The wedding--Colonel Lockhart's and Countess Vera's--when it came off,
was a very grand affair indeed. General Lockhart, than whom there was
no more gallant or distinguished an officer in America, came over to
England to attend the nuptials, and by his handsome appearance and
widespread fame, added prestige to the grand occasion.
Sir Harry Clive gave away the bride, and little Dot, his daughter, was
one of the bride's-maids. Lady Clive declared that she had never been
so happy in her life as in the hour when Lady Vera was married to her
darling brother.
People said afterward that they were the handsomest couple ever married
in London. Colonel Lockhart was so grandly handsome, Lady Vera so
dazzlingly fair. Her bridal dress was a marvel of richness and beauty.
Her _trousseau_ was all that could be desired by a woman's heart.
The bridal gifts were numerous and costly. The countess was so much
admired, and her sad and romantic story had excited such interest
and sympathy that her friends vied with each other in the beauty and
richness of their gifts, as if desirous to add in every way to the
pleasure of her bridal-hour.
Colonel Lockhart scarcely knew what to give his bride, her gifts were
so varied and so costly, but he studied out a design of his own, and
had the jeweler reproduce it. It was a beautiful locket, containing his
own picture. The setting on the carved back was a perfect crimson rose,
formed of magnificent rubies.
"In memory of the rose whose message failed that night when I went back
to America," he said, with a smile, as he placed it in her hand.
She sighed and smiled as memory brought back that night with its hopes,
and fears, and crowning failure. She remembered the song and the rose,
and how both had failed to carry their story to his wounded heart.
Then she opened the locket, and forgot all else in the sight of her
husband's handsome, happy face beaming out upon her.
"Oh, how I thank you, Philip," she cried, rapturously. "It is
beautiful."
"The picture or the locket?" he asks, laughing, yet inwardly deeply
moved.
"Both," she answers, pressing the crimson flower of her lips upon the
pictured face. "This shall always be my dearest jewel!"
* * * * *
Countess Vera's bridal tour was to the United States. Her husband was
thoroughly patriotic, and desired to rid her mind of the prejudice she
had taken against her native land, owing to the trials of her early
youth.
They traveled leisurely and pleasantly all over their own native
country, mixed in society, and viewed everything dispassionately, until
the lovely countess owned that she had erred in disliking America and
Americans.
"Yet I have nobly atoned for my early mistake by taking an American for
my husband," she always declares, when Colonel Lockhart twits her with
her early aversion.
One day they found themselves in the beautiful city of Washington, and
Lady Vera expressed a wish to visit her mother's grave.
It was a lovely day in spring, sweet with the breath of early flowers,
when they strolled through the whispering shades of Glenwood to seek
the quiet grave where Mrs. Campbell's broken heart had found rest and
peace. The turf was springing green and freshly above the low mound,
and fragrant violets and tender daisies starred the ground. On the
marble cross at the head of the grave was carved her name and age, and
one passionate plaint from her husband's bleeding and remorseful heart:
"Oh, God, since she could die,
The world's a grave, and hope lies buried here."
"Poor mother, poor father!" Lady Vera weeps, her tears falling on the
green grass for the sad fate of those two who had given her life.
When she lifts her head again she sees her husband standing by the
opposite mound beneath the shadow of a tall, pretentious monument.
"Do you care to see this, my darling?" he asks her, very gently.
Silently she glides to his side, and circled by his fond, protecting
arm, reads the brief inscription, not without something of a shudder
creeping over her sensitive frame.
"VERA,
WIFE OF LESLIE NOBLE.
Aged Seventeen."
"It is such a falsehood I cannot bear to see it there," she says. "You
must have the letters removed, Philip. I cannot bear to know that my
name is carved upon a tombstone while I am so full of young, happy,
bounding life."
"I think you are right, my darling," Colonel Lockhart answers, and he
takes care to carry out her wish. The lying inscription is carefully
erased from the white marble tablet.
"When I am really dead, Philip, I shall want some kind and loving words
carved on the marble above my head," she says; "I shall want the world
to know that I was loved and missed. How cold, how brief, how unloving
was that inscription."
Then glancing into his face she sees it working with some deep emotion.
"Let us come away from this spot, Vera," he says, nervously. "I tremble
to think that once you lay buried here beneath this springing turf.
What if I had missed you from my life forever?"
"You would have married Miss Montgomery, doubtless," she answers, with
a spice of mischief.
"Never," he answers, most emphatically, as he leads her away. "You were
my fate, darling. If I had never met you I should never have loved nor
married."
They remain in America several years. Lady Vera shrinks from returning
home while the memory of her strange, romantic story is yet fresh in
the public mind. But after awhile circumstances induce them to make
England their home.
Colonel Lockhart having already left the army to please his wife,
nothing remains but to set their faces toward England and Fairvale.
There is no fear that Raleigh Gilmore will ever inherit Fairvale
now, for Countess Vera has two lovely children--a dark-eyed boy and
blue-eyed girl--who are as beautiful, as healthy and brilliant as their
parents' hearts could wish. Countess Vera calls them Lawrence and
Edith, in loving memory of the dead.
[THE END.]
[Illustration]
THE MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY.
Of course I was "altogether out of sorts," and "worry had told upon
me." There was no need of young Hunter, fresh from English and foreign
hospitals, with all the latest scientific discoveries and the longest
scientific terms at his fingers' ends, to inform me of that little
fact; my own common sense could arrive at that conclusion unassisted.
What did puzzle me about it was the connection between mind and matter;
why a mental anxiety resulted in a shooting pain, and why the annoyance
I had lately undergone should have a tendency to develop bunions.
Hunter laughed when I asked him the reason of this, and then he said:
"If I were you, Mr. Slocombe, I would just run up to town one day and
see Sir Percival Pylle; he is quite at the top of the profession for
a case like yours, and I should feel more satisfied in treating you
afterward when you have had his opinion."
The young man spoke modestly enough--more so than these overtaught
young gentlemen of the present day are in the habit of doing--but
there was a laugh in his eye all the time, and I have since led him to
confess that he did not believe he should ever get me to submit to his
orders unless some medical Colossus had first laid down the law in the
same direction.
It was a great loss to this neighborhood when good old Dr. Manners
died. We all knew and believed in him; he had vaccinated the last
three generations, helped them through croup and measles, had lanced
their babies' gums, and attended the funerals of at least half the
parish twice over; and now that he was gone we none of us had the least
idea how to be ill without him. Young Mr. Hunter had been with Dr.
Manners for a short time before his death; but what are a few months'
experience compared to that of the man who has known and physicked
you from the day of your birth? So there was a little division of
feeling about Hunter; the young folks, who could not be expected to
have old heads on their shoulders, extolled his cleverness and skill;
but we elders did not commit ourselves so unreservedly, and there was
a tacit agreement amongst us that in case we had to call in the new
doctor, it would be well not to trust him too fully as to our ailments,
confiding to his ear such symptoms merely as we thought him capable of
understanding, and reserving to ourselves our own opinions, while we
took those he expressed _cum grano_.
He was quite right, though, in saying that worry had told upon me.
Why, worry enough to tell upon a large family had thought proper to
concentrate itself upon me, Adolphus Slocombe, a quiet single gentleman
no longer walking on what is called the sunny side of fifty. First,
there was that law-suit--the one, I mean, which had been dragging on
for years about Crofton's Spinney; and when the case was settled this
spring in my favor, the expenses of litigation so nearly balanced the
value of the property, that the modest sum of £7 10_s._ 3_d._ was all
the gain resulting from the trouble and anxiety of the law-suit. The
wind was very much in the east, too, this spring. I remember there was
a biting frost the very day my lawyer's bill came in--a frost that cut
off all the young wall-fruit which a previous mild fortnight had coaxed
into setting. I am partial to wall-fruit, particularly so to what is
grown in my own garden; in fact, the garden is a hobby of mine, and
those long, red-brick walls, on which the sun shines soft and warm when
other aspects are in chilly shadow, had been a sheet of blossoms pink
and promising, and such as not one of all my neighbors could exhibit,
only the day before.
People say calamities are apt to hunt in couples; mine came just then
in a regular pack. I was trying to be quiet for a while after dinner,
and, sitting in a cozy chair by the dining-room fire, had just thrown a
handkerchief across my forehead, the better to think over my troubles
undisturbed by the lights in the room, when a knock sounded on the
door, and my housekeeper presented herself with:
"If you please, sir, could I speak to you?"
Her voice sounded rather odd, and she had a nervous way with her hands
so altogether unlike herself that I knew at once some fresh catastrophe
had happened, and she was come to "break it" to me. I had told her
to shut the door behind her, which she did; and then, as she stood
trembling and hesitating just inside the room, I added, to reassure her:
"Well, Mrs. Parker, what is it? I am afraid the cows must be ill, or
one of the maids has given you trouble, and you want me to give her
warning."
"If you please, sir," replied Parker, as though that really was just
what she wanted.
"But which is it?" I asked, "the cows or the housemaids?"
"Please sir," began Mrs. Parker again; then she paused for a full
minute, and finally burst out quite suddenly, "It's me, sir, please."
"You, Parker? I don't understand," which was certainly not surprising,
considering the want of clearness in her remarks. However, now she had
begun to speak, she seemed to feel more equal to the occasion, and
presently went on:
"Please, sir, it's me, sir; you said 'to give warning,' you know, sir."
"Oh, indeed!" returned I, equally surprised and annoyed at this piece
of self-assertion on the part of my old servant. "So you think, Mrs.
Parker, that it is your place rather than mine to give warning to my
domestics? I cannot say that I agree with you. I give you leave to
choose and select the maids for yourself, and when they disobey you
and give trouble I am willing to part with them on your advice; but
servants shall not enter upon or quit my service unless I engage them
or dismiss them myself. You have lived with me a great many years,
Parker; but I intend to be master in my own house, and there must be a
limit to your powers."
I had worked myself up into quite an angry mood by this time; as to
Parker, she incontinently fell a-sobbing in the very middle of my
speech.
She drew a little nearer when I paused, and, "Oh, Mr. Adolphus," says
she, "my dear, dear master, 'tisn't nothing like as what you're saying.
I wouldn't never go to ask for more power nor is my due here, and
faithfully I've tried to do my duty to you these thirty years and more,
but--but--but--there, sir, 'tis Sir Arthur Prynne's coachman, sir--him
that has the south lodge and lost his wife a year agone last Martinmas;
and, if you please, sir, I'd be glad and sorry, too, indeed, sir, to
leave you this day month."
The murder was out now, but what a preposterous notion!
"My good woman, have you taken leave of your senses!" I asked.
"Please, sir----"
"But I do not please at all, Parker. Why in the world should you want
to be married? It is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of. You are
as comfortable as you can possibly be here; you have a good home, good
food, servants under you, and, I hope and believe, a good master."
"Yes, sir," sniffed through a pocket-handkerchief.
"Then," I went on, warming with my subject, "you have good wages,
haven't you? I'll raise them, if you wish it. And you have taken brevet
rank, you know; why, all the parish calls you Mrs. Parker, and I do
not believe there is a living soul besides myself that recollects your
proper style and title should be Sarah Parker, spinster. Don't you
see that you have everything to lose and nothing whatever to gain in
marrying Sir Arthur Prynne's coachman? Why, he has I don't know how
many children, and they will be the death of you, Parker; plague your
life out. Now, do make up your mind to be a sensible woman and stay
where you are, and I will see that you shall never come to want when
your working days are over."
Anybody would have thought that I had given her reasons enough, and
good ones, too, against this marriage, but wilful woman will have her
way, and a most particularly obstinate and wilful woman Sarah Parker
was in this matter. She wanted for nothing in my house, and she had
loved me all my life, but Abel Driver's sons were all out in the world;
one daughter was in good service, and the others were married; and, in
short, her fixed intention was to become the coachman's wife and live
in Sir Arthur's south lodge, so I gave up the point at last, merely
observing:
"Well, if you will, you must, and I shall say no more about the matter
except to caution you that Driver's lodge stands very near the lake,
and I have seen a thick white mist rising scores of times in that part
of the park. You are subject to rheumatism, and to my certain knowledge
turned sixty; so I advise you to think how it will suit your bones to
be running out to open and shut the gates at all hours, before you
give Abel Driver his final answer."
Parker was not much pleased at these remarks, meant in all kindly
warning; perhaps she did not like any allusion to her age: anyhow, she
went away at once, and left me, rather shaken by the sudden news she
had brought me, to ponder over the complications and inconveniences
which result from indiscriminate matrimony, and to wonder what was to
become of me without my worthy housekeeper.
The next day I sent for Hunter, and two days afterward I went to London
and saw Sir Percival Pylle. There was not much agreeable sauvity in the
great man's manner, and he listened to the account of my symptoms with
an engaging smile; but when it became his turn to speak, the first word
that fell from his lips was not a pretty one, nor pleasant for me to
hear.
"_Gout_, my dear sir, nothing but gout," laughing lightly, as though
the whole matter was as simple as possible. "Allow me to congratulate
you. This will add ten years to your life. A very fashionable, indeed,
I may say a very aristocratic, complaint it is just now."
Sir Percival's face broadened with a genial smile--mine lengthened.
I have always had a constitutional, it may have been a prophetic,
objection to gout, and now I was coolly told its clutches were already
upon me.
"Really, sir," said I, "I cannot imagine what should lead you to say
this. I am not aware of having any symptoms of this malady."
"Of course not, of course not. Why, if people knew what was the matter
with them, and how to treat themselves, where would be the use of us
doctors? We should soon become only an additional item, and a rather
large one, in your poor-rates. But you limped a little, Mr. Slocombe,
as you entered my room; may I ask why?"
"Bunions," I replied, with decision, "very bad bunions."
"But not always equally painful? Worse some days, and better others?
Boots feel a good fit this week and unbearably tight the next? Bunion
red, shiny, swollen and puffy to the touch?"
I bowed my head in assent.
"Just so, just so. Call it _bunions_, Mr. Slocombe, if you please. Ha,
ha! a capital joke, that; but _gout_ is a shorter word to say, and a
truer one; don't waste too much breath or too many syllables over your
ailments."
I was beginning to hate the pleasant laugh that made so light of my
distresses, and I asked rather stiffly:
"What do you prescribe, Sir Percival?"
"Been abroad much? No? That's right. Change of air and scene will do
you infinite good, cheer up your spirits, and give you something fresh
to think about. Let me see, Salzbrun, I think, will be the thing for
you; charming place, very lively. Put yourself under the care of my
good friend Dr. Trinkwasser; he will regulate your use of the mineral
waters, and in six weeks they will make another man of you. No more
_gout_ then, sir. I'll write you a little prescription for present
use." (Scribble, scribble, scribble, went the long-tailed goose-quill.)
"There, sir, that note explains to Dr. Trinkwasser all that I need tell
him. Start this week, if possible; _bon voyage_! Good-day; _thank you_,
much obliged. _Good_-morning." And leaving a neatly-papered fee in the
white hand that shook mine, I quitted the doctor's presence to think
over the advice he had given me.
Presently I hailed a passing cab, and told the man to drive to my
brother Herbert's address. Herbert is a clergyman, and is wearing
out his life and strength in an East-end parish, where his wife and
children lead lives scarcely less busy than his own. Very few of the
party were at home on this occasion; only half a dozen, including the
father and mother, sat down to the early dinner which supplied me
with lunch; but the sight of so many cheerful faces round the table
was a pleasant change from my usual solitary meals. Herbert is many
years younger than I am; but he married early, and the eldest of his
ten children is a bright, merry-looking girl of eighteen, Emmie by
name. She is, more-over, my god-child, and is rather a favorite of
mine, because I see no foolish, nonsensical young ladyism about her.
She does not disfigure herself with a fuzz of hair dangling over her
eyes, but has nice sensible shining locks, which always look clean
and well-brushed. She was paler than usual to-day, and there was
listlessness in her manner such as I had never seen before in buoyant
Emmie. I could not help remarking upon it to her mother when she was
out of the room; and Miriam sighed and looked a little anxious as she
answered:
"I do not think Emmie _is_ very well, Adolphus. She had a heavy
influenza cold in the spring, just after we had all been afflicted with
mumps, and she has never been quite herself since. The doctor calls it
lassitude and want of tone."
"And what does he do for her?"
"He has prescribed a tonic, which she is taking regularly; but what
she really wants, he says, is a thorough change of air and scene, and
that, you know, we cannot give her until we take our holiday August.
She is a dear good girl, and when she is at home she will work, in hope
of giving me less to do, I believe;" and here Miriam's eyes began to
glisten as she looked at me.
"You might have sent her down to me," I growled; and then a thought
struck me. Why should not Emmie go to Salzbrun? it would be the very
thing for her, and not at all unpleasant for me to have a fresh young
fellow-traveler to enjoy the sights and help me through the inevitable
discomforts. Perhaps, too, Emmie's education having been so much more
recently polished than my own, her powers of French conversation might
be in better working order than mine, which, if not exactly the worse
for wear, had certainly grown somewhat rusty from lying idle all these
years; nay, more, it was possible that Emmie might have learnt German.
That decided me.
"Miriam," I said, "will you let me take the child with me to Salzbrun
next week? Of course, you should have no expense about the trip, and
I think that she and I could be very jolly together for a couple of
months or so."
The tears standing in my sister's eyes welled over on her cheeks; it
would be the greatest comfort to her to let her daughter go abroad, the
best possible thing for Emmie, and such a real help and kindness on my
part. It seemed a relief to her to thank me; but I hate being thanked,
and stopped her as soon as I could.
Emmie's look of delighted surprise when she heard the plan was worth
seeing, her rapturous hug of gratitude not altogether disagreeable,
provided it were not too frequently repeated; and Herbert grasped my
hand more fervently than usual when I asked for his approval.
"Then, when can you be ready? Sir Percival Pylle said start this week,
if possible; but I am willing to wait over Sunday for you, Emmie. Take
as little luggage, as you can, and meet me at Charing Cross on Tuesday
morning. Will that do?"
Yes, that would give time enough for preparations, Miriam said; so I
was free to go home and see about my own, and as I put a piece of paper
into Emmie's hand at parting, I added, "Mind you don't buy anything
that will make you look remarkable--I am not going to travel about
with a scare-crow; and if you dare to bring a heap of luggage to the
station, I'll leave the half of it at Charing Cross, a single man of
my age can't be going about the world in charge of a dozen band-boxes,
even if he is foolish enough to be troubled with a niece." My mouth was
stopped with kisses, and then she let me go.
Tuesday morning was clear and sunny. Herbert and Emmie were at the
station before me, and it was not without a feeling of satisfaction
that I surveyed my niece. Her traveling costume was simple and
well-fitting, hat and ulster equally suitable, and her luggage, dear
little girl, consisted of only one moderate-sized portmanteau and the
bag she carried in her hand. We started in excellent spirits; and I
was not ill-pleased to hear some favorable comments, made by more than
one passenger on board the steamer, on my young relative's appearance,
coupled with the remark that she was evidently traveling with her
father, whom she much resembled.
We did not hurry too much on our way to Salzbrun. Everything was new to
Emmie, and she enjoyed it all, looking upon each small _contretemps_
that befell us as only a fresh subject for fun. There never was such
a girl to find pleasure in trifles, which other folks would pass
unnoticed, and her laugh was as clear and sunny as her fresh, bright
face.
It was late when we reached our destination, a very fine hotel, full
of very fine visitors, in what was supposed to be the best situation
in Salzbrun. I saw Dr. Trinkwasser the next morning, and, when he
had directed me as to the kind and amount of mineral waters I was to
swallow, we fell quickly into the ordinary routine of the place. Emmie
insisted on getting up in time to go with me to the spring from which
I fetched my early morning draught, and then we took the prescribed
constitutional, and watched the gay assemblage passing to and fro while
we listened to the lively music of an excellent band.
"Indeed, uncle, half the fun of being here is in getting up in the
morning and watching the water-drinkers," Emmie assured me. "Did you
see the faces that fat old German lady made this morning when she got
her second glassful? I do believe she must be related somehow to those
horrid gutta-percha dolls the children have; no merely human cheeks
seem capable of going, day by day, through such contortions without
getting permanently fixed in one of them. Old nurse used to tell us,
when we made grimaces, that if the wind were to change that very
minute we should never be able to get our natural faces again. She did
frighten me so; and now I try to keep one eye on Frau Schimpf's visage
and one on the weathercock; then, in case anything happened, I should
be able to explain it to the doctors, and bear witness against the
false, inconstant winds."
If loquacity be a sign of health, there was no longer anything amiss
with my niece, for her tongue was seldom still, but rattled away
incessantly whatever came into her head, and at this time it was
generally nonsense that was uppermost. This Frau Schimpf, over whom
she was now making merry, had acquired a certain sacredness in many
eyes, not from any merit of her own, but because she was living in
the character of _dame de compagnie_ with the most admired inmate of
our hotel--an inmate rendered all the more interesting by the slight
cloud of mystery that hung about her. No one could discover Madame B.'s
nationality; she might be Russian, German, Hungarian, Pole--anything
almost, except French or English; and then nobody knew whether or no
Monsieur B. was in existence, and "Wife or widow?" was the unanswered
inquiry made concerning her by every new arrival at the Schwartz Adler.
Madam was tall, dignified, and graceful; her dress, invariably black
(which settled the question of her widowhood in my mind), was made
in the latest Parisian fashion, her white hands flashed with diamond
rings, a faint pink tinged her cheeks, her brows were dark and well
defined, her eyes dark and lustrous; but her greatest charm of all lay
in her hair, it too was dark, raven-hued, and was arranged in piles and
pyramids of curls and loops and bows, with all the ingenuity of the
most artistic foreign _coiffeur_; a jetty fringe fell in soft waves
across her forehead; and from behind one ear a long full, perfumed
ringlet descended to her waist, or swayed gently on the breeze as
she moved across the room. Madame B. was beautiful, distinguished,
piquante; and this little Frau Schimpf, who sat beside her, was a
short, stout dumpy woman unmistakably German, clad in an impossible
and brilliant tartan, and given to loud speech and laughter, and the
questionable habit of dipping into the salt before her the knife which
in the intervals of cutting up her meat, occasionally found its way
into her mouth. Frau Schimpf was willing to chatter to anyone. Madame
B. talked only to her, and always in German, that detestable tongue, of
which I knew not one single word.
Emmie ran up-stairs to fetch her hat, the first evening after dinner,
and as she took my arm for a stroll, she asked eagerly:
"Oh, uncle, did you see those two ladies who sat side by side--one in
black silk and the other in all the colors of the rainbow? Were not
they an odd contrast? And did you ever in your life see anything like
that younger lady's hair? Do you believe it is all growing? I did so
long to give the curl a little tweak to see if it would come off."
"My dear child," I said severely, for her remarks appeared to me rather
flippant, "that is not a nice way for you to talk; perhaps these same
ladies may be wondering now whether that great brown coil at the back
of your head is all your own."
"They may come and pull it if they like," returned the girl, laughing;
"every bit of it is home produce, grown on the premises, and warranted
genuine."
"At any rate this lady's locks are arranged in a most artistic manner."
"Artistic? I should think it was!" and Emmie was off again in one of
her hearty laughs. "Why, Uncle Adolphus, that is just the very thing
that tickles my fancy. It is _too_ artistic, _too_ unnatural; I am sure
Eve never wore her hair in that style, nor Venus, nor--nor anybody that
ever was taken for a model," urged the girl, getting a trifle confused
in her examples of style.
"Hair-pins and curling-tongs were not invented in those early days,"
said I, trying to be repressive. "What a remarkably fine sunset we are
having."
Emmie followed my lead, and we talked of the beauty of the evening,
and the wonderful effects of sunset coloring in different states of
the atmosphere; but my thoughts, I must confess, were busied still
with the beautiful being whom my eyes detected in the hotel gardens
below us. How utterly unlike my early dreams and visions, and yet what
an adorable creature she was. This was, perhaps, rather more than I
allowed to myself on that first evening; but day by day my admiration
for Madame B. deepened, and I began to contrast with her all other
women of my acquaintance, but always to their disparagement. Even
Emmie, my bright little niece, lost something of her piquancy during
this process. Inclined to admire all that was foreign, the smooth,
shining hair parted on Emmie's forehead looked to me now "so dreadfully
English." I had always thought Miriam a sensible woman for forbidding
her girls to disfigure themselves with fringes--_idiot fringes_, I had
called them, when in my ignorance I aided and abetted her decision.
Ah, well! one's mind grows broader with more varied experience, and
mine now widened fast, until I positively longed to see some wandering
tendrils straying across my niece's brow, if a row of bright wavy locks
was impossible for her. I did not tell her so then, and I was glad
afterward that I had been wise enough to avoid the subject.
We were by no means the only inmates of our hotel to whom the beautiful
unknown became an object of interest. Her eyes, her hair, her diamonds,
her languid grace, were topics often dwelt on in the smoking-room;
and as I sat puffing silently my evening pipe of peace, I gleaned at
last a few facts concerning her. Madame B. had come to Salzbrun for
her health, but what was the matter with her nobody knew. Frau Schimpf
came for health too, but she was also the lady's paid companion. Every
morning when we went to the spring for my draught of mineral water,
the dumpy little German was there before us getting hers also; but
the stately beauty never came. And at last I learned that, instead of
drinking the waters like the vulgar herd of us, Madame B. was amongst
the selecter few for whom a course of mud-baths only was prescribed.
Emmie's mirth had been greatly excited at the notion of these baths,
and she was always begging me to let her try one, "just for the fun of
it," because she was "convinced that they must make one feel like an
eel or a tadpole, and she wanted to find out which of the two it was."
The very mention of such creatures in connection with the baths seemed
a positive insult to Madame B.
When we had been about ten days at Salzbrun, a sad thing happened.
Little Gretchen, the smiling _Madchen_ who used to fill up, from the
spring which Frau Schimpf and I frequented, the glasses handed to her
by the drinkers, was missing one morning; a stranger was in her place,
and presently the story flew from mouth to mouth that the poor child
had been knocked down by a runaway horse the previous evening; her leg
was broken, and broken badly. Anna, who had come to do her work, said
the little maiden was in sore pain, but brave and patient, and that
the Herr Doctor had shaken his head and looked very grave about the
accident.
The morning sunshine shone less bright than usual that day to many who
heard the tale, for Gretchen's modest behavior and pleasant courtesy
had made her a favorite with all her customers. The livery music of
the band failed to inspirit us, and when Emmie and I had taken our
compulsory walk, and fetched in little paper bags the rolls that were
to serve for our breakfast, we sat down sadly and gravely enough, at a
little table under the shady trees, to drink our coffee.
"Can't we do anything for Gretchen, uncle?"
"We can give her some money," I suggested; "doctors cost more than she
can afford, poor child."
Just then Frau Schimpf, who was breakfasting at a table near us, and
with whom Emmie had occasionally exchanged a few words, turned round
and said something to her in German. And then followed a conversation,
in the course of which my niece learnt fuller particulars of the recent
accident. It appeared that Gretchen was the eldest child of a large
family, and the only member of it besides the mother capable of earning
anything. That mother was a widow, herself too delicate to be able to
work much; and now the poor girl's weekly wage must cease, for she
could never be well enough this summer to resume her post. "Even if she
ever does get well enough," continued the German lady. "I have seen the
Herr Doctor only this last half-hour, and he says her injuries are so
severe he cannot yet tell whether she may not have to lose her leg, and
then what would become of them? Gretchen, even with a wooden leg, would
not be able to stoop fast enough to fill the visitors' glasses another
season, and what else could she do? Besides," added the good woman
reflectively, "a wooden leg is expensive; it wears out--you have to buy
another. Gretchen is young; she may live long enough to need a dozen
wooden legs before she dies, to say nothing of sticks and crutches."
And as Emmie translated to me this dolorous suggestion, Frau Schimpf
finished her repast and walked away.
We found that Gretchen's accident had created quite a little excitement
at the Schwartz Adler, where many of her customers were staying; and
before dinner-time the general desire to help the little maiden had
taken definite form, and it was unanimously decided that the visitors
at the hotel should get up an entertainment something in the style of
penny readings at home for her benefit. It was to come off as soon
as possible, while the interest was at its hight; and ardent spirits
amongst us formed themselves into a committee of management, and went
about the house, knocking at every one's door in search of talent of
all kind to swell their programme for the following Tuesday. Emmie and
I were requested to give our valuable services; but happily the house
contained so many stars more brilliant than ourselves that we were
permitted to sink into contented insignificance after purchasing our
five franc tickets for the entertainment.
It was wonderfully well got up: somehow these things arrange themselves
more easily and simply amongst foreigners than with us, and the number
of performers was astonishing. There was a gentleman who played the
flute, another who accompanied his wife's pianoforte music on the
violoncello, several amateur singers with voices far above the average,
brilliant pianists and violinists, besides readers and reciters in
French, English, and German, to suit all tastes. The landlord placed
his big _salon_ at the disposal of the committee, and Emmie assisted
a bevy of ladies to deck its walls with flowers and evergreens, while
the non-performing gentlemen, myself amongst them, went to and fro
executing their sometimes rather contradictory orders. Amongst them all
I looked in vain for Madame B. What a sweet retiring disposition she
must have! I thought, for she is never visible except at dinner-time;
but by and by Frau Schimpf came bustling in, and presently Emmie ran up
to me with a translation of that worthy woman's latest remarks.
"She says we shall have a treat indeed this evening, uncle, for Madame
B. has at last consented, under extreme pressure, to recite in German."
"Admirable woman!" said I, which was what I thought; but Emmie fancied
it was spoken ironically, and went on to rebuke me gently.
"You shouldn't laugh at her," she said; "it really must be horrid to
have to stand up and _spout_ before all these people; and I don't
wonder it took a lot of coaxing to persuade her to do it. I don't think
even you, my much and deservedly beloved uncle, would ever be able to
induce me to perform in public."
"And if I could, my dear, you would not be worth hearing," returned
I; for we were on terms of friendly chaff, and I liked her to get
occasionally as good as she gave.
Presently she came back to me.
"Our latest bulletin," she whispered; "Madame B. is by no means
unaccustomed to public speaking; she has _un talent_, and is in the
habit of exercising it at some sort of club--_Verein_ they call it--in
Berlin."
This upset the modest violet theory; but, after all, the glorious
rose which basks in fullest sunshine is a finer flower; anyway, there
was much to admire in the lady; and when at the appointed hour she
was handed, by two or three gentlemen in waiting, to the front of the
extempore platform in the _salon_, and stood there self-possessed and
stately in her trailing black silk robe, while her audience clapped a
welcome, I declare my heart went pit-a-pat with excitement, just as
though I were a boy of nineteen.
The lady waited for silence with downcast eyes, but when the room was
hushed into stillness she raised them suddenly with a quick change
of expression, and in a rich clear voice began to speak in German.
That there were rhymes in what she recited even my ignorant ears
could catch, but the extraordinary thing about it was the incessant
repetition of my own name in every variety of tone, now playful,
now tender, now coaxing, now petulant; and once when her accent was
especially caressing, the dark eyes rested for an instant on my face,
bringing a tinge of red above my respectable British whiskers. What was
it all about? Was it possible that Madame B. was acquainted with my
Christian name? that she was conscious of my fervent admiration, and
not displeased by it? And here I became aware that Emmie was indulging
in a paroxysm of laughter and delight beside me, while a storm of
rapturous applause burst out all over the room as the melodious voice
ceased and Madame B. bowed her acknowledgments. She came back again and
recited something else--of which I could not understand a word--before
Emmie had time to explain the first piece, but I hardly listened now; I
was sitting in a strangely delicious dream. Adolph? yes, certainly that
was the German for my own name Adolphus, but never had I imagined the
variety of sweet inflections with which that name could be uttered.
"I shall always call you uncle Adolph in future," cried Emmie, breaking
in upon my revery. "It is a much prettier name than Adolphus, and ever
so much shorter. Oh, dear, I do wish I could say it in half as many
different ways as Madame B. can!"
"But what was it all about?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon, uncle. I forgot you did not understand. It was
just the loveliest thing you ever heard. The poem begins by saying
not exactly 'what's in a name?' but by suggesting that we hardly know
what there _is_ in it until we try to use it under a great variety of
circumstances; and then it takes a common German name, Adolph, and puts
it into the mouth of a girl who is talking to her lover; and sometimes
she pets him, and sometimes she pretends to scold him, or to take
offense, and then she is in despair at parting from him, and overjoyed
to meet again. You could make out all that for yourself, couldn't you,
from the way Madame B. pronounced your name?"
"I never heard anything to equal her; it is wonderfully clever."
"She must have had plenty of practice, mustn't she?" remarked Emmie,
taking a view of the matter which fell rather like a wet blanket on my
enthusiasm. "I expect she has recited that poem dozens of times before.
You see she says it off by heart, and Frau Schimpf told me she is
accustomed to immense audiences in Berlin, and thinks nothing at all of
the people here."
Our entertainment was an undeniable success, and the committee were
able to hand over for Gretchen's use a sum of money sufficient to keep
the little maiden in comfort for many months to come. Its results, so
far as I was concerned, were less happy. My thoughts would wander off
too constantly to Madame B. I began to show small civilities to the
_dame de compagnie_, who took them in very good part; and listening to
the ease and fluency with which she rattled off her native language, it
appeared to me that speaking German must really be an easier, simpler
thing than I used to imagine, and I resolved to set to work at once to
pick up all I could of it. _Ja nein_, those were words I knew already,
and I had learnt to call _Kellner_ in commanding tones whenever there
were any orders to be given through Emmie to the waiters. I would go
a little further now, and one day, when the child had been telling me
some long story of her adventures while I had been writing letters, I
drew myself up, and replied complacently.
"_Ach, so._" But Emmie was not impressed, as I had expected her to be,
by my proficiency; indeed, she took it quite the wrong way, for she
leant back in her chair with a burst of laughter that surprised me, and
as soon as she could speak, exclaimed,
"My dearest uncle Adolph" (she had called me so ever since the
memorable Tuesday night), "you really are too funny. When I come down
to stay with you in the winter we will get up some private theatricals,
and you will bring the house down. I had not the faintest notion you
were such a mimic; it is inimitable, just her very tone and manner to
the life."
"Whose tone and manner?" I asked, faintly, trying to look unconscious.
"Why, Frau Schimpf's, of course; it could not be any one else. Oh uncle
Adolph, what a shame of you to be so civil to the poor old thing, when
all the time you were doing it only to get that up! Do say it again,
though; I can't think how you could contrive to catch her voice and
accent so completely."
We were wandering about next morning, in the direction of the ladies'
mud-baths, when our attention was suddenly caught by loud screams
proceeding from one of them, as of somebody in deadly fear. Several
people came running to the spot; there was a commotion both inside and
outside the building, and at last the word _Schlange_--snake--began
to pass from mouth to mouth. Was there a viper in one of the ladies'
baths? The idea appeared too horrible. Poor Emmie turned pale at the
thought, and asked anxiously if German snakes were dangerous; but
not two people gave her the same answer, and at last the brilliant
suggestion occurred to her that it might, perhaps, be only an eel.
I looked at my watch, and found it was already past the time for my
second glass of mineral water, and Emmie decided to stay where she was
while I went in search of it, in the hopes of hearing the end of this
strange affair. Twenty minutes later I returned, to find her leaning
for support against a tree, exhausted by mirth, which burst out afresh
at sight of me, while every face I met was expanded into a broad grin.
"Oh uncle Adolph, it is too ridiculous!" she panted, as she ran up to
me and seized my arm. "What _do_ you think it was? It was Madame B.'s
bath, you know; and after she got into it she felt something in the
mud, and she thought it was a snake, and screamed and made a tremendous
fuss; and the bath-people came rushing to help her, and they got sticks
and rakes and poked about in the mud, and, oh! what _do_ you think they
found in the bath?"
"Surely not the eel you suggested?" I asked faintly.
"A _curl_, Uncle Adolph! just that very identical long black curl you
thought so beautiful! and it had got all straight and horrid in the
mud, and really must have been unpleasantly like a snake to put one's
foot on. But that is not all," she went on, "for it seems that poor
Madame is _bald_, absolutely _bald_, and all those bows and fringes are
nothing but a wig, and take on and off like a helmet; and to-day she
must have been thinking of something else, for she stepped into her
bath with the hair on, and this curl dropped into the mud. I do feel
sorry for her, for when the people showed her what they had found, she
was so angry that they say she tore the rest of the wig off her head,
and threw it at them in a passion. So now everybody in the place will
know that Madame B. is bald and artificially got up, and I should not
wonder if the discovery drove her quite away from Salzbrun at once."
Emmie was right; that very afternoon the two ladies left the place,
taking leave of none, and not caring to face any of their former
companions. At night the subject was discussed at _table d'hote_;
fresh incidents were supplied, dull witticisms were made about Medusa
and her snaky locks, and those who had before been most inclined to
offer incense at the shrine of Madame B. were foremost now in hinting
that her teeth, her eyebrows, and the faint pink color in her cheeks
were one and all as artificial as her hair. As for me, I held my
tongue. Nobody, not even Emmie, had the least suspicion of my budding
_tendresse_ for the fascinating widow, and by and by some farther
particulars became known about her. Her husband, a wealthy jeweler of
Berlin, had been dead about two years, and had probably bequeathed to
her, amongst much else, the diamond hoops which flashed so brightly on
her pretty hands.
My dream was over, I had been rudely awakened. Not for the sake of
hearing "Adolph" murmured all day long in the soft accents of that
dulcet voice could I, an English country gentleman, for a moment
contemplate allying myself with the made-up widow of a German
shopkeeper, however beautiful and attractive her appearance might be in
full "war-paint." No, I would go back to my old home and my old ways,
and forget the foreign siren who had dazzled me for a while.
We stayed on at Salzbrun until my course of water-drinking was over,
and then, after a fortnight's tour through other parts of Germany, I
brought my niece home with me to the Manor House.
Emmie had grown very dear to me in all these weeks that we have spent
together. I do not think it would be quite fair to ask her parents to
let her live with me entirely and be my adopted daughter; but I have
been trying on one excuse and another to lengthen out her stay, and
fondly hoped the Manor House would be a second home to her, and that at
least half her time would in future be spent with me.
But what is the use of planning? My fine schemes were all knocked on
the head this morning, in the course of an hour's conversation, and I
and my projects are simply nowhere in the new state of things.
I was standing on my doorstep after breakfast, smoking calmly, and at
peace with all mankind, when young Fred Willoughby came riding up the
drive.
"Hullo, young man," said I, "why are you not after the hounds this
morning? You can't have better weather in November, and you won't find
any fox in this direction, take my word for it."
"It is rather a dove than a fox that I have come in pursuit of to-day,
Mr. Slocombe. Can you give me ten minutes in the study?"
In less than that time he had poured out a fervid declaration of his
devotion to my niece, of his parents' approval of his choice, and would
I--could I give him any hope that Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Slocombe would
ever be persuaded to allow him to marry their daughter? Of course he
soon persuaded me. Fred is a thoroughly good fellow, the son of old
and tried friends, and can promise his wife a future fairly free from
any money anxieties. He is evidently much attached to Emmie, and I
believe will make her truly happy. So, by and by, we shall have another
wedding, and then I know exactly how it will be in the future. History,
they say, repeats itself. So somebody's marriage will inconvenience me;
I shall lose my head housekeeper in Emmie. There will be bad times for
the garden again next spring, I know there will, and I shall be worried
and out of sorts, and shall suffer from _bunions_, or something else,
and then Hunter will send me to Sir Percival Pylle for good advice. I
see the whole programme before me, like some dreadful nightmare; but
I can be firm upon occasions, and I do solemnly declare that nothing,
not even the advice of the most learned and fashionable of physicians,
shall ever again induce me to seek for health in the neighborhood of a
German mud-bath.
[THE END.]
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Transcriber's Notes:
Added table of contents.
Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=.
Retained some archaic spellings ("hight," "awsome," etc.).
Retained some inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. "bedside" vs. "bed-side").
Page 2, changed "frendless" to "friendless" ("poor, friendless child")
and "maried" to "married" ("when I married your father").
Page 6, changed "tumultously" to "tumultuously" ("springs up
tumultuously").
Page 9, corrected tense to "bursts" in "she bursts out, angrily."
Page 10, added missing quote after "for the likes of her."
Page 17, added missing "it" to "would think it strange."
Page 32, added missing close single quote after "Banks of Allan Water?"
Page 34, changed comma to period after "still sharply."
Page 42, changed "eveything" to "everything" ("I forgot everything").
Page 43, changed "Vere" to "Vera" in "Lady Vera's morbid thoughts."
Page 45, added missing hyphen before "law" in "of his mother-in-law."
Changed "hear to it" to "hear of it."
Page 52, changed "idifferent" to "indifferent" ("She is utterly
indifferent").
Page 53, changed "Mongomery" to "Montgomery" ("Miss Montgomery's pretty
soprano").
Page 54, corrected tense from "touched" to "touches" in "touches the
white keys."
Page 55, changed "yous" to "your" ("your _tete-a-tete_").
Page 57, removed stray quote after "courted pleasure abroad."
Page 65, expanded oe ligature to oe in "chef-d'oeuvre" for this text
edition; the HTML edition retains the ligature. Added missing period
after Mrs in "Mrs. Cleveland's glance."
Page 78, added missing period after Mrs in "Mrs. Noble shrieks."
Page 79, changed "martyred brother's" to "martyred mother's."
Page 81, changed "Ida" to "Ivy" ("with Ivy on his arm").
Page 87, corrected tense from "have" to "had" in "So they had buried
her."
Page 89, changed ? to . after "The angry color flames into her cheeks."
Page 90, changed "eommanding" to "commanding" ("so imperious, so
commanding").
Page 93, changed "evade" to "invade" ("began to invade").
Page 99, changed "asistance" to "assistance" ("opportunely came to your
assistance"). Corrected tense from moaned in "she moaned, feebly."
Page 105, added missing quote before "I was looking over papa's book."
Page 106, changed "excuting" to "executing" ("lose no time in executing
it").
Page 109, corrected tense from "looked" in "The maid looks at her."
Page 112, corrected tense from "turned" in "Lady Vera turns her head."
Page 113, changed "Conntess" to "Countess" ("all trace of Countess
Vera").
Page 115, added missing quote before "You will help me to the earldom."
Page 119, removed extra quote after "regarding him steadily."
Page 126, changed "every" to "ever" in "ever since we came to London."
Page 131, added missing period after Mrs in "Mrs. Robson, I believe."
Page 134, corrected tense from moaned in "The wind moans ominously."
Page 139, changed comma to period after "he asks, eagerly."
Page 150, changed "half of at it Charing Cross" to "half of it at
Charing Cross."
Page 153, changed "led" to "leg" in "wooden leg is expensive."
Page 154, changed "iittle" to "little" ("help the little maiden") and
removed redundant "day" after "following Tuesday."
Page 157, changed "knowh" to "known" ("became known about her").
End of Project Gutenberg's Countess Vera, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller