knew your uncle--but the
Penheim--the Penheim----" and Frau von Treumann threw herself into a
chair and covered her face with her hands to shut out the horrid vision.
The corners of Anna's mouth began to take the upward direction that
would end in a smile; and feeling how ill-placed such a contortion would
be in the presence of this tumultuous grief, she brought them carefully
back to a position of proper solemnity. Besides, why should she smile?
The poor lady was clearly desperately unhappy about something, though
what it was Anna did not quite know. She had looked forward to this
first evening with her new friends as to a thing apart, a thing beyond
the ordinary experience of life, profound in its peace, perfect in its
harmony, the first taste of rest after war, of port after stormy seas;
and here was Frau von Treumann plunged in a very audible grief, and in
the next room was the baroness, a disconcerting combination of
inquisitiveness and ice, and farther down the passage was Fräulein
Kuhräuber--in what state, Anna wondered, would she find Fräulein
Kuhräuber? Anyhow she had little reason to smile. But the horror with
which Princess Ludwig had been mentioned seemed droll beside her own
knowledge of the sterling qualities of that excellent woman. She went
over to the chair in which Frau von Treumann lay prostrate, and sat down
beside her. She was glad that they had reached the stage of sitting
down, for talking is difficult to a person who will not keep still.
"How sorry I am," she said, in her pretty, hesitating German, "that you
should have been made unhappy the very first evening. Marie is a little
wretch. Don't let her stupidity make you miserable. You shall not see
her again, I promise you." And she patted Frau von Treumann's arm. "But
about Princess Ludwig, now," she went on cheerfully, "she has been here
some weeks and you soon learn to know a person you are with every day,
and really I have found her nothing but good and kind."
"_Ach_, she is shameless--she recoils before no degradation!" burst out
Frau von Treumann, suddenly removing her hands from her face. "The
trouble she has given her relations! She delights in dragging her name
in the dirt. She has tried to get places in the most impossible
families, and made no attempt to hide what she was doing. She has broken
the old Fürst's heart. And she talks about it all, and has no shame, no
decency----"
"But is it not admirable----" began Anna.
"She will gloat over me, and tell everyone that I am here in the same
way as she is. If she is not ashamed for herself, do you think she will
spare me?"
"But why should you think there is anything to be ashamed of in coming
to live with me and be my dear friend?"
"No, there is nothing, so long as my motives in coming are known. But
people talk so cruelly, and will distort the facts so gladly, and we
have always held our heads so high. And now the Penheim!" She sobbed
afresh.
"I shall ask the princess not to write to anyone about your being here."
"_Ach_, I know her--she will do it all the same."
"No, I don't think so. She does everything I ask. You see, she takes
care of my house for me. She is not here in the same way that--that you
and Baroness Elmreich are, and her interest is to stay here."
Frau von Treumann's bowed head went up with a jerk. "_Ach?_ She has
found a place at last? She is your paid companion? Your housekeeper?"
"Yes, and she is goodness itself, and I don't believe she would be
unkind and make mischief for worlds."
"_Ach so!_" said Frau von Treumann, "_ach so-o-o-o!_"--a long drawn out
_so_ of complete comprehension. Her tears ceased as if by magic. She
dried her eyes. Yes, of course the Penheim would hold her tongue if Miss
Estcourt ordered her to do so. She had heard all about her efforts to
find places, and she would probably be very careful not to lose this
one. The poor Penheim. So she was actually working for wages. What a
come-down for a Dettingen! And the Dettingens had always treated the
Treumanns as though they belonged merely to the _kleine Adel_. Well,
well, each one in turn. She was the dear friend, and the Penheim was the
housekeeper. Well, well.
She sat up straight, smoothed her hair, and resumed her first manner of
quiet dignity. "I am sorry that you should have witnessed my agitation,"
she said, with a faint smile. "I am not easily betrayed into exhibitions
of feeling, but there are limits to one's endurance, there are certain
things the bravest cannot bear."
"Yes," said Anna.
"And for a Treumann, social disgrace, any action that in the least soils
our honour and makes us unable to hold up our heads, is worse than
death."
"But I don't see any disgrace."
"No, no, there is none so long as facts are not distorted. It is quite
simple--you need friends and I am willing to be your friend. That was
how my son looked at it. He said '_Liebe Mama_, she evidently needs
friends and sympathy--why should you hesitate to make yourself of use?
You must regard it as a good work.' You would like my son; his brother
officers adore him."
"Really?" said Anna.
"He is so sensible, so reasonable; he is beloved and respected by the
whole regiment. I will show you his photograph--_ach_, the trunks are
still unstrapped."
"I'll go and send someone--but not Marie," said Anna, getting up
quickly. She had no desire to see the photograph, and the son's way of
looking at things had considerably astonished her. "It must be nearly
supper time. Would you not rather lie down and let me send you something
here? Your head must ache after crying so much. You have baptised our
new life with tears. I hope it is a good omen."
"Oh, I will come down. You will do as you promised, will you not, and
forbid the Penheim to gossip?"
"I shall tell the princess your wishes."
"Or, if she must gossip, let her tell the truth at least. If my son had
not pressed me to come here I really do not think----"
Anna went slowly and meditatively down the passage to Fräulein
Kuhräuber's room. For a moment she thought of omitting this last visit
altogether; she was afraid lest the Fräulein should be in some
unlooked-for and perplexing condition of mind. Discouraged? Oh no; she
was surely not discouraged already. How had the word come into her head?
She quickened her steps. When she reached the door she remembered the
cup and the sugar-tongs. Perhaps something in the bedroom was already
broken, and the Fräulein would be disclosed sitting in the ruins in
tears, for she was unexpectedly large, and the contents of her room were
frail. But then woe of that sort was as easily assuaged as broken
furniture was mended. It was the more complicated grief of Frau von
Treumann that she felt unable to soothe. As to that, she preferred not
to think about it at present, and barricaded her thoughts against its
image with that consoling sentence, _Tout comprendre c'est tout
pardonner._ It was a sentence she was fond of; but she had not expected
that she would need its reassurance so soon.
She opened the door, and the puckers smoothed themselves out of her
forehead at once, for here, at last, was peace. There had been no
difficulties here with bells, and straps, and Marie. The trunks had been
opened and unpacked without assistance; and when Anna came in the
contents were all put away and Fräulein Kuhräuber, washed and combed and
in her Sunday blouse, was sitting in an easy chair by the window
absorbed in a book. Satisfaction was written broadly on her face;
content was expressed by every lazy line of her attitude. When she saw
Anna, she got up and made a curtsey and beamed. The beams were instantly
reflected in Anna's face, and they beamed at each other.
"Well," said Anna, who felt perfectly at her ease with this member of
her trio, "are you happy?"
Fräulein Kuhräuber blushed, and beamed more than ever. She was far less
shy of Anna than she was of those two terrible _adelige Damen_, her
travelling companions; but at no time had she had much conversation.
Hers had been a ruminative existence, for its uncertainty but rarely
disturbed her. Had she not an excellent digestion, and a fixed belief
that the righteous, of whom she was one, would never be forsaken? And
are not these the primary conditions of happiness? Indeed, if everything
else is wanting, these two ingredients by themselves are sufficient for
the concoction of a very palatable life.
"You have found an interesting book already?" Anna asked, pleased that
the literature chosen with such care should have met with instant
appreciation. She took it up to see what it was, but put it down again
hastily, for it was the cookery book.
"I read much," observed Fräulein Kuhräuber.
"Yes?" said Anna, a flicker of hope reviving in her heart. Perhaps the
cookery book was an accident.
"I know by heart more than a hundred recipes for sweet dishes alone."
"Really?" said Anna, the flicker expiring.
"So you can have an idea of the number of books I have read."
"Here are a great many more for you to read."
"_Ach ja, ach ja_," said Fräulein Kuhräuber, glancing doubtfully at the
shelves; "but one must not waste too much time over it--there are other
things in life. I read only useful books."
"Well, that is very praiseworthy," said Anna, smiling. "If you like
cookery books, I must get you some more."
"How good you are--how very, very good!" said the Fräulein, gazing at
the charming figure before her with heartfelt admiration and gratitude.
"This beautiful room--I cannot look at it enough. I cannot believe it is
really for me--for me to sleep in and be in whenever I choose. What have
I done to deserve all this?"
What had she done, indeed? She had not even been unhappy, although of
course she had had every opportunity of being so, sent from place to
place, from one indignant _Hausfrau_ to another, ever since she left
school. But Anna, persuaded that she had rescued her from depths of
unspeakable despair, was overjoyed by this speech. "Don't talk about
deserving," she said tenderly. "You have had such a life that if you
were to be happy now without stopping once for the next fifty years it
would only be just and right."
Fräulein Kuhräuber's approval of this sentiment was so entire that she
seized Anna's hand and kissed it fervently. Anna laughed while this was
going on, and her eyes grew brighter. She had not wanted gratitude, but
now that it had come it was very encouraging after all, and very
warming. She put one arm impulsively round the Fräulein's neck and
kissed her, and this was practically the first kiss that lady had ever
received, for the perfunctory embraces of reluctantly dutiful aunts can
hardly be called by that pretty name.
"Now," said Anna, with a happy laugh, "we are going to be friends for
ever. Come, let us go down. That was the supper bell."
And they went downstairs together, appearing in the doorway of the
drawing-room arm in arm, as though they had loved each other for years.
"As though they were twins," muttered the baroness to Frau von Treumann,
who shrugged one shoulder slightly by way of reply.