peasants are not so easily alarmed as you suppose; they understand each
other. As to the disappearance of this one, I shall explain it by saying
that I decided to advance the money to send her as far as Florence,
instead of making her wait for the remittance which is expected from
the consul; it is known that she was to go before long, in any case. It
will cost me something, but I like peace and quietness. The other woman
is perfect as a servant, and the cause of her jealousy removed she will
continue perfect."
"Brrrr!" said Gray, uttering the sound that accompanies a shudder.
The Swede recognized the meaning of this; she looked at him quickly with
parted lips and her hand extended. She was ready to spring from the
phaeton.
"Do be quiet!" said Dennison. Then he spoke to the girl in Italian,
quieting her dread.
They reached the station in safety, and soon after sunrise the
Northerner, her breath still hurried, her hands cold, was placed in the
care of the official who had charge of the Florence train. Dennison gave
her his white silk handkerchief to tie over her uncovered head. The
daylight had revealed the discolored lines of the bruise on her cheek
produced by Modesta's blow. "Poor thing!" said Gray, as the train
started on its way, and they had a last glimpse of her frightened eyes
at the window.
"Yes. But she will get over it in time--she is strong and healthy. I
have telegraphed to the consul at Florence to meet her, and take every
care of her; he is to give her money from me, and then he is to send her
to Stockholm, comfortably, in the charge of a suitable person. When she
arrives there she will find a tidy little sum to her credit at a
banker's."
"You're paying well for her scare."
"I'm paying well for my comfort."
They took fresh horses and returned to Casa Colombina.
As the Tower of the Dove came into sight on its hill, Gray said: "She
won't be there, will she--I mean at the house?"
"Oh yes."
"What will she do when she sees us?"
"She will bring in the breakfast just as she brings it every morning,
and Hannibal and the cats will follow behind. Perhaps she will talk
rather more than usual; if she does, it will be on the most agreeable
topics, and her smile (which you admire so much) will be sweeter than
ever; her hair will be braided to perfection, and, what is more
important, her work will be done to perfection. We shall pretend, both
of us, she and I, that we don't see the mark of the bite on my hand.
Shall I go on? In a week or two, probably, she will marry her Goro, and
then he will be so constantly under my feet that I shall end by
installing him as my gardener for life. He will do no work of
importance; but, owing to his presence, _I_ shall continue to enjoy the
services of a waitress whom you yourself have described as a regular
marvel."
It may be added that this prophecy has been exactly fulfilled.
AT THE CHÂTEAU OF CORINNE
On the shores of Lake Leman there are many villas. For several centuries
the vine-clad banks have been a favorite resting-place for visitors from
many nations. English, French, Germans, Austrians, Poles, and Russians
are found in the circle of strangers whose gardens fringe the lake
northward from Geneva, eastward from Lausanne, and southward from Vevey,
Clarens, and Montreux. Not long ago an American joined this circle. The
American was a lady named Winthrop.
Mrs. Winthrop's villa was not one of the larger residences. It was an
old-fashioned square mansion, half Swiss, half French, ending in a
high-peaked roof, which came slanting sharply down over several narrowed
half-stories, indicated by little windows like dove-perches--four in the
broadest part, two above, then one winking all alone under the peak. On
the left side a round tower, inappropriate but picturesque, joined
itself to the square outline of the main building; the round tower had
also a peaked roof, which was surmounted by a contorted ornament of iron
somewhat resembling a letter S. Altogether the villa was the sort of a
house which Americans are accustomed to call "quaint." Its name was
quaint also--Miolans la Tour, or, more briefly, Miolans. Cousin Walpole
pronounced this "Miawlins."
Mrs. Winthrop had taken possession of the villa in May, and it was now
late in August; Lake Leman therefore had enjoyed her society for three
long months. Through all this time, in the old lake's estimation, and
notwithstanding the English, French, Germans, Austrians, Poles, and
Russians, many of them titled, who were also upon its banks, the
American lady remained an interesting presence. And not in the opinion
of the old lake only, but in that also of other observers, less fluid
and impersonal. Mrs. Winthrop was much admired. Miolans had entertained
numerous guests during the summer; to-day, however, it held only the
_bona fide_ members of the family--namely, Mrs. Winthrop, her cousin
Sylvia, and Mr. H. Walpole, Miss Sylvia's cousin. Mr. H. Walpole was
always called "Cousin Walpole" by Sylvia, who took comfort in the name,
her own (a grief to her) being neither more nor less than Pitcher.
"Sylvia Pitcher" was not impressive, but "H. Walpole" could shine for
two. If people supposed that H. stood for Horace, why, that was their
own affair.
Mrs. Winthrop, followed by her great white dog, had strolled down
towards the lake. After a while she came within sight of the gate; some
one was entering. The porter's lodge was unoccupied save by two old
busts that looked out from niches above the windows, much surprised that
no one knew them. The new-comer surveyed the lodge and the busts; then
opened the gate and came in. He was a stranger; a gentleman; an
American. These three items Mrs. Winthrop's eyes told her, one by one,
as she drew nearer. He now caught sight of her--a lady coming down the
water-path, followed by a shaggy dog. He went forward to meet her,
raising his hat. "I think this is Mrs. Winthrop. May I introduce
myself? I am John Ford."
"Sylvia will be delighted," said Mrs. Winthrop, giving her hand in
courteous welcome. "We have been hoping that we should see you, Mr.
Ford, before the summer was over."
They stood a few moments, and then went up the plane-tree avenue towards
the house. Mrs. Winthrop spoke the usual phrases of the opening of an
acquaintance with grace and ease; her companion made the usual replies.
He was quite as much at his ease as she was, but he did not especially
cultivate grace. Sylvia, enjoying her conversation with Cousin Walpole,
sat just within the hall door; she was taken quite by surprise. "Oh,
John, how you startled me! I thought you were in Norway. But how very
glad I am to see you, my dear, dear boy!" She stood on tiptoe to kiss
him, with a moisture in her soft, faded, but still pretty eyes.
Mrs. Winthrop remained outside; there were garden chairs in the small
porch, and she seated herself in one of them. She smiled a little when
she heard Sylvia greet this mature specimen of manhood as a "dear, dear
boy."
Cousin Walpole now came forward. "You are welcome, sir," he said, in his
slender little voice. Then bethinking him of his French, he added, with
dignity, "Welcome to Miaw-lins--Miaw-lins-lay-Tower."
Ford took a seat in the hall beside his aunt. She talked volubly: the
surprise had excited her. But every now and then she looked at him with
a far-off remembrance in her eyes: she was thinking of his mother, her
sister, long dead. "How much you look like her!" she said at last. "The
same profile--exact. And how beautiful Mary's profile was! Every one
admired it."
Ford, who had been gazing at the rug, looked up; he caught Mrs.
Winthrop's glance, and the gleam of merriment in it. "Yes, my profile is
like my mother's, and therefore good," he answered, gravely. "It is a
pity that my full face contradicts it. However, I live in profile as
much as possible; I present myself edgewise."
"What _do_ you mean, dear?" said Sylvia.
"I am like the new moon," he answered; "I show but a rim. All the rest I
keep dark."
Mrs. Winthrop laughed; and again Ford caught her glance. What he had
said of himself was true. He had a regular, clearly cut, delicately
finished profile, but his full face contradicted it somewhat, showing
more strength than beauty. His eyes were gray, without much expression,
unless calmness can be called an expression; his hair and beard, both
closely cut, were dark brown. As to his height, no one would have called
him tall, yet neither would any one have described him as short. And the
same phrasing might have been applied to his general appearance: no one
would have called him handsome, yet neither would any one have classed
him as ordinary. As to what is more important than looks, namely,
manner, although his was quiet, and quite without pretension, a close
observer could have discovered in it, and without much effort, that the
opinions of John Ford (although never obtruded upon others) were in
general sufficiently satisfactory to John Ford; and, furthermore, that
the opinions of other people, whether accordant or discordant with his
own, troubled him little.
After a while all went down to the outlook to see the after-glow on Mont
Blanc. Mrs. Winthrop led the way with Cousin Walpole, whose high,
bell-crowned straw hat had a dignity which no modern head-covering could
hope to rival.
Sylvia followed, with her nephew. "You must come and stay with us,
John," she said. "Katharine has so much company that you will find it
entertaining, and even at times instructive. I am sure I have found it
so; and I am, you know, your senior. We are alone to-day; but it is for
the first time. Generally the house is full."
"But I do not like a full house," said Ford, smiling down upon the
upturned face of the little "senior" by his side.
"You will like this one. It is not a commonplace society--by no means
commonplace. The hours, too, are easy; breakfast, for instance, from
nine to eleven--as you please. As to the quality of the--of the bodily
support, it is sufficient to say that Marches is house-keeper. You
remember Marches?"
"Perfectly. Her tarts no one could forget."
"Katharine is indebted to me for Marches," continued Sylvia. "I
relinquished her to Katharine upon the occasion of her marriage, ten
years ago; for she was totally inexperienced, you know--only seventeen."
"Then she is now twenty-seven."
"I should not have mentioned that," said Miss Pitcher, instinctively.
"It was an inadvertence. Could you oblige me by forgetting it?"
"With the greatest ease. She is, then, sensitive about her age?"
"Not in the least. Why should she be? Certainly no one would ever dream
of calling twenty-seven _old_!" (Miss Pitcher paused with dignity.) "You
think her beautiful, of course?" she added.
"She is a fine-looking woman."
"Oh, John, that is what they always say of women who weigh two hundred!
And Katharine is very slender."
Ford laughed. "I supposed the fact that Mrs. Winthrop was handsome went
without the saying."
"It goes," said Sylvia, impressively, "but not without the saying; I
assure you, by no means without the saying. It has been said this summer
many times."
"And she does not find it fatiguing?"
The little aunt looked at her nephew. "You do not like her," she said,
with a fine air of penetration, touching his coat-sleeve lightly with
one finger. "I see that you do not like her."
"My dear aunt! I do not know her in the least."
"Well, how does she impress you, then, _not_ knowing her?" said Miss
Pitcher, folding her arms under her little pink shawl with an impartial
air.
He glanced at the figure in front. "How she impresses me?" he said. "She
impresses me as a very attractive, but very complete, woman of the
world."
A flood of remonstrance rose to Sylvia's lips; but she was obliged to
repress it, because Mrs. Winthrop had paused, and was waiting for them.
"Here is one of our fairest little vistas, Mr. Ford," she said as they
came up, showing him an oval opening in the shrubbery, through which a
gleam of blue lake, a village on the opposite shore, and the arrowy,
snow-clad Silver Needle, rising behind high in the upper blue, were
visible, like a picture in a leaf frame. The opening was so narrow that
only two persons could look through it. Sylvia and Cousin Walpole walked
on.
"But you have seen it all before," said Mrs. Winthrop. "To you it is not
something from fairy-land, hardly to be believed, as it is to me. Do you
know, sometimes, when waking in the early dawn, before the prosaic
little details of the day have risen in my mind, I ask myself, with a
sort of doubt in the reality of it all, if this is Katharine Winthrop
living on the shores of Lake Leman--herself really, and not her
imagination only, her longing dream." It is very well uttered, with a
touch of enthusiasm which carried it along, and which was in itself a
confidence.
"Yes--ah--quite so. Yet you hardly look like a person who would think
that sort of thing under those circumstances," said Ford, watching a
bark, with the picturesque lateen-sails of Lake Leman, cross his
green-framed picture from east to west.
Mrs. Winthrop let the hand with which she had made her little gesture
drop. She stood looking at him. But he did not add anything to his
remark, or turn his glance from the lateen-sails.
"What sort of a person, then, do I look like?" she said.
He turned. She was smiling; he smiled also. "I was alluding merely to
the time you named. As it happened, my aunt had mentioned to me by
chance your breakfast hours."
"That was not all, I think."
"You are very good to be interested."
"I am not good; only curious. Pray tell me."
"I have so little imagination, Mrs. Winthrop, that I cannot invent the
proper charming interpretation as I ought. As to bald truth, of course
you cannot expect me to present you with that during a first visit of
ceremony."
"The first visit will, I hope, be a long one; you must come and stay
with us. As to ceremony, if this is your idea of it--"
"--What must I be when unceremonious! I suppose you are thinking," said
Ford, laughing. "On the whole, I had better make no attempts. The owl,
in his own character, is esteemed an honest bird; but let him not try to
be a nightingale."
"Come as owl, nightingale, or what you please, so long as you come. When
you do, I shall ask you again what you meant."
"If you are going to hold it over me, perhaps I had better tell you
now."
"Much better."
"I only meant, then, that Mrs. Winthrop did not strike me as at all the
sort of person who would allow anything prosaic to interfere with her
poetical, heartfelt enthusiasms."
She laughed gayly. "You are delightful. You have such a heavy apparatus
for fibbing that it becomes fairly stately. You do not believe I have
any enthusiasms at all," she added. Her eyes were dark blue, with long
lashes; they were very fine eyes.
"I will believe whatever you please," said John Ford.
"Very well. Believe what I tell you."
"You include only what you tell in words?"
"Plainly, you are not troubled by timidity," said the lady, laughing a
second time.
"On the contrary, it is excess of timidity. It makes me desperate and
crude."
They had walked on, and now came up with the others. "Does he amuse
you?" said Sylvia, in a low tone, as Cousin Walpole in his turn walked
onward with the new-comer. "I heard you laughing."
"Yes; but he is not at all what you said. He is so shy and ill at ease
that it is almost painful."
"Dear me!" said the aunt, with concern. "The best thing, then, will be
for him to come and stay with us. You have so much company that it will
be good for him; his shyness will wear off."
"I have invited him, but I doubt his coming," said the lady of the
manor.
The outlook was a little terrace built out over the water. Mrs. Winthrop
seated herself and took off her garden-hat (Mrs. Winthrop had a very
graceful head, and thick, soft, brown hair). "Not so close, Gibbon," she
said, as the shaggy dog laid himself down beside her.
"You call your dog Gibbon?" said Ford.
"Yes; he came from Lausanne, where Gibbon lived; and I think he looks
just like him. But pray put on your hat, Mr. Ford. A man in the open
air, deprived of his hat, is always a wretched object, and always takes
cold."
"I may be wretched, but I do not take cold," replied Ford, letting his
hat lie.
"John _does_ look very strong," said Sylvia, with pride.
"O fortunate youth--if he but knew his good-fortune!" said Cousin
Walpole. "From the Latin, sir; I do not quote the original tongue in the
presence of ladies, which would seem pedantic. You do look strong
indeed, and I congratulate you. I myself have never been an athlete; but
I admire, and with impartiality, the muscles of the gladiator."
"Surely, Cousin Walpole, there is nothing in common between John and a
gladiator!"
"Your pardon, Cousin Sylvia. I was speaking generally. My conversation,
sir," said the bachelor, turning to Ford, "is apt to be general."
"No one likes personalities, I suppose," replied Ford, watching the last
hues of the sunset.
"On the contrary, I am devoted to them," said Mrs. Winthrop.
"Oh no, Katharine; you malign yourself," said Sylvia. "You must not
believe all she says, John."
"Mr. Ford has just promised to do that very thing," remarked Mrs.
Winthrop.
"Dear me!" said Sylvia. Her tone of dismay was so sincere that they all
laughed. "You know, dear, you have so much imagination," she said,
apologetically, to her cousin.
"Mr. Ford has not," replied the younger lady; "so the exercise will do
him no harm."
The sky behind the splendid white mass of Mont Blanc was of a deep warm
gold; the line of snowy peaks attending the monarch rose irregularly
against this radiance from east to west, framed by the dark nearer
masses of the Salève and Voirons. The sun had disappeared, cresting with
glory as he sank the soft purple summits of the Jura, and sending up a
blaze of color in the narrow valley of the Rhone. Then, as all this
waned slowly into grayness, softly, shyly, the lovely after-glow floated
up the side of the monarch, tingeing all his fields of pure white ice
and snow with rosy light as it moved onward, and resting on the far
peak in the sky long after the lake and its shores had faded into night.
"This lake, sir," said Cousin Walpole, "is remarkable for the number of
persons distinguished in literature who have at various times resided
upon its banks. I may mention, cursorily, Voltaire, Sismondi, Gibbon,
Rousseau, Sir Humphry Davy, D'Aubigné, Calvin, Grimm, Benjamin Constant,
Schlegel, Châteaubriand, Byron, Shelley, the elder Dumas, and in
addition that most eloquent authoress and noble woman Madame de Staël."
"The banks must certainly be acquainted with a large amount of fine
language," said Ford.
"And oh, how we have enjoyed Coppet, John! You remember Coppet?" said
Miss Pitcher. "We have had, I assure you, days and conversations there
which I, for one, can never forget. Do you remember, Katharine, that
moment by the fish-pond, when, carried away by the influences of the
spot, Mr. Percival exclaimed, and with such deep feeling, '_Etonnante
femme!_'"
"Meaning Mrs. Winthrop?" said Ford.
"No, John, no; meaning Madame de Staël," replied the little aunt.
Mr. Ford did not take up his abode at Miolans, in spite of his aunt's
wish and Mrs. Winthrop's invitation. He preferred a little inn among the
vineyards, half a mile distant. But he came often to the villa,
generally rowing himself down the lake in a skiff. The skiff, indeed,
spent most of its time moored at the water-steps of Miolans, for its
owner accompanied the ladies in various excursions to Vevey, Clarens,
Chillon, and southward to Geneva.
"I thought you had so much company," he said one afternoon to Sylvia,
when they happened to be alone. "I have been coming and going now for
ten days, and have seen no one."
"These ten days were reserved for the Storms," replied Miss Pitcher.
"But old Mrs. Storm fell ill at Baden-Baden, and what could they do?"
"Take care of her, I should say."
"Gilbert Storm was poignantly disappointed. He is, I think, on the
whole, the best among Katharine's _outside_ admirers."
"Then there are inside ones?"
"Several. You know Mr. Winthrop was thirty-five years older than
Katharine. It was hardly to be expected, therefore, that she should love
him--I mean in the _true_ way."
"Whatever she might have done in the false."
"You are too cynical, my dear boy. There was nothing false about it;
Katharine was simply a child. He was very fond of her, I assure you. And
died most happily."
"For all concerned."
Sylvia shook her head. But Mrs. Winthrop's step was now heard in the
hall; she came in with several letters in her hand. "Any news?" said
Miss Pitcher.
"No," replied the younger lady. "Nothing ever happens any more."
"As Ronsard sang,
"'Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame!
Las! le temps non; mais nous nous en allons,'"
said Ford, bringing forward her especial chair.
"That is true," she answered, soberly, almost sombrely.
That evening the moonlight on the lake was surpassingly lovely; there
was not a ripple to break the sheen of the water, and the clear outline
of Mont Blanc rose like silver against the dark black-blue of the sky.
They all strolled down to the shore; Mrs. Winthrop went out with Ford in
his skiff, "for ten minutes." Sylvia watched the little boat float up
and down for twenty; then she returned to the house and read for forty
more. When Sylvia was down-stairs she read the third canto of "Childe
Harold"; in her own room she kept a private supply of the works of Miss
Yonge. At ten Katharine entered. "Has John gone?" said the aunt, putting
in her mark and closing the Byronic volume.
"Yes; he came to the door, but would not come in."
"I wish he would come and stay. He might as well; he is here every day."
"That is the very point; he also goes every day," replied Katharine.
She was leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed upon the carpet.
Sylvia was going to say something more, when suddenly a new idea came to
her. It was a stirring idea; she did not often have such inspirations;
she remained silent, investigating it. After a while, "When do you
expect the Carrols?" she said.
"Not until October."
Miss Pitcher knew this perfectly, but she thought the question might
lead to further information. It did. "Miss Jay has written," pursued
Mrs. Winthrop, her eyes still fixed absently on the carpet. "But I
answered, asking her to wait until October, when the Carrols would be
here. It will be much pleasanter for them both."
"She has put them off!" thought the little aunt. "She does not want any
one here just at present." And she was so fluttered by the new
possibilities rising round her like a cloud that she said good-night,
and went up-stairs to think them over; she did not even read Miss Yonge.
The next day Ford did not come to Miolans until just before the dinner
hour. Sylvia was disappointed by this tardiness, but cheered when
Katharine came in; for Mrs. Winthrop wore one of her most becoming
dresses. "She wishes to look her best," thought the aunt. But at this
moment, in the twilight, a carriage came rapidly up the driveway and
stopped at the door. "Why, it is Mr. Percival!" said Sylvia, catching a
glimpse of the occupant.
"Yes; he has come to spend a few days," said Mrs. Winthrop, going into
the hall to greet her new guest.
Down fell the aunt's cloud-castle; but at the same moment a more
personal feeling took its place in the modest little middle-aged breast;
Miss Pitcher deeply admired Mr. Percival.
"You know who it is, of course?" she whispered to her nephew when she
had recovered her composure.
"You said Percival, didn't you?"
"Yes; but this is Lorimer Percival--Lorimer Percival, the poet."
Katharine now came back. Sylvia sat waiting, and turning her bracelets
round on her wrists. Sylvia's bracelets turned easily; when she took a
book from the top shelf of the bookcase they went to her shoulders.
Before long Mr. Percival entered. Dinner was announced. The
conversation at the table was animated. From it Ford gathered that the
new guest had spent several weeks at Miolans early in the season, and
that he had also made since then one or two shorter visits. His manner
was that of an intimate friend. The intimate friend talked well. Cousin
Walpole's little candle illuminated the outlying corners. Sylvia
supplied an atmosphere of general admiration. Mrs. Winthrop supplied one
of beauty. She looked remarkably well--brilliant; her guest--the one who
was not a poet--noticed this. He had time to notice it, as well as
several other things, for he said but little himself; the conversation
was led by Mr. Percival.