But solemn sound, or sober thought
The Fairies cannot bear;
They sing, inspired with love and joy,
Like skylarks in the air.
Of solid sense, or thought that’s grave,
You find no traces there.
Young Tamlane.
When old Lady Fordham’s long decay ended in death, Mrs. Evelyn would
not recall her sons to the funeral, but meant to go out herself to
join them, and offered to escort Mrs. Brownlow’s daughters to the
meeting-place. This was to be Engelberg, for Dr. Medlicott had decided
that after the month at Leukerbad all his patients would be much
the better for a breath of the pine-woods on the Alpine height, and
undertook to see them conveyed thither in time to meet the ladies.
This proposal set Miss Ogilvie free to join her brother, who had a
curacy in a seaside place where the season began just when the London
season ended. Her holiday was then to begin, and Janet was to write to
Mrs. Evelyn and declare herself ready to meet her in London at the time
appointed.
The arrangement was not to Janet’s taste. She thought herself perfectly
capable of escorting the younger ones, especially as they were to take
their maid, a capable person named Delrio, daughter of an Englishwoman
and a German waiter, and widow of an Italian courier, who was equal to
all land emergencies, and could speak any language. She belonged to the
young ladies. Their mother, not liking strangers about her, had, on old
nurse’s death, caused Emma to learn enough of the lady’s maid’s art for
her own needs at home, and took care of herself abroad.
Babie was enraptured to be going to Mother Carey and Armine, and Elvira
was enchanted to leave the schoolroom behind her, being fully aware that
she always had more notice and indulgence from outsiders than at home,
or indeed from anyone who had been disappointed at her want of all real
affection.
“You are just like a dragon fly,” said Babie to her; “all brightness
outside and nothing within.”
This unusually severe remark came from Babie’s indignation at Elvira’s
rebellion against going to River Hollow to take leave. It would be a
melancholy visit, for her grandfather had become nearly imbecile since
he had had a paralytic stroke, in the course of the winter, and good
sensible Mrs. Gould had died of fever in the previous autumn.
Elvira, who had never liked the place, now loathed it, and did not seem
capable of understanding Babie’s outburst.
“Not like to go and see them when they are ill and unhappy! Elfie, how
can you?”
“Of course I don’t! Grandpapa kisses me and makes me half sick.”
“But he is so fond of you.”
“I wish he wasn’t then. Why, Babie, are you going to cry? What’s the
matter?”
“It is very silly,” said Babie, winking hard to get rid of her tears;
“but it does hurt me so to think of the good old gentleman caring more
for you than anybody, and you not liking to go near him.”
“I can’t see what it matters to you,” said Elvira; “I wish you would go
instead of me, if you are so fond of him.”
“He wouldn’t care for me,” said Babie; “I’m not his ain lassie.”
“_His_ lassie! I’m a lady,” exclaimed the senorita, with the haughty
Spanish turn of the neck peculiar to herself.
“That’s not what I mean by a lady,” said Babie.
“What do you mean by it?” said Elvira, with a superior air.
“One who never looks down on anybody,” said Babie, thoughtfully.
“What nonsense!” rejoined the Elf; “as if any lady could like to hear
grandpapa maunder, and Mary scold and scream at the farm people, just
like the old peahen.”
“Miss Ogilvie said poor Mary was overstrained with having more to attend
to than she could properly manage, and that made her shrill.”
“I know it makes her very disagreeable; and so they all are. I hate the
place, and I don’t see why I should go,” grumbled Elvira.
“You will when you are older, and know what proper feeling is,” said
Miss Ogilvie, who had come within earshot of the last words. “Go and put
on your hat; I have ordered the pony carriage.”
“Shall I go, Miss Ogilvie?” asked Babie, as Elfie marched off sullenly,
since her governess never allowed herself to be disobeyed.
“I think I had better go, my dear; Elfie may be under more restraint
with me.”
“Please give old Mr. Gould and Mary and Kate my love, and I will run
and ask for some fruit for you to take to them,” said Babie, her tender
heart longing to make compensation.
Miss Ogilvie and her pouting companion were received by a
fashionable--nay, extra fashionable--looking person, whom Mary and Kate
Gould called Cousin Lisette, and the old farmer, Eliza Gould. While the
old man in his chair in the sun in the hot little parlour caressed, and
asked feeble repetitions of questions of his impatient granddaughter,
the lady explained that she had thrown up an excellent situation as
instructress in a very high family to act in the same capacity to her
motherless little cousins. She professed to be enchanted to meet Miss
Ogilvie, and almost patronised.
“I know what the life is, Miss Ogilvie, and how one needs companionship
to keep up one’s spirits. Whenever you are left alone, and would drop me
a line, I should be quite delighted to come and enliven you; or whenever
you would like to come over here, there’s no interruption by uncle; and
he, poor old gentleman, is quite--quite passe. The children I can always
dismiss. Regularity is my motto, of course, but I consider that an
exception in favour of my own friends does no harm, and indeed it is no
more than I have a right to expect, considering the sacrifices that I
have made for them. Mary, child, don’t cross your ankles; you don’t see
your cousin do that. Kate, you go and see what makes Betsy so long in
bringing the tea. I rang long ago.”
“I will go and fetch it,” said Mary, an honest, but harassed-looking
girl.
“Always in haste,” said Miss Gould, with an effort at good humour,
which Miss Ogilvie direfully mistrusted. “No, Mary, you must remain
to entertain your cousin. What are servants for but to wait on us? She
thinks nothing can be done without her, Miss Ogilvie, and I am forced to
act repression sometimes.”
“Indeed we do not wish for any tea,” said Miss Ogilvie, seeing Elvira
look as black as thunder; “we have only just dined.”
“But Elfie will have some sweet-cake; Elfie likes auntie’s sweet-cake,
eh?” said the old man.
“No, thank you,” said Elfie, glumly, though in fact she did care
considerably for sweets, and was always buying bonbons.
“No cake! Or some strawberries--strawberries and cream,” said her
grandfather. “Mr. Allen always liked them. And where is Mr. Allen now,
my dear?”
“Gone to Norway. It’s the fifth time I’ve told him so,” muttered Elvira.
“And where is Mr. Robert? And Mr. Lucas?” he went on. “Fine young
gentlemen all of them; but Mr. Allen is the pleasant-spoken one. Ain’t
he coming down soon? He always looks in and says, ‘I don’t forget your
good cider, Mr. Gould,’” and there was a feeble chuckling laugh and old
man’s cough.
“Do let me go into the garden; I’m quite faint,” cried Elvira, jumping
up.
It was true that the room was very close, rather medicinal, and not
improved by Miss Gould’s perfumes; but there was an alacrity about
Elfie’s movements, and a vehemence in the manner of her rejection of the
said essences, which made her governess not think her case alarming, and
she left her to the care of the young cousins, while trying to make
up for her incivility by courteously listening to and answering her
grandfather, and consuming the tea and sweet-cake.
When she went out to fetch her pupil to say goodbye, Miss Gould detained
her on the way to obtain condolence on the “dreadful trial that old
uncle was,” and speak of her own great devotion to him and the children,
and the sacrifices she had made. She said she had been at school
with Elvira’s poor mamma, “a sweetly pretty girl, poor dear, but so
indulged.”
And then she tried to extract confidences as to Mrs. Brownlow’s
intentions towards the child, in which of course she was baffled.
Elvira was found ranging among the strawberries, with Mary and Kate
looking on somewhat dissatisfied.
Both the poor girls looked constrained and unhappy, and Miss Ogilvie
wondered whether “Cousin Lisette’s” evident intentions of becoming a
fixture would be for their good or the reverse.
“Are you better, my dear?” asked she, affectionately.
“Yes, it was only the room,” said Elvira.
“You are a good deal there, are not you?” said Miss Ogilvie to Mary, who
had the white flabby look of being kept in an unwholesome atmosphere.
“Yes,” said Mary, wistfully, “but grandpapa does not like having me half
so much as Elvira. He is always talking about her.”
“You had better come back to him now, Elfie,” said Miss Ogilvie.
“It makes me ill,” said Elvira, with her crossest look.
Her governess laid her hand on her shoulder, and told her in a few
decided words, in the lowest possible voice, that she was not going away
till she had taken a properly respectful and affectionate leave of her
grandfather. Whereupon she knew further resistance was of no use, and
going hastily to the door of the room, called out--
“Good-bye, then, grandpapa.”
“Ah! my little beauty, are you there?” he asked, in a tone of bewildered
pleasure, holding out the one hand he could use.
Elvira was forced to let herself be held by it. She hoped to kiss his
brow, and escape; but the poor knotted fingers which had once been so
strong, would not let her go, and she had to endure many more kisses and
caresses and blessings than her proud thoughtless nature could endure
before she made her escape. And then “Cousin Lisette” insisted on a
kiss for the sake of her dear mamma; and Elfie could only exhale her
exasperation by rushing to the pony-carriage, avoiding all kisses to her
young cousins, taking the driving seat, and whipping up the ponies more
than their tender-hearted mistress would by any means have approved.
Miss Ogilvie abstained from either blame or argument, knowing that
it would only make her worse; and recollecting the old Undine theory,
wondered whether the Elf would ever find her soul, and think with tender
regret of the affection she was spurning.
The next day the travellers started, sleeping a couple of nights in Hyde
Corner, for convenience of purchases and preparations.
They were to meet Mrs. Evelyn at the station; but Janet, who foretold
that she would be another Serene Highness, soured by having missed the
family title, retarded their start till so late that there could be no
introduction on the platform; but seats had to be rushed for, while a
servant took the tickets.
However, a tall, elderly, military-looking gentleman with a great white
moustache, was standing by the open door of a carriage.
“Miss Brownlow,” said he, handing them in--Babie first, next Janet, and
then Elvira.
He then bowed to Miss Ogilvie, took his seat, handed in the
appurtenances, received, showed, and pocketed the tickets, negotiated
Janet’s purchase of newspapers, and constituted himself altogether
cavalier to the party.
Sir James Evelyn! Janet had no turn for soldiers, and was not gratified;
but Elvira saw that her blue eyes and golden hair were producing the
effect she knew how to trace; so she was graciously pleased to accept
Punch, and to smile a bewitching acceptance of the seat assigned to her
opposite to the old general.
Barbara was opposite to Mrs. Evelyn, and next to Sydney, a girl a few
months older than herself, but considerably taller and larger. Mother
and daughter were a good deal alike, save that the girl was fresh plump,
and rosy, and the mother worn, with the red colouring burnt as it were
into her thin cheeks. Yet both looked as if smiles were no strangers to
their lips, though there were lines of anxiety and sorrow traced round
Mrs. Evelyn’s temples. Their voices were sweet and full, and the elder
lady spoke with a tender intonation that inspired Babie with trustful
content and affection, but caused Janet to pass a mental verdict of
“Sugared milk and water.”
She immersed herself in her Pall Mall, and left Babie to exchange scraps
of intelligence from the brother’s letters, and compare notes on the
journey.
By-and-by Mrs. Evelyn retired into her book, and the two little girls
put their heads together over a newly-arrived acrostic, calling on Elfie
to assist them.
“Do you like acrostics?” she said, peeping up through her long eyelashes
at the old general.
“Oh, don’t tease Uncle James,” hastily interposed Sydney, as yet
inexperienced in the difference between the importunities of a merely
nice-looking niece, and the blandishments of a brilliant stranger. Sir
James said kindly--
“What, my dear?”
And when Elvira replied--
“Do help us to guess this. What does man love most below?” he put on a
droll face, and answered--
“His pipe.”
“O Uncle James, that’s too bad,” cried Sydney.
“If Jock had made this acrostic, it might be pipe,” said Babie; “but
this is Armine’s.”
It was thereupon handed to the elders, who read, in a boyish
handwriting--
Twins, parted from their rocky nest,
We run our wondrous race,
And now in tumult, now at rest,
Flash back heaven’s radiant face.
1. While both alike _this_ name we bear,
And both like life we flow,
2. And near us nestle sweet and fair
What man most loves below.
Alike it is our boasted claim
To nurse the precious juice
3. That maddened erst the Theban dame,
With streaming tresses loose.
4. The evening land is sought by one,
One rushes towards midday,
One to a vigil song has run,
One heard Red Freedom’s lay.
Tall castles, glorious battlefields
Graced this in ages past,
But now its mighty power that yields
5. To work my busy last.
“Is that your brother Armine’s own?” asked Sir James, surprised.
“O yes,” said Janet with impressive carelessness, “all my brothers have
a facility in stringing rhymes.”
“Not Bobus,” said Elvira.
“He does not think it worth while,” said Janet, again absorbing herself
in her paper, while the public united in guessing the acrostic; and the
only objection was raised by the exact General, who would not allow
that the “Marseillaise” was sung at the mouth of the Rhone, and defended
Ino’s sobriety.
Barbara and Sydney lived upon those acrostics in their travelling bags
till they reached Folkestone, and had grown intimate over them.
Sir James looked after the luggage, putting gently aside Janet’s
strong-minded attempt to watch over it, and she only retained her own
leathern travelling case, where she carried her personals, and which,
heavy as it was, she never let out of her immediate charge.
They all sat on deck, for there was a fine smooth summer sea, and no
one was deranged except the two maids, whom every one knew to be always
disabled on a voyage.
Janet had not long been seated, and was only just getting immersed in
her Contemporary, when she received a greeting which gratified her. It
was from somewhat of a lion, the author of some startling poems and
more startling essays much admired by Bobus, who had brought him to
some evening parties of his mother’s, not much to her delectation, since
there were ugly stories as to his private character. These were ascribed
by Bobus to pious malevolence, and Janet had accepted the explanation,
and cultivated a bowing acquaintance.
Hyde Corner was too agreeable a haunt to be despised, and Janet owed
her social successes more to her mother’s attractions than her own.
Conversation began by an inquiry after her brothers, whose adventures
had figured in the papers, and it went on to Janet’s own journey and
prospects. Her companion was able to tell her much that she wanted
to know about the university of Zurich, and its facilities for female
study. He was a well-known advocate of woman’s rights, and she scrupled
not to tell him that she was inquiring on her own account. Many men
would have been bored, and have only sought to free themselves from
this learned lady, but the present lion was of the species that prefer
roaring to an intelligent female audience, without the rough male
argumentative interruption, and Janet thus made the voyage with the
utmost satisfaction to herself.
Mrs. Evelyn asked Babie who her sister’s friend was. The answer was, “Do
you know, Elfie? You know so many more gentlemen than I do.”
“No,” replied Elvira, “I don’t. He looks like the stupid sort of man.”
“What is the stupid sort of man?” asked the General, as she intended.
“Oh! that talks to Janet.”
“Is everyone that talks to Janet stupid?”
“Of course,” said Elvira. “They only go on about stupid things no better
than lessons.”
Sir James laughed at her arch look, and shook his head at her, but then
made a tour among the other passengers, leaving her pouting a little
at his desertion. On his return, he sat down by his sister-in-law and
mentioned a name, which made her start and glance an inquiry whether she
heard aright. Then as he bent his head in affirmation, she asked, “Is
there anything to be done?”
“It is only for the crossing, and she is quite old enough to take care
of herself.”
“And it is evidently an established acquaintance, for which I am not
responsible,” murmured Mrs. Evelyn to herself.
She was in perplexity about these friends of her son’s. Ever since Cecil
had been at Eton, his beloved Brownlow had seemed to be his evil genius,
whose influence none of his resolutions or promises could for a moment
withstand. If she had acted on her own judgment, Cecil would never have
returned to Eton, but his uncle disapproved of his removal, especially
with the disgrace of the champagne supper unretrieved; and his penitent
letter had moved her greatly. Trusting much to her elder son and to Dr.
Medlicott, she had permitted the party to continue together, feeling
that it might be life or death to that other fatherless boy in whom Duke
was so much interested; and now she was going out to judge for herself,
and Sir James had undertaken to escort her, that they might together
come to a decision whether the two friends were likely to be doing one
another good or harm.
Mrs. Evelyn had lived chiefly in the country since her husband’s death,
and knew nothing of Mrs. Joseph Brownlow. So she looked with anxiety for
indications of the tone of the family who had captivated not only Cecil,
but Fordham, and seemed in a fair way of doing the same by Sydney. The
two hats, brown and black, were almost locked together all the voyage,
and indeed the feather of one once became entangled with the crape
of the other, so that they had to be extricated from above. There was
perhaps a little maternal anxiety at this absorption; but as Sydney was
sure to pour out everything at night, her mother could let things take
their course, and watch her delight in expanding, after being long shut
up in a melancholy house without young companions.
Elvira had a tone of arch simplicity which, in such a pretty creature,
was most engaging, and she was in high spirits with the pleasure of
being with new people, away from her schoolroom and from England,
neither of which she loved, so she chattered amiably and amusingly,
entertained Mrs. Evelyn, and fascinated Sir James.
Janet and her companion were less complacently regarded. Certainly the
girl (though less ancient-looking at twenty-one than at fourteen) had
the air of one well used to independence, so that she was no great
subject for responsibility; but she gave no favourable impression, and
was at no pains to do so. When she rejoined the party, Mrs. Evelyn asked
whether she had known that gentleman long.
“He is a friend of my brother Robert,” she answered. “Shall I introduce
you?”
Mrs. Evelyn declined in a quiet civil tone, that provoked a mental
denunciation of her as strait-laced and uncharitable, and as soon as the
gentleman returned to the neighbourhood, Janet again sought his company,
let him escort her ashore, and only came back to the others in the
refreshment-room, whither she brought a copy of a German periodical
which he had lent her. With much satisfaction Mrs. Evelyn filled the
railway carriage with her own party, so that there was no room for any
addition to their number. Nor indeed did they see any more of their
unwelcome fellow-traveller, since he was bound for the Hotel du Louvre,
and, to Janet’s undisguised chagrin, rooms were already engaged at the
Hotel Castiglione.
They came too late for the table d’hote, and partook of an extemporised
meal in their sitting-room immediately on their arrival, as the start
was to be early. Then it was that Janet missed her bag, her precious
bag! Delrio was sent all over the house to make inquiries whether it had
been taken to any other person’s room, but in vain. Mrs. Evelyn said she
had last seen it when they took their seats on board the steamer.
“Yes,” added Elvira, “you left it there when you went to walk up and
down with that gentleman.”
“Then why did not you take care of it? I don’t mean Elfie--nobody
expects her to be of any use; but you, Babie?”
“You never told me!” gasped Babie, aghast.
“You ought to have seen; but you never think of anything but your own
chatter.”
“It is a very inconvenient loss,” said Mrs. Evelyn, kindly. “Have you
sent to the station?”
“I shall, as soon as I am satisfied that it is not here. I can send
out for the things I want for use; but there are books and papers of
importance, and my keys.”
“The key of mother’s davenport?” cried Babie. “Was it there? O Janet,
Janet!”
“You should have attended to it, then,” said Janet sharply.
Delrio knocked at the door with an account of her unsuccessful mission,
and Sir James, little as the young lady deserved it, concerned himself
about sending to the station, and if the bag were not forthcoming there,
telegraphing to Boulogne the first thing in the morning.
While Janet was writing particulars and volubly instructing the
commissionaire, Mrs. Evelyn saw Babie’s eyes full of tears, and her
throat swelling with suppressed sobs. She held out an arm and drew the
child to her, saying kindly, “I am sure you would have taken care of the
bag if you had been asked, my dear.”
“It’s not that, thank you,” said Babie, laying her head on the kind
shoulder, “for I don’t think it was my fault; but mother will be so
sorry for her key. It is the key of her davenport, and father’s picture
is there, and grandmamma’s, and the card with all our hairs, and she
will be so sorry.”
And Babie cried the natural tears of a tired child, whom anything would
overcome after her long absence from her mother. Mrs. Evelyn saw how
it was, and, as Delrio was entirely occupied with the hue and cry,
she herself took the little girl away, and helped her to bed, tenderly
soothing and comforting her, and finding her various needments. Among
them were her “little books,” but they could not be found, and her eyes
looked much too tired to use them, especially as the loss again brought
the ready moisture. “My head feels so funny, I can’t think of anything,”
she said.
“Shall I do as I used when Sydney was little?” and Mrs. Evelyn knelt
down with her, and said one or two short prayers.
Babie murmured her thanks, nestled up to her and kissed her, but added
imploringly, “My Psalm. Armie and I always say our Psalm at bed-time,
and think of each other. He did it out on the moraine.”
“Will it do if you lie down and I say it to you?”
There was another fond, grateful nestling kiss, and some of the Psalms
were gone through in the soft, full cadences of a voice that had gained
unconscious pathos by having many times used them as a trustful lullaby
to a weary sufferer.
If Babie heard the end, it was in the sweetness of sleep, and when Mrs.
Evelyn left her, it was with far less judicial desire to inquire into
the subject of that endless conversation which had lasted, with slight
intermission, from London to Paris. She was not long left in ignorance,
for no sooner had Sydney been assured that nothing ailed Barbara but
fatigue, than she burst out, “Mamma, she is the nicest girl I ever saw.”
“Do you like her better than Elvira?”
“Of course I do,” most emphatically. “Mamma, she loves Sir Kenneth of
the Leopard as much as I do.”
Mrs. Evelyn was satisfied. While Sir Kenneth of the Leopard remained
the object of the young ladies’ passion, there was not much fear of any
nonsense that was not innocent and happy.
No news of the bag. Janet was disposed to go back herself or send
Delrio, but Sir James declared this impossible; nor would the Evelyns
consent to disturb the plan of the journey, and disappoint those who
expected them at Engelberg on Saturday by waiting at Paris for tidings.
Janet in vain told herself that she was not under their control, and
tried to remain behind by herself with her maid. They had a quiet,
high-bred decisive way of taking things for granted, and arranging
for her and she found herself unable to resist; but whenever, in after
times, she was unpleasantly reminded of her loss, she always charged it
upon them.
Otherwise the journey was prosperous. Elfie was on the terms of a
saucy pet with the General, and Babie’s bright, gentle courtesy and
unselfishness won Mrs. Evelyn’s heart, while she and Sydney were as
inseparable as ever.
In fact Sydney had been made free of Jotapata. That celebrated
romance had been going on all these years with the elision of several
generations; because though few members of the family were allowed to
see their twenty-fifth year, it was impossible to squeeze them all into
the crusading times; and besides the reigning favourites must be treated
to an adventure with Coeur de Lion.
Even thus abridged, it bade fair to last throughout the journey, both
the little maidens being sufficiently experienced travellers to care
little for the sights from the French railway, and being only stimulated
to talk and listen the more eagerly when interrupted by such trifles as
meals, companions, and calls to look at objects far less interesting.
“Look, my dears; we are coming to the mountains. There is the first
snowy head.”
“Yes, mamma,” but the hats were together again in the corner.
“Come, Sydney, don’t lose this wonderful winding valley.”
“I see, Uncle James. Beautiful!” popping back instantly with, “Go on,
Babie, dear. How did Sir Gilbert get them out of that horrid defile full
of Turks? It is true, you said.”
“True that Louis VII. and Queen Eleanor got into that dreadful mess.
Armine found it in Sismondi, but nobody knew who Sir Gilbert was except
ourselves; and we are quite sure he was Sir Gilbert of the Ermine, the
son of the brother who thought it his duty to stay at home.”
“Sir Philibert? Oh, yes! I know.”
“There are some verses about the Iconium Pass, written out in our
spotted book, but I can say some of them.”
“Oh, do!”
“‘The rock is steep, the gorge is deep,
Mount Joye St. Denys;
But King Louis bold his way doth hold,
Mount Joye St. Denys.
Ho ho, the ravine is ‘narrow I ween,
Lah billah el billah, hurrah.
The hills near and far the Frank’s way do bar,
Lah billah el billah, hurrah.”
“It ought to be ‘Allah el Allah,’ but you know that really does mean a
holy name, and Armine thought we ought not to have it. It was delightful
making the ballad, for all the Christian verses have ‘Mount Joye St.
Denys’ in the different lines, and all the Turkish ones ‘Lah billah,’
till Sir Gilbert comes in, and then his war-cry goes instead--
“‘On, on, ye Franks, hew down their ranks,
Up, merry men, for the Ermine!
For Christian right ‘gainst Pagan might,
Up, merry men, for the Ermine!’
but one day Jock got hold of it, and wrote a parody on it.”
“Oh what a shame! Weren’t you very angry?”
“It was so funny, one could not help laughing.
“‘Come on, old Turk, you’ll find hot work--
Pop goes the weasel!
They cut and run; my eyes, what fun!--
Pop goes the weasel!’”
“How could you bear it? I won’t hear a bit more. It is dreadful.”
“Miss Ogilvie says if one likes a thing very much, parodies don’t hurt
one’s love,” said Babie.
“But what did Sir Gilbert do?”
“He rode up to where Louis was standing with his back against a rock,
and dismounted saying ‘My liege--’”
“I thought he was an Englishman?”
“Oh, but you always called a king ‘my liege,’ whoever you were. ‘My
liege,’ he said--”
“Look at that charming little church tower.”
“I see, thank you.”
“I see, Uncle James. No, thank you, I don’t want to look out any more. I
saw it. Well, Babie, ‘My liege--’”
“Never mind, James,” said Mrs. Evelyn, “one can’t be more than in
Elysium.”
There were fewer conveniences for the siege on the last day of the
journey, when railroads were no more; but something could be done on
board the steamer in spite of importunities from those who thought it
a duty to look at the shores of the Lake of Lucerne, and when arrival
became imminent, happy anticipation inclined Barbara to a blissful
silence. Mrs. Evelyn saw her great hazel eyes shining like stars, and
began to prefer the transparent mask of that ardent little soul to the
external beauty which made Elvira a continual study for an artist.