HAPPY HOURS
They went back to the salon, which was now nearly empty. Only a few
late-comers were present, and they were taking leave of the newly wedded
pair.
When these had withdrawn from the room, Hereward led Lilith up to the
receiving circle, and addressing the bride, said:
“Madame, I have to add to my congratulations the most heartfelt and
grateful acknowledgments. Words cannot thank you for the boon you have
given me in the restoration of this lost treasure.”
“Let us hope, Mr. Hereward, that you will in the future guard that
treasure too carefully ever to—mislay it again,” archly replied the
princess.
Hereward bowed deprecatingly.
“You remain in Paris some time, I hope?”
“I have a month’s respite from official duties, madame.”
“Then you will, perhaps, kindly permit me to place this house at your
disposal during your stay. Mrs. Hereward had already arranged to remain
here during my absence. To change that plan at this late hour would not
be easy. So, if it would not inconvenience you to take up your quarters
here for a season, you would oblige me very much by doing so,” said the
princess.
“Madame, it is certainly my wife and myself who are obliged in this
matter. We feel your kindness, and thank you very sincerely,” replied
Hereward.
“And now, Lilith, dear little sister, will you go with me to my room? It
is time to dress for the journey,” said the princess, drawing the arm of
her young friend within her own, bowing to the circle, and sailing out
of the salon.
When the two friends reached madame’s sumptuous dressing-room they found
the lady’s maid waiting with the traveling suit of mouse-colored velvet,
plush hat, and marabout plumes of the same shade, and silver fox fur
cloak and muff, all laid ready for her mistress.
“Madame,” said Lilith, “I have to thank you for the happiness of my
life, though thanks can ill express all I feel.”
“Ah, bah, ma chère! I had planned this meeting long ago. But, indeed, I
was able to bring it about even under better auspices than I had hoped.
The ‘sinner,’ as Aunt Sophie calls Zuniga, helped me. I shall find you
here when I return four weeks hence, I hope?”
“Yes, madame. You will reside in Paris, then, always?”
“Oh, no. Only during the season. We shall reside principally in the
Gherardini Castle, among the Apennines, an old ancestral stronghold,
which half charms, half frightens me; but I shall know more about it
when I see it. And some day, Lilith, you will come and spend a summer
with us there, and help to lighten the gloom.”
“I thank you very much. I think that I should like it extremely,”
answered the younger lady.
The princess’ rich but plain toilet was soon finished, and she went
below, accompanied by Lilith.
The prince was waiting for her in the lower hall, where all her
household had gathered to bid the newly married pair good-bye.
Aunt Sophie stood there, leaning on the arm of the gallant old
professor, and quietly smiling and weeping—the soft-hearted creature
smiled and wept a little at every wedding.
The domestics were gathered behind.
The prince and princess took a kindly leave of all, and a most
affectionate one of Aunt Sophie and Monsieur Le Grange.
So, followed by the good wishes of their friends, they left the maison.
Not until the assembled household had seen the traveling carriage roll
out of the court-yard gate did they separate and disperse to their
several quarters.
“I must go and see to those valuable wedding presents being locked
carefully away. Indeed, I think I shall finally send them to the vaults
of the bank. Will madame graciously excuse me?” inquired the polite
Monsieur Le Grange, as he led Mrs. Downie to the little salon.
“Oh, yes, sir. Please go look after all that gold and silver and jewels
at once. It is an awful temptation to leave in the way of
servants—awful. And so many strange waiters in the house, too!” said
Mrs. Downie, as she sank into a seat.
“Aunt Sophie,” said Lilith, approaching on the arm of Tudor, “this is
Mr. Hereward, my husband. And this lady, sir, is Mrs. Downie, who has
been so kind to me ever since I made her acquaintance.”
“I am very glad to know you, madame, and very grateful for all your
goodness to my wife, in the days of her adversity,” said Hereward,
taking the old lady’s little offered hand.
“Thanky, sir; I am happy, very, to see you; but as for my being good to
her, it’s all even, I reckon. I wasn’t one bit better to her than she
was to me, all the time,” said Mrs. Downie.
“You were like a mother to me, always,” warmly replied Lilith.
“Well, then, and wa’n’t you all the same as an own dear daughter to me?
That she was, Mr. Hereward. But, honey, I never knowed you had a
husband, or a father either, till this very afternoon. While you were
out of the room with Mr. Hereward the ‘sinner’ come in to pay his
respects to the bride and groom, and then stood with me, behind the
grandees, and told me all about it—how you was his daughter and Mr.
Hereward’s wife! Of course, naturally I knowed you must have been
somebody’s daughter, honey; but the idea of you being anybody’s wife!
Why, I didn’t know you was married!” exclaimed the old lady, in comic
wonder.
“Aunt Sophie, will you forgive me for not telling you anything about my
father or my husband? And for all the secrets that I have kept from you,
who was like a mother to me?” inquired Lilith, tenderly taking her old
friend’s hand.
“Lor’, honey, what call have I got to forgive you? Forgive you for what?
For keeping of your father’s and your husband’s secrets? Why, child, you
hadn’t any right to tell other people’s secrets. I reckon you had none
of your own; though most people do have some secrets. Lor’! everybody
can’t tell everything in the world to everybody else, I reckon.
’Twouldn’t do, anyways. So don’t say no more about that, my dear.”
“You are very sweet, Aunt Sophie.”
“Oh, no, I ain’t, honey.”
“I used to think, sometimes, that you looked at me as if you suspected
that I was not all I seemed to be.”
“No, honey; that wasn’t it. I couldn’t help seeing that you had had
great troubles—very great troubles for one so young—and I used to look
at you and wonder what in this world they could be. But all the time I
know’d very well—I know’d ’way down deep in my heart—that you was good
and true, and didn’t deserve to be so afflicted. And now it is proved as
you didn’t. The ‘sinner’ told me all about it—every bit—and I reckon I
know more than you do, now, honey; because the ‘sinner’ said that
to-morrow he meant to come to the house and tell you and Mr. Hereward
all that he had told yesterday to the baroness, and to-day to me. So, of
course, you see, you have got to hear something you don’t yet know.”
“He told the baroness!” exclaimed Lilith, while Hereward listened
attentively.
“Yes, yesterday; and me to-day.”
“Where is Zuniga now?” inquired Hereward.
“Gone back to the Hotel of Love, on the Rue River.”
“Where?” inquired Hereward, looking to Lilith for an explanation.
“Hotel du Louvre, Rue de Rivoli,” said Lilith, adding: “Aunt Sophie has
not yet become accustomed to foreign words.”
“No, honey; and I never shall, neither—never! Now, everybody here calls
the nicest man that I know the ‘sinner,’ as if he was the only sinner in
the world. Why, we are all sinners, for that matter. And then Mrs.
Hereward here——”
“Lilith! Lilith! dear Aunt Sophie.”
“May I, honey? Well, anyhow, she told me how ‘sinner’ meant Sir and Mr.
in the foreign language. Now, if all the Sirs and Mr.’s in foreign lands
are so wicked and so barefaced as to call themselves and each other
sinners, in that defiant manner, to their very faces, I say it don’t
speak well for foreign lands, and the sooner we get back to New York and
Brother More’s ministry the better.”
“I quite agree with you, Mrs. Downie,” said Hereward, laughing.
“And them waiters at the Hotel of—no; I mean the Hotel do Love—which I
thought they called them goslings, but she says they were ‘go-soons,’
and that name fitted them young mounseers right well, ’cause the spry
way they did fly around was enough to make one’s head giddy. But there!
I reckon as I am letting my tongue run before my wit.”
“Oh, now, Aunt Sophie, you shall not say such wicked things about
yourself. But tell me, did my father leave no message for us?”
“Yes, honey. He asked me to tell you that he would be here airly
to-morrow morning. And I reckon as that don’t mean seven or eight
o’clock, as it would with us, but more likely half-past eleven or a
quarter to twelve. He said he wouldn’t interrupt you this first evening
of your meeting. The ‘sinner’ is right-down considerate—for a sinner.
And I must not intrude longer, neither,” said Aunt Sophie, rising to
leave the small salon in which this interview had taken place.
Both Hereward and Lilith protested against her going, but she said:
“Children, I have to see the remnants of the wedding feast gathered into
hampers, and tied up and sent out to be distributed to the poor. And I
reckon there will be a great many more than ‘twelve baskets full.’ The
wine and fruit and potted things is to be sent to the Hope-it-all of
Sand Marree, or some such name. Antoine knows. But the baroness wanted
me to see to it, to keep temptation out of the way of the weak. You’ll
excuse me now?”
“Yes, Aunt Sophie, since you must go,” said Lilith.
“And I’ll send your tea up into this room, so you can have it all to
yourselves tater-tater, as these funny foreigners say of two together,
though what they mean by it I don’t know, unless it is potatoes, which
they do know how to cook—I will say that for them—though why potatoes in
this case nobody but a foreigner could tell. Well, oh river! that means
good-bye, or something of that sort. I know the mounseers often say it
when they go ’way.”
So speaking, half to her friends, half to herself, in her soft, slow
tones, Aunt Sophie passed out of the room.
Tea was soon served to the reunited and really happy pair, and as this
refreshment was prepared under the immediate supervision of Aunt Sophie
(who declared that though the mounseers and go-soons were great on
coffee, they could not begin to make a decent cup of tea), it was really
as good as they could have obtained in their own home.
The evening of that exciting day was spent very quietly.
The wearied household retired early and slept until late in the morning.
Tudor Hereward, Aunt Sophie and Monsieur Le Grange sat down to breakfast
at ten o’clock.
They were still at the table when Señor Zuniga’s card was brought and
laid before Mr. Hereward.
Lilith and Tudor arose at once and passed out to the little salon where
the visitor was waiting for them.
Zuniga stood in the middle of the room. He wore an elegant morning suit
of dark olive; his long, curling black hair was carefully dressed; his
gypsy face full of droll humor. He looked more like a rollicking boy
than ever.
He advanced towards Lilith, took her in his arms and kissed her fondly.
Then releasing her he held out his hand to Hereward, shouting, joyously:
“How are you, my dear son?
‘It gives me wonder, great as my delight,
To see you here before me, oh! my soul’s joy!’”
“I am very glad to meet you, Señor Zuniga,” began Hereward, in his
stately manner.
“Father, my son! Call me father!
‘Mislike me not for my complexion.’”
“Will you take this seat, dear?” inquired Lilith, drawing forth one of
the most comfortable chairs in the room.
When they had all sat down, Hereward once more said:
“I am really happy to see you, señor, and to have this unpleasant family
mystery, which has caused us so much trouble, finally cleared up.”
“So am I! So is Lilith! So are we all! Or, rather, so we shall be when
it is cleared up! But it is not cleared up yet by a long shot! And so
you shall soon find.
‘Lend me your ears!’...
‘I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul!’
‘Then shall you hear
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of being taken by the insolent foe
And sold to slavery!’
Are you ready to listen?” inquired the señor, as he threw himself back
in his chair.
“We are very anxious to hear,” said Lilith.
“Very well, then,” replied Señor Zuniga.
And he began his story.