At breakfast I encountered his ladies—his wife and daughter. They were
placed, however, at a distance from me, and it was not until the
_pensionnaires_ had dispersed, and some of them, according to custom, had
come out into the garden, that he had an opportunity of making me
acquainted with them.
“Will you allow me to introduce you to my daughter?” he said, moved
apparently by a paternal inclination to provide this young lady with
social diversion. She was standing with her mother, in one of the paths,
looking about with no great complacency, as I imagined, at the homely
characteristics of the place, and old M. Pigeonneau was hovering near,
hesitating apparently between the desire to be urbane and the absence of
a pretext. “Mrs. Ruck—Miss Sophy Ruck,” said my friend, leading me up.
Mrs. Ruck was a large, plump, light-coloured person, with a smooth fair
face, a somnolent eye, and an elaborate coiffure. Miss Sophy was a girl
of one-and-twenty, very small and very pretty—what I suppose would have
been called a lively brunette. Both of these ladies were attired in
black silk dresses, very much trimmed; they had an air of the highest
elegance.
“Do you think highly of this pension?” inquired Mrs. Ruck, after a few
preliminaries.
“It’s a little rough, but it seems to me comfortable,” I answered.
“Does it take a high rank in Geneva?” Mrs. Ruck pursued.
“I imagine it enjoys a very fair fame,” I said, smiling.
“I should never dream of comparing it to a New York boarding-house,” said
Mrs. Ruck.
“It’s quite a different style,” her daughter observed.
Miss Ruck had folded her arms; she was holding her elbows with a pair of
white little hands, and she was tapping the ground with a pretty little
foot.
“We hardly expected to come to a pension,” said Mrs. Ruck. “But we
thought we would try; we had heard so much about Swiss pensions. I was
saying to Mr. Ruck that I wondered whether this was a favourable
specimen. I was afraid we might have made a mistake.”
“We knew some people who had been here; they thought everything of Madame
Beaurepas,” said Miss Sophy. “They said she was a real friend.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Parker—perhaps you have heard her speak of them,” Mrs. Ruck
pursued.
“Madame Beaurepas has had a great many Americans; she is very fond of
Americans,” I replied.
“Well, I must say I should think she would be, if she compares them with
some others.”
“Mother is always comparing,” observed Miss Ruck.
“Of course I am always comparing,” rejoined the elder lady. “I never had
a chance till now; I never knew my privileges. Give me an American!”
And Mrs. Ruck indulged in a little laugh.
“Well, I must say there are some things I like over here,” said Miss
Sophy, with courage. And indeed I could see that she was a young woman
of great decision.
“You like the shops—that’s what you like,” her father affirmed.
The young lady addressed herself to me, without heeding this remark. “I
suppose you feel quite at home here.”
“Oh, he likes it; he has got used to the life!” exclaimed Mr. Ruck.
“I wish you’d teach Mr. Ruck,” said his wife. “It seems as if he
couldn’t get used to anything.”
“I’m used to you, my dear,” the husband retorted, giving me a humorous
look.
“He’s intensely restless,” continued Mrs. Ruck.
“That’s what made me want to come to a pension. I thought he would
settle down more.”
“I don’t think I _am_ used to you, after all,” said her husband.
In view of a possible exchange of conjugal repartee I took refuge in
conversation with Miss Ruck, who seemed perfectly able to play her part
in any colloquy. I learned from this young lady that, with her parents,
after visiting the British Islands, she had been spending a month in
Paris, and that she thought she should have died when she left that city.
“I hung out of the carriage, when we left the hotel,” said Miss Ruck, “I
assure you I did. And mother did, too.”
“Out of the other window, I hope,” said I.
“Yes, one out of each window,” she replied promptly. “Father had hard
work, I can tell you. We hadn’t half finished; there were ever so many
places we wanted to go to.”
“Your father insisted on coming away?”
“Yes; after we had been there about a month he said he had enough. He’s
fearfully restless; he’s very much out of health. Mother and I said to
him that if he was restless in Paris he needn’t hope for peace anywhere.
We don’t mean to leave him alone till he takes us back.” There was an
air of keen resolution in Miss Ruck’s pretty face, of lucid apprehension
of desirable ends, which made me, as she pronounced these words, direct a
glance of covert compassion toward her poor recalcitrant father. He had
walked away a little with his wife, and I saw only his back and his
stooping, patient-looking shoulders, whose air of acute resignation was
thrown into relief by the voluminous tranquillity of Mrs. Ruck. “He will
have to take us back in September, any way,” the young girl pursued; “he
will have to take us back to get some things we have ordered.”
“Have you ordered a great many things?” I asked jocosely.
“Well, I guess we have ordered _some_. Of course we wanted to take
advantage of being in Paris—ladies always do. We have left the principal
things till we go back. Of course that is the principal interest, for
ladies. Mother said she should feel so shabby if she just passed
through. We have promised all the people to be back in September, and I
never broke a promise yet. So Mr. Ruck has got to make his plans
accordingly.”
“And what are his plans?”
“I don’t know; he doesn’t seem able to make any. His great idea was to
get to Geneva; but now that he has got here he doesn’t seem to care.
It’s the effect of ill health. He used to be so bright; but now he is
quite subdued. It’s about time he should improve, any way. We went out
last night to look at the jewellers’ windows—in that street behind the
hotel. I had always heard of those jewellers’ windows. We saw some
lovely things, but it didn’t seem to rouse father. He’ll get tired of
Geneva sooner than he did of Paris.”
“Ah,” said I, “there are finer things here than the jewellers’ windows.
We are very near some of the most beautiful scenery in Europe.”
“I suppose you mean the mountains. Well, we have seen plenty of
mountains at home. We used to go to the mountains every summer. We are
familiar enough with the mountains. Aren’t we, mother?” the young lady
demanded, appealing to Mrs. Ruck, who, with her husband, had drawn near
again.
“Aren’t we what?” inquired the elder lady.
“Aren’t we familiar with the mountains?”
“Well, I hope so,” said Mrs. Ruck.
Mr. Ruck, with his hands in his pockets, gave me a sociable
wink.—“There’s nothing much you can tell them!” he said.
The two ladies stood face to face a few moments, surveying each other’s
garments. “Don’t you want to go out?” the young girl at last inquired of
her mother.
“Well, I think we had better; we have got to go up to that place.”
“To what place?” asked Mr. Ruck.
“To that jeweller’s—to that big one.”
“They all seemed big enough; they were too big!” And Mr. Ruck gave me
another wink.
“That one where we saw the blue cross,” said his daughter.
“Oh, come, what do you want of that blue cross?” poor Mr. Ruck demanded.
“She wants to hang it on a black velvet ribbon and tie it round her
neck,” said his wife.
“A black velvet ribbon? No, I thank you!” cried the young lady. “Do you
suppose I would wear that cross on a black velvet ribbon? On a nice
little gold chain, if you please—a little narrow gold chain, like an
old-fashioned watch-chain. That’s the proper thing for that blue cross.
I know the sort of chain I mean; I’m going to look for one. When I want
a thing,” said Miss Ruck, with decision, “I can generally find it.”
“Look here, Sophy,” her father urged, “you don’t want that blue cross.”
“I do want it—I happen to want it.” And Sophy glanced at me with a
little laugh.
Her laugh, which in itself was pretty, suggested that there were various
relations in which one might stand to Miss Ruck; but I think I was
conscious of a certain satisfaction in not occupying the paternal one.
“Don’t worry the poor child,” said her mother.
“Come on, mother,” said Miss Ruck.
“We are going to look about a little,” explained the elder lady to me, by
way of taking leave.
“I know what that means,” remarked Mr. Ruck, as his companions moved
away. He stood looking at them a moment, while he raised his hand to his
head, behind, and stood rubbing it a little, with a movement that
displaced his hat. (I may remark in parenthesis that I never saw a hat
more easily displaced than Mr. Ruck’s.) I supposed he was going to say
something querulous, but I was mistaken. Mr. Ruck was unhappy, but he
was very good-natured. “Well, they want to pick up something,” he said.
“That’s the principal interest, for ladies.”