CHAPTER XLIX
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.]
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 10s. 3d. 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.