When we had been about ten days at Salzbrun, a sad thing happened. Little Gretchen, the smiling Madchen who used to fill up, from the spring which Frau Schimpf and I frequented, the glasses handed to her by the drinkers, was missing one morning; a stranger was in her place, and presently the story flew from mouth to mouth that the poor child had been knocked down by a runaway horse the previous evening; her leg was broken, and broken badly. Anna, who had come to do her work, said the little maiden was in sore pain, but brave and patient, and that the Herr Doctor had shaken his head and looked very grave about the accident.
The morning sunshine shone less bright than usual that day to many who heard the tale, for Gretchen's modest behavior and pleasant courtesy had made her a favorite with all her customers. The livery music of the band failed to inspirit us, and when Emmie and I had taken our compulsory walk, and fetched in little paper bags the rolls that were to serve for our breakfast, we sat down sadly and gravely enough, at a little table under the shady trees, to drink our coffee.
"Can't we do anything for Gretchen, uncle?"
"We can give her some money," I suggested; "doctors cost more than she can afford, poor child."
Just then Frau Schimpf, who was breakfasting at a table near us, and with whom Emmie had occasionally exchanged a few words, turned round and said something to her in German. And then followed a conversation, in the course of which my niece learnt fuller particulars of the recent accident. It appeared that Gretchen was the eldest child of a large family, and the only member of it besides the mother capable of earning anything. That mother was a widow, herself too delicate to be able to work much; and now the poor girl's weekly wage must cease, for she could never be well enough this summer to resume her post. "Even if she ever does get well enough," continued the German lady. "I have seen the Herr Doctor only this last half-hour, and he says her injuries are so severe he cannot yet tell whether she may not have to lose her leg, and then what would become of them? Gretchen, even with a wooden leg, would not be able to stoop fast enough to fill the visitors' glasses another season, and what else could she do? Besides," added the good woman reflectively, "a wooden leg is expensive; it wears out—you have to buy another. Gretchen is young; she may live long enough to need a dozen wooden legs before she dies, to say nothing of sticks and crutches." And as Emmie translated to me this dolorous suggestion, Frau Schimpf finished her repast and walked away.
We found that Gretchen's accident had created quite a little excitement at the Schwartz Adler, where many of her customers were staying; and before dinner-time the general desire to help the little maiden had taken definite form, and it was unanimously decided that the visitors at the hotel should get up an entertainment something in the style of penny readings at home for her benefit. It was to come off as soon as possible, while the interest was at its hight; and ardent spirits amongst us formed themselves into a committee of management, and went about the house, knocking at every one's door in search of talent of all kind to swell their programme for the following Tuesday. Emmie and I were requested to give our valuable services; but happily the house contained so many stars more brilliant than ourselves that we were permitted to sink into contented insignificance after purchasing our five franc tickets for the entertainment.
It was wonderfully well got up: somehow these things arrange themselves more easily and simply amongst foreigners than with us, and the number of performers was astonishing. There was a gentleman who played the flute, another who accompanied his wife's pianoforte music on the violoncello, several amateur singers with voices far above the average, brilliant pianists and violinists, besides readers and reciters in French, English, and German, to suit all tastes. The landlord placed his big salon at the disposal of the committee, and Emmie assisted a bevy of ladies to deck its walls with flowers and evergreens, while the non-performing gentlemen, myself amongst them, went to and fro executing their sometimes rather contradictory orders. Amongst them all I looked in vain for Madame B. What a sweet retiring disposition she must have! I thought, for she is never visible except at dinner-time; but by and by Frau Schimpf came bustling in, and presently Emmie ran up to me with a translation of that worthy woman's latest remarks.
"She says we shall have a treat indeed this evening, uncle, for Madame B. has at last consented, under extreme pressure, to recite in German."
"Admirable woman!" said I, which was what I thought; but Emmie fancied it was spoken ironically, and went on to rebuke me gently.
"You shouldn't laugh at her," she said; "it really must be horrid to have to stand up and spout before all these people; and I don't wonder it took a lot of coaxing to persuade her to do it. I don't think even you, my much and deservedly beloved uncle, would ever be able to induce me to perform in public."
"And if I could, my dear, you would not be worth hearing," returned I; for we were on terms of friendly chaff, and I liked her to get occasionally as good as she gave.
Presently she came back to me.
"Our latest bulletin," she whispered; "Madame B. is by no means unaccustomed to public speaking; she has un talent, and is in the habit of exercising it at some sort of club—Verein they call it—in Berlin."
This upset the modest violet theory; but, after all, the glorious rose which basks in fullest sunshine is a finer flower; anyway, there was much to admire in the lady; and when at the appointed hour she was handed, by two or three gentlemen in waiting, to the front of the extempore platform in the salon, and stood there self-possessed and stately in her trailing black silk robe, while her audience clapped a welcome, I declare my heart went pit-a-pat with excitement, just as though I were a boy of nineteen.
The lady waited for silence with downcast eyes, but when the room was hushed into stillness she raised them suddenly with a quick change of expression, and in a rich clear voice began to speak in German. That there were rhymes in what she recited even my ignorant ears could catch, but the extraordinary thing about it was the incessant repetition of my own name in every variety of tone, now playful, now tender, now coaxing, now petulant; and once when her accent was especially caressing, the dark eyes rested for an instant on my face, bringing a tinge of red above my respectable British whiskers. What was it all about? Was it possible that Madame B. was acquainted with my Christian name? that she was conscious of my fervent admiration, and not displeased by it? And here I became aware that Emmie was indulging in a paroxysm of laughter and delight beside me, while a storm of rapturous applause burst out all over the room as the melodious voice ceased and Madame B. bowed her acknowledgments. She came back again and recited something else—of which I could not understand a word—before Emmie had time to explain the first piece, but I hardly listened now; I was sitting in a strangely delicious dream. Adolph? yes, certainly that was the German for my own name Adolphus, but never had I imagined the variety of sweet inflections with which that name could be uttered.
"I shall always call you uncle Adolph in future," cried Emmie, breaking in upon my revery. "It is a much prettier name than Adolphus, and ever so much shorter. Oh, dear, I do wish I could say it in half as many different ways as Madame B. can!"
"But what was it all about?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon, uncle. I forgot you did not understand. It was just the loveliest thing you ever heard. The poem begins by saying not exactly 'what's in a name?' but by suggesting that we hardly know what there is in it until we try to use it under a great variety of circumstances; and then it takes a common German name, Adolph, and puts it into the mouth of a girl who is talking to her lover; and sometimes she pets him, and sometimes she pretends to scold him, or to take offense, and then she is in despair at parting from him, and overjoyed to meet again. You could make out all that for yourself, couldn't you, from the way Madame B. pronounced your name?"
"I never heard anything to equal her; it is wonderfully clever."
"She must have had plenty of practice, mustn't she?" remarked Emmie, taking a view of the matter which fell rather like a wet blanket on my enthusiasm. "I expect she has recited that poem dozens of times before. You see she says it off by heart, and Frau Schimpf told me she is accustomed to immense audiences in Berlin, and thinks nothing at all of the people here."
Our entertainment was an undeniable success, and the committee were able to hand over for Gretchen's use a sum of money sufficient to keep the little maiden in comfort for many months to come. Its results, so far as I was concerned, were less happy. My thoughts would wander off too constantly to Madame B. I began to show small civilities to the dame de compagnie, who took them in very good part; and listening to the ease and fluency with which she rattled off her native language, it appeared to me that speaking German must really be an easier, simpler thing than I used to imagine, and I resolved to set to work at once to pick up all I could of it. Ja nein, those were words I knew already, and I had learnt to call Kellner in commanding tones whenever there were any orders to be given through Emmie to the waiters. I would go a little further now, and one day, when the child had been telling me some long story of her adventures while I had been writing letters, I drew myself up, and replied complacently.
"Ach, so." But Emmie was not impressed, as I had expected her to be, by my proficiency; indeed, she took it quite the wrong way, for she leant back in her chair with a burst of laughter that surprised me, and as soon as she could speak, exclaimed,
"My dearest uncle Adolph" (she had called me so ever since the memorable Tuesday night), "you really are too funny. When I come down to stay with you in the winter we will get up some private theatricals, and you will bring the house down. I had not the faintest notion you were such a mimic; it is inimitable, just her very tone and manner to the life."
"Whose tone and manner?" I asked, faintly, trying to look unconscious.
"Why, Frau Schimpf's, of course; it could not be any one else. Oh uncle Adolph, what a shame of you to be so civil to the poor old thing, when all the time you were doing it only to get that up! Do say it again, though; I can't think how you could contrive to catch her voice and accent so completely."
We were wandering about next morning, in the direction of the ladies' mud-baths, when our attention was suddenly caught by loud screams proceeding from one of them, as of somebody in deadly fear. Several people came running to the spot; there was a commotion both inside and outside the building, and at last the word Schlange—snake—began to pass from mouth to mouth. Was there a viper in one of the ladies' baths? The idea appeared too horrible. Poor Emmie turned pale at the thought, and asked anxiously if German snakes were dangerous; but not two people gave her the same answer, and at last the brilliant suggestion occurred to her that it might, perhaps, be only an eel.
I looked at my watch, and found it was already past the time for my second glass of mineral water, and Emmie decided to stay where she was while I went in search of it, in the hopes of hearing the end of this strange affair. Twenty minutes later I returned, to find her leaning for support against a tree, exhausted by mirth, which burst out afresh at sight of me, while every face I met was expanded into a broad grin.
"Oh uncle Adolph, it is too ridiculous!" she panted, as she ran up to me and seized my arm. "What do you think it was? It was Madame B.'s bath, you know; and after she got into it she felt something in the mud, and she thought it was a snake, and screamed and made a tremendous fuss; and the bath-people came rushing to help her, and they got sticks and rakes and poked about in the mud, and, oh! what do you think they found in the bath?"
"Surely not the eel you suggested?" I asked faintly.
"A curl, Uncle Adolph! just that very identical long black curl you thought so beautiful! and it had got all straight and horrid in the mud, and really must have been unpleasantly like a snake to put one's foot on. But that is not all," she went on, "for it seems that poor Madame is bald, absolutely bald, and all those bows and fringes are nothing but a wig, and take on and off like a helmet; and to-day she must have been thinking of something else, for she stepped into her bath with the hair on, and this curl dropped into the mud. I do feel sorry for her, for when the people showed her what they had found, she was so angry that they say she tore the rest of the wig off her head, and threw it at them in a passion. So now everybody in the place will know that Madame B. is bald and artificially got up, and I should not wonder if the discovery drove her quite away from Salzbrun at once."
Emmie was right; that very afternoon the two ladies left the place, taking leave of none, and not caring to face any of their former companions. At night the subject was discussed at table d'hote; fresh incidents were supplied, dull witticisms were made about Medusa and her snaky locks, and those who had before been most inclined to offer incense at the shrine of Madame B. were foremost now in hinting that her teeth, her eyebrows, and the faint pink color in her cheeks were one and all as artificial as her hair. As for me, I held my tongue. Nobody, not even Emmie, had the least suspicion of my budding tendresse for the fascinating widow, and by and by some farther particulars became known about her. Her husband, a wealthy jeweler of Berlin, had been dead about two years, and had probably bequeathed to her, amongst much else, the diamond hoops which flashed so brightly on her pretty hands.
My dream was over, I had been rudely awakened. Not for the sake of hearing "Adolph" murmured all day long in the soft accents of that dulcet voice could I, an English country gentleman, for a moment contemplate allying myself with the made-up widow of a German shopkeeper, however beautiful and attractive her appearance might be in full "war-paint." No, I would go back to my old home and my old ways, and forget the foreign siren who had dazzled me for a while.
We stayed on at Salzbrun until my course of water-drinking was over, and then, after a fortnight's tour through other parts of Germany, I brought my niece home with me to the Manor House.
Emmie had grown very dear to me in all these weeks that we have spent together. I do not think it would be quite fair to ask her parents to let her live with me entirely and be my adopted daughter; but I have been trying on one excuse and another to lengthen out her stay, and fondly hoped the Manor House would be a second home to her, and that at least half her time would in future be spent with me.
But what is the use of planning? My fine schemes were all knocked on the head this morning, in the course of an hour's conversation, and I and my projects are simply nowhere in the new state of things.
I was standing on my doorstep after breakfast, smoking calmly, and at peace with all mankind, when young Fred Willoughby came riding up the drive.
"Hullo, young man," said I, "why are you not after the hounds this morning? You can't have better weather in November, and you won't find any fox in this direction, take my word for it."
"It is rather a dove than a fox that I have come in pursuit of to-day, Mr. Slocombe. Can you give me ten minutes in the study?"
In less than that time he had poured out a fervid declaration of his devotion to my niece, of his parents' approval of his choice, and would I—could I give him any hope that Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Slocombe would ever be persuaded to allow him to marry their daughter? Of course he soon persuaded me. Fred is a thoroughly good fellow, the son of old and tried friends, and can promise his wife a future fairly free from any money anxieties. He is evidently much attached to Emmie, and I believe will make her truly happy. So, by and by, we shall have another wedding, and then I know exactly how it will be in the future. History, they say, repeats itself. So somebody's marriage will inconvenience me; I shall lose my head housekeeper in Emmie. There will be bad times for the garden again next spring, I know there will, and I shall be worried and out of sorts, and shall suffer from bunions, or something else, and then Hunter will send me to Sir Percival Pylle for good advice. I see the whole programme before me, like some dreadful nightmare; but I can be firm upon occasions, and I do solemnly declare that nothing, not even the advice of the most learned and fashionable of physicians, shall ever again induce me to seek for health in the neighborhood of a German mud-bath.