Towards the end of the summer, during the height of which Mrs. Lennox’s
party had returned to the Italian lakes, one of the friends she made at
Cadenabbia represented to that good woman that her rheumatism, from
which she had suffered during the winter, though perhaps not quite so
severely as she imagined, made it absolutely necessary to go through a
“cure” at Aix-les-Bains, where, as everybody knows, rheumatism is
miraculously operated upon by the waters. Aunt Sophy was very much
excited by this piece of advice. In the company which she had been
frequenting of late, at the _tables d’hôte_ and in the public
promenades, she had begun to perceive that it was scarcely respectable
for a person of a certain age not to go through a yearly “cure” at some
one or other of a number of watering-places. It indicated a state of
undignified health and robustness which was not quite nice for a lady no
longer young. There were many who went to Germany, to the different
_bads_ there, and a considerable number whose “cure” was in France, and
some even who sought unknown springs in Switzerland and Italy; but,
taken on the whole, very few indeed were the persons over fifty of
either sex who did not reckon a “cure” occupying three weeks or so of
the summer or autumn as a necessary part of the routine of life. To all
Continental people it was indispensable, and there were many Americans
who crossed the ocean for this purpose, going to Carlsbad or to
Kissingen or somewhere else with as much regularity as if they had lived
within a railway journey of the place. Only the English were careless on
so important a subject, but even among them many become convinced of the
necessity day by day.
Mrs. Lennox, when this idea fully penetrated her mind, and she had
blushed to think how far she was behind in so essential a particular of
life, had a strong desire to go to Homburg, where all the “best people”
went, and where there was quite a little supplementary London season,
after the conclusion of the genuine article. But, unfortunately, there
was nothing the matter with her digestion. Her rheumatism was the only
thing she could bring forward as entitling her to any position at all
among the elderly ladies and gentlemen who in August were setting out
for, or returning from, their “cures.” “Oh, then, of course, it is Aix
you must go to,” her informants said; “it is a little late, perhaps, in
September--most of the best people will have gone--still, you know, the
waters are just as good, and the great heat is over. You could not do
better than Aix.” One of the ladies who thus instructed her was even
kind enough to suggest the best hotel to go to, and to proffer her own
services, as knowing all about it, to write and secure rooms for her
friend. “It is a pity you did not go three weeks ago, when all the best
people were there; but, of course, the waters are just the same,” this
benevolent person repeated. Mrs. Lennox became, after a time, very eager
on this subject. She no longer blushed when her new acquaintances talked
of their cure. She explained to new-comers, “It is a little late, but it
did not suit my arrangements before; and, of course, the waters are the
same, though the best people are gone.” Besides, it was always, she
said, on the way home, whatever might happen.
They set off accordingly, travelling in a leisurely way, in the
beginning of September. Mrs. Lennox felt that it was expedient to go
slowly, to have something of the air of an invalid before she began her
“cure.” Up to this moment she had borne a stray twinge of pain when it
came, in her shoulder or her knee, and thought it best to say nothing
about it; but now she made a little grimace when that occurred, and
said, “Oh, my shoulder!” or complained of being stiff when she got out
of the carriage. It was only right that she should feel her ailments a
little more than usual when she began her cure.
The hotels were beginning to empty when the English party, so helpless,
so used to comfort, so inviting to everybody that wanted to make money
out of them, appeared. They were received, it is needless to say, with
open arms, and had the best suites of rooms to choose from. Mrs. Lennox
felt herself to grow in importance from the moment she entered the
place. She felt more stiff than ever when she got out of the carriage
and was led up-stairs, the anxious landlady suggesting that there was a
chair in which she could be carried to her apartment if the stairs were
too much for her. “Oh, I think I can manage to walk up if I am not
hurried,” Aunt Sophy said. It would have been quite unkind, almost
improper, not to adopt the _rôle_ which suited the place. She went up
quite slowly, holding by the baluster, while the children, astonished,
crowded up after her, wondering what had happened. “I think I will take
your arm, Rosalind,” murmured the simple woman. She did really feel much
stiffer than usual; and then there was that pain in her shoulder. “I am
so glad I have suffered myself to be persuaded to come. I wonder Dr.
Tennant did not order me here long ago; for I really think in my present
condition I never should have been able to get home.” Even Rosalind was
much affected by this suggestion, and blamed herself for never having
discovered how lame Aunt Sophy was growing. “But it is almost your own
fault, for you never showed it,” she said. “My dear, I did not, of
course, want to make you anxious,” replied Mrs. Lennox.
The doctor came next morning, and everything was settled about the
“cure.” He told the new-comers that there were still a good many people
in Aix, and that all the circumstances were most favorable. Mrs. Lennox
was taken to her bath in a chair the day after, and went through all the
operations which the medical man thought requisite. He spoke excellent
English--which was such a comfort. He told his patient that the air of
the place where the cure was to be effected often seemed to produce a
temporary recrudescence of the disease. Aunt Sophy was much exhilarated
by this word. She talked of this chance of a recrudescence in a soft and
subdued tone, such as became her invalid condition, and felt a most
noble increase of dignity and importance as she proceeded with her
“cure.”
Rosalind was one of the party who took least to this unexpected delay.
She had begun to be very weary of the travelling, the monotony of the
groups of new acquaintances all so like each other, the atmosphere of
hotels, and all the vulgarities of a life in public. To the children it
did not matter much; they took their walks all the same whether they
were at the Elms or Aix-les-Bains, and had their nursery dinner at their
usual hour, whatever happened. The absorption of Mrs. Lennox in her
“cure” threw Rosalind now entirely upon the society of these little
persons. She went with them, or rather they went with her, in her
constant expeditions to the lake, which attracted her more than the
tiresome amusements of the watering-place, and thus all their little
adventures and encounters--incidents which in other circumstances might
have been overlooked--became matters of importance to her.
It was perhaps because he was the only boy in the little feminine party,
or because he was the youngest, that Johnny was invariably the principal
personage in all these episodes of childish life. He it was whom the
ladies admired, whom strangers stopped to talk to, who was the little
hero of every small excitement. His beautiful eyes, the boyish boldness
which contrasted so strongly with little Amy’s painful shyness, and even
with his own little pale face and unassured strength, captivated the
passers-by. He was the favorite of the nursery, which was now presided
over by a nurse much more enlightened than Russell, a woman recommended
by the highest authorities, and who knew, or was supposed to know,
nothing of the family history. Rosalind had heard vaguely, without
paying much attention, of various admirers who had paid their tribute
to the attractions of her little brother, but it was not until her
curiosity was roused by the appearance of a present in the form of a
handsome and expensive mechanical toy, the qualities of which Johnny
expounded with much self-importance and in a loud voice, that she was
moved to any remark. The children were on the floor near her, full of
excitement. “Now it shall run round and round, and now it shall go
straight home,” Johnny said, while Amy watched and listened
ecstatically, a little maiden of few words, whose chief qualities were a
great power of admiration and a still greater of love.
Rosalind was seated musing by the window, a little tired, wondering when
the “cure” would be over, and if Aunt Sophy would then recover the use
of her limbs again, and consent to go home. Mrs. Lennox was always good
and kind, and the children were very dear to their mother-sister; but
now and then, not always, perhaps not often, there comes to a young
woman like Rosalind a longing for companionship such as neither aunts or
children can give. Neither the children nor her aunt shared her
thoughts; they understood her very imperfectly on most occasions; they
had love to give her, but not a great deal more. She sighed, as people
do when there is something wanting to them, then turned upon herself
with a kind of rage and asked, “What did she want?” as girls will do on
whom it has been impressed that this wish for companionship is a thing
that is wrong, perhaps unmaidenly. But, after all, there was no harm in
it. Oh, that Uncle John were here! she said to herself. Even Roland
Hamerton would have been something. He could have tried at least his
very best to think as she did. Oh, that--! She did not put any name to
this aspiration. She was not very sure who--which--it meant, and then
she breathed a still deeper sigh, and tears came to her eyes. Oh! for
_her_ of whom nobody knew where she was wandering or in what
circumstances she might be. She heard the children’s voices vaguely
through her thinking, and by and by a word caught her ear.
“The lady said I was to do it like this. She did it for me on the table
out in the garden. It nearly felled down,” said Johnny, “and then it
would have broken itself, so she put it on the ground and went down on
her knees.”
“Oh, what did she go on her knees for, like saying her prayers, Johnny?”
“Nothin’ of the sort. She just went down like this and caught hold of
me. I expose,” said Johnny, whose language was not always correct, “she
is stiff, like Aunt Sophy; for I was far more stronger and kept her up.”
“Who is this that he is talking of, Amy?” Rosalind said.
The little girl gave her a look which had some meaning in it, Rosalind
could not tell what, and, giving Johnny a little push with her arm after
the easy method of childhood, said, “Tell her,” turning away to examine
the toy.
“It was the lady,” Johnny said, turning slightly round as on a pivot,
and lifting to her those great eyes which Aunt Sophy had said were
like--and which always went straight to Rosalind’s heart.
“What lady, dear? and where did you get that beautiful toy?” Rosalind
followed the description the child had been giving, and came and knelt
on the carpet beside him. “How pretty it is! Did Aunt Sophy give you
that?”
“It was the lady,” Johnny repeated.
“What lady? Was it a stranger, Amy, that gave him such a beautiful toy?”
“I think, Miss Rosalind,” said the nurse, coming to the rescue, “it is
some lady that has lost her little boy, and that he must have been about
Master Johnny’s age. I said it was too much, and that you would not like
him to take it; but she said the ladies would never mind if they knew it
was for the sake of another--that she had lost.”
“Poor lady!” Rosalind said; the tears came to her eyes in sudden
sympathy; “that must be so sad, to lose a child.”
“It is the greatest sorrow in this world, to be only sorrow,” the woman
said.
“Only sorrow! and what can be worse than that?” said innocent Rosalind.
“Is the lady very sad, Johnny? I hope you were good and thanked her for
it. Perhaps if I were with him some day she would speak to me.”
“She doesn’t want nobody but me,” said Johnny. “Oh, look! doesn’t it go.
It couldn’t go on the ground because of the stones. Amy, Amy, get out of
the way, it will run you over. And now it’s going home to take William a
message. I whispered in it, so it knows what to say.”
“But I want to hear about the lady, Johnny.”
“Oh, look, look! it’s falled on the carpet; it don’t like the carpet any
more than the stones. I expose it’s on the floor it will go best, or on
the grass. Nurse, come along, let’s go out and try it on the grass.”
“Johnny, stop! I want to know more about this lady, dear.”
“Oh, there is nothing about her,” cried the little boy, rushing after
his toy. Sophy, who had been practising, got up from the piano and came
forward to volunteer information.
“She’s an old fright,” said Sophy. “I’ve seen her back--dressed all in
mourning, with a thick veil on. She never took any notice of us others
that have more sense than Johnny. I could have talked to her, but he
can’t talk to anybody, he is so little and so silly. All he can say is
only stories he makes up; you think that is clever, but I don’t think it
is clever. If I were his--aunt,” said Sophy, with a momentary
hesitation, “I would whip him. For all that is lies, don’t you know? You
would say it was lies if I said it, but you think it’s poetry because of
Johnny. Poetry is lies, Rosalind, yes, and novels too. They’re not true,
so what can they be but lies? that’s why I don’t care to read them. No,
I never read them, I like what’s true.”
Rosalind caught her book instinctively, which was all she had left. “We
did not ask you for your opinion about poetry, Sophy; but if this lady
is so kind to Johnny I should like to go and thank her. Next time you
see her say that Johnny’s sister would like to thank her. If she has
lost her little boy we ought to be very sorry for her,” Rosalind said.
Sophy looked at her with an unmoved countenance. “I think people are a
great deal better off that are not bothered with children,” she said; “I
should send the little ones home, and then we could do what we liked,
and stay as long as we liked,” quoth the little woman of the world.