Mrs. Waldeux tapped at Clara’s door that evening after they reached home.
“I came to tell you that I shall leave London early in the morning,” she said.
“You will not wait to see George and his wife?”
“I hope I never shall see them again. No! Not a word! I will hear no arguments!” She came into the room and closed the door. There was a certain novel air of decision and youth in her figure and movements. “I am going to make a change, Clara,” she said. “I have worked for others long enough. I am going away now, alone. I will be free. I will live my own life–at last.” Her eyes shone with exultation.
“And—- Where are you going?” stammered Miss Vance, dismayed.
“I don’t know. There is so much–it has all been waiting so long for me. There are the cathedrals–and the mountains. Or the Holy Land. Perhaps I may try to write again. There seems to be a dumb word or two in me. Don’t be angry with me, Clara,” throwing her arms about her cousin, the tears rushing to her eyes. “I may come back to you and little Lucy some time. But just now I want to be alone and fancy myself young. I never was young.”
When Lucy stole into her old friend’s chamber the next morning as usual to drink her cup of coffee with her, she found the door open and the room in disorder, and she was told that Mrs. Waldeaux had left London at daybreak.
CHAPTER VII
During the year which followed, Mr. Perry was forced to return to the States, but he made two flying trips across “the pond,” as he called it, in the interests of his magazine, always running down his prey of notorieties in that quarter of Europe in which Miss Vance and her charges chanced to be.
When he came in July he found them in a humble little inn in Bozen. He looked with contempt at the stone floors, the clean cell-like chambers, each with its narrow bed, and blue stone ewer perched on a wooden stool; and he sniffed with disgust when breakfast was served on a table set out in the Platz.
“Don’t know,” he said, “whether I can digest food, eating out of doors. Myself, I never give in to these foreign ways. It’s time they learned manners from us.”
“I have no doubt,” said Miss Vance placidly, “that you can find one of the usual hotels built for rich Americans in the town. We avoid them. We search out the inns du pays to see as far behind the scenes as we can. I don’t care to go to those huge houses with mobs of Chicagoans and New Yorkers; and have the couriers and portiers turn the flashlights on Europe for me, as if it were a burlesque show.”
“Now, that’s just what I like!” said Perry. “I always go to the houses where the royalties put up. I like to order better dishes and give bigger tips than they do. They don’t know Jem Perry from Adam, but it’s my way of waving the American flag.”
“I am afraid we have no such patriotic motive,” said Clara. “My girls seem to care for nothing now but art. We have made this little inn our headquarters in the Tyrol chiefly out of love for the old church yonder.”
Mr. Perry glanced contemptuously across the Platz at the frowning gray building, and sat down with his back to it.
“Art, eh? Well, I’ve no doubt I could soon catch on to Art, if I turned my mind that way. It pays, too,–Art. Not the fellows who paint, but the connoisseurs. There’s Miller from our town. He was a drummer for a candy firm. Had an eye for color. Well, he buys pictures now for Americans who want galleries in their houses. He bought his whole collection for Stout–the great dealer in hams. Why, Miller can tell the money value within five dollars, at sight, of any picture in Europe. He’s safe, too. Never invests in pictures that aren’t sure to go up in price. Getting rich! And began as a candy drummer! No, ma’am! Art’s no mystery. I’ve never taken it up myself. Europe is sheer pleasure to me. I get the best out of it. I know where to lodge well, and I can tell you where the famous plats are cooked, and I have my coats built by Toole. The house pays me a salary which justifies me in humoring my little follies,” stroking his red beard complacently.
Lucy’s chubby face and steady blue eyes were turned on him thoughtfully, and presently, when they sauntered down the windy street together, he talked and she still silently watched him.
“Miss Precision is weighing him in the balance,” said Jean, laughing, as she poured out more black coffee. “With all of her soft ways Lucy is shrewd. She knows quite well why he races across the Atlantic, and why Prince Wolfburgh has backed away from us and charged on us again all summer. She is cool. She is measuring poor Perry’s qualifications for a husband now just as she would materials for a cake. A neat little inventory. So much energy, so much honest kindness–so much vulgarity. I couldn’t do that. If ever a man wants to marry me, I’ll fly to him or away from him, as quick as the steel needle does when the magnet touches it.” Miss Vance listened to her attentively. “Jean,” she said, after a pause, “are you sure that it is Lucy whom the prince wishes to marry?”
“It is not I,” said Miss Hassard promptly. “He has thought of me several times–he has weighed my qualifications. But the man is in love with Lucy as honestly as a ploughman could be. Don’t you think I’ve tough luck?” she said, resting her elbow on the table and her chin on her palm, her keen gray eyes following Miss Dunbar and her lover as they loitered under the shadow of the church. “I am as young as Lucy. I have a better brain and as big a dot. But her lovers make her life a burden, and I never have had one. Just because our noses and chins are made up differently!”
“Oh, my dear!” said Clara anxiously. “I never thought you cared for that kind of success!”
“I’m only human,” Jean laughed. “Of course I’m an artist. I’m going to paint a great picture some day that all the world shall go mad about. Of Eve. I’ll put all the power of all women into her. But in the meantime I’d like to see one man turn pale and pant before me as the fat little prince does when Lucy snubs him.”
“Lucy is very hard to please,” complained Miss Vance. “She snubs Mr. Perry–naturally. But the prince–why should she not marry the prince?”
“Your generation,” said Jean, smiling slyly, “used to think that an unreasonable whim called love was a good thing in marriage—-“
“But why should she not love the prince? He is honorable and kind, and quite passable as to looks—- Can there be any one else?” turning suddenly to Jean.
Miss Hassard looked at her a moment, hesitating. “Your cousin George used to be Lucy’s type of a hero—-“
“Why! the man is married!” Miss Vance stood up, her lean face reddening. “Jean! You surprise me! That kind of talk–it’s indecent! It is that loose American idea of marriage that ends in hideous divorce cases. But for one of my girls—-“
“It is a very old idea,” said Jean calmly.
“David loved another man’s wife. Mind you, I don’t accuse Lucy of loving any body, but when the needle has once touched the magnet it answers to its call ever after.”
Miss Vance vouchsafed no answer. She walked away across the Platz, jerking her bonnet strings into a knot. Jean was one of the New Women! Her opinions stuck out on every side like Briareus’ hundred elbows! You could not come near her without being jabbed by them. Such women were all opinions; there was no softness, no feeling, no delicacy about them. Skeletons with no flesh! As for Lucy, she had no fear. If even the child had loved George, she would have cast out every thought of him on his wedding day, as a Christian girl should do!
She passed Lucy at that moment. She was leaning against one of the huge stone lions which crouch in front of the church, listening to Mr. Perry. If ever a pure soul looked into the world it was through those limpid eyes!
The Platz was nearly empty. One or two men in blouses clattered across the cobblestones and going into the dark church dropped on their knees. The wind was high, and now and then swept heavy clouds low across the sunlight space overhead.
Lucy, as Jean had guessed, knew why the man beside her had crossed the Atlantic, and she had decided last night to end the matter at once. The tears had stood in her eyes for pity at the thought of the pain she must give him. Yet she had put on her new close-fitting coat and a becoming fur cap, and pulled out the loose hair which she knew at this moment was blowing about her pink cheeks in curly wisps in a way that was perfectly maddening. Clara, seeing the mischief in her eyes as she listened shyly to Perry, went on satisfied. There was no abyss of black loss in that girl’s life!
Lucy just now was concerned only for Perry. How the poor man loved her! Why not marry him after all, and put him out of his pain? She was twenty-four. Most women at twenty-four had gone through their little tragedy of love. But she had had no tragedy. She told herself firmly that there had been no story of love in her life. There never could be, now. She was too old.
She was tired, too, and very lonely. This man would seat her on a throne and worship her every day. That would be pleasant enough.
“I am ashamed of myself,” he was saying, “to pursue you in this way. You have given me no encouragement, I know. But whenever I go to New York and bone down to work, something tells me to come back and try again.”
Lucy did not answer, and there was a brief silence.
“Of course I’m a fool,”–prodding the ground with his stick. “But if a man were in a jail cell and knew that the sun was shining just outside, he’d keep on beating at the wall.”
“Your life is not a jail cell. It’s very comfortable, I think.”
“It has been bare enough. I have had a hard fight to live at all. I told you that I began as a canal-boy.”
She looked at him with quick sympathy. At once she fancied that she could read old marks of want on his face. His knuckles were knobbed like a laborer’s. He had had a hard fight! It certainly would be pleasant to rain down comfort and luxury on the good, plucky fellow!
“Of course that was all long ago,” said Perry. “I’m not ashamed of it. As Judge Baker remarked the other day, `The acknowledged aristocrats of America, to-day, are its self-made men.’ He ought to know. The Bakers are the top of the heap in New York. Very exclusive. I’ve been intimate there for years. No, Miss Dunbar, I may have begun as a mule-driver on a canal, but I am choice in my society. My wife will not find a man or woman in my circle who is half-cut.”
Lucy drew a long breath. To live all day and every day with this man!
And yet–she was so tired! There was a good deal of money to manage, and he could do that. He would like a gay, hospitable house, and so would she, and they would be kind to the poor–and he was an Episcopalian, too. There would be no hitch there. Lucy was a zealous High Churchwoman.
Why should she not do it? The man was as good as gold at heart. Jean called him a cad, but the caddishness was only skin deep.
Mr. Perry watched her, reading her thoughts more keenly than she guessed.
“One thing I will say in justice to myself,” he said. “You are a rich woman. If you marry me, YOU will know, if nobody else does, that I am no fortune-hunter. I shall always be independent of my wife. Every dollar she owns shall be settled on her before I go with her to the altar.”
“Oh, I’m not thinking of the money,” said Lucy impatiently.
“Then you are thinking of me!” He leaned over her. She felt as if she had been suddenly dragged too close to a big unpleasant fire. “I know you don’t love me,” he panted, “you cold little angel, you! But you do like me? Eh? just a little bit, Lucy? Marry me. Give me a chance. I’ll bring you to me. If there is a single spark of love in your heart for me, I’ll blow it into a flame! I can do it, I tell you!” He caught her fiercely by the shoulder.
Lucy drew back and threw out her hands. “Let me have time to think!”
“Time? You’ve had a year!”
“One more day. Come again this evening—-“
“This evening? I’ve come so often!” staring breathlessly into her face. “It will be no use, I can see that. Well, as you please. I’ll come once more.”
The young fellow in his jaunty new clothes shook as if he had the ague. He had touched her. For one minute she had been his!
He turned and walked quickly across the Platz.
Lucy, left alone, was full of remorse. She looked down into her heart; she had forgotten to do it before. No, not a spark for him to blow into a flame; not a single warm thought of him!
The girl was ashamed of herself. He might be a cad, but he was real; his honest love possessed him body and soul. It was a matter of expediency to her; a thing to debate with herself, to dally over, with paltry pros and cons.
Miss Vance came hurriedly up the street, an open letter in her hand. Lucy ran to meet her.
“What is it? You have heard bad news?”
“I suppose we ought not to call it that. It is from George Waldeaux. They have a son, two months old. He tells it as a matter for rejoicing.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy feebly.
“They are at Vannes–in Brittany. He has a cough. He seems to know nobody–to have no friends, and, I suspect, not much money. He is terribly depressed.” Clara folded the letter thoughtfully. “He asks me to tell his mother that the baby has come.”
“Where is his mother?”
“In Switzerland.”
“Why is she not with him?” demanded Lucy angrily. “Wandering about gathering edelweiss, while he is alone and wretched!”
“He has his wife. You probably do not understand the case fully,” said Clara coldly. “I am going to wire to his mother now.” She turned away and Lucy stood irresolute, her hand clutching the shaggy head of the stone beast beside her.
“I can give him money. I’ll go to him. He needs me!” she said aloud. Then her whole body burned with shame. She–Lucy Dunbar, good proper Lucy, whose conscience hurt her if she laid her handkerchiefs away awry in her drawer, nursing a criminal passion for a married man!
She went slowly back to the inn. “He has his wife,” she told herself. “I am nothing to him. I doubt if he would know me if he met me on the street.” She tried to go back to her easy-going mannerly little thoughts, but there was something strange and fierce behind them that would not down.
Jean came presently to the salle. “I have had a letter too,” she said. “The girl who writes came from Pond City. She was in the same atelier in Paris with George. She says: `Your friends the Waldeaux have come to grief by a short cut. They flung money about for a few months as if they were backed by the Barings. The Barings might have given their suppers. As for their studio–there was no untidier jumble of old armor and brasses and Spanish leather in Paris; and Mme. George posing in the middle in soiled tea-gowns! But the suppers suddenly stopped, and the leather and Persian hangings went to the Jews. I met Lisa one day coming out of the Vendome, where she had been trying to peddle a roll of George’s sketches to the rich Americans. I asked her what was wrong, and she laughed and said, “We were trying to make thirty francs do the work of thirty thousand. And we have made up our minds that we know no more of art than house painters. We are in a blind alley!” Soon after that the baby was born. They went down to Brittany. I hear that Lisa, since the child came, has been ill. I tell all this dreary stuff to you thinking that you may pass it on to their folks. Somebody ought to go to their relief.'”
“Relief!” exclaimed Miss Vance. “And the money that they were flinging into the gutter was earned day by day by his old mother! Every dollar of it! I know that during the last year she has done without proper clothes and food to send their allowance to them.” “You forget,” said Lucy, “that George Waldeaux was doing noble work in the world. It was a small thing for his mother to help him.”
“Noble work? His pictures or his sermons, Lucy?” demanded Miss Vance, with a contemptuous shrug.
Lucy without reply walked out to the inn garden and seated herself in a shady corner. There Mr. Perry found her just as the first stroke of the angelus sounded on the air. Her book lay unopened on her lap.
He walked slowly up to her and stopped, breathing hard, as if he had been running. “It is evening now. I have come for my answer, Miss Dunbar,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Answer?” Lucy looked up bewildered.
“You have forgotten!”
The blood rushed to her face. She held out her hands. “Oh, forgive me! I heard bad news. I have been so troubled—-“
“You forgot that I had asked you to be my wife!”
“Mr. Perry—-“
“No, don’t say another word, Miss Dunbar. I have had my answer. I knew you didn’t love me, but I did not think I was so paltry that you would forget that I had offered to marry you.”
Lucy pressed her hands together, looking up at him miserably without a word. He walked down the path and leaned on the wall with his back to her. His very back was indignant.
Presently he turned. “I will bid you goodby,” he said, with an effort at lofty courtesy, “and I will leave my adieux for your friends with you.”
“Are you going–back to the States?” stammered Lucy.
“Yes, I am going back to the States,” he replied sternly. “A man of merit there has his place, regardless of rank. Jem Perry can hold his head there as high as any beggarly prince. Farewell, Miss Dunbar.”
He strode down the path and disappeared. Lucy shook her head and cried from sheer wretchedness. She felt that she had been beaten to-day with many stripes.
Suddenly the bushes beside her rustled. “Forgive me,” he said hoarsely. She looked up and saw his red honest eyes. “I behaved like a brute. Good-by, Lucy! I never loved any woman but you, and I never will.”
“Stay, stay!” she cried.
He heard her, but he did not come back.
CHAPTER VIII
Lucy was silent and dejected for a day or two, being filled with pity for Mr. Perry’s ruined life. But when she saw his name in a list of outgoing passengers on the Paris her heart gave a bound of relief. Nothing more could now be done. That chapter was closed. There had been no other chapter of moment in her life, she told herself sternly. Now, all the clouds had cleared away. It was a new day. She would begin again.
So she put on new clothes, none of which she had ever worn before, and tied back her curly hair with a fresh white ribbon, and came down to breakfast singing gayly.
Miss Vance gave her her roll and milk in silence, and frowning importantly, drew out a letter.
“Lucy, I have just received a communication from Prince Wolfburgh. He is in Bozen.”
“Here!” Lucy started up, glancing around like a chased hare.
Then she sat down again and waited. There was no other chapter, and the book was so blank!
“His coming is very opportune,” she said presently, gently.
“Oh! do YOU think so, my dear? Really! Well, I always have liked the young man. So simple. So secure of his social position. The Wolfburghs, I find, go back to the eleventh century. Mr. Perry had noble traits, but one never felt quite safe as to his nails or his grammar.”
“But the prince–the prince?” cried Jean.
“Oh, yes. Well, he writes–most deferentially. He begs for the honor of an interview with me this afternoon upon a subject of the most vital importance. He says, `regarding you, as I do, in loco parentis to the hochgeboren Fraulein Dunbar.'”
“Hochgeboren!” said Lucy. “My grandfather was a saddler. Tell him so, Miss Vance. Tell him the exact facts. I want no disclosures after—-“
“After marriage?” said Jean, rising suddenly. “Then you have decided?”
“I have not said that I had decided,” replied Lucy calmly.
Jean laughed. “He will not be scared by the saddler. Europeans of his order take no account of our American class distinctions. They look upon us as low-born parvenues, all alike. They weigh and value us by other standards than birth.”
“I have money, if you mean that, Jean,” said Lucy cheerfully.
“I think you had better go away, girls, if you have finished your dejeuner. He may be here at any moment now,” said Clara, looking anxiously at her watch.
Lucy went to her little chamber and sat down to work at a monstrous caricature which she was painting of the church. Jean paced up and down the stone corridor, looking out of the window into the Platz.
“He has come,” she said excitedly, appearing at Lucy’s door. “He went into the church first, to say an ave for help, poor little man! His fat face is quite pale and stern. It is a matter of life and death to him. And it’s no more to you than the choosing of a new coat.”
Lucy smiled and sketched in a priest on the church steps. Her hand shook, but Jean could not see that. She went to the window again with something like an inward oath at the dolts of commonplace women who had all the best chances, but was back in a moment, laughing nervously.
“Do you know he has on that old brown suit?” She leaned against the jamb of the door. “If I were a prince, and came a-wooing, I would have troops of my Jagers, and trumpets and banners with the arms of my House, and I’d wear all my decorations. Of course we Americans are bound to say that rank and royalty are dead things. But if I had them, I’d galvanize the corpses! If they are useful as shows, I’d make the show worth seeing. I’d cover myself with jewels like the old Romanoffs. You would never see Queen Jean in a slouchy alpaca and pork-pie hat like Victoria.” While her tongue chattered, her eyes watched Lucy keenly. “You don’t hear me! You are deciding what to do. Why on earth should you hesitate? He is a gentleman–he loves you!” and then to Lucy’s relief she suddenly threw on her hat and rushed off for a walk.
Miss Dunbar painted the priest’s robe yellow, in her agitation. But the agitation was not deep. There really seemed no reason why she should hesitate. He would be kind; he was well-bred and agreeable. A princess? She had a vague idea of a glorified region of ancestral castles and palaces in which dukes and royalties dwelt apart and discoursed of high matters. She would be one of them.
The other day there seemed to be no reason why she should not marry Mr. Perry. In marriage then one must only consider the suitability of the man? There was nothing else to consider—-
With a queer, hunted look in her soft eyes she worked on, daubing on paint liberally.
Meanwhile, in the little salle below, Miss Vance sat stiffly erect, while the prince talked in his shrill falsetto. Although he set forth his affection for the engelreine Madchen as simply as the little German baker in Weir (whom he certainly did resemble) might have done, she could find, in her agitation, no fitting words in which to answer him. That she, Clara Vance, should be the arbiter in a princely alliance! At last she managed to ask whether Miss Dunbar had given him any encouragement on which to found his claim.
“Ah, Fraulein Vance!” he cried, laughing. “The hare does not call to the hounds! But I have no fear. She speaks to me in other ways than by words.
“`Mein Herz und seine Augen
Verstehen sich gar so gut!’
You know the old song. Ah, ja! I understand what she would say–here!” touching his heart.
He paced up and down, smiling to himself. Suddenly he drew up before her, tossing his hands out as if to throw away some pleasant dream. “I have come to you, gracious lady, as I would to the mother of Miss Dunbar. I show to you the heart! But before I address her it is necessary that I shall consult her guardian with regard to business.”
It was precisely, Clara said afterward, as if the baker from Weir had stopped singing, and presented his bill.
“Business?” she gasped. “Oh, I see! Settlements. We don’t have such things in the States. But I quite understand all those European social traits. I have lived abroad for years. I—-“
“Who is Miss Dunbar’s guardian?” the prince demanded alertly. He sat down by the table and took out a notebook and papers.
“But–settlements? Is not that a little premature?” she ventured. “She has not accepted you.”
“HE may not accept my financial proposals. It is business, you see. The gentle ladies, even die Amerikaner, do not comprehend business. It is not, you perceive, dear lady, the same when the head of the House of Wolfburgh allies himself with a hochgeboren Fraulein as when the tailors marry—-“
“Nor bakers. I see,” stammered Clara.
“Miss Dunbar’s properties are valuable. Her estate in Del-aware,” glancing at his notebook, “is larger than some of our German kingdoms. Her investments in railway and mining securities, if put on the market, should be worth a million of florins. These are solid matters, and must be dealt with carefully.”
“But, good gracious, Prince Wolfburgh! cried Miss Vance, “how did you find out about Lucy’s investments?”
He looked at her in amazement. “Meine gnadigste Fraulein! It is not possible that you supposed that in such a matter as this men leap into the dark–the men of rank, princes, counts, English barons, who marry the American mees? That they do not know for what they exchange their–all that they give? I will tell you,” with a condescending smile. “There are agents in the States–in New York–in Chicago–in–how do you name it? St. Sanata. They furnish exact information as to the dot of the lady who will, perhaps, marry here. Oh, no! We do not leap into the dark!”
“So I perceive,” said Clara dryly. “And may I inquire, your Highness, what financial arrangement you propose, in case she becomes your wife?”
“Assuredly.” He hastily unfolded a large paper. “This must be accepted by her guardian before the betrothal can take place. I will translate, in brief. The whole estate passes to me, and is secured to me in case of my wife’s death without issue. I inserted that clause,” he said, looking up, smiling, for approval, “because American Frauleins are so fragile–not like our women. I will, of course, if we have issue, try to preserve the real estate for my heir, and the remaining property for my other children.”
“It seems to me that a good deal is taken for granted there,” said Clara, whose cheeks were very hot. “And where does Miss Dunbar come into this arrangement? Is she not to have any money at all?”
“My widow, should I die first, will be paid an annuity from my estate. But while Mees Lucy is my wife, _I_ will buy all that she needs. I will delight to dress her, to feed her well. With discretion, of course. For there are many channels into which my income must flow. But I will not be a niggardly husband to her! No, no!” cried the little man in a glow.
“That is very kind of you. But she will not have any of her own money to spend? In her own purse? To fling into the gutter if she chooses?”
The prince laughed gayly. “How American you are, gracious lady! A German wife does not ask for her `own purse.’ My wife will cease to be American; she will be German,” patting his soft hands ecstatically. “But you have not told me the name of her guardian?”
“Lucy,” said Miss Vance reluctantly, “is of age. She has full control of her property. A Trust Company manages it for her, but they have no authority to stop her if she chooses to–throw it into the gutter.”
The prince looked up sharply. Could this be a trick? But if it were, the agent would find out for him. He rose.
“To have the sole disposal of her own hand and of her fortune? That seems strange to us,” he said, smiling. “But I have your consent, most dear lady, to win both, if I can?”
“Oh, yes, prince. If you can.”
He took her hand and bowed profoundly over it, but no courtly grace nor words could bring back Clara’s awe of him. She had a vague impression that the Weir baker had been wrangling with her about his bill.
“Your Highness has asked a good many questions,” she said. “May I put one to you? Did you inquire concerning Miss Hassard’s dot, also?”
“Ah, certainly! Why not? It is very large. I have spoken of it to my cousin Count Odo. But the drawback–her father still lives. He may marry again. Her dot depends upon his good pleasure. Whereas Miss Dunbar is an orphan; and besides that, she is so dear to me!” clasping his hands, his face red with fervor. “So truly dear!”
And she knew that he honestly meant it.
CHAPTER IX
When Miss Vance came into the corridor after she had reported this interview to Lucy, Jean swept her into her room and dragged the whole story from her. In fact the poor anxious lady was glad to submit it to the girl’s shrewd hard sense.
“You told him that she was the uncontrolled mistress of her money!”
“It is the truth. I had to tell him the truth, my dear.”
“Yes, I suppose so, for he would have found it out anyhow.”
“I do feel,” panted Clara, “as if I had put a dove into the claws of a vulture.”
“Not at all,” said Jean promptly. “The little man has a heart, but an empty pocket. Was Lucy interested most in his love or his bargaining?”
“In neither, I think. She just went on painting, and said nothing.”
Oh, she will decide the matter in time! She will bring her little intellect to bear on it as if it were a picnic for her Sunday-school class!” Jean stood silent a while. “Miss Vance,” she said suddenly, “let me engineer this affair for a few days. I can help you.”
“What do you propose to do, Jean?”
“To leave Bozen to-morrow. For Munich.”
“But the Wolfburghs have a palace or–something in Munich. Is it quite delicate for us—-“
“It is quite rational. Let us see what the something is. So far in our dealings with principalities and powers, we have had a stout little man–with no background.” The prince was startled when he was told of this sudden journey, but declared that he would follow them to-morrow.
Lucy, as usual, asked no questions, but calmly packed her satchel.
As the little train, the next day, lumbered through the valley of the Eisach, she sat in her corner, reading a newspaper. Miss Vance dozed, or woke with a start to lecture on points of historic interest.
“Why don’t you look, Lucy? That monastery was a Roman fortress in the third century. And you are missing the color effects of the vineyards.”
“I can look now. I have finished my paper.” Lucy folded it neatly and replaced it in her bag. “I have read the Delaware State Sun,” she said triumphantly, “regularly, every week since we left home. When I go back I shall be only seven days behind with the Wilmington news.”
Jean glanced at her contemptuously. “Look at that great castle on yonder mountain,” she said. “You could lodge a village inside of the ramparts. Do you think Wolfburgh Schloss is like that? The prince told us last night,” turning to Miss Vance, “the old legends about his castle. The first Wolfburgh was a Titan about the time of Noah, and married a human wife, and with his hands tore open the mountain for rocks to lay the foundation of his house. According to his story there were no end of giants and trolls and kings concerned in the building of it,” she went on, furtively watching the deepening pink in Lucy’s cheek. “The Wolfburgh of Charlemagne’s day was besieged by him, and another entertained St. Louis and all his crusaders within the walls.” Jean’s voice rose shrilly and her eyes glowed. She leaned forward, looking eagerly across the fields. “The prince told us that the Schloss of his race had for centuries been one of the great fortresses of Christendom. And here it is! Now we shall see–we shall see!”
The car stopped. The guard opened the door and Miss Vance and Lucy suddenly found themselves swept by Jean on to the platform, while the little train rumbled on down the valley. Miss Vance cried out in dismay.
“Never mind. There will be another train in a half hour,” said Jean. “Here is the Schloss,” pointing to a pepper-box tower neatly whitewashed, which rose out of a huge mass of broken stone. “And here, I suppose, is the capital of the kingdom over which the Wolfburghs now reign feudal lords?”
Clara found herself against her will looking curiously at the forge, the dirty shop, the tiny bier-halle, and a half a dozen huts, out of which swarmed a few old women and children.
“Where are the men of this village?” Jean demanded of the station master, a stout old man with a pipe in his mouth.
“Gone to America, for the most part,” he said, with a shrug.
Lucy came up hastily, an angry glitter in her soft eyes. “You have no right to make me play the spy in this way!” she said haughtily, and going into the little station sat down with her back to the door.
“You? It is I–I—-” muttered Jean breathlessly. “And who lives in the tower, my good man? It is not big enough for a dozen hens.” She slipped a florin into his hand.
“Four of the noble ladies live there. The princesses. The gracious sisters of Furst Hugo. There come two of them now.”
A couple of lean, wrinkled women dressed in soiled merino gowns and huge black aprons, their hair bristling in curl papers, crossed the road, peering curiously at the strangers.
“They came to look at you, Fraulein,” said the man, chuckling. “Strangers do not stop at Wolfburgh twice in the year.”
“And what do the noble ladies do all the year?”
“Jean, Jean!” remonstrated Clara.
“Oh, Miss Vance! This is life and death to some of us! What do they do?”
“Do?” said the man, staring. “What shall any gracious lady do? They cook and brew, and crochet lace and—-“
“Are there any more princesses–sisters of Furst Hugo?”
“Two more. They live in Munich. No, none of them are married. Because,” he added zealously, “there are no men as high-born as our gracious ladies, so they cannot marry.”
“No doubt that accounts for it,” said Jean. “Six. These are `the channels into which the income will flow,’ hey?” She gave him more money, and marching into the station caught Lucy by the shoulder, shaking her passionately. “Do you think any American girl could stand that? How would YOU like to be caged up in that ridiculous tower to cook and crochet and brew beer and watch the train go by for recreation? The year round–the year round?”
Lucy rose quietly. “The train is coming now,” she said. “Calm yourself, Jean. YOU will not have to live in the tower.”
Jean laughed. When they were seated in the car again, she looked wistfully out at the heaps of ruins.
“It must have been a mighty fortress once,” she said. “Those stones were hewed before Charlemagne’s time. And a great castle could easily be built with them now,” she added thoughtfully.
CHAPTER X
The travellers entered Munich at noon. The great generous city lay tranquil and smiling in the frosty sunlight.
“I have secured apartments,” said Miss Vance, “used hitherto by royalties or American millionaires. My girl must be properly framed when a prince comes a-wooing.”
Lucy smiled. But her usual warm color faded as they drove through the streets. Jean, however, was gay and eager.
“Ah, the dear splendid town!” she cried. “It always seems to give us a royal welcome. Nothing is changed! There is the music in the Kellers, and there go the same Bavarian officers with their swagger and saucy blue eyes. They are the handsomest men in Europe! And here is the Munchen-kindl laughing at us, and the same crowds are going to the Pinakothek! What do you want more? Beer and splendor and fun and art! What a home it will be for you, Lucy!”
Lucy’s cold silence did not check Jean’s affectionate zeal. She anxiously searched among the stately old buildings, which they passed, for the Wolfburgh palace. “It will not be in these commonplace Haussmannized streets,” she said. “It is in some old corner; it has a vast, mysterious, feudal air, I fancy. You will hold a little court in it, and sometimes let a poor American artist from Pond City in to hang on the edge of the crowd and stare at the haute noblesse.”
“Don’t be absurd, Jean,” said Miss Vance.
“I am quite serious. I think an American girl like Lucy, with her beauty and her money, will be welcomed by these German nobles as a white swan among ducks. She ought to take her place and hold it.” Jean’s black eyes snapped and the blood flamed up her cheeks. “If I were she I’d make my money tell! I’d buy poor King Ludwig’s residence at Binderhof, with the cascades and jewelled peacocks and fairy grottos, for my country seat. The Bavarian nobility are a beggarly lot. If they knew that Lucy and her millions were coming to town in this cab, they’d blow their trumpets for joy. `Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!'” Lucy’s impatient shrug silenced her, but she was preoccupied and excited throughout the day. Miss Vance watched her curiously. Could it be that she had heard of the prince’s plan of marrying her to his cousin, and that she was building these air castles for herself?
A day or two sufficed to make Miss Vance’s cheery apartments the rendezvous of troops of Americans of all kinds: from the rich lounger, bored by the sight of pictures, which he did not understand, and courts which he could not enter, to the half-starved, eager-eyed art students, who smoked, and drank beer, and chattered in gutturals, hoping to pass for Germans.
There were plenty of idle young New Yorkers and Bostonians too, hovering round Lucy and Jean, overweighted by their faultless London coats and trousers and fluent French. But they deceived nobody; they all had that nimble brain, and that unconscious swagger of importance and success which stamps the American in every country. Prince Hugo, in his old brown suit, came and went quietly among them.
“The genuine article!” Jean declared loudly. “There is something royal in his hospitality! He lays all Munich at Lucy’s feet, as if it were his own estate, and the museums and palaces were the furniture of his house. That homely simplicity of his is tremendously fine, if she could understand it!”
The homely genuineness had its effect even upon Lucy. The carriage which he brought to drive them to Isar-anen was scaly with age, but the crest upon it was the noblest in Bavaria; in the cabinet of portraits of ancient beauties in the royal palace he showed her indifferently two or three of his aunts and grandmothers, and in the historical picture of the anointing of the great Charlemagne, one of his ancestors, stout and good-humored as Hugo himself, supported the emperor.
“The pudgy little man,” said Jean one day, somehow belongs to the old world of knights and
crusaders–Sintram and his companions. He will make it all real to Lucy when she marries him. He is like Ali Baba, standing at the shut door of the cave full of jewels and treasures with the key in his hand.”
“Those Arabian Night stories are simply silly,” said Lucy severely. “I am astonished that any woman in this age of the world should read that kind of trash.”
“But the prince’s cave?” persisted Jean. “When are we to look into it? I want to be sure of the treasures inside. When are we to go to his palace? When will his sisters ask us to dinner?”
Miss Vance looked anxious. “That is a question of great importance,” she said. “The princesses have invited me through their brother to call. It is of course etiquette here for the stranger to call first, but I don’t wish to compromise Lucy by making advances.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Lucy said, blushing and faltering a little, “It would be better perhaps to call, and not prejudice them, by any discourtesy, against us. The prince is very kind.”
“So! The wind is in that quarter?” Jean said, with a harsh laugh.
She jumped up and went to her own room. She was in a rage at herself. Why had she not run away to Paris months ago and begun her great picture of the World’s mother, Eve? There was a career for her! And thinking–perhaps of Eve–she cried hot salt tears.
CHAPTER XI
A week passed, but the question of the first call was not yet settled. It required as much diplomacy as an international difficulty. Furst Hugo represented the princesses as “burning with impatience to behold the engelreine Madchen whom they hoped to embrace as a sister,” but no visible sign of their ardor reached Miss Vance.
On Monday Jean went to spend the day with some of her artist friends, but at noon she dashed into the room where Clara and Lucy sat sewing, her dark face blotched red, and her voice stuttering with excitement.
“I have seen into the cave!” she shouted. I have got at the truth! It’s a rather stagy throne, the Wolfburghs! Plated, cheap!”
“What is the matter with you?” said Miss Vance.
“Nothing is the matter with ME. It is Lucy’s tragedy. I’ve seen the magnificent ancient palace of the Wolfburghs. It is a flat! In the very house where I went to-day. The third story flat just under the attics where the poor Joneses daub portraits. I passed the open doors and I saw the shabby old tables and chairs and the princesses–two fat old women in frowzy wrappers, and their hair in papers, eating that soup of pork and cabbages and raisins–the air was thick with the smell! And that is not the worst!”
“Take breath, Jean,” said Lucy calmly.
“The prince himself–the Joneses told me, there can be no doubt–the prince makes soap for a living! No wonder you turn pale, Miss Vance. Soap! He is the silent partner in the firm of Woertz und Zimmer, and it is not a paying business either.”
Jean did not wait for an answer, but walked up and down the room, laughing angrily to herself. “Yes, soap! He cannot sneer at Lucy’s ancestral saddles, now. Nor my father’s saws! His rank is the only thing he has to give for Lucy’s millions, and now she knows what it is worth!”
Lucy rose and, picking up her work basket, walked quietly out of the room. Jean flashed an indignant glance after her.
“She might have told me that he gave himself! Surely the man counts for something! Anyhow, rank like his is not smirched by poverty or trade. Bismarck himself brews beer.”
“Your temper is contradictory to-day,” said Clara coldly. “Did you know,” she said presently, “that the princesses will be at the Countess von Amte’s to-morrow?”
“Then we shall meet them!” cried Jean. “Then something will be settled.”
Lucy locked the door of her chamber after her. She found much comfort in the tiny bare room with its white walls and blue stove, and the table where lay her worn Bible and a picture of her old home. The room seemed a warm home to her now. Above the wall she had hung photographs of the great Madonnas, and lately she had placed one of Frances Waldeaux among them. That was the face on which she looked last at night. When Clara had noticed it, Lucy had said, “I am as fond of the dear lady as if she were my own mother.”
She sat down before it now, and taking out her sewing began to work, glancing up at it, half smiling as to a friend who talked to her. She thought of Furst Hugo boiling soap, with a gentle pity, and of Jean with hot disdain. What had Jean to do with it? The prince was her own lover, as her gloves were her own.
But indeed, the prince and love were but shadows on the far sky line to the little girl; the real things were her work and her Bible, and George’s mother talking to her. She often traced remembered expressions on Mrs. Waldeaux’s face; the gayety, the sympathy, a strange foreboding in the eyes. Finer meanings, surely, than any in the features of these immortal insipid Madonnas!
Sometimes Lucy could not decide whether she had seen these meanings on Frances Waldeaux’s face, or on her son’s.
She sewed until late in the afternoon. There came a tap at the door. She opened it, and there stood Mrs. Waldeaux, wrapped in a heavy cloak. Lucy jumped at her, trembling, and hugged her.
“Oh, come in! Come in!” she cried shrilly. “I have just been thinking of you and talking to you!”
Frances laughed, bewildered. “Oh, it is Miss Dunbar? The man sent me here by mistake to wait. Miss Vance is out, he said.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But I–I am here.” Lucy threw her arms around her again, laying her head down on her shoulder. She felt as if something that she had waited for a long time was coming to her. “Sit by the stove. Your hands are like ice,” she said.
“Yes, I am usually cold now; I don’t know why.”
Lucy then saw a curious change in her face. The fine meanings were not in it now. It was fatter–coarser; the hair was dead, the eyes moved sluggishly, like the glass eyes of a doll.
“You are always cold? Your blood is thin, perhaps. You are overtired, dear. Have you travelled much?”
“Oh, yes! all of the time. I have seen whole tracts of pictures, and no end of palaces and
hotels–hotels–hotels!” Frances said, awakening to the necessity of being talkative and vivacious with the young girl. She threw off her cloak. There was a rip in the fur, and the dirty lining hung out. Lucy shuddered. Mrs. Waldeaux’s blood must have turned to water, or she would never have permitted that!
“You must rest now. I will take care of you,” she said, with a little nod of authority. Frances looked at her perplexed. Why should this pretty creature mother her with such tenderness?
Oh! It was the girl that George should have married!
She glanced at the white room with its dainty bibelots, the Bible, the Madonnas, watching, benign. Poor little nun, waiting for the love that never could come to her!
“I am glad you are here, my child. You can tell me what I want to know. I have not an hour to spare. I am going to my son–to George. Do you know where he is?”
“At Vannes, in Brittany.”
“Brittany–that is a long way.” Frances rose uncertainly. “I hoped he was near. I was in a Russian village, and Clara’s letter was long in finding me. When I got it, I travelled night and day. I somehow thought I should meet him on the way. I fancied he would come to meet me.”
Lucy’s blue eyes watched her keenly a moment. Then she rang the bell.
“You must eat, first of all,” she said.
“No, I am not hungry. Vannes, you said? I must go now. I haven’t an hour.”
“You have two, exactly. You’ll take the express at eight. Oh, I’m never mistaken about a train. Here is the coffee. Now, I’ll make you a nice sandwich.”
Frances was faint with hunger. As she ate, she watched the pretty matter-of-fact little girl, and laughed with delight. When had she found any thing so wholesome? It was a year, too, since she had seen any one who knew George. Naturally, she began to empty her heart, which was full of him, to Lucy.
“I have not spoken English for months,” she said, smiling over her coffee. “It is a relief! And you are a friend of my son’s, too?”
“No. A mere acquaintance,” said Lucy, with reserve.
“No one could even see George and not understand how different he is from other men.”
“Oh! altogether different!” said Lucy. “Yes, you understand. And there was that future before him–when his trouble came. Oh, I’ve thought of it, and thought of it, until my head is tired! He fell under that woman’s influence, you see. It was like mesmerism, or the voodoo curse that the negroes talk of. It came on me too. Why, there was a time when I despised him. George!” Her eyes grew full of horror. “I left him, to live my own life. He has staggered under his burden alone, and I could have rid him of it. Now there are two of them.”
“Two of them? ” said Lucy curiously.
“There is a baby–Pauline Felix’s grandson. I beg your pardon, my child, I ought not to have named her. She is not a person whom you should ever hear of. He has them both,–George. He has that weight to carry.” She stood up. “That is why I am going to him. It must be taken from him.”
“You mean–a divorce?”
“I don’t know–I can’t think clearly. But God does such queer things! There are millions of men in the world, and this curse falls on–George!”
Lucy put her hands on the older woman’s arms and seated her. “Mrs. Waldeaux,” she said, with decision, “you need sleep, or you would not talk in that way. Lisa is not a curse. Nor a voodoo witch. She came to your son instead of to any other man–because he chose her out from all other women. He had seen them.” She held her curly head erect. “As he did choose her, he should make the best of her.”
Frances looked at her as one awakened out of a dream. “You talk sensibly, child. Perhaps you are right. But I must go. Ring for a cab, please. No, I will wait in the station. Clara would argue and lecture. I could not stand that to-night,” with her old comical shrug.
Lucy’s entreaties were vain.
But as the train rushed through the valley of the Isar that night, Frances looked forward into the darkness with a nameless terror. “That child was so healthy and sane,” she said, “I wish I had stayed with her longer.”
CHAPTER XII
Prince Hugo had made no secret of his intentions with regard to Miss Dunbar, so that when it was known that his sisters and the rich American Mees would at last meet at the Countess von Amte’s there was a flutter of curiosity in the exclusive circle of Munich. The countess herself called twice on Clara that day, so great was her triumph that this social event would occur at her house.
She asked boldly “Which of Miss Dunbar’s marvellous Parisian confections will she wear? It is so important for her future happiness that the princesses should be favorably impressed! Aber, lieber Gott!” she shrieked, “don’t let her speak French! Not a word! That would be ruin! They are all patriotism!” She hurried away, and ran back to say that the sun was shining as it had not done for days.
“She thinks nature itself is agog to see how the princesses receive Lucy,” said Miss Vance indignantly. “One would suppose that the child was on trial.”
“So she is. Me, too,” said Jean, wistfully regarding the bebe waist of the gown which Doucet had just sent her. “I must go as an ingenue. I don’t play the part well!”
“No, you do not,” said Clara.
Miss Vance tapped at Lucy’s door as she went down, and found her working at her embroidery. “You must lie down for an hour, my dear,” she said, “and be fresh and rosy for this evening.”
“I am not going. I must finish these pinks. I have just sent a note of apology to the countess.”
“Not going!” Clara gasped, dismayed. Then she laughed with triumph. “The princesses and all the Herrschaft of Munich will be there to pass judgment on the bride, and the bride will be sitting at home finishing her pinks! Good!”
“I am no bride!” Lucy rose, stuck her needle carefully in its place, and came closer to Miss Vance. “I have made up my mind,” she said earnestly. “I shall never marry. My life now is quiet and clean. I’m not at all sure that it would be either if I were the Princess Wolfburgh.”
Clara stroked her hair fondly. “Your decision is sudden, my dear,” she faltered, at last.
“Yes. There was something last night. It showed me what I was doing. To marry a man just because he is good and kind, that is–vile!” The tears rushed to her eyes. There was a short silence.
“Don’t look so aghast, dear Miss Vance,” said Lucy cheerfully. “Go now and dress to meet the Herrschaft.”
“And what will you do, child?”
“I really must finish these pinks to-night.” She took up her work. Her chin trembled a little. “We won’t speak of this again, please,” she said. “I never shall be a bride or a wife or mother. I will have a quiet, independent life–like yours.”
The sunshine fell on the girl’s grave, uplifted face, on the white walls, the blue stove, and the calm, watching Madonnas. Clara, as Mrs. Waldeaux had done, thought of a nun in her cell to whom love could only be a sacred dream.
She smiled back at Lucy, bade her goodnight, and closed the door.
“Like mine?” she said, as she went down the corridor. “Well, it is a comfortable, quiet life. But empty—-” And she laid her hand suddenly across her thin breast.
Jean listened in silence when Clara told her briefly that Lucy was not going.
“She is very shrewd,” she said presently. “She means to treat them de haut en bas from the outset. It is capital policy.”
Jean, when she entered the countess’s salon, with downcast eyes, draped in filmy lace without a jewel or flower, was shy innocence in person. Furst Hugo stood near the hostess, with two stout women in shabby gowns and magnificent jewels.
“The frocks they made themselves, and the emeralds are heirlooms,” Jean muttered to Clara, without lifting her timid eyes.
“Miss Dunbar is not coming?” exclaimed the prince.
“No,” said Miss Vance.
“The Fraulein is ill?” demanded one of his sisters.
“No,” Clara said, again smiling.
“WE expected to meet her,” the younger princess said. “It is most singular—-“
“She has sent her apology to the countess,” said Clara gently, and passed on.
But her little triumph was short lived.
A famous professional soprano appeared in a white-ribboned enclosure at the end of the salon, and the guests were rapidly arranged according to their rank to listen. Clara and Jean stood until every man and woman were comfortably seated, when they were placed in the back row.
When the music was over supper was announced, and the same ceremony was observed. The Highnessess, the hochwohlgeboren privy councillors, the hochgeboren secretaries, even the untitled Herren who held some petty office, were ushered with profound deference to their seats at the long table, while Clara stood waiting. Jean’s eyes still drooped meekly, but even her lips were pale.
“How can you look so placid?” she whispered. “It is a deliberate insult to your gray hairs.”
“No. It is the custom of the country. It does not hurt me.”
They were led at the moment to the lowest seats. Jean shot one vindictive glance around the table.
“You have more wit and breeding than any of them!” she said. “And as for me, this lace I wear would buy any of their rickety old palaces.”
“They have something which we cannot buy,” said Miss Vance gravely. “I never understood before how actual a thing rank is here.”
“Cannot it be bought? I am going to look into that when this huge feed is over,” Miss Hassard said to herself.
Late in the evening she danced with Count Odo, and prattled to him in a childish, frank fashion which he found very charming.
“Your rules of precedence are very disagreeable!” she pouted. “Especially when one sits at the foot of the table and is served last.”
“They must seem queer to you,” he said, laughing, “but they are inflexible as iron.”
“But they will bend for Miss Dunbar, if she makes up her mind to marry your cousin?”she asked, looking up into his face like an innocent child.
“No. Hugo makes a serious sacrifice in marrying a woman of no birth,” he said. “He must give up his place and title as head of the family. She will not be received at court nor in certain houses; she must always remain out- side of much of his social life.”
He led her back to Miss Vance. She seemed to be struck dumb, and even forgot to smile when he bowed low and thanked her for the dance.
“Let us go home,” she whispered to Clara. “The American girl is a fool who marries one of these men!”
When Miss Vance’s carriage reached her hotel, she found Prince Hugo’s coupe before the door.
“He has come to see Lucy, alone!” she said indignantly, as she hurried up the steps. “He has no right to annoy her!”
She met him coming out of the long salle. The little man walked nervously, fingering his sword hilt. He could not control his voice when he tried to speak naturally.
“Yes, gracious lady, I am guilty. It was unpardonable to come when I knew the chaperone was gone. But–ach! I could not wait!” throwing out both hands to her. “I have waited so long! I knew when she did not come to meet my sisters to-night she had resolved against me, but I could not sleep uncertain. So I break all the laws, and come!”
“You have seen her, then? She has told you?”
He nodded without speaking. His round face was red, and something like tears stood in his eyes.
He waited irresolute a moment, and then threw up his head.
“Soh! It is over! I shall not whine! You have been very good to me,” he said earnestly, taking Clara’s hand. “This is the first great trouble in my life. I have loved her very dearly. I decided to make great sacrifices for her. But I am not to have her–never.”
“I am so sorry for you, prince.” Clara squeezed his hand energetically.
“Nor her dot. That would have been so comfortable for me,” he said simply.
Clara hid a smile, and bade him an affectionate good-night.
As he passed into the outer salle a childish figure in creamy lace rose before him, and a soft hand was held out. “I know what has happened!” she whispered passionately. “She has treated you scandalously! She cannot appreciate YOU!”
Prince Hugo stuttered and coughed and almost kissed the little hand which lay so trustingly in his. He found himself safely outside at last, and drove away, wretched to the soul.
But below his wretchedness something whispered: “SHE appreciates me, and her dot is quite as large.”
CHAPTER XIII
George Waldeaux hummed a tune gayly as he climbed the winding maze of streets in Vannes, one cloudy afternoon, with Lisa.
“It is impertinent to be modern Americans in this old town,” he said. “We might play that we were jongleurs, and that it was still mediaeval times. I am sure the gray walls yonder and the fortress houses in this street have not changed in ages.”
“Neither have the smells, apparently,” said Lisa grimly. “Wrap this scarf about your throat, George. You coughed last night.”
George tied up his throat. “Coughed, did I?” he said anxiously. He had had a cold last winter, and his wife with her poultices and fright had convinced him that he was a confirmed invalid. The coming of her baby had given to the woman a motherly feeling toward all of the world, even to her husband.
“Look at these women,” he said, going on with his fancy presently. “I am sure that they were here wearing these black gowns and huge red aprons in the twelfth century. What is this?” he said, stopping abruptly, to a boy of six who was digging mud at the foot of an ancient ivy-covered tower.
“C’est le tour du Connetable,” the child lisped. “Et v’la, monsieur!” pointing to a filthy pen with a gate of black oak; “v’la le donjon de Clisson!”
“Who was Clisson?” said Lisa impatiently.
“A live man to Froissart–and to this boy,” said George, laughing. “I told you that we had gone back seven centuries. This fog comes in from the Morbihan sea where Arthur and his knights went sailing to find the Holy Greal. They have not come back. And south yonder is the country of the Druids. I will take you to-morrow and show you twenty thousand of their menhirs, and then we will sail away to an island where there is an altar that the serpent worshippers built ages before Christ.”
Lisa laughed. He was not often in this playful mood. She panted as she toiled up the dark little street, a step behind him, but he did not think of giving her his arm. He had grown accustomed to regard himself as the invalid now, and the one who needed care.
“I am going for letters,” he called back, diving into a dingy alley. The baby and its bonne were near Lisa. The child never was out of her sight for, a moment. She waited, standing a little apart from Colette to watch whether the passers-by would notice the baby. When one or two of the gloomy and stolid women who hurried past in their wooden sabots clicked their fingers to it, she could not help smiling gayly and bidding them good-day.
The fog was stifling. As she waited she gave a tired gasp. Colette ran to her. “Madame is going to be ill!”
“No, no! Don’t frighten monsieur.”
George came out of the gate at the moment.
“Going to faint again, Lisa?” he said, with an annoyed glance around the street. “Your attacks do choose the most malapropos times—-“
“Oh, dear no, George! I am quite well quite.” She walked beside him with an airy step, laughing gayly now and then, but George’s frown deepened.
“I don’t understand these seizures at all,” he said. “You seem to be in sound physical condition.”
“Oh, all women have queer turns, George.”
“Did you consult D’Abri, as I told you to do, in Paris?”
“Yes, yes! Now let us talk no more about it. I have had these–symptoms since I was a child.”
“You never told me of them before we were married,” he muttered.
Lisa scowled darkly at him, but she glanced at the baby and her mouth closed. Little Jacques should never hear her rage nor swear.
From an overhanging gable at the street corner looked down a roughly hewn stone Madonna. The arms of the Holy Child were outstretched to bless. Lisa paused before it, crossing herself. A strange joy filled her heart.
“I too am a mother! I too!” she said. She hurried after George and clung to his arm as they went home.
“Was there any letter?” she asked.
“Only one from Munich–Miss Vance. I haven’t opened it.”
“I thought your mother would write. She must have heard about the boy!”
George’s face grew dark. “No, she’ll not write. Nor come.”
“You wish for her every day, George?” She looked at him wistfully.
“Yes, I do. She and I were comrades to a queer degree. I long for something hearty and homelike again. See here, Lisa. I’m going home before my boy begins to talk. I mean he shall grow up under wholesome American influences–not foreign.”
“Not foreign,” she repeated gravely. She was silent a while. “I have thought much of it all lately,” she said at last. “It will be wholesome for Jacques on your farm. Horses–dogs—- Your mother will love him. She can’t help it. She–I acted like a beast to that woman, George. I’ll say that. She hit me hard. But she has good traits. She is not unlike my own mother.”
George said nothing. God forbid that he should tell her, even by a look, that she and her mother were of a caste different from his own.
But he was bored to the soul by the difference; he was tired of her ignorances, which she showed every minute, of her ghastly, unclean knowledges–which she never showed.
They came into the courtyard of the Chateau de la Motte, the ancient castle of the Breton dukes, which is now an inn. The red sunset flamed up behind the sad little town and its gray old houses and spires massed on the hill, and the black river creeping by. George’s eyes kindled at the sombre picture.
“In this very court,” he said, “Constance stood when she summoned the States of Brittany to save her boy Arthur from King John.”
“Oh, yes, you have read of it to me in your Shakespeare. It is one of his unpleasant stories. Come, Bebe. It grows damp.”
As she climbed the stone stairway with the child, Colette lingered to gossip with the portier. “Poor lady! You will adore her! She is one of us. But she makes of that bete Anglais and the ugly child, saints and gods!”
When George presently came up to their bare little room, Lisa was singing softly, as she rocked Jacques to sleep.
“Can’t you sing the boy something a bit more cheerful?” he said. “You used to know some jolly catches from the music halls.”
“Catches for HIM?” with a frightened look at the child’s shut eyes.
“The `Adeste Fideles’ is moral, but it is not a merry air. You sing it morning, noon, and night,” he grumbled.
“Yes,” she whispered, laying the child in its crib. “One never knows how much HE understands, and he may remember, I thought. Some day when he is a great boy, he may hear it and he’ll think, `My mother sang that hymn. She must have been a good woman!'”
“Nonsense, Lisa,” said George kindly. “You’ll teach him every day, while he is growing to be a great boy, that you are a good woman.”
She said nothing, but stood on the other side of the crib looking at him.
“Well, what is it?” said George uneasily. “You look at me as if somebody were dragging you away from me.”
She laughed. “What ridiculous fancies you have!” She came behind him and, drawing his head back, kissed him on the forehead. “Oh, you poor, foolish boy!” she said.
Lisa sat down to her work, which was the making of garments for Jacques out of her own gowns. She was an expert needlewoman, and had already a pile of fantastic kilts of cloth and velvet.
“Enough to last until he is ten years old,” George said contemptuously. “And you will not leave a gown for yourself.”
“There will be all I shall need,” she said.
He turned up the lamp and opened Clara’s letter.
Lisa’s needle flew through the red and yellow silk. It was pleasant work; she was doing it skilfully. The fire warmed her thin blood. She could hear the baby’s regular, soft breathing as it slept. A pleasure that was almost like health stole through her lean body. She leaned back in her chair looking at Jacques. In three years he could wear the velvet suit with the cap and pompon. His hair would be yellow and curly, like his father’s. But his eyes would be like her mother’s. She pressed her hands together, laughing, the hot tears rushing to her eyes. “Ah, maman!” she said. “Do you know that your little girl has a baby? Can you see him?”
What a superb “great boy” he would be! He should go to a military school. Yes! She lay back in her chair, watching him.
George suddenly started up with a cry of amazement.
“What is it?” she said indifferently.
He did not answer, but turned the letter and read it over again. Then he folded it with shaking fingers.
“I have news here. Miss Vance thinks it time that I was told, and I agree with her. It appears that I am a pauper, and always have been. My father died penniless.”
“Then Jacques will be poor?”
“Jacques! You think of nothing but that mewling, senseless thing! It is mother–she always has supported me. We are living now on the money that she earns from week to week, while I play that I am an artist!”
Lisa listened attentively. “It does not seem strange that a mother should work for her son,” she said slowly. “But she has never told us! That is fine! I like that! I told you she had very good traits.”
George stared at her. “But–me! Don’t you see what a cad I am?”
He paced up and down, muttering, and then throwing on his hat went out into the night to be alone.
Lisa sank back again and watched Jacques. At military school, yes; and after he had left school he would be a soldier, perhaps. Such a gallant young fellow!
She leaned over the cradle, holding out her hands. Ah, God! if she could but live to see it! Surely it might be? There was no pain now. Doctors were not infallible–even D’Abri might be mistaken, after all.
George, coming in an hour later, found her sitting with her hands covering her face.
“Are you asleep, Lisa?”
“No.”
“There is a telegram from Clara. My mother has left Munich for Vannes. She will be here in two days.”
She rose with an effort. “I am glad for you, George.”
“You are ill, Lisa!”
“A little tired, only. Colette will give me my powder, and I shall be quite well in the morning. Will you send her to me now?”
After George was gone the rumbling of a diligence was heard in the courtyard, and presently a woman was brought up to the opposite chamber.
The hall was dark. Looking across it, Frances Waldeaux saw in the lighted room Lisa and her child.
CHAPTER XIV
Before we come to the dark story of that night in the inn, it is but fair to Frances to say that she came there with no definite evil purpose. She had been cheerful on her journey from Munich. There was one clear fact in her brain: She was on her way to George.
The countless toy farms of southern France, trimmed neatly by the inch, swept past her. In Brittany came melancholy stretches of brown heath and rain-beaten hills; or great affluent estates, the Manor houses covered with thatch, stagnant pools close to the doors, the cattle breaking through the slovenly wattled walls. Frances, being a farmer, felt a vague amusement at these things, but they were all dim to her as a faded landscape hanging on the wall.
She was going to George.
Sometimes she seemed to be in Lucy’s room again, with the sweet, clean air of youth about her. All of that purity and love might have gone into George’s life–before it fell into the slough.
But she was going now to take it out of the slough.
There was a merchant and his wife from Geneva in the carriage with their little boy, a pretty child of five. Frances played and joked with him.
“Has madam also a son?” his mother asked civilly.
She said yes, and presently added, “My son has now a great trouble, but I am going to relieve him of it.”
The woman, startled, stared at her.
“Is it not right for me to rid him of it?” she demanded loudly.
“Mais oui, certainement” said the Swiss. She watched Frances after that furtively. Her eyes, she thought, were quite sane. But how eccentric all of these Americans were!
Mrs. Waldeaux reached Vannes at nightfall. At last! Here was the place in this great empty world where he was.
When the diligence entered the courtyard, George was so near to the gate that the smoke of his cigar was blown into her face, but he did not see her. He was lean and pale, and his eyes told his misery. When she saw them his mother grew sick from head to foot with a sudden nausea. This was his wife’s doing. She was killing him! Frances hurried into the inn, her legs giving way under her. She could not speak to him. She must think what to do.
She was taken to her room. It was dark, and across the corridor she saw Lisa in her lighted chamber. This was good luck! God had put the creature at once into her hands to deal with!
She was conscious of a strange exaltation, as if from wine–as if she would never need to sleep nor eat again. Her thoughts came and went like flashes of fire. She watched Lisa as she would a vampire, a creeping deadly beast. Pauline Felix–all that was adulterous and vile in women–there it was!
Her mind too, as never before, was full of a haughty complacency in herself. She felt like the member of some petty sect who is sure that God communes with him inside of his altar rails, while the man is outside whom he believes that God made only to be damned.
Lisa began to undress. Frances quickly turned away, ashamed of peeping into her chamber. But the one fact burned on into her brain:
The woman was killing George.
If God would rid the world of her! If a storm should rise now, and the lightning strike the house, and these stone walls should fall on her, now–now!
But the walls stood firm and the moonlight shone tranquilly on the world outside.
She told herself to be calm–to be just. But there was no justice while this woman went on with her work! God saw. He meant her to be stopped. Frances prayed to him frantically that Lisa might soon be put off of the earth. Just as the Catholic used to pray before he massacred the Huguenot, or the Protestant, when he tied his Catholic brother to the stake. If this woman was mad for blood, it was a madness that many sincere people have shared.
Colette was busy with her mistress for a long time. She was very gentle and tender, being fond of Lisa, as people of her class always were. She raised her voice as she made ready to leave the room.
“If the pain returns, here is the powder of morphia, mixed, within madame’s reach,” she said.
Frances came close to the door.
“And if it continues?” asked Lisa.
“Let monsieur call me. I would not trust him to measure a powder,” Colette said, laughing. “It is too dangerous. He is not used to it–like me.”
Mrs. Waldeaux saw her lay a paper package on a shelf.
“I will pray that the pain will not return,” the girl said. “But if it does, let monsieur knock at my door. Here is the tisane when you are thirsty.” She placed a goblet of milky liquid near the bed.
What more she said Frances did not hear.
It was to be! There was the morphia, and yonder the night drink within her reach. It was God’s will.
Colette turned out the lamp, hesitated, and sat down by the fire. Presently she rose softly, bent over her mistress, and, finding her asleep, left the room noiselessly. Her door closed far down the corridor.
Mrs. Waldeaux was quite alone, now.
It was but a step across the hall. So easy to do–easy. It must be done at once.
But her feet were like lead, she could not move; her tongue lay icy cold in her mouth. Her soul was willing, but her body rebelled.
What folly was this? It was the work of a moment. George would be free. She would have freed him.
In God’s name then—-
She crossed the hall softly. Into the hell of her thoughts flashed a little womanish shame, that she, Frances Waldeaux, should be walking on tiptoe, like a thief.
She took down the package, and leaning over the table at the side of the bed, shook the white powder into the glass. Then she went back to her room and shut the door.
The casement was open and the moonlight was white outside. She was conscious that the glare hurt her eyes, and that there was a strange stricture about her jaws and the base of her brain, like an iron hand.
It seemed to her but a minute that she stood there, but the dawn was breaking when there was a sudden confusion in the opposite room. She heard Colette’s voice, and then George’s, calling Lisa.
There was no answer.
Frances stood up, to listen. “Will she not speak?” she cried. “Make her speak!”
But in reality she said nothing. Even her breath had stopped to listen.
There was no answer.
Frances was awake now, for the rest of her life. She knew what she had done.
“Why, George,” she said, “she cannot speak. She is dead. I did it.”
She stood in the room a minute, looking from side to side, and then went with measured steps out of it, down the corridor and into the street.
“I did it,” she said to herself again and again, as she walked slowly on.
The old cathedral is opposite to the inn. Her eyes, as she passed, rested on the gargoyles, and she thought how fine they were. One was a ridiculous head with lolling tongue.
A priest’s voice inside was chanting mass. A dozen Breton women in their huge white winged caps and wooden shoes hurried up to the door, through the gray fog. They met Mrs. Waldeaux and saw her face. They huddled to one side, crossing themselves, and when she passed, stood still, forgetting the mass and looking, frightened, up the steep street behind her to find what horror had pursued her.
“They know what I have done,” she said aloud.
Once when she was a child she had accidentally seen a bloated wretch, a murderer, on his way to the gallows.
“I am he,” she thought. “I–_I_, Frances.”
Then the gargoyle came into her mind again. What a capital headpiece it would make for “Quigg’s” next column! It was time this week’s jokes were sent.
But at last these ghosts of yesterday’s life faded out, and she saw the fact.
She had hated her son’s wife and had killed her!
CHAPTER XV
When the sun was well up the women who had been at mass gathered down by the little river which runs through the old city, to wash their clothes. They knelt on the broad