The goddesses found it a harder task than they had anticipated to hate
Miss Jones. Scarcely twenty-four hours had passed before Gretchen was
at her feet, and vowed that she was the German equivalent for a
"perfect darling." In return Miss Jones taught her how to make quince
jelly, flavored with the kernels in the stones. Two days sufficed to
conciliate Roeschen; and when she discovered that Miss Jones did not
positively and unequivocally condemn the homicidal eccentricities of
Lucrezia Borgia, she declared with noble enthusiasm that Miss Jones
was "a grand soul." As for Minchen, she held out heroically against
Miss Jones's blandishments; but at the end of a week she too
succumbed. Miss Jones had complimented her in imperfect German, but
with the sweetest of accents, on her wax flowers, and had drawn new
designs for her, full of animation and dash. Presently they said
"thou" to each other, and Miss Jones, who had been Lulu at home, was
metamorphosed into Luischen. Even the Frau Professorin, who at first
had put her down as an artful little minx, began to forget her grudge
against her. The Professor found it a positive hardship that he was
not at liberty to kiss her. But the most amusing thing of the whole
affair was that they all became her partisans against her recreant
lover, Grover, who had trifled so wantonly with her feelings. They
made cautious overtures to condole with her, but, in spite of the
tenderest sympathy, found her singularly uncommunicative on this
subject. Now the goddesses, who in external charm did not profess to
compete with her, had in the first flush of their enthusiasm been
quite disposed to sacrifice themselves upon the altar of their
devotion; but, although they could have forgiven any other form of
maltreatment, Lulu's apparent distrust of them wounded them deeply.
They had looked forward to delicious nocturnal confidences, when, half
disrobed, each should visit the other's boudoir and discuss the
fascinating topic from all possible and impossible points of view.
That Lulu had proved impervious to all hints of this nature was a
slight which could not be pardoned, at least not without due penance
on her part. Moreover, to add to their mortification, there seemed
daily to be less occasion for sympathy. Lulu was winning Mr. Grover
back to his allegiance slowly but surely. He called, now, almost every
afternoon, took long walks with her through the Rosenthal, and barring
a certain Anglo-Saxon reserve (which in Germany is thought perfectly
incomprehensible) behaved in every way as an engaged man should. It
was scarcely to be wondered at that the goddesses found such an
exhibition of devotion a little bit irritating, and voted Lulu,
the happy and victorious, as odious as Lulu, the abandoned, the
secretly-grieving, had been lovely and interesting. It was especially
Roeschen, the admirer of daring unconventionally, who took it into her
head that she had been wronged and deceived by the false and heartless
Lulu, and she swore--that is to say, she vowed solemnly--that she
should yet get even with that sly and demure little arch-fiend. The
coveted opportunity did not, however, present itself as soon as her
impatience demanded, and while the winter dragged along slowly,
alternating delightfully between frozen mud and liquid mud, Grover's
devotion went on steadily deepening, until Miss Jones even interfered
with his laboratory practice, mixed herself up in his chemicals, and
on one occasion precipitated an explosion which singed his whiskers
and damaged his complexion for a month to come. From this experience
he drew the wise deduction that love and chemistry are antagonistic
forces, and therefore irreconcilable; but as he could not persuade
himself to give up either, it occurred to him to effect a compromise.
He would, as far as possible, devote the forenoons to chemistry and
the afternoons to love--that is to say, he would devote himself to
Miss Jones, and try gently to lure her on to the forbidden topic.
I believe I have said before that demonstrations of affection were
strictly prohibited; but I have not remarked that in the by-laws
subsequently drafted by Miss Jones for the regulation of their
abnormal relation, oral references to the same interesting topic were
likewise forbidden. When Miss Jones had her own way, she usually
talked music, and talked intelligently and well. She seemed to find a
kind of humorous satisfaction in confining her adorer strictly to
practical topics and in ignoring sentimental allusions. If he rebelled
against this sort of maltreatment, and became silent and moody, she
aggravated the offence by not appearing to notice it. She would then
find employment in separating little boys who fought in the street, or
in eliciting confidences from old apple-women. There was something
almost fiercely virginal about her, something bordering upon
enthusiasm in the way she repelled an attempted incursion upon the
forbidden ground. And withal she was so tender and sympathetic toward
all mankind, that her wilful obtuseness on the subject of love bore to
him the appearance of wanton cruelty. It did not occur to him that she
might be acting in self-defence, fearing to give the slightest rein to
a feeling which might, on very slight provocation, run away with her.
She was the kind of girl which one does not readily think of in
connection with the tender passion; and whose love, perhaps, for this
very reason, seems so ineffably precious to him who is trying to win
it.
"Did it ever occur to you," he said to her one day, as they were
walking together under the leafless arches of the Rosenthal, "that
when God saw all that He had made, and 'behold it was very good,' He
left woman out?"
"No, I didn't know it," she said, with a gleam of amusement.
"Nevertheless, it is so," he went on. "When He said it was all very
good, woman was not yet created. After she was made, God said nothing
at all."
"That was because she was so nice that she needed no commendation,"
rejoined Miss Jones promptly.
"For all that, history shows that she has made a deal of mischief in
the world," said Grover lugubriously; he was feeling piqued and
abused at her want of responsiveness to his undisguised admiration.
"History was written by men," was Miss Jones's response.
"But made by women," ejaculated Grover, eager to hold his own in the
tilt.
"As you like. I don't think the man was far wrong who said that there
was a woman at the bottom of every important event."
"You talk like a book."
"I only wish I had the wit to make one. I would make you men stare if
I published my version of the world's history."
"You can do that better without the wit," he retorted recklessly;
then, seeing a little cloud, as of pained surprise, pass over her
countenance, he made a motion to seize her hand, but succeeded,
instead, in knocking her parasol into the middle of the road. The
necessity of recovering it cooled for the moment the passion which had
threatened to overmaster him.
"Pardon me," he murmured penitently, as he was again at her side. "I
did not mean to hurt your feelings; but the fact is, I am on such a
constant strain to keep my sentiment below the boiling point that I
lose my self-control and say things the effect of which I only see
after I have said them."
"Don't apologize, please," she said, hurrying on so rapidly that he
could only with difficulty keep pace with her; then as a perfect
godsend, there crossed her line of vision two small boys who were
pulling each other's hair and pummelling each other lustily.
"You naughty boy," she ejaculated with much animation, seizing the
bigger one by the arm and forcing him to face her, "why do you strike
that poor little fellow?"
"He mixes himself up in my affairs," responded the culprit, defiantly;
then discovering a considerable tuft of his antagonist's hair in his
hand, he turned about shame-faced and tried to dispose of it,
unperceived. Miss Jones, however (though she was not without sympathy
for any one whose affairs were becoming mixed), dexterously caught the
descending tuft on the point of her parasol and held it up as proof of
his guilt. "What a dreadful little boy you are," she said,
reprovingly.
"But I will pummel Anton again," retorted the dreadful little boy, "if
he plays 'engaged' with Tilly Heitmann."
"Plays 'engaged!' Ah, then I beg your pardon," said Miss Jones,
airily, with a sly little glance at her companion. "Little boys who
play engaged deserve to be pummelled."