Being engaged is said to be a very delightful thing. You fulfill a
pleasant duty to society and one no less pleasant to yourself. In
Germany particularly, the engaged state is one of great honor. You
advertise the important event in the newspapers, above the marriages
and births; you walk abroad with your _fiancee_ arm-in-arm (which is
an inestimable privilege); you introduce her with much ceremony to
your uncles and cousins and aunts; you receive congratulations--in
short, you become a sort of public character, until some one else goes
and follows your illustrious example. Then you become an old story and
lapse into insignificance.
It was this ravishing vision of the engaged state, with its attendant
festivities, which had excited Roeschen's imagination. She had seen
herself a hundred times on Grover's arm, making the round of her whole
circle of acquaintance, and introducing him triumphantly to her pet
enemies. He would, of course, at a hint from her, be gracious to those
who had been kind to her, and politely snub those who had been
disagreeable to her. There was a day of reckoning coming for those who
had made sport of Roeschen's verses, a day of glorious revenge. But the
trouble now was, that, although Roeschen looked upon herself as
engaged, and respected herself accordingly, she did not have the
courage to claim her _fiance_. She was, as it were, anonymously
engaged. The uncertainty of the thing tortured her. She was more than
once tempted to sit down and write to Mr. Grover, telling him that it
was she to whom he was engaged; but the thought that he might, in that
case, divine her plot always deterred her. That he had quarrelled with
Miss Jones hardly simplified the matter; for a lover's quarrel of that
sort is never such a serious affair as the parties involved are apt to
think. If only Miss Jones would have the inspiration to go to Berlin
or to Stuttgart, or to Halifax, the road to Grover's affections would
be comparatively plain sailing. But Miss Jones, in spite of the most
pointed hints regarding the superior musical advantages of other
cities, persisted in remaining where she was. She practiced with an
odious regularity and indefatigable zeal, which knew neither weariness
nor discouragement. She did not grow perceptibly thinner, nor did her
complexion show the ravages of sorrow. It was unanimously resolved by
the ladies of the household that she was a cold and heartless monster.
If it hadn't been for the fact that she paid forty dollars a month
(which was put aside for dowries), she would have been told to pack
her trunk.
This phase of feeling lasted about three weeks. Then the unfailing
charm of Miss Jones's affability began once more to assert itself.
Roeschen was seized with a sudden desire to kiss her; for she looked so
irresistibly cool and lovely as she sat at the breakfast-table sipping
her coffee, and propounding her neat little German sentences, which
were always correct, though with a faint flavor of "Otto." Roeschen
felt positive that those calm, intelligent eyes of Miss Jones's read
them all like a book; and instead of being indignant at such
presumption, Roeschen grew repentant. She yearned to fling herself at
Miss Jones's feet and confess all her wickedness. She would wear
white, with a single red rose in her bosom like _La Sonnambula_. When
she thought of all the heroines of history and romance who had
renounced the men they loved, she too felt that she could rise to a
like heroism in renouncing the man she didn't love; for she did not,
for one moment, deceive herself in regard to her sentiment for Grover.
It was the engaged state she had been in love with; and he was merely
a lay figure, convenient for the occasion--a puppet with whom she
enacted the scenes appropriate to the engaged condition.
She was yet pondering the problem, but had not yet nerved herself for
action, when one day she was startled at the sound of Grover's voice
in the hall. He handed his card to the girl and inquired for the Frau
Professorin. There was a council of war on the spot, and the Frau
Professorin sent word that she was "not at home." Grover then asked
permission to see "the young ladies." It was a very disappointing
message; the plural number was especially disheartening. The sisters,
however, were equal to the occasion. Minchen and Gretchen nobly
declared that they were "out." Accordingly there was nothing to do,
except for Roeschen to receive the visitor. She donned her white
muslin, stuck a Jacqueminot rose in her bosom, and entered the
drawing-room with a quaking heart. The young man shook hands with her
without the faintest trace of embarrassment, and begged her to have
the kindness to present his "adieux" to the family, as he had
concluded to continue his studies in Berlin.
"And you are going to leave Leipsic!" she exclaimed, in astonishment.
"Naturally," he replied: "I leave to-night."
Roeschen's heart thumped as if it meant to work its way out through her
ribs.
"Now or never!" it said, with an unmistakable plainness; "now or
never!"
The Jacqueminot rose fell to the ground; Grover stooped to pick
it up. Had he only said: "May I keep this as a souvenir of our
friendship," or something of that sort, she would at once have
summoned courage to make her confession. But, instead of that, he
gravely handed her back the rose and remarked that he was under great
obligation to her father and mother for their kindness to him during
his stay in the city. She knew of no appropriate reply to this
observation until his silence forced her to invent one. "You have
given us no opportunity of late to be either kind or unkind to you,"
she said, with a blush, which made her feel hot all over.
"The circumstances are at fault, not I," he answered, and got up to
take his leave.
"Pardon me," she said, grasping his hand with a desperate clutch; "I
think I heard mother come in. I'll be back in one moment."
Several minutes elapsed, however, but neither Roeschen nor the Frau
Professorin appeared. Then a sudden sound of sobs was heard in the
next room, and Grover, fearing that some one was in distress, hastily
opened the door. There stood Miss Jones, grave and benign, stooping
over the weeping Roeschen, who was dramatically embracing her knees.
"Oh, it was I--it was I who made trouble between you," sobbed the
girl, flinging back her head and gazing imploringly up into Miss
Jones's face. "You are so good and noble, Louise, can you ever forgive
me? Oh, I wish you would kill me, so that I never could do you any
harm again."
"That won't be necessary, my dear," said Miss Jones, soothingly,
stroking the penitent's hair and kissing her forehead; then, catching
sight of Grover, she instantly recovered her dignity and disengaged
herself from Roeschen's embrace. The latter, with a wildly despairing
glance at the young man, sprang up and rushed out of the room.
Miss Jones and Grover stood face to face. The reverberation of
Roeschen's excitement seemed to linger in the room, and they waited for
it to pass away before speaking.
"I came to bid you good-bye," he said at last; it did not occur to him
that he had not come for that purpose.
"I am happy to have a chance to--to--beg your pardon," replied Miss
Jones, with a heroic determination to crucify her pride. "I was harsh
and unjust to you. Roeschen has told me all."
"I wish she would tell _me_ all. I am as much in the dark as ever."
"The girl to--to--whom you proposed in the grotto--was--was--not I,"
she faltered, grasping the door-knob for support, and gazing into the
mirror with a vain hope to hide her blushes.
He drew a long sigh of relief. That intelligence simplified existence
enormously. He had had a hopeless feeling, of late, that life was too
complex an affair for him to grapple with. Now, as by a flash, order
was restored in his chaotic universe. He stood gazing in rapture at
Miss Jones's blushing face, which seemed angelic in its purity and its
dignified maidenhood. That there dwelt a sweet young soul behind
those blameless features he felt blissfully convinced.
"Miss Jones," he began, "if Miss Roeschen has confessed to you, you
know what I would have liked to say to you--that night in the grotto.
Now, what would you have answered me?"
A little ray of mirth stole over the girl's face, and vanished again.
"I should have said--no," she remarked smilingly.
The orderly universe again tumbled into chaos. She was the veritable
Sphinx, and he not the Oedipus to read her riddle.
"Then I will bid you good-bye," he managed to stammer, extending an
unwilling hand and again withdrawing it.
"Good-bye, Mr. Grover," she said with heartless cheerfulness; "I hope
it is not forever."
"I am afraid it is," he murmured sadly.
He took two steps toward the door, and laid his hand on the knob.
"Oh, by the way," ejaculated the girl, with a sudden alarm in her
voice; "that question you would have asked me in the grotto--why don't
you ask it now?"
"You said you would say no."
He had turned about in unutterable astonishment.
"I didn't say that," she retorted gravely.
"What did you say then?"
"That I should have said No _in the grotto_."
The scene which followed was of a strictly private and confidential
character; I fear Miss Jones would take me to task if I divulged it.