of California 
 n Regional 
 7 Facility
 
 DIONYSIUS THE WEAVER S 
 HEART S DEAREST
 
 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 Heart s Dearest 
 
 BY 
 
 BLANCHE WILLIS HOWARD 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SEVEN ON THE HIGHWAY," "THE OPEN 
 DOOR," "GUENN," " ONE SUMMER," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 1899
 
 Copyright, 
 BY CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 Heart s Dearest 
 
 BETWEEN the Danube and the Neckar, high 
 in the bleak hill country known as The Rough 
 Alp, perched the hamlet Hexenfels. Grim 
 rocks grouped in evil counsel dominated the 
 barren land; peasants flat roofs would have 
 whirled away were they not freighted with 
 heavy stones; and nothing man, mouse, or 
 moss could well exist unless hardy enough 
 to defy the long sweep of icy winds that bat 
 tled here with fury all unspent, though they 
 had rushed from the far frozen north across a 
 continent. 
 
 Close behind the poor cottage of Dionysius 
 the weaver towered the Witch-Tooth, a formid 
 able crag, sparsely overgrown with patches of 
 straggling bushes, vines, stout small leaves, 
 and a few flowers of undismayed tempera 
 ment. The child Vroni born naughty 
 
 204701.9
 
 2 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 when sent in the legitimate course of things 
 to feed hens was wont to dash off to the allur 
 ing rocks and loiter royally. Climbing swift 
 and sure where seemed no foothold for a goat, 
 she busily would amass a large store of treas 
 ures: leaves, bits of moss, an owl s feather, a 
 trailing stem quite bare but good for skipping- 
 rope, a gaunt wiry stalk most excellent for a 
 switch, and from the crevices pretty arabis. 
 Always seeking to grasp more, she would let 
 fall and lose her precious hoard, since desir 
 able things were legion, and of greedy little 
 hands she had but two, these indeed in great 
 demand, as, monkey-like, she clung, hung, 
 swung, and lifted herself along her zig-zag 
 course. 
 
 In midsummer she would venture high, and 
 higher, for gay wild pinks, " weather-pinks, " 
 say the Suabian Highlanders, until recalled 
 to earth by her irate mother down below, 
 shouting, when fate willed, against the wind, 
 and clapping soundless but portentous palms. 
 The great chiding voice was now so wee and 
 impotent, the powerful stature so unintimidat- 
 ing, the child felt bound to stop short, hold 
 her sides and laugh, flinging down from her 
 cyry peals of wicked glee and mockery,
 
 Heart s Dearest 3 
 
 floating haply on the wind, while ostensibly 
 scrambling earthward, yet never too fast for 
 manifold dalliance with brambly delights. 
 Vroni herself was not unlike a mountain 
 pink, bold, lithe, lawless, vivid in color, 
 careless of wind and weather. 
 
 Perchance a stray goat, chased from afar by 
 some breathless peasant lad, and overtaken at 
 last in these witchy wilds, first traced with 
 inconsequent nibbling the site of Hexenfels. 
 Surely no less erratic, no more responsible 
 spirit ever could have chosen so inhospitable 
 a spot of earth for the struggle for life, and 
 even a moderately well-endowed goat ought 
 to have done better for himself. Had the 
 place possessed conceivable advantages, the 
 ruins at least of a feudal castle would have 
 haughtily affirmed them. But not even a 
 Potz-Blitz robber knight had found it worth 
 while to establish in this desolate region the 
 lofty and lineal seat of his depredations. 
 
 Far from the high-road, difficult of access, 
 unmolested by tourists, quite beyond the 
 strenuous hum of modern progress, Hexenfels 
 remained what it had been for centuries, an 
 isolated and humble community of toilers. 
 Thirty mean cottages, or rather huts, with
 
 4 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 their clumsy, stone-laden roofs; dulness, tame- 
 ness, dreariness beyond words, pessimistic 
 fowls slowly strutting across a dirty street, an 
 oppressive torpor, a singular dearth of popu 
 lation : in short, a squalid travesty of the 
 sleeping palace of enchanted beauty, and noth 
 ing at all alive except the mind, thus would 
 the urban stranger who never arrived behold 
 Hexenfels. 
 
 Yet here dwelt by no means wretchedly a 
 sturdy folk, cherishing with gallant obstinacy 
 its bleak home, solemnly tenacious of its pre 
 judices, its own social code, its gradations of 
 worldly dignity, and drawing a certain stub 
 born strength and pride from the deep-rooted 
 traditions of an historic past. 
 
 No tyranny as to top hats obtained in Hex 
 enfels, no rigid conventions as to the color 
 and cut of a man s coat at certain appointed 
 hours of the day, no stern law as to the width 
 of his trousers and the angle at which he 
 should shake hands, no Draconic code decree 
 ing gloves or no gloves. But, in other details, 
 perhaps equally essential to the well-being of 
 humanity and the growth of the soul, Hexen 
 fels was not a whit less arbitrary than London. 
 The points of view differed, that is all.
 
 Heart s Dearest 5 
 
 Had you sought to persuade Vroni Lindl 
 that her environment was squalid, her exist 
 ence joyless, she would have laughed in your 
 face. In the earlier and peculiarly unregen- 
 erate stage of her being, she might indeed 
 have startled you with a response even less 
 civilized than her impish laughter, and it 
 would have been a hopeless task to convince 
 her that cooped-up town children, the misera 
 ble limitations of whose sad dull days afforded 
 no Witch-Tooth as background of the uni 
 verse, were to be viewed with aught but con 
 temptuous pity. 
 
 It must be admitted of things really worth 
 having she had her share. The few crooked, 
 hump-backed, sour plum-trees by the back 
 door, what child worthy of the name would 
 fail to perceive at a glance the inexhaustible 
 versatility of those stunted and delightful 
 objects? Round the feeble vegetable garden 
 before the front windows stretched a bris 
 tling unkempt hedge of lilac, elder, and wild 
 white hawthorn, beneath which in the spring 
 time she found rare and most wonderful vio 
 lets. In the great pile of wood and fagots, 
 always, winter and summer, just beyond the 
 hedge, she scooped dim and fragrant hiding
 
 6 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 places and crouched breathless, in an ecstasy 
 of mystery, when none pursued. She dili 
 gently wove willow-twigs into her thickly 
 wadded winter petticoat to make a most sur 
 prising crinoline. The clayey soil which 
 sorely tried the patience of her elders minis 
 tered only to her joy, for she never wearied 
 of moulding flowers and figures, and drying 
 them in the sun. Her father smiled at her 
 creations; but her mother sniffed and called 
 them idle trash. 
 
 Finding snails in the woods after a rain 
 either for home consumption or to sell at the 
 rate of a hundred for twenty-five pfennigs 
 also added zest to her existence. Whether 
 swinging in the delectable barn, or rioting on 
 the haymows in the meadow, or construct 
 ing fine couches of moss in the forest, no 
 child was ever keener in pleasure, none ever 
 plunged with more tingling life and ardor 
 into the business of the moment. 
 
 But, alas, not all the little girl s pursuits 
 were reputable. Once with splendid though 
 misdirected zeal, in sheer wrath and revenge, 
 a pure vendetta spirit indeed, she, aided 
 by another like unto her, it was the " red 
 Lisl," walled up with stones and wood and
 
 Heart s Dearest 7 
 
 earth two tiny casements suggestively near 
 the ground, so that a weeping and exasperated 
 old crone was obliged to light candles in 
 broad daylight when she came home from 
 church. For this enormity in spite of its 
 undeniable genius, and a certain classic sim 
 plicity in thus effectually shuffling a growl 
 ing and meddling beldam out of sight as 
 if she were a recreant vestal virgin little 
 Vroni received from her good father six dozen 
 on the hands with a big pewter spoon. 
 
 Perhaps her most memorable exploit was 
 to set fire to a heap of hemp and pith under 
 her neighbor s, the " Distcl-Baucrs, " great 
 walnut-tree, which, the season being dry, began 
 to blaze terrifically and amazingly, and had to 
 be extinguished with buckets and hose like a 
 veritable house a-fire. The village children 
 naturally gloried in the flash of inspiration 
 that had created a prank of such dimensions; 
 but the men and women spoke their minds 
 without wincing, as was the fashion in 
 Hexenfels. When one dwells on wind-swept 
 heights exposed to the ravages of a Vroni 
 Lindl, silence ceases to be a virtue, and a 
 sound shaking of the culprit, if by good luck 
 you can catch her, seems no more than one s
 
 8 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 duty to the commonwealth. The year of the 
 flaming walnut-tree was perhaps the most agi 
 tated epoch of Vroni s early chronology. 
 
 She saw her father, Dionysius the weaver, 
 so called in contradistinction to Dionysius 
 the cobbler, a pale dark man in gray drill 
 ing clothes, a leather apron, and a soft black 
 cap with a visor, working at his loom in the 
 front room early and late. Great piles of 
 bed linen and table linen the father wove, 
 drilling too, and sometimes linen for aprons. 
 Only in an emergency of harvest, haying, or 
 sowing, did he join the others in the field. 
 The farming as well as the work of the small 
 household was done by his wife, aided finally 
 by Vroni only, as the older brothers and 
 sisters went gradually, one by one, out into 
 the great world, far away from the humble 
 nest in the shadow of the Witch -Tooth. 
 
 Dionysius, a simple man, peasant born, had 
 rather gentle ways and a soft mode of speech. 
 Some of his neighbors said he was never 
 aught else. Others declared he had learned 
 things in Vienna, where, when he was young 
 and lively as a colt, he had gone to live with 
 a bachelor uncle, and ply the weaver trade. 
 It was hinted the uncle had thought the world
 
 Heart s Dearest 9 
 
 of Dionysius, and meant to leave the boy all 
 his money, but lost it and died suddenly, 
 nobody ever quite knew of what, or how, or 
 where, or when, and Dionysius returned 
 to Hexenfels, changed and "quiet-like," with 
 nothing to say for himself. There he re 
 mained, working steadily at his trade, mar 
 ried twice, and harmed neither man nor beast. 
 
 Yet some pretended, so lamblike as he 
 seemed, he had been a rare wild fellow in 
 Vienna, and he and the young uncle naught 
 but a godless pair of rogues, weaving more 
 mischief than honest warp and woof. These, 
 however, were at worst dim and fluttering 
 rumors such as may follow saint or sinner, 
 and never really current in the village; while 
 the prestige of that all -but-inherited fortune 
 clung to Dionysius, imparted to him a cer 
 tain romantic distinction, and formed a stable 
 topic of conversation in a community where, 
 as in most rural districts, people conversed 
 comfortably only upon oft-digested themes. 
 As he, laboring to feed the many mouths 
 under his roof, grew ever paler and began to 
 stoop more than his age warranted, they were 
 wont to say : 
 
 If Dionysius the weaver s uncle had not,
 
 io Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 etc., then Dionysius the weaver would now, 
 etc., etc., and in spite of the logic of facts, 
 the struggling family at the Witch-Tooth 
 seemed always in public estimation the more 
 opulent for those fugitive and largely mythical 
 avuncular possessions. But in the weaver s 
 brooding memories the loss of money played 
 no part. 
 
 Vroni adored her father. He had a way of 
 looking at her with his soft brown eyes that 
 was potent beyond the roughest blustering 
 and sternest threats from other quarters, or 
 even than actual chastisement. Worse still 
 was his way of not looking at her. That was 
 the one punishment she could not endure. 
 That quite broke her heart. 
 
 All the year round, her mother Agathe, 
 bustling indoors and out, wore a loose drab 
 jacket, a calico skirt, and a dark-red three- 
 cornered kerchief tied round her head. She 
 was rough of temper and tongue, of a discon 
 tented, fault-finding disposition, but transpar 
 ently honest, thrifty, cleanly, self-respecting, 
 exacting much of others but more of herself, 
 an indefatigable worker, never accomplishing 
 enough to satisfy her own demands. 
 
 While human intercourse seemed to evoke
 
 Heart s Dearest 1 1 
 
 from her chronic exasperation, she displayed 
 for domestic animals peculiar affection and 
 gentleness, to which they one and all re 
 sponded. Any music, even the cheapest, 
 transformed her personality, moved her to 
 sudden and extreme gayety, and caused her 
 to throw all care to the winds. But when 
 Dionysius the weaver heard music, his face 
 grew wistful and he remembered his child 
 hood. 
 
 Even when but a coltish little lass, Vroni 
 knew instinctively that he was made of finer 
 stuff than the rest of them. But only in after 
 years, and when too late, did she behold him 
 clearly as he was: a man loving justice, firm 
 as the crag when he saw fit, yet of most 
 peaceable intent; mild, tolerant, and pitiful, 
 freehanded, an humble and unconscious wor 
 shipper of beauty, and in affection fathom 
 less. 
 
 Agathe s greatest pleasure was a good sup 
 per not at her own expense. His was a quiet 
 walk through harvest fields, alone, or hand 
 in hand with his little daughter. Outwardly 
 she resembled him, inheriting his slight frame 
 and small bones, his good straight profile, and 
 his eyes. But he was pale from indoor life,
 
 12 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and she all sunny glow, and what was hidden 
 in the depths of the child, none could discover 
 for the bewildering overgrowth of pranks on 
 the surface. 
 
 Agathe conscientiously endeavored to train 
 her daughter s turbulence into sobriety, and, 
 was no colossal misdeed convulsing the com 
 munity, punished her, chiefly by reduction of 
 rations, for venial and chronic sins: when she 
 could remember not a word of the sermon, 
 whispered or giggled in church, and loitered 
 coming home from school ; when she tore her 
 frock, stole sugar from the pantry or dried 
 apples from the garret ; when she gave pert 
 answers or shirked her daily tasks. These 
 even when she was small comprised such 
 trifles as bringing in armfuls of wood, chop 
 ping fagots short for kindlings, fetching three 
 big pails of water from the brook, driving the 
 cattle to water, feeding the hens, weeding 
 the salad, and scouring pots and pans. At 
 intervals she would dash out of her orbit from 
 pure erratic mischief, but a worker she was, 
 skilful, thorough, and swift. Even Agathe 
 admitted that in this respect the little one 
 was "the best of the lot," referring thus 
 graphically to two older daughters of her
 
 Heart s Dearest 13 
 
 own, and still another, Dionysius s child by 
 his first wife. 
 
 Vroni looked askance at this half sister and 
 two half brothers, not altogether because they 
 were grown-ups, but chiefly on account of 
 their holiness as opposed to her own flagrant 
 naughtiness. She took them for saints, very 
 disapproving saints it was true, less gentle 
 than the pictures in her book, but unmiti 
 gated saints nevertheless. 
 
 Them too, and her own sisters, she saw 
 vividly only in the long perspective of years. 
 Little enough did she consciously concern her 
 small self with their unimportant personali 
 ties. Yet even then her spirit in autocratic 
 child-fashion was imperturbably gathering and 
 sifting its own evidence, never the evidence 
 intended for and intruded upon it by grown 
 people. 
 
 Five great brothers and sisters were still 
 packed close in the house when she was already 
 old enough to run about and turn things 
 topsy-turvy. 
 
 First came Sebastian, grimly religious, 
 almost more austere than any monk. Always 
 brimful of holy zeal, he longed to quicken 
 cold hearts with fire and sword. Rash, hot-
 
 14 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 tempered, yet warm-hearted and good when 
 not blinded by religious prejudice, honest to 
 the core, but that was a family trait. False 
 hood was almost the only naughtiness un 
 achieved, nay, unattempted by Vroni. 
 
 Sebastian s tiny sleeping place in the gar 
 ret room it could hardly be termed was 
 monopolized by a staring altar decked with 
 linen of the weaver s best weaving, a glossy 
 blue porcelain Virgin trailing a tinsel mantle, 
 two unlit tallow candles, some gaudy saints 
 and Sacred Hearts on gilt-edged cards, gar 
 lands of arsenic-green wax ivy leaves, and 
 tissue paper roses many-hued. Yet honor 
 and praise to the Rough Alp man. His sort 
 is rare. His shrine, it may be, was not beau 
 tiful. But where was room for only bed or 
 altar, he sacrificed his ease to his ideal, and 
 lay upon the floor. 
 
 The pious sister Anna was cold and unsym 
 pathetic. In time she drifted to the Swiss 
 convent, St. Scholastika, where she became 
 Sister Corona, knew and desired to know 
 nothing of this vile world, spoke in a tone 
 less voice, and had, even as a woman of fifty, 
 the manner of any unintelligent child. Vroni 
 better liked the irascible Sebastian.
 
 Heart s Dearest 15 
 
 Melchior also was very religious indeed. 
 With eyes raised meekly toward heaven, he 
 yet kept a pretty sharp lookout on this sinful 
 world, was mindful of his neighbor s opin 
 ion and careful of appearances, a harmless 
 fellow, so far as a person who tacks with 
 every breeze can in the long run be harmless. 
 Vroni grew to be fond of him with a half con 
 temptuous fondness. But that was in later 
 years when he was a king s coachman, most 
 discreet, sleek, and respectable, and she far 
 less, from the social point of view. 
 
 Of her own two sisters, one was boisterous 
 and quick-tempered like the mother, went 
 away young into service and never came 
 back; while Marie, a gentle girl, married the 
 lame village tailor and soon had her arms full 
 of ailing babies. 
 
 Long after all these great ones, little Vroni 
 had come into the world like a gay surprise, 
 as if the embodiment of some merry melody 
 which had floated across the stubbly fields of 
 her mother s laborious existence; or like a 
 fugitive flash of those old Vienna days of 
 which Dionysius the weaver never spoke. 
 
 Although Vroni seemed to set at naught 
 her patient, toiling, God-fearing folk, their
 
 1 6 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 influence encompassed her; their stubborn 
 peasant pride, their integrity was also her 
 inheritance. They came of good old stock. 
 All were clean-lived and dutiful her father, 
 her mother, her great grown brothers and 
 sisters. Her grandfather indeed had been 
 Schultliciss of Hexenfels, which office mak 
 ing due allowance for differences of propor 
 tion is equivalent in dignity to that of Lord 
 Mayor of London. Her Tante Ursula still 
 enjoyed on this account a certain worldly 
 prestige. 
 
 Tante Ursula s was one of the few houses 
 which could claim the high honor of offer 
 ing His Reverence breakfast after mass. 
 Hexenfels, although proud of its little round 
 chapel set on a hill, was no regular parish, 
 but merely a humble station, remote, isolated, 
 sometimes indeed all but inaccessible. The 
 care of its souls was assigned to two or three 
 priests in alternation who came long dis 
 tances, often through fierce mountain gales 
 and blinding snowdrifts, for all great feasts, 
 for funerals, and usually on every other 
 Sunday. 
 
 Mass was barely over when Tante Ursula 
 would hurry home to prepare breakfast ; good
 
 Heart s Dearest 17 
 
 coffee, white bread and black, fresh honey, 
 and wild rose marmalade. The floors, the 
 tables and chairs had been scoured white with 
 sand the day previous. The one upholstered 
 chair, never profaned by family use, was 
 drawn from its repose to sustain His Rever 
 ence. The one china cup and the one silver 
 spoon, incredibly old but ever radiating a sort 
 of virgin splendor, were in readiness. 
 
 It was the privilege of Vroni and her rag- 
 doll with bead-eyes to sit on a three-legged 
 stool and stare unblinking at His Reverence 
 drinking from the good cup and stirring with 
 the good spoon. As the same priests for the 
 most part appeared year after year, they grew 
 very fond of their little nutbrown companion. 
 Each, after breakfasting, would take her on 
 his knee, smile indulgently at her un-shy 
 jabber, and give the pretty rogue coffee and 
 all the sugar she wanted. Emboldened by 
 so unassailable entrenchment, Vroni obstrep 
 erously churned hard bread-crusts with the 
 precious spoon, venerable heirloom, thin of 
 constitution and delicate as to the throat 
 cared not a pfiffcrling for the tragic glances 
 Tante Ursula was shooting at her across His 
 Reverence s tonsure, rudely thumped the deli-
 
 1 8 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 cate cup, piratically demanded and obtained 
 the forbidden marmalade, and grinned amica 
 bly with a naughty smeared mouth at her poor 
 aunt. 
 
 After which episode, Vroni was invariably 
 asked whom she best loved, and unblushingly 
 responded God, having learned this, like her 
 courtesy to her superiors, mechanically in her 
 tenderest years. It is possible that a strict 
 but unecclesiastical moralist observing her 
 goings-on from Monday morning till Saturday 
 night, and on the Lord s own day no less, 
 might have taken umbrage at this barefaced 
 assertion. Yet after all, it was perhaps 
 essentially true. Who knows? Happily at 
 any age, we are something better than the 
 foolish, heedless, mad things we do, and 
 Vroni through all evil that befell her dearly 
 loved the light. 
 
 As far back as she could remember she 
 had been no unimportant part of the pleasing 
 ceremony of His Reverence s breakfast at 
 Tante Ursula s, where through the years 
 the selfsame observances followed one upon 
 another in regular sequence. It was there 
 fore not surprising that one day she, a glow 
 ing, gleaming creature of twelve or thirteen,
 
 Heart s Dearest 19 
 
 and growing very fast at that time, came con 
 fidently to her clerical friend, it was the 
 youngest priest and the one she loved best, 
 sat herself upon his knee, flung her arm 
 round his neck, and began her free and inno 
 cent chatter. 
 
 But Father Aloysius very gently put her 
 down, and, patting her hand kindly, said she 
 was rather large now for the old baby ways, 
 would soon indeed be as tall as Tante Ursula. 
 He continued in this wise, affectionately, 
 smiling always, but to the child s dismay 
 calling her Ve-ro-ni-ka. 
 
 Vroni, her eyes fixed unwavering upon his 
 face, stood and scowled in silence, deprived 
 of her rights, angry with herself for being 
 big, uncomprehending and incredulous; until 
 suddenly a strangely vague discomfort seized 
 her, she flushed violently and fled, unheeding 
 the priest s friendly call and Tante Ursula s 
 horrified remonstrance. 
 
 In this way and at this moment wild Vroni 
 was ashamed for the first time in her life, 
 yet knew not why, or what the ugly sensa 
 tion was. Instinctively following the great 
 primeval example, she ran and hid herself, 
 but far more impetuously it is probable than
 
 2O Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 the example could run. In the woods, things 
 grew no clearer, nor yet on the tip-top of the 
 Witch-Tooth. A nascent sense of the fateful 
 instability of pleasant things, a dread of the 
 loss and peril of change, had been roused in 
 her by the young priest s gentle rebuff. Why, 
 since she liked him and he was good to her, 
 might she not still sit on his knee? Why 
 had he called her Veronika? Helpless, un 
 comfortable, angry, and defiant, she wandered 
 home. That night she made herself very 
 small and young as a young child, and 
 crouched on the floor, her cheek pressed close 
 against her father s leg, who silently smoothed 
 her hair. But her mother said it was silly 
 actions, like a dog which it was.
 
 Heart s Dearest 21 
 
 II 
 
 THE narrow table against the wall was small 
 for five persons, but they sat close, elbow to 
 elbow, and the supper took little room. At 
 one end was Dionysius the weaver, next him 
 his wife. The light from an open wick, drawn 
 through a cork floating on beechnut oil in a 
 nicked cup, fell on his pale face and brilliant 
 eyes under his visor, and upon the florid 
 robustness of the woman s contours and her 
 wide cheeks framed by her red kerchief. 
 Vroni, at the other end, devouring potatoes 
 with open-mouthed zest and grinning mali 
 ciously at her brothers, was yet vaguely 
 contrasting types and dimly speculating, not 
 with mere fondness, but with rudimentary aes 
 thetic satisfaction, upon the fine sadness of her 
 father s face. 
 
 " T is a nasty wet night and the storm is 
 rising," grumbled Agathe, aggressively loud- 
 voiced, grating her chair on the stone floor 
 and crossing the kitchen with ponderous
 
 22 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 tread. " Dn licbcr Gott! As if we d not 
 wind enough ! To be sure I Ve long known 
 an evil blow was coming. My beastics told 
 me. Lightfoot for one has been flying after 
 her tail like mad. When an old cat goes fool 
 ish wild and kittenish and plays with herself 
 all alone, mind, not set on by other cats, and 
 narrows her eyes down to two little lines of fire, 
 and leaps high after one knows not what, then 
 look out for a witch-wind." 
 
 Taking a lantern from its nail, she began to 
 dig out the remains of a tallow stump. 
 
 "Vroni, fetch me a bit of candle. Hast 
 left the lantern filthy again. Art scatter 
 brained. Art good for naught." 
 
 To the dissertation on feline prescience 
 nobody responded, it being familiar as the 
 importunate wail of the blast. Nor did 
 Vroni, inured to more strenuous vitupera 
 tion, mind in the least the comparatively 
 mild reproof, but, chewing a potato skin 
 with obtrusive nonchalance, fetched the de 
 sired candle and asked pertly : 
 
 "Say, mother, didst ever see a live witch?" 
 
 " Not I, thank the Lord ! A witch brings 
 rare bad luck. A smaller bit, careless child. 
 Wouldst beggar me with thy wasteful ways?
 
 Heart s Dearest 23 
 
 Not that bad luck fails year in year out. 
 Never a witch could bring worse." 
 
 "Ah, wife, wife!" remonstrated Dionysius 
 looking up with a faint smile from the shut 
 tle he was mending. His friendly glance 
 resting briefly on his two tall sons, who hav 
 ing come in late were still stooping assidu 
 ously over their soup-plates piled high with 
 boiled potatoes, followed the quick movements 
 of his Madel and lingered lovingly on her 
 bright, dark, impertinent face as she leaned 
 knitting against the wall. 
 
 "Art foolish, Mann?" returned Agathe, 
 grimly. " When have we two had aught 
 but ill luck?" 
 
 " We Ve got a roof over our heads at least," 
 he suggested amicably. 
 
 With a bellicose snort, she retorted : 
 
 " But would have none I take it this evil 
 night, had I myself not set Sebastian and 
 Melchior a-lugging up fresh stones." 
 
 " We have six good children," he suggested 
 with pacific intent; " sober-minded and hard 
 working," looking at his sons, "straight- 
 grown and rosy," - - smiling well pleased 
 upon his daughter. 
 
 " Naught to boast of!"
 
 24 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " We have never lost one, Agathe." 
 
 " Is it sense to tell me that? " 
 
 " Or seen one wander in evil ways," he added, 
 not without a strain of solemnity. 
 
 " Ha ! If they went wrong, they d find they 
 had their mother to reckon with ! I d like to 
 see them dare the pack! " 
 
 " Yet t is easy," said Dionysius, low, and bent 
 over his shuttle. 
 
 " Thou, mother," persisted Vroni, inquisi 
 tive yet incredulous, " didst ever really meet 
 an honest body who knew one that, telling no 
 lies, had truly chanced to spy a live witch?" 
 
 " Scores, saucebox, and all honest folk. 
 My blessed granny, Heaven rest her soul, 
 saw them eighty years, and that thou 
 knowst well. For often enough have I 
 told how she looked up the very day she 
 died and beheld them racing and shrieking 
 and whirling upside down and playing leap 
 frog round the Tooth." 
 
 " Clouds," meekly interpolated Dionysius. 
 
 " Clouds indeed ! " cried Agathe, incensed. 
 "Do clouds yell and hoot and curse?" 
 
 " Not to my knowledge." 
 
 " And tap on the casement and laugh till 
 the blood runs cold ! "
 
 Heart s Dearest 25 
 
 " But, wife " 
 
 " If there be no witches, then why is the 
 crag Witch-Tooth by name? Answer me 
 that ! " she demanded in triumph. Where 
 upon the weaver bowed his patient head and 
 attempted no reply. 
 
 " If there be witches," declared Vroni, suc 
 cinctly, " I mean to see one. If there be none, 
 I mean to know it." 
 
 " It is not well to be always talking of evil," 
 Sebastian now urged, pushing back his plate, 
 wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and crossing 
 himself deliberately. 
 
 Melchior, tolerably skeptical on the witch 
 question, yet inclined in any event to be on 
 the safe side, crossed himself likewise. 
 
 " Father," harped Vroni, leaning on his 
 shoulder, "say, are there live ones?" 
 
 " Believe or not, there s worse than witches 
 abroad," announced Agathe, with an air of 
 bringing on her heaviest artillery, while remov 
 ing the empty dishes with a clatter. " Why 
 was the Diste 7- Bauer s hound, he that is mostly 
 mouse-still, baying enough to wake the dead ? 
 Why does my brindle low? Why are the 
 young pigs, both Englander and Ungarn, nos 
 ing about at this time of night? Why is the
 
 26 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 hencoop in a flutter? Didst mark the flight 
 of the hawk at sun-down? Hast watched the 
 signs the ravens show to such as have eyes to 
 see?" Tramping about, she was yet from 
 alternate corners always directing her volley 
 at the inoffensive bowed head. 
 
 "Dost not answer? Hast seen naught? 
 Nay ! " she exclaimed with massive scorn. 
 "Not thou ! Willst naught of signs, though 
 dumb things rise up and speak when the soul 
 of a suicide " she crossed herself, Sebastian 
 and Melchior did likewise " is flying up from 
 the lowlands. It is on this wind and no other 
 that such souls go howling by. T is the black 
 witch-wind and the suicide wind. The soul is 
 on the way, and until he is past the Tooth no 
 honest beast can rest. Hark ! " Her powerful 
 figure motionless, she stood with upraised 
 warning hand. 
 
 The rain fell in torrents upon the roof, case 
 ments rattled, from all quarters gusts like ham 
 mer-blows struck the cottage, while inexplicable 
 sounds, inarticulate human tones of grief, rage, 
 and despair, rose, fell, rose again, and surged 
 upward toward the Tooth. 
 
 Dionysius smiled reassuringly upon the spell 
 bound group.
 
 Heart s Dearest 27 
 
 " T is a rarely exposed site, and the last of 
 October," he ventured to say with a deprecat 
 ing look at his wife towering still in the shadow. 
 
 Vroni, knitting fast, her cheeks flushed, hung 
 breathless over the weaver. 
 
 " Is it true, father? Say ! Why did he kill 
 himself? How did he doit? Must have been 
 but a poor foolish fellow, eh, father?" 
 
 "Seest, wife? Canst fill the Madel s head 
 with sorry notions," he protested gravely. 
 
 " Is a big girl and no swaddled baby more, 
 as thou wouldst have her still." 
 
 "Say, father! But a foolish fellow, eh? 
 A silly pate." Vroni nudged him with an 
 imperious elbow. 
 
 " A sinner," amended Sebastian s deep chest 
 tone of conviction. 
 
 Dionysius flung a restraining arm round 
 his impetuous little daughter, and rejoined 
 slowly : - 
 
 " As to that, we are all sinners, and it must 
 be a rarely unhappy one that goes off thus : 
 hard pressed somehow, knows not which way 
 to turn, loses his head quite poor lad 
 poor lad ! " 
 
 " Speakst soft as though thou sawest him 
 near ! Wouldst defend him, father ? " Sebas-
 
 28 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 tian demanded in excitement. " Yet knowst 
 well, if he lays hands on himself, tis a mortal 
 sin, and meets an awful doom." 
 
 " His doom concerns his Maker, not thee or 
 me or any man, my son. I defend naught. 
 A man should bear his burdens to the end. 
 But there s awful steep climbing in life, jagged 
 paths along the brink, dizzy moments when 
 the heart faints, the head gets wild. No help 
 ing hand is near. I say, I m sorry for such a 
 one, that s all. But I do say it." 
 
 " Dost hear, Sebastian ? Father and I are 
 sorry for the man," and Vroni confronted her 
 brother aggressively. " But thou, father, say, 
 is it true his soul s a-flying up from the 
 lowlands on the great wind to-night?" 
 
 Dionysius turned toward the dresser where 
 Agathe stood arranging dishes and plates. 
 " I pray thee, wife, take it not amiss, but if 
 on every high wind that blows on the Rough 
 Alp a suicide s soul should fly up to us from 
 the lowlands, surely there would be only dis 
 traught folk down below in the valleys and 
 great towns, naught but self-murderers, yet 
 never, indeed, enough for the wind business; 
 for when have we in the wisdom of provi 
 dence a dearth of gales?"
 
 Heart s Dearest 29 
 
 "There, mother, hast heard now!" laughed 
 Vroni, boisterously, from her coign of vantage. 
 
 " Put thy shawl over thy head, magpie, and 
 come along with me, and hold the lantern a bit 
 while I speak a good word to them that have a 
 deal more sense than dull human folk," returned 
 the woman, gruffly, striding out and slam 
 ming the door, not exclusively because of the 
 tempest. Firm and strong-footed, she tramped 
 toward the barn, while slight Vroni, struggling 
 along in front with the lantern, was blown 
 rnaclly hither and thither, and arrived drenched 
 and breathless. 
 
 " Ugh ! " she exclaimed, shaking herself vig 
 orously. " The water is trickling down the 
 spine of my back, and I m as poodle wet as 
 when I plumped into the brook. Wast scold 
 ing bravely, mother, eh? Yet not a word 
 heard I, for the blast and the great shrieking 
 and the many voices. And all for a mooly 
 cow that s fed and housed, and can spy no 
 witch at all, and no soul flying, since my father 
 says there be none ! " 
 
 "Wouldst teach me my business?" came 
 harshly from behind, together with a dive 
 toward Vroni s ear ; but that was a wary mem 
 ber; the lantern described a fine swift parabola
 
 30 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 in the dark barn ; and the child giggled from a 
 corner. 
 
 " Hush thy cackle: come hither and see that 
 thou hast sense with thy light. Poor Brin- 
 dle ! Wast uneasy? Wast afraid?" 
 
 The woman s voice was compassionate ; her 
 whole being softened as she passed into the 
 cow s stall and fondled the animal that turned 
 to her with ears outstretched, licked her dress 
 and hands with its rough tongue, and thrust 
 its nose under her arm. Agathe leaned largely 
 against it, extended her arms widely upon it 
 in protection and comfort, stroked it, talked 
 steadily, now in an naudible murmur, now in 
 low words. 
 
 Vroni climbed into the manger of a vacant 
 stall, and, crouching, held the lantern high, and 
 sent its shaft of light straight down upon the 
 strong woman s face in the red kerchief, and 
 upon the cow s curved horns, great shining 
 eyes, and the white spot on its forehead. Be 
 yond, the corners of the barn were black. The 
 storm howled and shook the great doors on 
 their creaking hinges. There was a warm 
 smell of cow, a dry smell of hay and herbs. 
 Agathe continued to reason, plead, and gently 
 to expostulate, lavishing upon the brindle ex-
 
 Heart s Dearest 31 
 
 pansive familiarity of caress and confident 
 appeals to its intelligence. The child s impish 
 smile vanished. Mute, intent, grave-eyed, she 
 watched her mother and listened to the on 
 slaught of the wind. 
 
 " Was not the heather blessed on the Feast 
 of the Assumption? Did I not pluck it my 
 self, and take a big armful to church for the 
 blessing, and hang a bunch on the door and 
 one under the eaves and one over my brindle s 
 stall? Naught shall harm thee. Evil is on 
 the wind. When it passes, be thou still, my 
 brinclle. Make not the smallest sound. Dost 
 hear me? Dost mark well? Stir not. Quiet 
 with hoofs and tail. Lift not thy white nose 
 once and moo. Art wise? Art calm?" 
 
 With large lingering hands, Agathe took 
 farewell of the animal, that merely turned its 
 soft eyes and gleaming white spot after her, 
 but whatever its private reflections, made no 
 protest at being left alone. 
 
 Preceded now by a tolerably docile torch- 
 bearer, Agathe completed her rounds by briefly 
 introducing her reassuring presence into the 
 apartments of her calves, pigs, and hens, whose 
 not over-sensitive organizations seemed in truth 
 curiously roused, restless, apprehensive, and
 
 32 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 singular of behavior. With each species she 
 had her eminently successful method of ap 
 proach. Each after its kind gave ample re 
 sponse. All animals became, as it were, 
 humanized under her influence. None could 
 resist her sympathetic affection, her insight, 
 her deferential tribute to its higher nature. 
 When she had laid magnetic hands upon them, 
 conversed with them fraternally, they too sub 
 sided into their wonted nocturnal tranquillity; 
 and mother and daughter once more braved 
 the perilous passage of the barnyard, where 
 Vroni staggered with head bent low beneath 
 the blinding rain, and the tempest strove to lift 
 her off her feet. 
 
 "Oho!" she called lustily. "A shove, 
 mother, just a good hand up, and I 11 mount 
 and ride this runaway wind, and be myself a 
 live, live witch the only sort there is tis 
 my father says it ! " 
 
 Nixy-like she sprang across the threshold, 
 rivulets and pools marking her course. Shoot 
 ing a volley of wayward smiles at the weaver, 
 she energetically wrung her short skirts, rubbed 
 her wet throat, hair, and glowing face, scourged 
 herself smartly from head to foot, and stopped 
 abruptly to cry :
 
 Heart s Dearest 33 
 
 " Thou, mother ! Wouldst like me better 
 had I two little horns up here?" Wagging 
 impudent fingers right and left from her fore 
 head, where her charming hair lay wet in rings, 
 she thrust forward her long throat and grinned 
 like a demon of race. 
 
 " Maybe, hadst thou below them a gentle 
 jaw and not thy clapper-tongue. Art coming, 
 Mann? T is after eight, and time the light 
 was out. Though thou be stiff-necked and be- 
 lievest not, on such a night t is best we say 
 our prayers and sleep. Besides, why sit about 
 and burn good oil?" 
 
 Moving briskly to and fro, still keenly on 
 the trail of things to put to rights, she cast 
 ungracious glances upon the three men smok 
 ing their long pipes, and spoke with her 
 characteristic high-pitched and resonant dis 
 content. 
 
 Sebastian, ever intent upon holiness, was 
 pouring over the Catechism ; while Melchior 
 idly turned the well-thumbed leaves of the 
 only other available literature, the almanac. 
 Presently Sebastian groaned with vehemence. 
 
 " Hast stomach-ache ? " bluntly demanded 
 Agathc. 
 
 Unheeding her allusion to his base body 
 3
 
 34 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 born in sin, trembling rather for the safety of 
 his father s immortal soul, Sebastian stam 
 mered : 
 
 "Didst do that, father?" 
 
 " I did, my son," said the weaver, tranquilly. 
 
 " Tis a sin, father ! " 
 
 " Not so, my son. No sin, at least I trust 
 t is none." 
 
 " Bestir thyself, Sebastian. Melchior, when 
 tasks be done, tis time to sleep. Wast ever 
 owl-like, Mann. Teachest thy sons to turn 
 night into day. Dost think the good Lord 
 made the dark that men might loll with pipes 
 and stretch long lazy legs and argufy? " 
 
 " I 11 but finish this little job of tinkering of 
 odds and ends. Twill not take long." 
 
 " I 11 go to rest then first for once," she 
 returned morosely, " being weary and wet to 
 my bones. See that ye three have sense to 
 follow, and mind the fire and light. The 
 girl is gone. A wonder I had not to drive 
 her! Good-night," she muttered curtly, and 
 went. 
 
 "How couldst thou, father?" exclaimed 
 Sebastian, his emotion but augmented by 
 suppression. 
 
 Vroni, delighted with herself, rose from the
 
 Heart s Dearest 35 
 
 shadow where she had crouched behind her 
 father s chair. 
 
 " Art too large for sly tricks," he said coldly. 
 
 " Ah, father, little father," she wheedled. 
 
 " Go. Knowst I like not cheating ways. 
 Nor canst thou say thou learnst such from thy 
 mother, who is open and straight as daylight." 
 
 " Take it not ill," she faltered, drooping 
 under his rare rebuke. 
 
 " Go," he returned, unrelenting. "Yet, stay. 
 Art wet still and chilled. Warm thyself a bit. 
 There s still some heat." 
 
 " Father! " she pleaded, for he was looking 
 above and around her head. " Vdterchen ! " 
 
 " Art my Madel? " he smiled his good smile. 
 " Knowst without words what I cannot abide. 
 T is enough said. Warm thyself and go to 
 thy bed." 
 
 Small, demure, and unobtrusive, she took 
 her knitting and sat down in the chimney cor 
 ner by the stove, a poor thing minus rings or 
 covers, where a few fagots still burned dully, 
 puffing smoke and soot into the room. 
 
 W r ith gloomy mien, and as from a swollen 
 throat, the dark Sebastian resumed : - 
 
 " I wait still for thy answer. How couldst 
 thou do it, father? Why?"
 
 36 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " Because I must needs remember the others, 
 my son," the weaver declared firmly, "the 
 others all round the round world, and all the 
 others still that lived and died before my 
 time." 
 
 Sebastian, his big-jointed and zealous index- 
 finger boring a certain obnoxious spot on the 
 small page open on the table, began in a loud 
 voice to expound. 
 
 Now Dionysius the weaver, in reflective, un- 
 controversial mood, and merely in accordance 
 with the gentle trend of his personal convic 
 tions, had chanced one day mildly to modify a 
 statement in the Catechism to the effect that 
 the Catholic Church is the one and exclusive 
 " ark of salvation." He had drawn a faint, 
 pensively wavering, almost imperceptible, but 
 to Sebastian s mind deadly heretical and abom 
 inable, pencil-mark through the word only. 
 
 Sebastian fumed, shook, sawed the air, 
 pounded the table with his fist, and fairly 
 wept, in what would have been a diabolical 
 temper had the subject under debate been 
 mundane. Melchior, privately agreeing that 
 it was an impious pencil-stroke, deemed it dis 
 creet to mutter something unintelligible, and 
 sneak off unobserved. Vroni stole to her
 
 Heart s Dearest 37 
 
 father s side, her knitting needles clicking ner 
 vously ; greedily drank in every word, and, 
 if she understood or not, alternately scowled 
 antagonism at Sebastian, and flashed allegiance 
 and devotion upon the weaver, for that potent 
 and precious old reason, as constraining for 
 the little peasant maid as for the great Mon 
 taigne. 
 
 Whether, indeed, evil things astride the 
 winds did the mischief that fateful night, or 
 whether the ill-starred pencil-mark, long lurking 
 in the book, popped into view and imprinted 
 itself the more indelibly upon Sebastian s 
 irascible soul, because of the unwonted ab 
 sence of the strong tutelary deity who brooked 
 in that kitchen none other wrath but her own, 
 both men grew perfervid. 
 
 The weaver began, it is true, with an indul 
 gent smile, and was able for some time to 
 parry his son s thrusts with composure. But 
 nothing rouses the old Adam in the best of 
 us quicker than a religious tussle. Besides, 
 Sebastian s was a pre-eminently contagious 
 choler. Then these were father and son; and 
 what is more truly exasperating than to dis 
 cover our nearest and dearest presuming to 
 differ from us a hairsbreadth in the views
 
 38 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 which we, for our part, know to be conducive 
 to eternal peace? 
 
 So they wandered on over the world s hot 
 test battle-ground, stopped now and again for 
 a good hearty set-to, and finally oh, luckless 
 wights ! rushed upon the vexed question of 
 papal infallibility: Dionysius asserting His 
 Holiness only in his function as Saint Peter s 
 successor was infallible that the teachings of 
 the Church might form one unbroken, perfect 
 chain ; while Sebastian, frantically, incoher 
 ently, and with the roaring oratory of a bull of 
 Bashan, tossed, trampled, and tore to shreds 
 the theory of merely academic infallibility, and 
 insisted the Pope was also as mortal man, in 
 word, deed, and the secret recesses of his heart, 
 flawless and impeccable. 
 
 Not dialectic Andover, no solemn synod 
 sitting upon a recalcitrant brother who had 
 avowed himself not sound on hell-fire and 
 tottering over infant baptism, not High and 
 Low Churchman in full tilt, not even Dun 
 Scotus and Albertus Magnus were ever more 
 thrilled with intolerance, more spurred by 
 theological acerbity, more doughty in disputa 
 tion, more persuaded of the supreme impor 
 tance of unhorsing the antagonist, than
 
 Heart s Dearest 39 
 
 were this pair of peasants of the Rough 
 Alp. 
 
 They heeded neither shrieking wind nor 
 lapse of time. It is significant that at a 
 tolerably early stage of the argument they 
 forgot to refill their pipes. To the child 
 who, deft and unobtrusive, exceptionally a 
 wise virgin, replenished now oil, now wick, 
 they deigned no glance. Nothing indeed 
 could better have suited her lawlessness than 
 that her father should for once ignore her 
 existence. After each silent ministration, she 
 effaced herself in the shadowy background, 
 was guiltily glad to be up so late, and slyly 
 exultant that if indeed the mother s ears were 
 still open, the storm must drown all other 
 sounds. 
 
 Vroni heard the angry night booming at 
 sturdy wall, at roof and clattering casement 
 drenching, battering, howling, retreating 
 but to return with ever fiercer torrents and 
 more evil gusts ; heard the contentious vibra 
 tions of the men s deep voices hurling at each 
 other great words about Almighty God and 
 Holy Church; heard, in spite of herself, amid 
 the tumult within and without, the ghastly 
 train of which her mother told, black witches
 
 4-O Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and damned souls. To the young, over-ex 
 cited brain the phantom cavalcade seemed 
 often very real and near, although she chid 
 herself, and knew there were none such, for 
 twas her father said it. 
 
 At length, Sebastian clutched his shirt as 
 if suffocating, rushed from the house, and, so 
 torrid was his religious fervor, would not 
 cross its threshold for a whole year, thereby 
 sorely grieving the kindly soul of Dionysius 
 the weaver. 
 
 Doubtless one result of his mild and medi 
 tative apostasy was that Sebastian ultimately 
 left Hexenfels and obtained a to his mind 
 - quasi-sacerdotal situation as steward of 
 the great Swiss Convent of St. Scholastika, 
 where he not only did excellent service in 
 the care and direction of farms, vineyards, 
 cattle, serving men and maids, but plucked 
 brands from the burning to his heart s content, 
 dispensed anathemas to erring fellow-creatures 
 with splendid prodigality of measurement and 
 a distinctly hierarchical relish, and enjoyed 
 all his days a reputation for eminent sanctity. 
 
 But when on that witch-night he strode 
 wrathfully into the storm, his father sprang 
 up quickly, ran after him, called, returned,
 
 Heart s Dearest 41 
 
 waited a while at the open door, and shook his 
 head, incredulous and much perturbed. 
 
 "I went too far," he muttered. "That I 
 could go so far!" He stood tall in his gray 
 drilling and leather apron, and stretched his 
 legs a bit, an unwonted flush on his face, his 
 thoughts remote. Suddenly he laughed, 
 walked over to the cupboard and tossed down 
 a mug of cider at one draught, and Vroni mar 
 velled, for this was never his way. 
 
 " Ei, ei ! Thou here? Art crazy, child? 
 Or rather hast a crazy father to forget thee. 
 How will the mother chide ! With reason too. 
 And my poor Bastel fleeing like Cain. Ei, ei ! 
 Dost think he ll stop at Tante Ursula s? 
 Will Marie wake and take him in?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "He? What matters it? His temper boils 
 and splutters so t will keep him warm enough. 
 I think he 11 run on like the clock, till he runs 
 down." 
 
 "He may be peppery, but he s good as 
 gold. Twas I that went too far. Twas my 
 fault. I rasped him sorely, yet knew he 
 could not bear it. Come, come, child, make 
 haste. Strange thou rt not heavy with sleep. 
 Art bright-eyed still and hast hot cheeks."
 
 42 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 "Thou, too, \ r atcrclicn!" she retorted with 
 a laugh, "art all alive. Thine was brave talk. 
 Never heard I the like. Could listen till 
 sunrise." 
 
 " T was naught, t was naught," he replied, 
 his face alert and full of light. 
 
 "Ac/if I doubt Father Aloysius could talk 
 so big and full mouthed!" 
 
 " Nay, child, t is far removed from what 
 thou meanest. T is echoes only. But it 
 calls back old days when I was young. And 
 though twas wrong to rasp Sebastian, I fear 
 me I took my pleasure in it!" he admitted in 
 a queer, half-exultant, half-shamefaced way to 
 his little comrade, who, sparkling and eager, 
 nodded with curiously sympathetic recogni 
 tion of his mood, and a keen search to dis 
 cover what his mind was beholding beyond 
 the horizon of her small experience. 
 
 " T was fine in the old days, father? Lov st 
 them well. Tis in thy face." 
 
 " Seest, Madel, shouldst hear what I once 
 used to hear. Men with booklearning in 
 their pates, and ready wits and bold, fear 
 ing naught. T is like that in the great 
 world. There too knew I a strange and 
 troublous time in which I was driven wildly,
 
 Heart s Dearest 43 
 
 and had not ever a fair reckoning of which, 
 when thou art older, thou and I will one day 
 speak. Then the music ! " 
 
 He sighed, looking off thoughtful and 
 absent again. 
 
 "Art missing for something, father?" she 
 asked, wistful, in instant reflection of his 
 changing mood. 
 
 " Nay, I m old and staid now, and hav 
 ing thee content. I but remembered." 
 
 She came close and leaned her cheek against 
 his arm. 
 
 "Yet art ofttimes missing for something 
 with thine eyes." 
 
 For some moments he was silent. 
 
 "Seest, little one," he said low, smiling 
 down upon her with great sweetness, " t is 
 like this. The good thoughts we once get 
 hold of we can always keep stored in our 
 heads, and quietly take them down one by one 
 as we need them, and turn them over and put 
 them back, and disturb nobody. But the 
 great music. If a man has once heard it, it 
 follows, yet floats off; he cannot seize and 
 hold it and so, t is true, many a time I m 
 missing for it. T is a sort of hunger in the 
 heart."
 
 44 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 III 
 
 AT fifteen, Vroni was fairly tall, slight, and 
 of compact build, her brown face a small oval 
 on a slender throat, her mouth eager and red. 
 Every morning she parted her hair smoothly, 
 brushed it straight, meek, and flat on either 
 side her head, as did every other girl who 
 respected herself in the whole region, and 
 braided it in a long tail as thick as a man s 
 fist. But before night all meekness had fled 
 before the waves and curls that broke loose 
 mutinously as the shining tail went frisking 
 and flaunting, catching and dispensing sun 
 light wherever it swung. Even in Hexenfels, 
 where the sterility of the soil effectually pre 
 cluded overmuch attention to mere beauty 
 in woman, the Distel-Bauer, old as well as 
 young, Blasius, Sepp the joiner, Jokel, 
 Hans, Jorg, and Michel, in fact, all the men 
 were moved to turn and stare after her as she 
 passed, and to say one to another: 
 "The weaver s Vroni is a tidy maid."
 
 Heart s Dearest 45 
 
 About this time Dionysius, on a sudden, 
 began to start up from his loom in working 
 hours, a proceeding which, the aggrieved 
 Agathe clamored, was without precedent in 
 heaven or on earth. Naught that concerned 
 his daughter escaped his quiet observation : 
 where she was working every hour and with 
 whom, the unanimity of men s eyes at church, 
 young Blasius and Sepp ever impending, and 
 Michel hanging about at a discomfited dis 
 tance, when he himself intervened for the 
 walk home in the twilight. 
 
 He knew well that she never gave one of 
 the lurking swains so much as a friendly 
 glance, rarely enough a decent word, but wide 
 and malicious stares in plenty, and laughter 
 of a frankly explosive sort. Yet she felt his 
 gaze resting ever more thoughtfully upon her. 
 He would often lay his hand on her head and 
 look straight in her eyes, long, searchingly, 
 troubled, one might almost have fancied re 
 gretfully although they were bewitching 
 eyes of the brown that is touched with fit 
 ful yellow gleams. He was chiefly wishing, 
 among many other things, that she was, well 
 less Vroni-ish. 
 
 " Better bind thy wild hair about thy head
 
 46 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 tight and modest," he said one day, frowning, 
 and she did it; but as for Sepp, Hans, Jorg, 
 Michel, and the rest, not a man of them stared 
 less, rather more. 
 
 The outward resemblance between father and 
 child was becoming even more pronounced. 
 
 "Strange thou shouldst be more like me 
 than all my sons without, and alas, some 
 times I fear, within!" 
 
 "Dost wish I were a boy? Wouldst like 
 me better?" she returned blithely. 
 
 "Nay, Vroni. Thou art my heart s child. 
 But the world is easier for the lads." 
 
 " Shame, father, wouldst have another growl 
 ing Sebastian or long-legged, sheep-faced Mel- 
 chior instead of thy Madcl." 
 
 Even his peculiar headaches she was begin 
 ning to develop, not too frequently, yet when 
 they came, so blinding, crushing, and mad 
 dening, she would fiercely beat her head 
 against the wall ; and when they went, they 
 would leave her wilder than ever, uncon 
 trollable in mirth and recklessness. 
 
 "My child, mem Herzenskind" murmured 
 Dionysius, in deep distress and strange con 
 trition, when he first found her on her bed 
 quite desperate with pain, "have I then given
 
 Heart s Dearest 47 
 
 thee that accursed inheritance ? " and, Agathe s 
 great voice resounding reassuringly from the 
 second field, he took her in his arms and 
 rocked her to and fro, and two tears not her 
 own fell on the young girl s cheek. 
 
 In those days Agathe was continually harp 
 ing on one strain. The girl should bestir 
 herself, see the world, and earn some money 
 like her sisters before her. 
 
 "Not yet," the weaver would reply frown 
 ing. " Art possessed, wife, to get rid of her, 
 and she but over young. " 
 
 " Yet understands her work when once at it 
 better than those twice her age. What shall 
 the great girl do here ? Do I perchance need 
 her? Am I not woman enough for my own 
 business and thrice as much more?" she de 
 manded jealously. " Shall she laze about and 
 eat us out of house and home, and times so 
 hard? Is she then other flesh and blood than 
 her sisters, who took their turn and went down 
 to the lowlands ? Fie, Mann ! Wouldst keep 
 the wind and rain from her if thou couldst ! 
 Wast ever foolish over the maid! But by 
 good luck she hath a mother who hath taught 
 her to work, as no flighty little maid ever 
 worked before, and no thanks to thee, Mann ! "
 
 48 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Agathe was right. Where diligence was 
 for all imperative, no girl worked so well or 
 so joyously as Vroni. Impetuous, swift of 
 movement and speech, full of frolic as a 
 kitten, she was clever at whatever she under 
 took. Nothing was a hardship. Nothing 
 daunted her. Not even when she and the 
 long file of men and women toiled painfully 
 up the ledge impassable for carts, and balanced 
 upon their heads great baskets of manure to 
 fertilize their stony potato fields. This ardu 
 ous climbing partook indeed of the nature 
 of an inexorable sacred rite, a sacrifice to the 
 austere spirits of the soil, for Hexenfels sub 
 sisted chiefly upon the humble potato. 
 
 The Lindls drank coffee only upon Sunday 
 mornings. On week-days, they had for break 
 fast potato-soup, or a thickened milk soup, 
 or a porridge made of dried oats. At noon, 
 Spalzen a sort of home-made vermicelli - 
 or flour dumplings with fresh salad, or a dish 
 of potatoes mixed with radishes. For supper, 
 thick sour milk and potatoes boiled in their 
 jackets, all the year round and in every 
 house in the village. Beside this, they par 
 took of Vesper, or luncheon, regularly at 
 eleven and four, always a bit of black bread
 
 Heart s Dearest 49 
 
 and a glass of cider. More opulent families 
 in Hexenfels drank beer for Vesper ; poorer, 
 an amazing beverage called Cibebcn-Most, 
 which although brewed of naught but the 
 innocuous dried currant of commerce and soft 
 spring water, like many another marriage of 
 elements mild but incompatible, fermented 
 into unearthly sourness. Of meat they par 
 took seldom, and never bought it. When 
 they killed a calf or pig or kid, they dis 
 tributed portions among neighbors who in 
 their turn responded with like courtesies. 
 
 The Lindls, according to the Hexenfels 
 scale of measurement, possessed neither pov 
 erty nor riches. They kept ordinarily two 
 cows; when there was dearth of fodder only 
 one, but always two calves, and usually a 
 couple of goats. Every family, even the poor 
 est, had a cat ; only well-to-do people herein 
 lay a fine distinction a dog. Uionysius had 
 none. 
 
 To have six children and be well-to-do on 
 the Rough Alp would have been indeed a 
 marvellous achievement. It is fair to say 
 Dionysius the weaver never so much as at 
 tempted it. Like his neighbors, he had 
 inherited his land covered, so to speak, knec- 
 4
 
 50 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 deep with mortgages. These were veritable 
 heirlooms handed along with the wretched 
 little farms from generation to generation. 
 Nobody ever thought of making the feeblest 
 attempt to extricate himself. If by chance 
 a small legacy or other windfall surprised a 
 man, he straightway bought an extra cow, or 
 another field to be mortgaged, as is obvious, 
 in due time. Hence, if for no other reason, 
 money was never what is euphemistically 
 called on the Stock Exchange "easy" or even 
 "firm." People there mostly did without 
 it, and year in year out got along fairly 
 well. 
 
 Fuel fortunately was not dear. Magnifi 
 cent forests clothed the slopes below them. 
 Here, at intervals, lordly cavaliers with long- 
 legged boots, guns, dogs, and men in livery, 
 intruded upon the great stillness their alien 
 shouts and jollity, and the sad havoc which 
 they called sport; and here one fixed day in 
 every month the humble poor of Hexenfels 
 were permitted, with fitting injunction and 
 warning, and under due surveillance of the 
 forester on guard, to file in and fetch what 
 fagots they needed, provided they conducted 
 themselves meekly as beseemed their station,
 
 Heart s Dearest 51 
 
 and were mindful to break only dry branches 
 and. not injure the trees. 
 
 The Lindls never availed themselves of 
 this privilege another fine distinction. But 
 Vroni, trained to utilize everything imag 
 inable, gathered in those woods masses of 
 pine-cones which made the best possible 
 ironing-fire; and in the autumns, but not 
 every year, she would find there quantities of 
 beechnuts, from which she extracted an excel 
 lent oil for cooking as well as illuminating 
 purposes. However, even black Anastasia, 
 daughter of rich Anton the brewer, did no 
 less, and such thrifty devices could never 
 compromise the sturdy independence of the 
 family of Dionysius the weaver. 
 
 Anton was the village Midas, and took him 
 self seriously, as Midases do usually, and 
 brewers no less. He dearly loved attention 
 to his soft and pompous personality. Once 
 on his fete, or name-day, pert Vroni, a small 
 child then, for a freak left her giggling little 
 mates huddled together at the side of the 
 road, advanced alone, kept her face quite 
 straight, and in the measured accents of her 
 seniors, yet as clear as a bell, gave him the 
 deferential salutation with which all the vil-
 
 52 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 lagers without distinction, being but Rough 
 Alp boors and not educated up to the deli 
 cacy of D yer-do and Ta-ta, accosted one 
 whom they had not recently seen : 
 
 " God greet thee. Thy health is dear to 
 me." 
 
 So much by way of dignified preliminaries. 
 Then followed fittingly for the festal day : 
 
 " I congratulate. I commend myself. " 
 
 Much pleased at this ovation, he gave her a 
 silver groschen. Having cleverly organized 
 her forces, she and her cronies, a year from 
 that day, stood bravely in a line and spoke 
 the congratulatory word in unison. Each re 
 ceived a groschen. The year after, the little 
 mob was larger, with like results. The next 
 year the whole school it was not a stupen 
 dous body inarched to the brewer s, and 
 every rascal of them got a silver groschen 
 from the highly flattered Anton. 
 
 Thus the procession gradually crystallized 
 into a public institution an inalienable 
 privilege of the school-children. Great would 
 have been the tumult had they found them 
 selves deprived of the Anton-groschen, and 
 the smirking Anton would have sadly missed 
 this insidious tribute to his popularity after
 
 Heart s Dearest 53 
 
 all probably as spontaneous and disinterested 
 as most great public demonstrations in honor 
 of the mighty. The creator of the rite was 
 however much perturbed when at length the 
 weaver intimated she should no longer lead 
 the triumphant march of the school to the 
 brewery. 
 
 "Art too large, Madel." 
 
 " T is my groschen, father!" she returned 
 reproachfully. 
 
 "So childish still? Wait. I 11 give thee 
 thy groschen. My tall maid surely wants 
 naught of old Anton." 
 
 " Keep thy groschen, father. Hast not a 
 pocketful of silver like Anton. Art not fat 
 and foolish either. Tis not the silver bit 
 - but seest ? " - hot tears of vexation in her 
 eyes though she smiled still " tis stupid 
 to be always older and pulled up short, now 
 here, now there. Nay, keep thy groschen. 
 The school may go for all of me. Say, 
 father, wouldst really have me slow as Tante 
 Ursula?" 
 
 "Nay, Madel, I d have thee thyself, but 
 wiser," he said a little sadly. "Were t pos 
 sible, God knows I d have thee wise." 
 
 In truth he had, in spite of his great love,
 
 54 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 small mercy on the girl. When the yearly 
 market or Kirc/tiuci/t came, or carnival time 
 briefly stirred the staid iolk to lighter, freer 
 movement, or a prospective wedding absorbed 
 public attention for months, or a christening 
 or funeral evolved agreeable reunions with 
 the obligatory consumption of viands and 
 all such events were momentous and exciting 
 in the extreme to young Vroni full three 
 days beforehand Dionysius would look care 
 worn, and anxiously begin his exhortations, 
 instructing, enjoining, and warning in such 
 wise that the girl, glowing with anticipation, 
 would protest mischievously: 
 
 " T is terrible to hear thee, father, and fairly 
 spoils the taste for frolic. Surely twere 
 best I stayed at home and twirled my thumbs 
 and held my breath to please thee. " 
 
 Ikit even his overweening solicitude had to 
 grant that the few merrymakings harmed her 
 not a whit. She grew taller and prettier, but 
 hardly less childlike. He could find no fault 
 in her. All that she had been, all that she 
 used to do, she still was and did; but every 
 where and always he, pondering much, was 
 vaguely troubled. 
 
 Regularly on Sundays, toward evening, she
 
 Heart s Dearest 55 
 
 walked as when a child with her girl friends 
 in the fields and woods, sang folksongs, 
 plucked forget-me-nots, laughed riotously, 
 and when he came for her ran swiftly to meet 
 him, - on her face the look he thought the 
 most beautiful thing on earth, clung to him, 
 strolled with him, and seemed as blithe, un 
 conscious, and innocently unruly as ever. In 
 her was indeed no alarming change. But his 
 heart was never at rest, for he saw Sepp, Jorg, 
 and Blasius sitting on the stile, their short 
 loose Sunday jackets of brand-new blue cloth, 
 in each hat a red carnation, and knotted 
 attractively under each chin between the cor 
 ners of the unbleached shirt collar, a flaming 
 silk handkerchief. 
 
 The weaver, like most of his race and kind, 
 greatly loved their quietly commemorative 
 family fetes and simple gala days, which, 
 however barren their symbols, were yet in 
 formed and spiritualized by the dignity of 
 gentle observance. On Agathe s birthday, or 
 rather name-day, she always received a pound 
 of loaf-sugar, and, according to ancient custom, 
 a great wreath of wild flowers, which Vroni 
 plucked, bound, and hung by her mother s 
 bed.
 
 56 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 As school-child, Vroni had also to learn 
 and repeat each year, in honor of the festival, 
 a text or hymn. On her father s name-day 
 she presented him too with a wreath, and 
 spoke her little verse; while from Agathc 
 he received undeviatingly six ffennigswort/i 
 of snuff " Doppcl AIops and Fine Merino 
 mixed" and Backstein cheese for an equal 
 amount. On Vroni s/r/V she was usually pre 
 sented with a new kerchief, an apron, and some 
 apples. Now that she was so old, her kerchief 
 was of apple-green silk and had a fringe. 
 
 Were the gifts mean, they yet caused hon 
 est pleasure. Diamonds have been known 
 to fail to do as much. Were the festal days 
 celebrated beneath an obscure peasant weaver s 
 roof, they were ushered in with essentially 
 respectful rites and attended from dawn till 
 eve with honors. One wore one s Sunday 
 clothes. Exceptional deference and tran 
 quillity pervaded one s home atmosphere. In 
 the village, everybody one met extended a 
 cordial hand and said impressively: IcJi gratu- 
 lire ; while relatives and friends made a spe 
 cial pilgrimage across one s threshold to utter 
 the same felicitation. The fact of one s ex 
 istence was thus agreeably accentuated, its
 
 Heart s Dearest 57 
 
 importance in creation often regarded skep 
 tically now made manifest. A beneficent 
 dimness enveloped the sad train of cares, 
 fears, misfortunes, sorrows, blunders, and in 
 firmities always dogging one s heels. One 
 thanked God for what one had, and stopped 
 bewailing what one had not. 
 
 By inheritance, tradition, and natural ten 
 dency this, more or less, was the attitude of 
 the weaver s gentle spirit toward these simple 
 gala days. These too now suffered a change. 
 Vroni duly made her wreaths and spoke her 
 verses as carefully and innocently as of old. 
 But on Frau Agathe s name-day an event 
 hitherto wholly unnoticed by the youth of the 
 village a pot of lard, brought a long dis 
 tance, was significantly laid at her feet by big 
 Jorg, while Blasius, blushing, but sustained 
 by the consciousness of munificence and pat 
 rimony, appeared with no less than a sugar- 
 loaf under his arm. Dionysius, in his turn, 
 was distinguished at the hands of Michel and 
 others by choice portions of newly slaughtered 
 animals. Over all offerings to her larder 
 Agathe chuckled, Dionysius looked disturbed; 
 Vroni mocking or indifferent and remote. 
 
 On a May day, when the eligible bachelor-
 
 58 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 dom of Hexenfels had the privilege of inti 
 mating preference and secret hopes, a young 
 beech and two young birches were planted in 
 the night before Vroni s casement. 
 
 "Shall I chop them down, father?" she 
 asked disdainfully. 
 
 "Nay, child. Let them be. Things must 
 take their course," he answered slowly. 
 
 " At this rate we 11 soon have a young wood 
 round us, and before long a wedding, I make 
 no doubt," remarked Agathe, well pleased. 
 " Seest, Mann? There s many a richer, but 
 Vroni, the lads all know, hath a right sort of 
 mother, and is a tidy worker. She hath but 
 to choose." 
 
 " My little maid ! " sighed the weaver, and 
 laid his hand on her head. 
 
 " Thou, Vroni ! What thinkest thou ? Was 
 it Sepp, Blasius, and long Jorg? Blasius for 
 sure, eh? An orderly lad, Blasius, and brought 
 me a four-mark sugar-loaf. Planting trees 
 costs nothing, but not all do bring sugar. To 
 be sure old Blasius has his eye on the thick 
 Anastasia; yet he likes thee well enough, and 
 looks after thee when thou springst about, 
 and wert thou but a little decent spoken to 
 him, and less wild and unmannerly, he d not
 
 Heart s Dearest 59 
 
 mind that thou hast not her stocking full of 
 money. At least he d get over it. And 
 there s not so good a place for a wife in all 
 Hexenfels, mind that, with the mother dead 
 and out of the way, and nobody to hinder, and 
 the two men a decent sort, and the good fields 
 and good cattle, and money to spare. Art 
 getting on in years, Vroni. T is time to cease 
 springing and shouting like mad. T is time 
 to think sense." 
 
 "Dost call Blasius sense?" laughed Vroni. 
 " Nay, not he ! Was ever a dunce at school, 
 mother, and, oh, his little eyes, and, oh, his big 
 cars, and, oh, how he stuttered and shuffled 
 and shambled, the sugar-loaf under his arm, 
 and his nose redder than his hair or his new 
 rainbow cravat. I could but stare and wonder 
 which thing did set the other a-fire where all 
 was blazing but twas his nose for sure." 
 
 "A man s nose is no disgrace, and has 
 naught to do with marriage," proclaimed 
 Agathe. " Anastasia will ne er spy the bit of 
 red. For my part, I marked it not at all for 
 the good sugar-loaf." 
 
 "Black Anastasia is two and twenty. T is 
 old. Let her take her stocking and go and 
 marry Blasius. As for me, though the men
 
 60 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 plant trees as high as the Tooth, I like none 
 but my father." 
 
 " Vain talk, empty, as a puff-ball. T is true 
 he spoils thee with his notions." 
 
 Vroni, a little scornful, yet in high good 
 humor, retorted smiling: 
 
 " Leave me yet in peace, mother, with thy 
 talk of weddings. Seest well I am not ready. 
 I but laugh at them. For my life I cannot 
 help laughing at the men. Why should they 
 bother me? Do I bother them? Do I so 
 much as look at them, except they stand heavy 
 in my path? " 
 
 " Because thou art ill-mannered and wild as 
 no other, except it be a hawk. Must marry 
 sooner or later, eh?" 
 
 "Why?" demanded Vroni, sturdily. 
 
 " Hear her ! " and Agathe raised protesting 
 eyes and hands toward heaven. 
 
 " Yes, why if T want no man?" 
 
 " For what did God make maids except to 
 marry?" 
 
 "Where did He say that? Whom did He 
 tell it?" demanded the girl, a wicked light in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Art not seemly, Veronika. So spcaketh 
 no good, pious maid."
 
 Heart s Dearest 61 
 
 " Tante Ursula is pious beyond all women 
 far and near, yet never married." 
 
 " She had her father s house to keep, and 
 enough to live on. She is different." 
 
 " Oh ! then I, too, will be different. I will 
 work and earn money that I need never marry. 
 And when thou diest, take it not amiss, 
 mother ! I 11 be like Tante Ursula and keep 
 house for my father." 
 
 " Art wilder than a boy and bolder with thy 
 tongue. But though over-mirthful, marriage 
 will tame thee yet. Wait ! " 
 
 " Hast taken the best man thyself, mother. 
 Mightst well have left me my father ! " 
 
 " T is empty talk enough, I say. Go now 
 about thy business." 
 
 " T is no use, mother. Canst not make me 
 other than I am. I 11 like no man for trees or 
 sugar-loaves. Seest, until one comes along 
 with my father s eyes and smile and way of 
 speech, and notions, mother, all his notions, 
 and his good heart, and his hand on my head, 
 I 11 like no man. Hast heard now, mother ! " 
 and as she went she sang loud and sweet: 
 
 " Mein Schatz ist ein Weber ^ 
 Ein Weber ist er."
 
 62 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " My little maid ! " said the weaver once 
 more, smiling, straightening himself free and 
 relieved. 
 
 " Hast wholly spoiled the girl, seest? 
 Canst smile? Fie ! " 
 
 " I like her thus," Dionysius said simply. 
 " I would not have her casting sly eyes at 
 men. My Madel pleases me. What s amiss, 
 wife? Is but a child." 
 
 " Child here, child there ! Art losing thy 
 good wits? Yet dost mark she is a maid like 
 another, and the men s eyes ever on her. If 
 she stays here, she 11 marry speedily, and 
 where s the harm, say I, though thou knit- 
 test thy brows like a thundercloud. If she 
 goes away, she 11 earn some money for us, 
 which is better still and marry all the 
 same, but later. Mark my words. Whether 
 so or so, she 11 marry, and though she stare 
 cool with her big eyes to-day, to-morrow she 
 may hang her head and turn red or white in 
 the cheek." 
 
 " She s over-young to marry," muttered the 
 weaver, disturbed. 
 
 " Then send her off to work." 
 
 " She s over-wild and innocent-like to go 
 among strangers."
 
 Heart s Dearest 63 
 
 "They ll tame her, I take it. But keep her 
 here, an thou willst, and marry her straight 
 way. Why not? As for me," she trumpeted, 
 " I m reasonable ! " 
 
 " I fain would see her happy," Dionysius 
 replied wistfully. 
 
 " Happy ! Mann, art enough to provoke a 
 saint." 
 
 " I seek not to provoke thee. I would but 
 show thce my thought, for the child s sake. 
 Let us for once consult quietly together, for 
 she is our child, thine as mine." 
 
 " Hcrr Jc ! Art rarely civil! Mostly tis 
 as if thou thyself hadst plucked her ready- 
 made from a fairy bush, or as if she d fallen 
 from the sky into thy arms and no trouble to 
 nobody, like roast pigeons into the mouths of 
 the rich ! " 
 
 " Thou art her mother, and this is my 
 thought," he went on quietly. " There s rare 
 good stuff in her, but she is not like the 
 others, wife, take it not ill. She is fiercer- 
 hearted, hath more nerve in her joy, would 
 grieve worse if grief came. Tis dead weary 
 work to plod on side by side with one who 
 understands thee not, and hath no part in thy 
 thoughts. At least I mean I fear twould be
 
 64 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 thus for our girl. Besides, I shall not always 
 be near her. One does not know these things," 
 he said deprecatingly ; " but I m thinking many 
 a time I m not over-strong. Somehow not 
 that they re not orderly lads enough I can 
 not seem to put my mind on one quite fit to 
 lead my Madcl home." 
 
 "Tis always the same old story and pure 
 vexation to talk with thee. Naught is good 
 enough for thy daughter, and thou art no 
 better than the dog in the manger." 
 
 "I know, I know," he returned conciliatingly. 
 " It maybe I m over soft about the little maid. 
 Have patience, Agathe. I will turn all these 
 things over in my mind." 
 
 " And if thou turnst and turnst till dooms 
 day, willst find naught else but a wedding or 
 the lowlands." 
 
 Thus it came about that after a long drought 
 and an appalling failure of crops, when fodder 
 and money were scarce, and Dionysius weav 
 ing often interrupted by brief illnesses, when 
 Blasius, Sepp, Michel, Jokel, Jorg, and Hans 
 loomed ever more ominous on the near horizon, 
 and Agathe s contentious voice ceased not its 
 arguments and vehement reproach, the weaver, 
 dreary and desperate, resolved to brave the ills
 
 Heart s Dearest 65 
 
 he knew not rather than longer face those he 
 knew too well. Accordingly Vroni, nothing 
 loath and nearly seventeen, left the Rough Alp 
 for the first time, and, commended to the care 
 of a Hexenfels underhouse-keeper, was sent 
 down to the lowlands to Waldmohr Schloss.
 
 66 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 IV 
 
 THREE days and three nights Vroni wept 
 stormily for home-sickness and acute long 
 ing for Dionysius the weaver. For nearly 
 three days more she had her headache. 
 Moreover she missed her mountain winds ; 
 and complained there was no air to breathe. 
 The housekeeper said it was ridiculous the fuss 
 the highland girls always made over their 
 heathenish rocks where no goat could laugh 
 and grow fat. But the under-housckeeper, 
 who still retained a sneaking fondness for 
 her native village, soothed her ruffled supe 
 rior on the one side and unreasonable 
 Vroni on the other, and fortunately it was 
 not a busy time at the castle, for the count 
 and countess were gone to town for a court 
 dinner and a series of family festivities. 
 
 Her successive tornadoes left Vroni less 
 pretty perhaps than ever before in her life, 
 yet far prettier than most people one sees, 
 which is perhaps not saying much; certainly
 
 Heart s Dearest 67 
 
 than anybody in Schloss Waldmohr, not ex 
 cluding the countess herself as still, straight, 
 and not a little gloomy, she followed the under- 
 housekeeper one morning into the great 
 kitchen where were assembled smart maids 
 and lackeys in agreeable dalliance. 
 
 She hardly looked at them, was wholly 
 undazzled by the Schloss and its contents. 
 Things were bigger, brighter, and different 
 from what she had known ; that was all. A 
 group of Arab Sheiks suddenly transported 
 to a European capital, amazed observers not 
 only by their measureless tact, their subterra 
 nean wisdom and angelic courtesy, but by their 
 utter indifference to much of the complicated 
 machinery which civilization deems of over 
 whelming importance. So, too, was Vroni. 
 The untutored mind has its own dignity. 
 
 But when a large, dark, clean-shaved man 
 with a white cap on his head passed her cor 
 ner, she took him for a person of importance 
 which he emphatically was and instinct 
 ively made her quick reverence as when she met 
 Father Aloysius, or when suddenly on one of 
 her beechnut or snail expeditions the gay 
 hunting gentlemen flashed upon her in the 
 dense wood. The smart maids giggled and
 
 68 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 jeered ; but the French cook, perfectly aware 
 that he was a great man, deigned not unnatur 
 ally to approve her innocent homage ; liked 
 the girl s start of surprise, her flush, her spirited 
 silence as she faced the gigglers ; liked her 
 defiance and what in a lady of high degree 
 would be called her sheer haughtiness ; liked 
 her beauty in short liked her altogether, and 
 in a twinkling sent forked French oaths and 
 terrifically rolling r s shooting and crashing 
 about that kitchen over the heads of that 
 canaill-l-l-l-le, until their flippant wit was 
 drenched, and they remembered pressing 
 duties elsewhere. The Paris chef, like a 
 great Bourbon in exile, was merely bid 
 ing his time. His large emoluments could 
 ill console him for his sojourn among bar 
 barians. He deplored the love of change, 
 the roving disposition, chagrin at losing a 
 position to which he had aspired, artistic 
 temperament call it what one would 
 that had led him to these outskirts of civ 
 ilization where he was subjected to great and 
 peculiar tribulations. 
 
 Twice a week the chef disdained not to 
 drive to market and stock his larder. But 
 even he himself could not foresee his di/zy
 
 Heart s Dearest 69 
 
 flights of intellect, hence something was con 
 tinually wanting. When an inspiration of his 
 creative genius required a leaf, a mere breath 
 of rare spice, an all-important nothing, he was 
 obliged to send a groom galloping to the near 
 est market town. On a swift horse this could 
 be done in two hours. Two hours back made 
 four. An hour allowed ostensibly for search 
 ing for the object and letting the animal rest, 
 but in reality spent in gossiping and guzzling 
 vile beer, made five, usually nearer six. A 
 pause of six hours on the brink of creation ! 
 Had they tied the hands of Michel Ange so 
 long whenever the giant spirit strove to reveal 
 itself, where now were his great works ! Did 
 the imbeciles suppose a genius could r&hauffer 
 ideas like veal? Besides, whatever the object 
 desired, the groom usually failed to fetch it. 
 Either the God-forsaken land produced it not, 
 or the idiot had not comprehended. What a 
 country ! What privations ! 
 
 He was an alien. So too it seemed to him 
 was the handsome, spirited, glowering little 
 being who had the honor to win his protec 
 tion at the moment of her entrance into official 
 life at Waldmohr. Although some very fair 
 sort of people were about him, his prejudice
 
 jo Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and language and theirs formed insurmount 
 able obstacles. Each held the other s speech, 
 manners, and racial traditions to be superfluous 
 and grotesque. Some of the upper maids 
 spoke bad French, which he ironically declined 
 to recognize, and when they dared, they in re 
 turn sniggered at his broken German. Still in 
 a certain sense he was sovereign lord, and 
 kept them well at a distance, and wronged 
 his amiable disposition by assiduously cul 
 tivating surliness to the under-cooks, from 
 whom he jealously guarded his professional 
 secrets. A social, chatty being, he forced him 
 self to be taciturn, imagined that by fraterniz 
 ing with nobody, he was in some vague way 
 upholding a great country and great art, and 
 until Vroni came was lonely in his grandeur. 
 
 Her worldly experience he, at a glance, pre- 
 ceived hardly surpassed a squirrel s, but also 
 that there was nothing limp in her understand 
 ing. She would have comprehended a China 
 man had she liked him, and she liked the chef 
 instantly, freely, in good comradeship, neither 
 fearing nor flattering him. Such demeanor 
 is pleasing to liberal monarchs. 
 
 Her legitimate position would have been 
 in the outer circles among underlings and
 
 Heart s Dearest 71 
 
 novices. With a wave of his smooth hand 
 he promoted her. He kept her near him, 
 gave her small tasks, and observed her criti 
 cally. Not in vain was she Agathe s daugh 
 ter. She had sensible hands, swift, steady, 
 wholesome, and clean-skinned, brown but 
 never rough. They could almost touch pitch 
 undefiled. The chef watched them and smiled 
 astutely. 
 
 "It is the hand of the artist the born 
 cook," he reflected ; and what no threat, 
 money, or prayer could have enticed from 
 him, he in time lavished upon her, the 
 fine fruits of his experience, his esoteric wis 
 dom. It was his good pleasure, his royal 
 whim. 
 
 " Little do you suspect what I am doing, my 
 poor child, how should you ! " he would 
 sometimes exclaim with a queer grimace. 
 " Never mind ! The day will come when 
 you will comprehend and bless the name 
 of Armand Gireaud." 
 
 However wanting in aesthetic appreciation 
 of the subtleties of Pcrdreaux dc Rambonillet 
 and Pains dc canetons rouennaisc, Vroni was 
 practically a delightful pupil of whom her 
 master was proud. He drilled her soundly
 
 72 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 in the fundamental principles of cooking- 
 ranges ; he delivered a whole series of im 
 passioned harangues upon awful dinner catas 
 trophes resulting from minimal errors in 
 temperature; he took her to market, and in 
 culcated his own refined and astute methods 
 of selection and purchase. Although these 
 appertained to a higher education than Rough 
 Alp philosophy dreamed of, she adopted them 
 with marvellous receptivity, and he had fre 
 quent occasion to chuckle over her audacity 
 and keenness. 
 
 As for head reckoning, it was her specialty. 
 When grown-ups had fluttered the village 
 school the ScJiultJiciss, Father Aloysius, or 
 old Anton and the wretched Blasius, wish 
 ing the floor would open and swallow him, 
 had stammered that America was an island 
 surrounded by water and occupied by black 
 men who ate fat and drove sledges drawn by 
 reindeer, and big Anastasia could not spell 
 her word, and sat down sobbing stertorously, 
 even before the teacher spoke, all the children 
 had turned their frightened eyes toward little 
 Vroni Lindl, and knew she would stand up as 
 bold as a lion and do sums in her head like 
 lightning, until teacher and grown-ups should
 
 Heart s Dearest 73 
 
 smirk at one another again. So finally she 
 went to market for the chef, thereby re 
 lieving him of a loathsome task in this strange 
 land, and the worthy shop people from fiend 
 ish objurgations in a foreign tongue. She be 
 came his trusty adjutant, his envoy, riding 
 gayly to town on sudden secret missions ; and 
 were a thing to be had for money, smiles, 
 mother wit, or insolence, she fetched it with 
 a zealous speed unknown to grooms, and laid 
 it in triumph at her master s feet. 
 
 She was the only person he would tolerate 
 in his presence when imagining his vast com 
 binations. She alone stood valiantly by his 
 side when he constructed his master-pieces 
 for festivities. He initiated her into the occult 
 mysteries of sauces, the subtle balminess of 
 creams, advanced her rapidly but thoroughly 
 through a whole arcanum of entrees, and once, 
 when the castle was full of guests, folded his 
 arms superbly and proclaimed in the presence 
 of all his aproned corybants : 
 
 " The salmi of pheasant for lunch will 
 be executed by Mademoiselle Ve"ronique." 
 Vroni, quite unconcerned, " executed " the 
 birds. "It s like her impudence," the en 
 vious whispered. Yet she bore her honors
 
 74 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 with such nonchalance, was so like a hearty 
 boy, friendly if not interfered with, but re 
 turning evil for evil with startling rapidity 
 and liberal measure, none really objected 
 that she was persona gratis sima with the chef, 
 above all when the fact was patent that she 
 coveted nobody s sweetheart. 
 
 I low much, how exceedingly much in 
 divers ways that good chef did for her, neither 
 she nor Dionysius the weaver ever suspected. 
 Not only was Gireaud occupying her con 
 stantly, keeping her happy and amused, offi 
 cially training her brain and hands in the 
 knowledge of manifold delectable receipts of 
 which the world is not worthy, and unoffi 
 cially exercising her in a curiously disorderly 
 but quite available method of speaking 
 French reversing the orderly and unavail 
 able methods of boarding schools, but he 
 constituted himself a bristling body-guard 
 between her and all foolish trifling, coarse 
 flattery, or even honest love-making, which 
 on the part of the young fellows employed 
 at the Schloss would have been in his preju 
 diced opinion equally detrimental. 
 
 In point of fact, the weaver s Madel was 
 chaperoned hardly less solicitously than the
 
 Heart s Dearest 75 
 
 chatelaine s young sister, the charming Com- 
 tesse Nelka von Vallade. From early morning 
 until late at night the chef and Vroni were 
 companions at work and in the hours of ease 
 which were that great man s prerogative. 
 With him she strolled contentedly in the 
 vegetable gardens where he wisely kept him 
 self in touch with fair smooth candidates for 
 early favor. With him she walked by the 
 river, and even went to the fair, where he 
 was better dressed and more impressive than 
 the count himself. 
 
 Being as yet of a somewhat haughty and 
 unmerciful strain toward youths, and best 
 accustomed to the mature gentleness of her 
 beloved weaver, she took it wholly as a 
 matter of course that a man of forty-five or 
 fifty was her work and play-fellow. It was 
 a queer intimacy, and a queerer jargon that 
 they talked, her village-dialect, his broken 
 German, and flights of French mostly far 
 above her head. 
 
 Sheltered by shrubbery and a great sweet- 
 pea trellis on the edge of the kitchen garden 
 was a pleasant corner frequented by the chef 
 after the engrossing event of his day, dinner. 
 Escaping as early as possible, relegating its
 
 76 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 mere final details to his vassals, he loved to 
 array himself in an elegant costume of viltt- 
 giature, and, seated upon his favorite bench, 
 read his " Petit Journal," smoke cigarettes, 
 chat with his ttive in short, unbend and 
 strive to forget his greatness and his cares. 
 
 From this haunt Vroni could watch strangers 
 staying at the Schloss and guests of an even 
 ing, as they chatted over their coffee on the 
 veranda, or strolled on the high terrace in 
 the long summer twilight: pale-colored, 
 fluffy ladies with fans ; black and white 
 gentlemen with long shining shoes, broad 
 shining shirt-fronts, and little peaked Bantam 
 coat tails; blue, red, and yellow men, gay 
 with gold stripes and buttons. Sometimes, 
 too, from pantry windows she caught fleeting 
 glimpses of them riding off, two by two, in the 
 sunshine, knocking balls about on the grass, 
 or whirling on wheels. They were always talk 
 ing very much, she noticed, always terribly 
 glad to see one another, always smiling and 
 nodding and sunning themselves, always most 
 pleasant and polite. 
 
 She regarded them without envy, almost with 
 out wonder. She accepted them composedly, 
 as mere facts like the great carved stairway,
 
 Heart s Dearest 77 
 
 the pictures and armor in the hall, the many 
 lights in the dining-room, and the multitude 
 of novel observances and ceremonies which 
 from time to time obtained from her a cool 
 little stare of reconnoissance and nothing more. 
 But gradually the living picture framed by 
 arching trees, the panoramic human group 
 gently animated in movement and color and 
 gay in long vista beneath the castle towers, 
 began to exert upon her a subtle influence and 
 fascination. It was a sort of al fresco theatre, 
 a puppet show for the weaver s Madel. From 
 afar she became familiar with the salient pecu 
 liarities of her high-born dolls, their contours, 
 gestures, and manners, and sitting at ease upon 
 the grass while Gireaud idly read, she edified 
 him not a little with her running comments, in 
 which much downright realism was manifest. 
 She gave them names too, unflattering, irrev 
 erent indeed, yet marvellously appropriate 
 from her candid and impartial point of view: 
 a stout brunette baroness being " the black 
 Anastasia;" a red-nosed major, " old Anton; " 
 a worn-out beau she cheerfully dubbed " Gran 
 dad ; " one ancient dame of prehistoric line 
 age was " Tantc Ursula " ; another, fierce of 
 mien, " Frau Widow Boppel " she who was
 
 78 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 once walled up ; and five golden youths of bluest 
 blood, from some trick of hair, of gait, of awk 
 ward adolescence, were respectively " Jorg," 
 "Jokel," "Seppl," "Hans," and "the Distel- 
 Bauer." 
 
 This mood passed also. Fixing her clear 
 eyes on those denizens of another world, she 
 would grow silent, busy with novel and vague 
 speculations, and knit her brows. 
 
 " Well, Vronettc, what is it ? " asked the chef 
 one evening. " You look as solemn as zjuge 
 d instruct ion." 
 
 "Are they always like that, M sieu Armand ? " 
 
 " Always how? " 
 
 " Lazing about," she replied graphically, but 
 without malice. "Always in Sunday clothes. 
 Always jabbering, all at once, so fast, and so 
 dreadfully glad to see one another. Always 
 so chirpy and clucky." 
 
 He looked at her curiously, smiled, and laid 
 aside his paper. 
 
 " Ma foi, child, what would you have? After 
 all it is but the amiable manner of good society. 
 You would not wish them to quarrel ? " 
 
 " Does it not tire them? It would tire me. 
 Do they never want to stop and do something 
 else? Is that all they do?"
 
 Heart s Dearest 79 
 
 " But you have seen them riding." 
 
 " Riding is sense," she deigned to con 
 cede. 
 
 " And playing games ; and they read a little 
 and dress and pay visits, and dress and dine 
 as you and I know, Vronette. Sapristi, how 
 society eats ! How grossly much and with 
 what ignorance ! It is enough to make one 
 despair of human progress," he bewailed, quite 
 above poor Vroni s range. Yet, strictly con 
 sidered, what spoken words are not above or 
 below the level of the listener? Then from 
 the bland depths of ignorance where Vroni 
 sported, she had a startling way of leaping up 
 and seizing an idea. " I gave them Saumon 
 a la Margucry for lunch," he continued gloom 
 ily. "Who knew it was a dish for gods? Who 
 will remember? " 
 
 " I, M sieu Armand ! " was the gay and un 
 expected response. " For you explained until 
 you grew red as a turkey-cock, and almost 
 wept because I laughed ; and you made me 
 copy it in German, and your Kauterwelsch, 
 and yet again clean, in my book. Although 
 I don t know what you mean by gods, surely 
 only heathen folk have more than one, and 
 they arc graven images that cannot eat,
 
 8o Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and though I do not roll my eyes and gasp, 
 for, after all, t is but fish in a thick and fussy 
 sauce, be sure I 11 never forget it, and I 11 do 
 it next time as well as you yourself, so cheer 
 up, M sieu Armand," she airily threw an 
 imaginary pinch of salt at him with his own 
 gesture, " I shall remember." 
 
 The man, with droll solemnity, rejoined : 
 
 " Little savage, you will, I know you will. 
 It is that which is my consolation. Mistake 
 not, I cast no pearls before the unworthy. 
 You sleep now like what s her name in the 
 fairy tale. You have no soul like the other 
 one. But you will arise ; you will awaken ; you 
 will find your soul." 
 
 " Take it not amiss that I laugh, M sieu 
 Armand. I understand not one word of your 
 speech that runs like olive oil from a two 
 quart bottle, except that you think I can do 
 the fussy fish ; and that I can, to the twirl of 
 your fingers. But for my life I cannot help 
 laughing when you snap your eyes and take 
 your mouth so full." 
 
 " Laugh. // faut quc la jeunessc sc passe. 
 Then above the gayety of heart you have the 
 man s head. You seem a tcte de linottc, but 
 nothing escapes you. Am I the man to waste
 
 Heart s Dearest 81 
 
 myself? Do I not sharply observe? When 
 had I to tell you a thing twice?" 
 
 " You are so very solemn, M sieu Armand, 
 somehow it makes me laugh the more." She 
 sat down on the grass, drew up her knees, put 
 her chin in her hands and stared at him, mirth 
 and beauty in her eyes. 
 
 " It is an impertinent little Vronette grin 
 ning at me and chewing sweet-pea stems, all 
 her nice white teeth but too visible a gamine. 
 I am not talking to her. I am speaking to 
 quite a different person the Vronette of 
 some years hence." 
 
 Involuntarily her nonchalant gaze concen 
 trated itself in sudden intelligence. 
 
 " To her I say," he continued earnestly, 
 dropping his bombast, " if she remembers me 
 and my words, the world will never trample 
 her under-foot, for she has something the 
 world wants." 
 
 For a moment she looked at him in silent, 
 grave inquiry. 
 
 " Bah, t is but cooking ! " she exclaimed 
 with her aggressive incredulity, and began to 
 hum : 
 
 " Mein Schatz ist ein Weber, 
 Ein Weber ist er." 
 6
 
 82 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 A shade of despair flitted across his features. 
 He folded his arms repressively across his 
 portly white waistcoat. 
 
 " Never mind, Vronette," he said with ad 
 mirable patience. " You are young. You are 
 from the mountains. You are, as it were, like 
 one of your own goats. It is well. I com 
 prehend. I simply remark, Wait." 
 
 " Wart! Tis my mother s word," the girl 
 retorted wickedly. "Tis what she always 
 shouted when coming after me to give me a 
 good one on the ear but I waited not, M sieu 
 Armand ! " 
 
 " Madame votrc mh e has done me a great 
 service," he returned gallantly. "I have to 
 thank her and monsieur votrc pre also for the 
 only pleasure I have known in this sad country 
 the society of their child. For truly you 
 cheer me much, Vronette. You amuse me." 
 
 " And you me, M sieu Armand, you me," 
 she rejoined with pleasing alacrity. " T is 
 true I ve nearly died of laughter over many, 
 and most perhaps till now over Blasius and 
 Seppl but never yet did I see anybody quite 
 so droll as you." 
 
 He raised his eyebrows, but smiled indul 
 gently.
 
 Heart s Dearest 83 
 
 " Voyons, Vronctte, now that you are reason 
 able and no longer shaking from top to toe, let 
 me recount you a little tale. The mood is on 
 me. Who knows? It may not return. Before 
 we part, it is well you hear. The daughter of a 
 colleague is cordon bleu in a Danish palace, a 
 woman of the stature of a grenadier, but in her 
 creations, what subtlety, what exquisite senti 
 ment ! Well, I was ambitious. I longed to 
 have my only daughter emulate her. Not only 
 because I had no son to inherit my art, my 
 traditions, and my honorable reputation, but 
 because I worship the sex. I adore it. More 
 than that I have faith in it. I am a modern 
 man. I have always believed, given talents and 
 the necessary training and women could rise 
 to great heights even in my difficult profes 
 sion. Yet what, I ask you, is more prosaic, 
 more uninspired a figure than the average 
 woman cook ! A lamentable bungler ! 
 
 o 
 
 " Many a hot argument upon this theme 
 had I with a friend, a lady s tailor by pro 
 fession, he declaring for the finest needle 
 work in his province, for things requiring 
 not only precision but delicacy of feeling, 
 he could employ only men. Bows, for in 
 stance, adorable butterfly bows, he insisted,
 
 84 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 men fashioned best; while I contended in 
 lovely woman was an amed tlitc that needed 
 but right conditions to reveal itself. You 
 follow me, Vronette?" 
 
 "Nay, scarce one word in a score, M sicu, " 
 she returned blithely. "But that sail right. 
 I m comfortable. Go on. " 
 
 " Well, I named my child Armande, and 
 took her young, as one takes any artiste for 
 the traphc for the violin I gave myself 
 all pains. I labored with enthusiasm ; but 
 twas a chagrin a fatality. She was docile, 
 ah, yes, she was intelligent; but, Jiclas, she had 
 not the temperament, she had no touch of 
 greatness no fire. " 
 
 "No fire! Then how could .you expect 
 her to cook," demanded Vroni, with her cool 
 stare. 
 
 "Ah, Vronette, I speak of the ideal fire 
 lefen sacrS! " 
 
 " Don t know it. Is it coal or cokes?" 
 That is unimportant. Let us pass on to 
 facts. I renounced my hope. I perceived my 
 Armande as cook would never get beyond a 
 bourgeoise mediocrity. Besides her mother 
 leaned to bonnets. Armande went into bon 
 nets. She is in bonnets now in the Rue St.
 
 Heart s Dearest 85 
 
 Honore. I was for some time jealous of those 
 bonnets, and, it may be, unjust, but that is past. 
 Her business name is like yours, Veronique. 
 Tis a good business name. She has it in 
 large gold and white letters over her door. 
 She has succeeded." In his voice, in spite of 
 its elegiac strain, was a vestige of pride. " Per 
 haps now, Vronette, you comprehend better 
 my interest, my fervor, and why I train you 
 with the training of the man and the artist. 
 You are, as it were, the resurrection of a lost 
 hope." 
 
 "I know when people are good to me," she 
 replied sagely, nodding at him with pretty 
 graciousness over the flowers in her hands. 
 "That much I know." 
 
 " Tis enough for to-day, my child. The 
 rest will arrive. For you have the head, the 
 hands, the temperament, and t is Armand 
 Gireaud who is giving the instruction. 
 Wait ! " he exclaimed with a large and pro 
 phetic gesture. 
 
 "As for bonnets," he resumed, after cross 
 ing his fine shoes and contemplating the vault 
 of heaven, " I do not, at present, flatly deny 
 the charm of bonnets." He surveyed with 
 benevolent reminiscence the bunch of lilac
 
 86 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and purple sweet-peas Vroni was weaving into 
 her wreath. " They offer, I concede, a cer 
 tain field for fancy and fine feeling. Then 
 they are instructive. My Armande writes she 
 has invented a shape for the American head. 
 Scientific researches, it appears, have ascer 
 tained the American head possesses neither 
 reverence nor romance. Evidently it requires 
 its specific bonnet. Interesting that! They 
 now construct a sort of phreno-ethnological 
 capote. What think you, Vronette?" 
 
 " Naught of your gibberish, M sieu Armand, 
 if you don t mind, and all to myself, that 
 were my father here I d make this wreath for 
 him, for tis a posy that he loves." 
 
 "I ve fatigued you with my long dis 
 course? " 
 
 " Nay," she rejoined serenely, " for I ve not 
 listened overmuch." 
 
 " I was merely about to say what I always 
 tell my daughter, that millinery, in spite of 
 certain meretricious charms, is but a fickle, 
 fragile thing, and no great essential art like 
 mine. After all, one could exist without 
 bonnets." 
 
 " Why, of course," cheerily assented bonnet- 
 less Vroni. "When you are young, you have
 
 Heart s Dearest 87 
 
 your hair; and when you are old, you wear 
 your kerchief. But cooks, too," she added 
 shrewdly after a moment. " The world could 
 get along without cooks." 
 
 " Ingrate ! " 
 
 " It could eat apples and nuts," she affirmed 
 stoutly. "I like apples. And potatoes boil 
 themselves. Then there s milk. Oh, yes, 
 M sieu Armand, quite enough to eat without 
 fussy cooking like ours." 
 
 He smiled at the implied co-partner 
 ship. 
 
 "To be sure it earns good wages," she con 
 tinued joyously; "I send such a lot home, 
 and heaps more than if I d been put with the 
 scullery-maids instead of with you. Besides 
 I like to be with you," she said, in her warm 
 and resolute fashion. "I like you," with a 
 lovely smile of confidence and affection. "I 
 like men better than women," she added re 
 flectively. " Men are not so silly as maids 
 that is, nice old men. There s my father, 
 and there s you." 
 
 She put her wreath, a good solid one as was 
 the fashion in Hexenfels, well down on her 
 forehead, and, rising, took her old place of 
 observation.
 
 88 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 "There s a new one," she said quickly, "a 
 pink one." After a moment, "I like her." 
 
 The chef got up. 
 
 "Ah," nodding approval, "it is the count 
 ess s sister, Comtesse Nelka von Vallade. 
 Yes, she is gcntille." 
 
 "I like her," repeated Vroni. 
 
 " So soon ? Why ? " 
 
 " Does one know why soon or late ? Red 
 Lisl I did ever like, black Anastasia never; 
 but why I could not tell you for your life." 
 
 He reseated himself. 
 
 " I heard she was expected to-day on her 
 wheel, with her brothers." 
 
 " It must be nice on a wheel like a witch. 
 Oh, M sieu Armand, they are jumping, the 
 blue and white brothers. Ha, I can do that! 
 He need not look so pleased with himself. 
 Now the other brother is going over the same 
 hedge. He s smiling too. Ach, was ! T is 
 but a baby jump. Oh, see, she s running 
 down, the pretty one ! She wants to jump it 
 too. Of course. And better than they I 
 make no doubt. Oh, Weh, oh, Weh ! They 
 are shaking fans at her. They ve stopped 
 her. An old lady s got her now, and put her 
 up there in the row of grinny people. But
 
 Heart s Dearest 89 
 
 she does not like it, M sieu Armand. She 
 cannot bear it." 
 
 "I presume not," he replied with a little 
 laugh, " But the Comtesse Nelka von Vallade 
 may not jump hedges." 
 
 " When I tell you she could ! " she retorted 
 indignantly. "Bah, tis so easy. Lookout, 
 M sieu Armand!" and over his iron-backed 
 bench she flew. 
 
 "I said may not, not cannot," he explained, 
 amiably re-adjusting himself. " I doubt not her 
 capacity, though she be no wildfire. On her 
 horse she may jump it, not on her own two feet." 
 
 "Is that sense?" demanded Agathe s 
 daughter. 
 
 "That I do not pretend to say, but it is 
 commc il fant it is propriety." 
 
 " But she may ride that wheel." 
 
 "That is the fashion," he rejoined, amused. 
 "Ah, wild little Vronette, do not look so puz 
 zled ! Truly you have much to learn, but 
 even that task may be accomplished with the 
 help of the bon Dieu." 
 
 Charming and pensive under her heavy 
 wreath of sweet-peas, she still regarded the 
 ladies and gentlemen, and remarked medita 
 tively :
 
 90 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " They do not earn money and send it home 
 to their parents? " 
 
 " But no You know that without asking. " 
 
 "I knew it," she said slowly; "but never 
 had it in my thoughts. Then the parents 
 earn the money ? " 
 
 "Sometimes the father earns it; sometimes 
 he has it without earning." 
 
 "Oh," she muttered, with a thoughtful air. 
 " And the pretty Comtesse Nelka, who must not 
 jump a wee little hedge her father works for 
 her? How does he work? " Her face grew 
 soft, for she saw the front room, the loom, 
 and the dear weaver weaving early and 
 late. 
 
 " Count Vallade is Cabinet-Chef and 
 thankless business it is, so far as I know. 
 He works like a galley slave. I do not envy 
 him," observed the other sort of chef, with 
 fraternal commiseration. "He s worn to 
 death with papers and the King and State 
 affairs, you know." 
 
 "Oh, is he?" she murmured, with the same 
 gravity. " Does he earn much ? " 
 
 "Not so very much," he replied, amused 
 at her persistence. " Certainly not enough. 
 For he has heavy expenses and only his salary.
 
 Heart s Dearest 91 
 
 Mafoi, three gay lieutenants are no bagatelle 
 in a man s budget." 
 
 " Surely the big grown sons earn their own 
 living!" 
 
 " By no means. He has to allow them some 
 thing every month to eke out their pay." 
 
 " The lazy louts ! They ought to be 
 ashamed." 
 
 "It is but the way of their world," he 
 returned indifferently. "They have to live 
 according to their station, I presume." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Well, I hear the valets say so. They 
 seem to know. They have it all glib on their 
 tongues. They say the old count is a good 
 sort and terribly hard pressed. They say the 
 young men are high-livers with horses, wines, 
 gaming, and the rest, Count Benno s pace is 
 the worst of all. They say it s a lucky thing 
 the older daughter, Comtesse Clotilde, got 
 Count Waldmohr, and that the younger is 
 soon to marry that old wreck, Baron von 
 Frege, who is rich as Monte Christo. And 
 they say the sooner young Flemming is out 
 of the way, the better for the Vallade pro 
 jects, for the young people are sweethearts 
 from the cradle. There you have a whole
 
 92 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 fenillcton, Vronette. Wait, let me see if old 
 Frege is still there. He is leaning against 
 the veranda railing near Comtesse Nelka. 
 He d better put on a shawl. It s getting 
 damp. Young Flemming stands on the other 
 side of her, and won t budge." 
 
 " Du, meine Giite ! The yellow cheeked 
 one with the beak and the whalebone legs ! 
 Grandad ! " 
 
 "And the wig and the teeth and the cor 
 sets. Yes, that s the sort he is. And it s 
 not the worst of him," muttered the French 
 man under his moustache. 
 
 " Does she want him ? " she asked, with even 
 and long-drawn emphasis. 
 
 "Of course not, infant! Can you not 
 comprehend ? The brothers living as they 
 do and must the father half distracted, the 
 mother urging on the match ! And Comtesse 
 Nelka can help no end when once she gets 
 those millions." 
 
 "The witch-faced man will give them to 
 her, and she will give them to the others?" 
 
 "Somewhat, if not precisely so." 
 
 "She ought to go to work," said Vroni, in 
 a clear and rather stern voice. " It would be 
 better and more sensible. In Hexenfels, we
 
 Heart s Dearest 93 
 
 work and help when we are small, but earn no 
 wages. When we are grown, our kind earns 
 wages. I would no longer want my father to 
 do all for me as if I were a child," adding, 
 with fine irony : " T is true youths plant trees, 
 and bring fresh pork, and hang about the stile, 
 and make frog-eyes at one amazingly. Young 
 men are prone to do such things. It is their 
 foolish nature. What matters it ? It dis 
 turbs nobody. My mother is for marrying. 
 My father not. I take after my father," she 
 concluded with dignity. 
 
 In the girl s mind seemed a sudden awaken 
 ing, lurking in her childishness a certain 
 serious strength and consecutive grasp of 
 things hitherto unperceived. 
 
 " Bravo, Vronette ! " 
 
 "Why should you laugh?" she asked, a 
 little nettled. " I but mean sense. It is all 
 quite easy to understand. If the Comtesse 
 Nelka would learn to work, she could earn her 
 own bread. That would help her father when 
 he is weary at nightfall, and she need not 
 marry the man-witch. As for her three 
 brothers, shame on their lazy bones, she 
 should give them a piece of her mind." 
 
 " Quite true. Only great people have an-
 
 94 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 other way of looking at things. But you 
 need not glare at me, Vronette. I am not 
 responsible for their bctiscs. I merely fill my 
 place," he said with the serene air of one 
 who had reason to suspect, were all places as 
 faultlessly filled, this world would be a very 
 different caravansary. "Come, child, let us 
 move on." 
 
 Thus Vroni, from one point of vision and 
 another, got dissolving views of what Gircaud 
 called le beau monde s curious antics, of 
 what the higher, so-called educated classes 
 who needed not to toil or spin deemed expe 
 dient and indispensable, in short, of their 
 standard of greatness ; and pondered some 
 what, but not unhealthily much, upon these 
 things. The routine appointed for her by 
 her master held her in firm discipline, his 
 ample aegis never failed; through the more or 
 less perilous flunkydom of the great house 
 the snobbish valets were at first fresh country 
 lads who but imitated their master s pretty 
 manners the girl passed unmolested. She 
 had scarcely an adventure. 
 
 Once a piano-man, as she dubbed him, a 
 well dressed, smart sort of person with a 
 waxed moustache, who had superintended the
 
 Heart s Dearest 95 
 
 transport of a grand piano from town and, 
 after setting it on its legs, tried it at some 
 length with musical touch and haunting melo 
 dies, found her leaning by the door just in 
 his path her head thrown back, her brown 
 eyes dreamy. 
 
 In the gloating sultan humor of his kind he 
 pinched her cheek and stooped suggestively. 
 
 " Wait /" was the fierce response, and Vroni 
 "up and at " him with a resounding whack on 
 his right ear. 
 
 " Donney wetter ! " muttered the man, but 
 laughed and turned to look as she fled down 
 the corridor. Her anger spent, she gave the 
 trifling episode no thought. 
 
 On some sudden quest for the lord of the 
 larder whose exalted need, rejecting new-laid 
 eggs, sweet cream, fat capons, savory herbs, 
 demanded things still fresher, sweeter, richer, 
 fatter, more aromatic, rare, and marvellous, 
 choicer than earth s choicest say a roc s egg, 
 or la rose trois fois cxquise, she for a brief 
 season passed frequently a quiet figure sitting 
 alone in a corner of the courtyard, a man in uni 
 form, evidently an officer s BurscJi, and stared 
 well at him because of his hair, which was lint 
 white and standing up thick like a brush.
 
 96 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 One day he was holding a big spaniel s 
 nose between his knees. She, a little blue 
 jug in her hand, stopped and watched him 
 solicitously extract a thorn from the animal s 
 head. 
 
 " Did you get it all ? " she demanded eagerly, 
 drawing near. 
 
 He looked up and nodded, but instantly 
 dropped his eyes, abashed by the nearness of 
 the beatific vision he had for days watched 
 flitting hither and thither, patted the dog 
 awkwardly, and let him go. 
 
 "What s your name?" she asked, not un 
 graciously for her. 
 
 The big fellow again raised a pair of honest 
 childlike eyes of bluest blue, and stared help 
 lessly at her. 
 
 "Well?" she said curtly. "Don t you 
 know your own name ? " 
 
 His mouth twitched nervously, but no word 
 issued from it in the radiant presence of Our 
 Lady of the Jug. 
 
 "Tovvhead, I doubt not," she suggested, 
 her smile mocking, her manner hard. 
 
 Then the dumb spake. 
 
 "Towhead they ve called me all my life," 
 he answered gently, with thick, slow utter-
 
 Heart s Dearest 97 
 
 ance, but not without manliness. " My name 
 is Tiber. I m Count Benno s extra man." 
 
 Before the steady blue of his eyes, and a cer 
 tain patience in his voice, her mood wavered. 
 
 "Ac/i, so was/" she murmured, frowned, 
 turned brusquely on her heel and walked off. 
 
 The man sighed from the very depths of 
 his long riding boots, into which his body 
 seemed to sink disconsolate. 
 
 But presently he started and sat up alert, 
 for she came tripping down from the house, 
 her white apron greeting him like a flag of 
 truce, her beautiful hair shining in the sun, 
 on her lips glad tidings, and in her hands a 
 heaped-up plate and a foaming tankard. 
 
 "Towhead," she began, " t is no harm thou 
 art slow of tongue. T were better others 
 jabbered less. Take it not ill that I was 
 hasty, Towhead. T is, tis, "she hesitated, 
 " tis my way ofttimes, " smiling negligently 
 with a sort of imperial candor. "Here s 
 some fine bits I have begged for thee from 
 M sieu Armand. Art a brave lad and good 
 to dogs," she concluded, artlessly patronizing, 
 as if he himself were some big four-footed 
 thing she was patting on the back. " So 
 there ! And now, good-day. " 
 7
 
 98 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Poor Tiber saw her go, and other clays he 
 saw her pass, but always far away. Never 
 again at Schloss Waldmohr did our Sunny 
 Lady of the Jug descend upon his humble 
 awkwardness, to make his heart beat high, 
 his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth, 
 and his whole being bask in inexplicably mis 
 erable blessedness or thrice-blessed misery. 
 Once on the high-road she smiled and nodded 
 brightly, as he was exercising Count Benno s 
 Fuchs; again by the river she remembered 
 him, and was not too proud to give him 
 friendly greeting, though both times she was 
 walking with a most distinguished-looking 
 gentleman in a top hat. But Tiber got no 
 ghost of a chance to speak to her. For it 
 happened that during the remaining fortnight 
 of Count Benno s stay, Maitre Gireaud, Chei 
 de Cuisine and Cordon Bleu, required of his 
 willing and fleet-footed messenger nothing 
 whatever that necessitated voyages in the 
 vicinity of the courtyard. His prolific imag 
 inings, one and all, floated persistently in a 
 contrary direction. 
 
 When, after a twelve months absence, 
 Vroni shone again upon Hexenfels the 
 count and countess having closed the house
 
 Heart s Dearest 
 
 99 
 
 to spend a winter in Egypt she was approxi 
 mately a trained French cook, had somewhat 
 softened manners, and called her headache 
 her migraine, but otherwise, as Dionysius the 
 weaver perceived with his first searching look 
 in her glad good eyes, was the self-same 
 Madel, and he thanked his God for her as 
 they walked hand-in-hand through their 
 meagre grain-fields. 
 
 It was again the time of the mighty north 
 winds, swinging east and back again, swift as 
 a cruel thought, uprooting stout trees, and 
 uplifting roofs, for all their freight of stones. 
 Vroni would whisk together the ingredients 
 of an aerial, foam-born omelette with a virtu 
 osity which left her mother struggling be 
 tween open-mouthed admiration and stubborn 
 prejudice in favor of ancestral methods, and 
 a "pan-cake with a bite to it." But in that 
 frugal household was small demand for the 
 girl s unsuspected adeptship. The long win 
 ter was staring them in the face, and the 
 great snowdrifts which settled early, and lay 
 so long on the Rough Alp, would soon be 
 closing round them. 
 
 Dionysius longed to keep her always near 
 him, so fond, so clinging, so sad with pre-
 
 ioo Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 science was his tenderness for his child. But 
 Agathe argued to what end? and counted 
 often, and with cheerful clinking, the last 
 little pile of gold, earned at Schloss Wald- 
 mohr. The maid had begun briskly ; twere 
 folly, sin, and shame to stop her now. When 
 he was a bit ailing, he always hung his head; 
 but, Du licbcr Gott, was that a reason why she 
 should sit idle all winter, and hold his hand, 
 for all the world as if they were courting? 
 
 By the time Hexenfels lay snowbound, all 
 laughter and sunshine had fled from the 
 lonely cottage under the crag. Agathe, self- 
 sufficient, bustled, toiled, and talked; while 
 Dionysius, sallowcr, aging visibly, silent, 
 languid, worked when he had strength enough, 
 and when, indeed, he had not and pined 
 in secret for his heart s dearest, his youngest, 
 his nestling, who this time had spread her 
 wings for a longer, stronger flight.
 
 Heart s Dearest 101 
 
 V 
 
 "ARE you sure you can do all this?" de 
 manded the Countess von Vallade, examin 
 ing, with surprise, a copious document signed 
 with the simplicity of greatness, Gireand, 
 Schloss Waldmohr and glancing alternately 
 at its explicit statements, and their youthful 
 subject. 
 
 "If he says so," replied Vroni, who had 
 spelled out as yet but a mere fraction of the 
 long and eloquent tribute to her skill, which 
 he, with tears in his eyes, had implored her 
 to regard all her life as her most precious pos 
 session and talisman. 
 
 "While you have that you will never want. 
 To-day you snap your fingers. One day you 
 will comprehend, my poor child. See, I give 
 it you in this strong leather case, with a stout 
 lock and key. Keep your receipt book also 
 in it. Guard both as your life. It is my 
 solemn parting word, my little friend, my
 
 IO2 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 dawning colleague, I hesitate not to pro 
 nounce you, I, Gireaud. " 
 
 The good soul also presented her with a 
 beautiful framed photograph of the castle. 
 Across the whole lower margin of the pict 
 ure was writ large : Residence of Armand 
 Gireaud from May 3, 189- to Sept. 2, 189-, 
 sixteen months and seventeen days. 
 
 " Nur die Lumpen sind bescheiden ; 
 Brave freuen sich der That." 
 
 The countess was seated at her writing- 
 table, one of those dwarfed and painful little 
 monsters called specifically ladies writing- 
 tables, ornate, unsteady, and bow-legged ; its 
 small surface so littered with cheap bronzes, 
 statuettes, crystal toys, vases, and other frag 
 ile nonsense, no robust thought had room 
 to stretch itself. One would never have 
 suspected the modern meretricious thing pos 
 sessed a secret drawer. Putting up her lor 
 gnette she dubiously surveyed the young girl 
 standing before her. 
 
 "She is incredibly young to be able to do 
 entire dinners," remarked the lady in French, 
 to her charming daughter, who, reclining in 
 a low chair, was doing nothing at all, unless
 
 Heart s Dearest 103 
 
 candidly admiring one s shoes may be called 
 an occupation. 
 
 " Clotilda gave us heavenly dinners at 
 Waldmohr simply heavenly ! " returned the 
 fair Nelka, with a dreamy smile that would 
 have inspired a poet. 
 
 " Exactly, and this man actually asserts 
 this girl did a good part of them." 
 
 "Try her she looks so nice," said Jella, 
 amiably. 
 
 " Her appearance is against her. She is 
 too pretty for her station." 
 
 " I like them pretty. If I could have my 
 way, all the frights should be suppressed by 
 royal decree," Nelka retorted, pretty enough 
 herself to dare to be magnanimous. 
 
 "Yes, yes; but beauty in one s kitchen is 
 startlingly out of place." 
 
 "It does not hurt the cooking!" suggested 
 Vroni, grave and impartial. 
 
 Nelka laughed aloud. 
 
 " You understand French ? " 
 
 "Oh, as much as that." 
 
 Again Nelka laughed, Vroni knew not why. 
 
 " Any more ? " asked the young lady, 
 amused. 
 
 Now Vroni, the unsubdued, was beginning
 
 IO4 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 to feel strangely ill at ease under the discom 
 fort of an ordeal at best confusing and dis 
 heartening as even ladies of quality might 
 perceive, should superior beings stand them 
 up, subject them to cold and vaguely inimical 
 scrutiny, and cross-examine them solely as to 
 what they were good for; but she answered 
 sturdily: 
 
 "Not the fancy words my master sometimes 
 spoke ; but useful talk he taught me : the 
 names of kitchen things and cookery and 
 millc tonncrres and saprelotte and such," she 
 added, unsmiling and literal. 
 
 "Well, she is a character," began the count 
 ess in English. " I hope she is not always so 
 familiar." 
 
 " It s not her fault. I led her on. Besides, 
 where s the harm ? " 
 
 " You seem to have several names on your 
 certificate. What are you usually called?" 
 
 "Vroni Lindl is my name." 
 
 "Well, Vroni," interrogated the countess, 
 her voice both haughty and suspicious, that 
 chilly, remote, pre-judging voice with which 
 women, otherwise not ungentle, elect to open 
 relationships with their humble handmaids, 
 "are you sure you are quite steady? No
 
 Heart s Dearest 105 
 
 followers, eh? Because nothing of the sort 
 could be thought of an instant in a house of 
 this character." 
 
 Vroni, greatly enjoying neither lorgnette 
 nor voice, and finding the question alto 
 gether preposterous, flushed and frowned, but, 
 meeting the kind bright gaze of the young 
 comtesse, recovered herself, and smiling 
 shrewdly in reminiscence of floating red 
 cravat-ends, and blushing swains enthroned 
 on stiles, said, with enchanting carelessness, 
 looking straight at Nelka : 
 
 "Oh they!" 
 
 Instructions as to privileges, perquisites, and 
 other details followed, and were quickly set 
 tled. It was evident Vroni was most eager 
 to come, and not greedy of gain. But imper 
 ceptible to them, to herself undefinable, was 
 the sudden depression in her heart s barome 
 ter which indicated many degrees less sun 
 shine than when she crossed the threshold of 
 that cheerful morning-room. Gireaud, though 
 masterful, had from the first consulted her, 
 asked her what she thought and liked, led 
 her to tell him of her home and people, and 
 otherwise paid tacit respect to her personal 
 ity, to that unruly little personality which,
 
 io6 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 whether reprimanded or adored, had never in 
 its rude home known neglect. But the Count 
 ess von Vallade, pre-assuming this beautiful 
 and fresh young thing was but a contingent 
 section of the household machinery, a vexa 
 tious section indeed, apt to generate excess 
 of friction, and require frequent renewal, - 
 showed no human interest, spoke no human 
 word. And Vroni resented this deeply if 
 dumbly. Not even the good and gay face of the 
 Comtesse Nelka offered compensation for the 
 unmerited, and as yet uncomprehended affront. 
 
 " Now, Vroni," said the finely scathing voice, 
 " do you suppose you are old enough to get on 
 well with the other servants ? Some of them 
 have their peculiarities, no doubt." 
 
 "That s all right. I have mine." 
 
 "I must explain," the voice continued, but 
 paused, while quite a different one, though 
 from the same larynx, uttered a smooth aside 
 in English: "Nelka dear, I really wish you d 
 not encourage her so. Your too obvious de 
 light in her pertness only makes her worse. 
 She has no idea of manners; but happily one 
 never sees her kind after the first." 
 
 "I think her manners lovely quite too 
 lovely."
 
 Heart s Dearest 107 
 
 "Vroni, I warn you, I never listen to com 
 plaints. Whoever complains goes. It is a 
 rule of the house. There are five servants 
 beside yourself and the coachman. They are 
 rather old, and set in their ways ; but they 
 have been with me long. The change is 
 always with the cook. Somehow, of late I 
 cannot keep one. I suppose it is some chicane, 
 but I never interfere. Of course it is your 
 duty to conciliate. You really are so young," 
 at this heavy charge the voice augmented 
 its asperity, " so unusually young, for so 
 responsible a position, I think it looks alto 
 gether very unpromising, in spite of your 
 references from Waldmohr. They are excel 
 lent, I do not deny. But, after all, one never 
 knows. " 
 
 During this harangue, Vroni wisely kept 
 her eyes on the comtesse, and thereby re 
 vived a fair amount of native spirit. 
 
 "I m quick," the girl replied, in her can 
 did way, addressing exclusively the one she 
 liked; "but I m pretty good-hearted. My 
 bark is worse than my bite. They need not 
 be afraid of me, no, not a bit, only - 
 straightening herself, in unconscious imita 
 tion of her illustrious chief, and like him
 
 io8 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 looking about an instant, with battle-light in 
 her eye "I stand no nonsense when I m 
 doing a dinner." Descending to ordinary 
 human levels, she said reflectively: "Five? 
 There were nineteen at the castle, beside 
 strangers. Oh, yes, I can tackle five of 
 them ! nodding with easy confidence at Nelka. 
 
 "Take her instantly, mamma, she s deli 
 cious, and let her make a lovely bisque this 
 very night. It s Eck s favorite soup." 
 
 "Where he is going, he 11 get no bisques." 
 
 "All the more reason to please him now, 
 besides " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Nelka colored. 
 
 "Nothing. I ve forgotten. I mean you 
 would not like it. But she hesitated. 
 
 "Little chatterer!" said the mother, with 
 an indulgence that blandly waived Eck Flem- 
 ming, as subject of serious discussion, com 
 pletely out of court. Turning to Vroni, she 
 asked languidly: 
 
 " How did you happen to come to me, my 
 good girl? Who sent you just at a kitchen- 
 crisis? " 
 
 "I sent myself," quoth Vroni, with bright 
 emphasis, " to the gracious Comtesse Nelka. I
 
 Heart s Dearest 109 
 
 made up my mind long ago, I wanted to work 
 for her. It was the first time I saw her. She 
 wore a pink frock, and they would not let her 
 jump a wee little hedge. So I came straight 
 here." 
 
 "I thank you, Vroni, " returned the young 
 lady, warmly. "I remember and it is sweet 
 of you." 
 
 "And if there d been no place for me, I 
 would have waited," the girl said, speaking 
 soft like her father, and looking at Nelka in a 
 way that touched her, it was so full of frank 
 and glad devotion. " It was the Comtesse 
 Nelka I wanted, and nobody else. Somehow 
 I had to come here." 
 
 When, an hour later, Vroni reported that 
 she was engaged at the Vallade s, Melchior s 
 elderly wife exclaimed grudgingly: 
 
 " Some do have the devil s own luck ! Good, 
 steady, sober, experienced women, out of em 
 ployment on all sides; and little whipper- 
 snappers bounce down from the hill-country, 
 as bold as ye please, and wheedle themselves 
 into notice with their pert tongues." 
 
 " Twas their own tongues that wagged," 
 stated Vroni, placid, and historically accu 
 rate. " Kaudcnvclsch mostly."
 
 iio Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " It is a fine house," declared Melchior, with 
 unction. " Their coachman belongs to my 
 club a most respectable man. They are 
 much esteemed at Court. Must be prudent, 
 Vroni, and smooth-spoken." 
 
 " Every bird chirps according to his beak. 
 Besides it s not my talk they hire." 
 
 " I should like to know what they do hire ! " 
 said Jakobine, sourly. 
 
 "But Vroni has good references," hazarded 
 Melchior; "conduct signed by the Countess 
 Waldmohr." 
 
 "It s a good deal she knows of my con 
 duct," Vroni remarked cheerfully. "She 
 hardly saw me. If she signed, t was the 
 housekeeper told her to." 
 
 Melchior looked slightly pained by the in 
 decorum of this suggestion, but, ignoring it, 
 continued : 
 
 " Then the long French one that nobody 
 can read. It makes a fine appearance." 
 
 " Appearance ! " sniffed Jakobine. 
 
 "Of course they don t really amount to 
 much," he hastened to concede. 
 
 "No, they don t!" Vroni asserted brightly. 
 " Just what I say. Bits of paper. Who cares 
 for them? Still the lady read the French
 
 Heart s Dearest in 
 
 one, and screwed up her face, and looked at 
 me for all the world like old Blasius buying 
 a cow. " 
 
 "Vroni!" groaned her brother. "Dost 
 think that is the way to find favor with the 
 great? " 
 
 "Hast no modesty at all and no fear?" 
 demanded Jakobine. 
 
 " Fear? " Vroni repeated, staring with raised 
 eyebrows. 
 
 "Yes, fear," rejoined the woman, impa 
 tiently. " Of not suiting, of not doing things 
 right, of not knowing how to behave, since 
 thou hast precious little experience, and less 
 sense." 
 
 "Truly, I had not thought of that," said 
 the young girl, slowly. " Besides," she added, 
 after a moment, joyfully, "seest, Jakobine, I 
 know a lot." 
 
 "Self-praise goes but little way, eh, Mel- 
 chior? " 
 
 " T is as thou sayest, " said the man, but 
 coughed behind his hand in deprecation, for 
 somehow he felt a sneaking delight in the 
 coming of his sister; besides her prospects 
 looked promising. 
 
 Jakobine drove him with tighter curb than
 
 H2 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 he the king s grays. Ten years his senior, 
 and of forbidding countenance, she was a 
 paragon of respectability, which he very prop 
 erly deemed more precious than comeliness. 
 By wedding the daughter of a head-coach 
 man, prudent Melchior had secured rapid 
 advancement in his chosen career. He had 
 married, as the saying is, straight into the 
 business. It was not his fault that the man 
 inopportunely died, and another had suc 
 ceeded with his own progeny to consider. 
 
 No, Melchior had made no error in his cal 
 culations. They were based indeed upon the 
 obvious tactics of the great and wise, the 
 world s noblest families, princes of the blood, 
 potentates, sovereigns by the grace of God. 
 Jakobine had brought to her marriage a mod 
 est dowry, considerable worldly ambition, 
 shrewdness in practical matters, thrift, dili 
 gence, and inflexible devotion to the observ 
 ances of the Church. Even Sister Corona 
 and Sebastian had strongly commended his 
 choice. He had gained precisely what he 
 sought, and what he prized highest; yet, 
 though he dared not admit it plainly, even 
 to himself alone in the dark, he was hope 
 lessly puzzled to discover that a human lot,
 
 Heart s Dearest nj 
 
 exhaling the quintessence of respectability, 
 could sit so ghastly heavy on a man. Some 
 times he longed for the Rough Alp. Often 
 he sadly wished he had a child, but took care 
 not to say it. Unloving, not even kind, 
 Jakobine owned obtrusively, as property, the 
 man whom the Holy Church had given her, 
 and was morbidly jealous of every woman 
 who passed him, unseeing, in the streets. 
 He squirmed well to keep the peace. His 
 only joys, though alloyed with deep griev 
 ances, he found in the daily pomps of his 
 vocation. Herein, too, he resembled not a 
 little his exalted prototypes. 
 
 Into this fatiguing interior had suddenly 
 burst Vroni s nonchalant beauty, her auda 
 cious charm, her rather insolent good luck. 
 Jakobine, from the moment they met, could 
 but regard her with sullen resentment. It 
 was only yesterday she had come. Already 
 the older woman s grudge was deep-rooted as 
 a family feud. 
 
 "Ye look little enough like brother and 
 sister," she now remarked, with singular 
 acerbity. " Twill not be believed. Twill 
 make talk." 
 
 The two, never having considered this phe- 
 8
 
 ii4 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 nomenon, began to scrutinize each other at 
 tentively, perhaps for the first time in their 
 lives. Nothing could be truer than Jako- 
 bine s reproach. 
 
 " Being but halves," suggested Vroni, study 
 ing Melchior s smooth-shaved, sandy, and 
 freckled visage. His eyes were light and far- 
 sighted, his expression sanctimonious. Con 
 sciousness of close connection with Throne 
 and State, together with Jakobine s unweary 
 ing whip, and his tendency to enjoy the 
 gloomy side of religion, had dropped the cor 
 ners of his mouth in sharp furrows. 
 
 Vroni mustered him critically. 
 
 "Hast a big bare mouth, Melchior. Art 
 strange to me so, and a good bit uglier. 
 Didst use to deck thy upper lip with flax." 
 
 The elder brother, not ill-pleased to assume 
 a superior and didactic tone toward one who 
 had hitherto treated him with small respect, 
 replied solemnly : 
 
 " No bearded man would be employed in 
 any fine house, Vroni, let alone the palace." 
 
 " T is only country wenches that know not 
 that," said Jakobine. 
 
 " Men may not wear their own hair as they 
 like?"
 
 Heart s Dearest 115 
 
 " T is not genteel." 
 
 " Atschgabelef" cried Vroni an altogether 
 untranslatable expression, common, inno 
 cent, juvenile, and conveying frank derision, 
 which was precisely what she felt. Again 
 she inspected him. 
 
 " Yet at Hexenfels didst laugh, and many 
 a time," she said, in answer to her own 
 cogitations. 
 
 "Hast grown a tall and tidy maid," he 
 rejoined kindly, for her brilliant brownness 
 pleased him well, in spite of himself, and 
 though he knew it to be but dross. 
 
 " Nice modest girls without looks get on 
 better in the town," warned Jakobine, grimly. 
 
 " Thou, Melchior, were I a man, and did I 
 drive four splendid horses stepping proudly " 
 
 " I can drive six eight more as many 
 as any man," he broke in, one quick and 
 youthful gleam of honest pride lighting his 
 staid features. 
 
 "Surely!" she cried, nodding in delighted 
 sympathy. "Well, then, I d hold my head 
 up high as a king, seest, Melchior, and I d 
 crack my whip at all creation, and I d laugh 
 and sing, and blow my horn, and come sweep 
 ing through green woods, the sunshine on my
 
 n6 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 cheek; and when I sat down to stretch my 
 long boots and take my beer, half-a-dozen 
 tidy maids should run to wait on me, and I d 
 have a merry word for each and all. That s 
 what I d do, Melchior!" 
 
 With a gasp of pious consternation, he 
 turned to his wife. 
 
 " She means a postillion ! " ejaculated the 
 shocked king s coachman. 
 
 " I mean a whole man," said Vroni, merrily. 
 " I spied him when I went to the Fair." 
 
 "Hast spied many such, I make no doubt," 
 flung in Jakobine, inexplicably incensed and 
 with fathomless suspicion. 
 
 " A T a that thou knowst no difference 
 twixt high and low!" exclaimed Melchior, 
 aghast before so deplorable ignorance. " Why. 
 if any of us acted that disgraceful, or half so 
 common-like, and let-out in our manners, we d 
 lose our position without warning, and serve 
 us right. Tis not easy to keep it at best," 
 he continued, diverging into gloom ; " what 
 with the rivalry and favoritism, and the pres 
 sure from above, and the pushing from below. 
 For some of those new chaps are starting 
 up like mushrooms, and Heaven alone knows 
 where they 11 stop, and whom they 11 oust, -
 
 Heart s Dearest 117 
 
 the head-coachman being a most uncertain 
 man, times having changed for the worse, 
 Jakobine. " She acknowledged with a series 
 of austerely recapitulating nods this pious 
 tribute to her father s shade. 
 
 "Yes, tis even so, so isfs. But thou, 
 Vroni, knowst naught of Court life." 
 
 " Nay, nor would I, if it taketh the marrow 
 out of a man, and setteth him a-whining. " 
 
 " Seest, Vroni, at Court there be under 
 ground ways to all things. Steady must a 
 man go, as on the tight-rope. Wise as the 
 serpent, harmless as the dove. Careful to 
 offend no soul; friendly with all, trusting 
 none, and to the great, most humble." 
 
 "Ha, it must suit thee well!" she said 
 dryly; "couldst ever nimbly duck to right 
 or left." 
 
 "Truly, twould wonder thee much, Vroni, 
 didst know what I know," he insisted sepul- 
 chrally. 
 
 She looked at him with a shrewd and faintly 
 ironical smile. 
 
 " Ei, ei, Melchior, art grown so wise?" 
 
 "Hast no notion of our instructions," he 
 went on with mournful complacency, " of the 
 loads we must remember! T is a sore burden
 
 ii8 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 to the mind. Seest, Vroni, wouldst never of 
 thyself think it. T is they that look most 
 English, get promoted fastest. T is the Ber 
 lin way. His Majesty is most particular. 
 But the Queen, O Wch ! I had the honor to 
 drive her Majesty out yesterday. Time was, 
 I did drive the royalties out every day, but of 
 late I be so much neglected, I fear my grays 
 will take on flesh, howe er I keep them gently 
 moving by myself. A great thing, Vroni, to 
 drive her Majesty, but t is awful on the 
 nerves. Not for thy life must thou sneeze; 
 and if a fly tickles thy nose, thou must needs 
 let him tickle as though thou wert a man of 
 wood not flesh. The word s gone forth : Eng 
 lish, every inch though the sky falls." 
 
 "English? How English? What s Eng 
 lish?" 
 
 Puffing with vanity beneath his lamenta 
 tions, Melchior suddenly accentuated him 
 self intensified beyond belief his habitual 
 demeanor. 
 
 Incredibly solemn, rigid, impassable, ex 
 pressionless, a human automaton, he sat 
 straight as a rod, his wrists in position, and 
 gazed, as it were, between his leader s ears. 
 
 "O Melchior, O Melchior, dost call it
 
 Heart s Dearest 119 
 
 English?" laughed Vroni, in wild mirth. 
 "Truly, tis like a sheep. Wast ever some 
 what like a sheep, seest, Melchior! So now 
 canst make a rare good mutton-head to please 
 the king." 
 
 "It is the way approved at Court," he 
 rejoined, severely. 
 
 Standing before him in the well-scoured 
 place of torment he called his home, the 
 young girl regarded him long, her merriment 
 gradually merging into grave inquiry, her 
 carelessness followed by coolly intelligent 
 reflection. It was her first day in a large 
 town. A whirl of novel scenes had opened 
 before her rustic mind, a multitude of vaguely 
 unappetizing impressions had been roused no 
 less by the lady of high and mighty degree 
 than by the cringing charioteer, and Jako- 
 bine s presence was distinctly grisly. Far 
 off, in clear contrast, she beheld a simple 
 figure, and her thoughtful gaze still on her 
 brother, she said gently : 
 
 "Of all ways, the way that in all things 
 pleases me tis my father s way."
 
 no Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 VI 
 
 VRONI had run bareheaded in summer sun 
 and winter blasts. This was the fashion in 
 Hexenfels. There, girls never wore hats, 
 even to church, thereby saving much ex 
 pense, perplexity of choice, and the chagrin 
 of finding one s apex overtopped by one s 
 neighbor s. So far as can be ascertained, 
 these hatless maids rejoiced in an immunity 
 from colds unknown to those protected from 
 the inclemency of the weather by the most 
 fashionable bonnets. Now a bit of white 
 cap perched on her shining braids compactly 
 reefed ; she wore a very long and resplendent 
 white apron ; and every other morning, when 
 she went to market carried a big brown basket 
 on her arm. 
 
 She walked well, far better, for instance, than 
 Nelka von Vallade, who lacked the advantages 
 ofVroni s early training in carrying heavy things 
 on the head up and down goat paths. Erect, 
 free, unconcerned, she passed swiftly through
 
 Heart s Dearest 121 
 
 busy streets where people turned to look 
 at her, she was so fresh and charming a 
 picture. They too thought her whatever 
 their urban rendition of the rustic phrase 
 a tidy maid. But not her rich coloring, 
 not her lithe and spirited step, transformed 
 careless glances into surprised scrutiny so 
 much as her atmosphere, a certain radiant 
 audacity of health and gladness, and her 
 young smile as she walked among strangers, 
 a vague, sweet, fearless smile, which her 
 heart flung abroad in blithe greeting to 
 the whole great world. 
 
 No wonder she smiled. She was consciously 
 rejoicing in her strength and freedom. She 
 had never imagined anything so entertaining 
 as town life. In Hexenfels, one week was 
 like another; Waldmohr was pleasant and 
 lively, but she was serving a close appren 
 ticeship ; here each day, each hour, brought 
 fresh delights. Moreover, till now, she had 
 been under nominal tutelage. Her mother s 
 habitual chiding, her father s anxious watch 
 fulness, and at the castle Armand Gireaud s 
 puissant guardianship had never failed. Now 
 she was her own mistress, and gloried in it. 
 Every restraining voice had ceased. Melchior,
 
 122 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 it is true, and more especially Jakobine, at the 
 mere sight of the girl s buoyancy, were prone 
 to strike Cassandra-notes ; but she saw her 
 brother far less frequently than Dionysius 
 the weaver fondly imagined in his wistful 
 pictures of her. On her fortnightly free 
 Sunday she joined them for their walk and 
 glass of beer in some wayside inn, and 
 hardly heeded that Jakobine was repellent 
 and Melchior henpecked, so enchanting were 
 the songs, the laughter, and the friendliness 
 of happy faces. 
 
 Vroni in her plebeian circles could not help 
 now and then hearing comments upon her 
 beauty. No more could Nelka von Valladc 
 upon hers in the best society. Vroni was 
 beginning to comprehend that she was per 
 sonally pleasing. Nelka, in her own case, had 
 been aware of a similarly palatable truth all 
 her life yet bore herself with a frank and 
 simple spirit. Vroni too passed among 
 men s blatantly admiring stares, for which 
 Jakobine sternly reprimanded her, instead 
 of them, and was, a little, indeed, but not 
 much, less unconscious than when she used 
 to run wild in the mountains immuring old 
 shrews and setting walnut-trees ablaze. In her
 
 Heart s Dearest 123 
 
 heart dwelt as yet no thought that could sorely 
 grieve her angel, or Dionysius the weaver, 
 their standard for her being perhaps pretty 
 much the same thing. 
 
 Father and daughter, loving each other ar 
 dently, wrote inarticulate little letters, as was 
 the fashion in Hexenfels. They always took 
 their pens in hand to pen a few lines to say 
 they were in good health and hoped the other 
 was the same, after which, with fresh impetus, 
 they stated succinctly that they, Gottlob ! en 
 joyed up to date very good health. Dionysius 
 then penned his duty to her gracious master 
 and mistress, and commended himself to them, 
 -under the innocent impression that they 
 must occasionally condescend to some sort of 
 human intercourse with his dear child, and 
 he hoped they and all their gracious family 
 were enjoying very good health. Further, he 
 hoped Melchior and his dear Frau Jakobine 
 were enjoying very good health. Vroni, in her 
 turn, expressed equally explicit solicitude as 
 to each and all of her relatives in the village. 
 They began rather low down on a small sheet 
 of paper with lines well apart, and by the time 
 they had penned all their obligatory hygienic 
 preliminaries, their fingers felt cramped from
 
 124 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 the unwonted exercise, their brains dull, and 
 never by any accident did they say what they 
 really meant. That letters eventually might 
 serve as means toward this end, they seemed 
 not to suspect. 
 
 Coptic cannot better screen secrets than did 
 their bald missives. Agathe s indeed were in 
 a certain sense a success, for she wrote sim 
 ply and solely to chronicle felicitous domes 
 tic events among her four-footed friends, and 
 achieved what she undertook. But Vroni, liv 
 ing in what seemed to her one endless round 
 of delight, wishing always he were near to 
 share her joy, loving him truly, though so glad 
 at heart, said naught of all this, and remarked 
 staidly every week, " Town pleases me fairly 
 well," the set phrase being what she had 
 learned to pen. Dionysius, wasting away phy 
 sically, eating his heart out with longing and 
 brooding tenderness, transmuting his failing 
 life-forces into one incessant benediction, never 
 varied his academic treatise upon everybody s 
 physical condition. His great love and pain 
 were dumb, except for three poor words that 
 crept in after the penning was all done, and 
 huddled themselves shyly in some corner : 
 St i brav, Madcl, and that homely, " Be good,
 
 Heart s Dearest 125 
 
 little girl," had for her small significance, at 
 least no thrilling undertone. 
 
 It was doubtless presumptuous for a person 
 in Vroni s station to be so inordinately happy. 
 She was by far the happiest creature in the 
 Vallade house, possibly in the whole town. 
 She thoroughly liked her work, and the new 
 sense of power it gave her. In every respect 
 she proceeded with marvellous fidelity upon 
 Armand Gireaud s lines, was a credit to his 
 methods and his perspicuity, and brought to 
 her daily tasks sufficient temperament and vital 
 ity to equip half-a-dozen average women. She 
 was exceedingly busy, but she had never been 
 anything else. Her Plerrschaft made large de 
 mands upon her resources, it being the dinner- 
 season ; she was equal to them ; she met them 
 with the composure of an old campaigner. She 
 possessed indeed a secret source of strength, her 
 book, annotated and filled out by the Master s 
 hand. 
 
 She was continually discovering new charges, 
 warnings, appeals, and hints, as if he had fore 
 seen every imaginable predicament. Then the 
 innumerable menus he had " composed " for her. 
 Lunch for ten ladies young. Ditto for ditto, 
 mature. (Gircaud had to be very angry be-
 
 126 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 fore he would perceive that women could grow 
 old.) Dinners of all sizes and nuances, poetic, 
 aesthetic, aldermanic, for the clergy, the Jiantc 
 finance, the army, artists, statesmen, royalties, 
 and every sort of mixed company conceivable 
 in polite circles. 
 
 Once Count Benno sent out from the dining- 
 room to know if she could get him up a game 
 supper for eight men, cold but "pyramidal" 
 good, the adjectives refer to the supper, by 
 no means to the men, and have it at his 
 rooms in a garrison town near by, by eleven 
 o clock on the following night. She said she 
 could. Her chef had instructed her always to 
 say she could, whatever was required. That 
 night she was considering the special nature of 
 Count Benno s demand, and turned the pages of 
 her book, thinking to make some careful com 
 bination ; when, suddenly, she came upon the 
 very thing she wanted : " Choice Late Supper 
 for Young Men Lively It was there 
 even to the wines. It seemed like magic. 
 Count Benno said the feast was "colossal." 
 
 Vroni promptly proved a match for her 
 elderly colleagues, and imbued them with the 
 healthful notion that she would do them no 
 harm, provided they would behave themselves.
 
 Heart s Dearest 127 
 
 Her views succeeded by force of their origi 
 nality, their singleness of aim, and her pecu 
 liarly lucid mode of exposition. Hitherto, a 
 solid phalanx had routed every cook. This 
 cook routed the phalanx. Former cooks had 
 sought to ingratiate themselves with the august 
 body, failed, lost their tempers under impos 
 sible demands and incessant badgering, com 
 plained, appealed to supreme authority ; hence 
 moved on. 
 
 It was a merry little game. The butler and 
 the Swiss maid had a stiff bet on Vroni s exit. 
 With the youthful rustic, the worthies thought 
 to have easy scoring. She, little used to im 
 pudence except her own and not at all 
 to petty tyranny, stared at them in surprise 
 the first day, on the second frowned and 
 watched them warily, and on the third, without 
 subtlety or exhortation, without suspecting 
 that she was an able tactician, simply starved 
 out the garrison. Having provided nothing 
 for the servants table, she locked her larder, 
 put her keys in her pocket, and went to bed. 
 It was a song without words. Were there 
 curses in response, she heard them not. 
 
 On the following day, they, one and all, 
 wished her a civil good-morning and eyed her
 
 n8 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 furtively to discover her mood. She revealed 
 it uncompromisingly. Turning toward them, 
 her arms akimbo, visibly possessing her 
 domain and measuring them with dauntless 
 eyes, she spoke ruggedly, like Agathc, and 
 though tolerably used now to the more formal 
 "you," relapsed, as always in vital moments, 
 into her familiar dialect : - 
 
 "Ye townfolk! I la! Where I stand tis 
 my kitchen ! Mark ye this. T is once for all 
 I speak. Saprelotte!" 
 
 Whereupon she gave them an excellent 
 breakfast. They found her a generous and 
 gallant conqueror, and as they knew her 
 better, most benevolent for her years ; always 
 ready to take trouble to gratify any little taste 
 of theirs, not merely in her special province, 
 but willing to do a good bit of sewing for one, 
 an errand on her way from market, or any 
 service in her power; even capable of a volun 
 tary and cordial relinquishment of her precious 
 Sunday outing in favor of a maid with an ill 
 mother, or a sweetheart sailing, or some other 
 real or alleged cause for irregular absence. 
 But they discovered also that Vroni was two 
 distinct personalities: as young girl, sunny, 
 kindly, if rough and ready of tongue, hot,
 
 Heart s Dearest 129 
 
 but sweet-tempered, for tempers may be 
 that, as well as cold and sour, easy, unexact- 
 ing, in short what they called a good fellow; 
 but as head of her department most inexorably 
 masterful. 
 
 She seemed to have framed for her private 
 guidance a species of Code Napoleon, or, since 
 unwritten, Brehon Laws, perhaps, which she 
 never discussed. But they learned to compre 
 hend. For the instant one of them trans 
 gressed the smallest of her unannounced but 
 inflexible precepts, by a hair s-breadth, in 
 fringed upon what she, from a professional 
 point of view, regarded as her liberty of ac 
 tion, her official dignity, or offended her 
 sense of justice, the entire group was con 
 demned to suffer the pangs of hunger, the 
 innocent with the guilty. Each, therefore, 
 was incited to do constable service, and keep 
 his neighbor in order, those with the heartiest 
 appetites working most strenuously; and peace 
 reigned as never before within those precincts. 
 Vroni neither pondered her course nor recalled 
 it with elation. She simply and instinctively 
 promoted the survival of the fittest herself. 
 Her procedure was probably but a reflex ac 
 tion of which the motor should be sought in 
 9
 
 130 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 ancient days, when Agathc implanted in her 
 little erring daughter s mind the imperative 
 association between naughtiness and a yearn 
 ing stomach. 
 
 Vroni had, in her own sphere, business 
 enough richly to sustain her own inquiry; 
 moreover, curiosity as to the affairs of others 
 lay not in her disposition. But the myriad 
 facts, fables, and inferences incessantly filter 
 ing down from high sources through the serv 
 ing substratum reached her consciousness and 
 were passively absorbed. Old family servants 
 command their own sort of Rontgen-ray. Piti 
 fully bare and quivering the Vallade family 
 heart lay before the trained stolidity of those 
 grave men in livery, mute and decorous as the 
 tall carved chair-backs behind which they 
 effaced themselves, the massive sideboard about 
 which they noiselessly hovered; and the deft 
 still maid, brushing her lady s hair night after 
 night, read as an open book the tired worldly 
 thoughts revolving in their vicious circle. 
 
 With some yet not over-abundant malice, 
 with benevolence varying according to purely 
 subjective conditions, certainly with not a whit 
 less charity than my lady herself employed in 
 doing what she euphemistically called " talk-
 
 Heart s Dearest 131 
 
 ing over" her friends, the employed, en petit 
 comit^, minutely and often discussed their em 
 ployers, their foibles and idiosyncrasies, their 
 aims, struggles, and chagrins, and, with un 
 flinching correctness, their inadequate budget. 
 Thus higher education reached Vroni by her 
 ears. 
 
 Her eyes, too, were not idle. In her pleasant 
 and commodious realm, she was stationed as 
 it were between two worlds, and serenely aloof 
 from both. On the one side, she looked over 
 a spacious garden slope upon the backs of 
 towering buildings in a busy street. Across 
 the space, between two houses, men and women 
 of the work-a-day world tramped with their 
 burdens. Nearest her was a piano manufac 
 tory. Through many tiers of windows men 
 were visible at benches and tables, men 
 seated, standing, moving, shaping, fashioning, 
 hammering. It seemed good, clean work, and 
 cheerful. Beyond was a tricot factory, a dingy 
 place. At certain hours a file of rough women 
 streamed in and out. She could perceive their 
 crowded rows of heads in their treadmill. It 
 looked to her like a prison, and stuffy, 
 coughy work she was sure. 
 
 In that street, early on rainy mornings, hum-
 
 132 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 ble women passed, overladen, a basket on 
 the head, heavy parcels under the arms, and 
 sometimes struggling also with a dislocated 
 umbrella, while long wet calico skirts wob 
 bled about their ankles and solicited rheuma 
 tism ; men similarly weighted strode by with 
 comparative ease. In Vroni s church, of which 
 she could see the spire, they told her every 
 back was fitted to its burden. Truly the trous 
 ers might be, likewise, she reflected. " It were 
 no sin, for Comtesse Nelka wears such on her 
 wheel. But did a poor woman dare na, na ! " 
 But to such things she gave but a quick 
 careless glance when her duties happened to 
 call her in that direction to set something away 
 to cool in the store-room, or sunning on the 
 kitchen veranda. The veranda suited her 
 vastly, for it was high and looked toward dis 
 tant hills and free skies. She pranced out for 
 an instant often. Sometimes she spied other 
 white-capped cooks on their verandas, and 
 smiled with gratified ambition because none 
 was so young as she, then smiled again in a 
 better way, with a good thought of Gireaud. 
 Many of these impressions were as swift and 
 light as her whisking of eggs. She had in 
 truth more important business than to stare at
 
 Heart s Dearest 133 
 
 her neighb.ors or waste much thought upon 
 them. 
 
 Far up the work-a-day street, where it wound 
 toward suburbs out of sight was a common 
 from whence the monotonous strains of a 
 carrousel sometimes proceeded. She had seen 
 the thing on a Sunday, its painted cars with 
 horses heads always going round and round 
 and never arriving. There stood too a great 
 building used for circuses and various sorts 
 of meetings. Late at night, long after she was 
 in bed, she had once in the still air heard the 
 dull irregular patter of many feet approaching 
 along the lower road and a group of men and 
 women marching and singing vehemently. By 
 the time they reached the piano manufactory 
 she could distinguish the words of the oft-re 
 peated refrain : 
 
 "It grows and blooms for human bliss, 
 The Red Republic ! " 
 
 but what manner of thing that was she had 
 no notion, or why after human bliss the song 
 came to a violent end with a sound of scuffling, 
 
 O 
 
 hoarse altercation, and a couple of shrill in 
 sistent whistles. Her day s work was done, 
 her market book in order, her conscience
 
 134 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 tranquil, so she turned over and fell sound 
 asleep. 
 
 In the opposite direction was what she called 
 the play-day world. 
 
 Now that the threat trees which should dis 
 creetly veil her domain were leafless, she could 
 see across the court a short section of the 
 aristocratic street, unmolested by traffic, un 
 sullied by the passage of heavy vans, trucks, 
 or any vehicle remotely suggestive of sweat 
 of brows, horny hands of toil, or anything trite 
 and repugnant. Smart carriages were con 
 tinually dashing across this field of vision. So 
 many, many carriages, shining like her copper 
 saucepans and silver platters, going on and on 
 like the carrousel-carls, and seeming never to 
 arrive, for she could not see them turn into 
 the little drive that led to the Vallade portals 
 or stop at other doors. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, but mostly ladies, 
 hour after hour, day after day, week after 
 week, year after year, paying calls, and always 
 so awfully glad to see one another. Sapristi ! 
 Always two men on the box, dark green men 
 or brown or blue or whitish, mostly young 
 and foolish-looking, quite like Hans, Seppl, 
 and Michel and always one high on a cushion,
 
 Heart s Dearest 135 
 
 terribly English, like Melchior, and the other 
 with folded arms and his nose in the air, as if 
 he had finished all his work for one life at 
 least. 
 
 Occasionally Melchior himself drove past, ex 
 ercising the royal grays. The servants always 
 ran to tell her he was coming, that she might 
 station herself in time. They felt huge exal 
 tation in gazing at the cushions upon which 
 a monarch sometimes sat, were flattered by 
 the subtle approach of that sacred upholstery 
 to themselves through Vroni and her eminent 
 brother, and always expected her to evince 
 some reasonable pride in him. But she was 
 an odd stick. If engaged in intricate work 
 which she thought ought not to be dropped, 
 hardly thanking them for their rush and flurry, 
 she flatly refused to stir, " Not for a regi 
 ment of king s horses and brothers to boot," 
 and " that haughty " was instantly telegraphed 
 through the mansion. When, however, she 
 deemed it compatible with higher schemes, 
 she deigned to occupy a pantry window of 
 observation and await the pageant. 
 
 Conscious of rectitude and many eyes upon 
 him, Melchior always came on slowly and held 
 himself superb as a candlestick. As he passed
 
 136 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 the pantry, he permitted the merest ghost of 
 a grin to distort one side of his face, which 
 lent him a somewhat paralytic charm. Al 
 though Vroni laughed, and frowned, and mut 
 tered disdainfully: Ack, was! Englisck ! and 
 gave the plump chicken or whatever she had 
 on hand a good slap, she rather liked to look 
 across the court and see him majestically tra 
 verse that short section of road. English or 
 no English, he was her brother and a bit of 
 home. As for Melchior, it became one of the 
 few joys of his impeccable but sombre exis 
 tence ; and as he took care not to mention it 
 to Jakobine, it possessed for him an almost 
 clandestine fascination. 
 
 But the magnet that drew Vroni quickest to 
 some convenient observatory was Comtesse 
 Nelka, in whatever garb that winning damsel 
 sallied forth, and whether driving or on foot, 
 whether indeed all that Vroni could discern 
 of her were her carriage lights as she whirled 
 off to a dinner or ball. She, too, was always 
 like the carrousel, going and going, paying 
 calls incessantly, breathlessly busy and nearly 
 always out in the evenings. 
 
 Vroni eagerly caught even the most fleet 
 ing and remote glimpse of the radiant creature
 
 Heart s Dearest 137 
 
 whom face to face she rarely saw. But the 
 little comtesse always stopped and had a good 
 word to say wherever they might meet, were 
 it in the street and Vroni with her market 
 basket. Whatever was of consummate excel 
 lence and delicacy in Vroni s achievements, 
 she secretly dedicated to Comtesse Nelka, 
 and with a sort of happy boyishness like 
 the allegiance of some stanch little page for 
 his sovereign lady served her ever zealously, 
 not repining that her gracious presence was 
 so rare a boon, content in perfect service.
 
 138 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 VII 
 
 TlIE debate had been long, heated, and 
 neither to Government nor Opposition encour 
 aging or satisfactory. This untoward event 
 may sometimes occur in the best whipped 
 House of Parliament, and no less in a family 
 of unimpeachable social distinction where the 
 Fifth Commandment is forced under glass to 
 abnormal dimensions. 
 
 The Opposition s checks were very pink, it 
 had ruffled its pretty hair, its mouth was set 
 and in its prolonged study of its bronze shoes 
 was no sign of submission. The Government 
 looked ominous. 
 
 Yet upon the whole, the Countess von 
 Vallade deemed it imprudent to insist farther 
 at the moment. Nothing permanent could be 
 done, she was well aware, until Eck Flemming 
 was gone. His temporary absence was well, 
 but only his final departure from the country 
 could render Nclka pliable. It was best with 
 out many words to let things proceed little by 
 little and close up round her until she was
 
 Heart s Dearest 139 
 
 too involved and confused to extricate herself. 
 That had been the countess s opinion from 
 the first, and she had not hesitated to urge it ; 
 but Baron Frege unwisely insisted upon too 
 frequent soundings. The man was impatient. 
 Well his age hardly warranted prolonged 
 delay. He wanted Nelka yes, undoubtedly; 
 but it was policy to scan the whole field 
 there were other candidates and enough of 
 them, and whom his suave sister really favored 
 was by no means clear. 
 
 Then Nelka s pointed indifference might any 
 moment offend him beyond reparation. Her 
 manner to him was becoming really quite abom 
 inable. Up to this time she had seemed mar 
 vellously unconcerned or incredulous at any 
 rate indisposed to regard the matter seriously. 
 To-day, and in a less degree more than once 
 recently, she had been roused, indignant, stub 
 born, to call things by their names. The 
 lady feared, indeed, she had but strengthened 
 by repeated exercise her daughter s power of 
 resistance. 
 
 There sat Nelka for the first time in her life 
 unmalleable, unfilial. She had just remarked, 
 in the clearest possible tone, that Baron von 
 Frcge was a painted mummy, that she loathed
 
 140 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 him, and that any suggestion of her marrying 
 him was simply crazy. There in the secret- 
 drawer lay Frcge s letter. There too was 
 Benno s last a fateful juxtaposition in truth! 
 Benno was truly outrageous ; Knod hardly 
 better; and even VValdemar seemed to be some 
 what beyond his depth. Poor boys ! They 
 ought of course to have all they wanted. It 
 was too absurd they ever should feel cramped. 
 Still they might be a little more considerate of 
 their own family. And Eck why had he 
 not Fregc s money? For Eck was charming. 
 There could be no doubt of that. The last 
 time he had spoken earnestly with her, he was 
 so manly, so persuasive, so reasonable in his 
 preposterous schemes, even she for a moment 
 almost sailed blissfully out of sight of stern 
 reality, and barely retained sufficient presence 
 of mind to arrange that at least while his 
 appointment was pending he should say noth 
 ing definite to Nelka ; and he had not spoken, 
 nor had he written, of that the countess had 
 reason to be perfectly sure. So they had 
 parted the best of friends, which was a real 
 comfort, for she was hardly less fond of him 
 than of her own sons, and none could say she 
 had made any perceptible difference between
 
 Heart s Dearest 141 
 
 them and him when the four children were 
 together. Why, she even used to kiss him 
 good-night in his cot-bed quite the same as 
 Waldemar, and year after year in the holidays 
 see the strange child s dark locks and her own 
 boy s fairer head almost on one pillow. No, 
 her conscience was tranquil on that point. 
 
 Nor was she one of those heartless cynics who 
 systematically discountenance love-matches. 
 On the contrary she approved of consulting 
 the affections whenever it was feasible. She 
 herself, when she married Erich, had been 
 quite as pleased and silly and all that as any 
 girl, and was very fond of him still of course, 
 and all that. Certainly she had been an 
 excellent wife to him, and it was considered 
 everywhere an unusually happy and united 
 marriage. And Erich thirty years gcrne had 
 been the veriest Romeo. Why, Aunt Clo- 
 tilde even thought he acted almost bourgeois. 
 Still marrying for love was not all of life, or 
 why was she so worn with heavy care ; trying 
 to the best of her ability to serve her family s 
 interests, yet to all intents and purposes strug 
 gling on alone? In really vital matters, how 
 much support and sympathy had she from 
 Erich now, in spite of his raptures then?
 
 142 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Bad as things were, did she so much as inti 
 mate a remedy, he invariably said, and sharply 
 too, for lovers voices change a bit in thirty 
 years, " For God s sake, don t worry the child ! 
 Hurry her in nothing. Let her take her time, 
 and be happy in her own way," and then he d 
 run his hand with that abrupt motion through 
 his hair, as if he were on the point of going 
 distracted if he heard another word. She 
 dared not show him Benno s letter so soon 
 again after the last. One could hardly an 
 swer for the consequences. Sometimes indeed 
 Erich was so terribly nervous and jaded she 
 feared he would break down altogether. 
 
 No, it was but too obvious that young 
 people s most fulminating emotions could in 
 sure no perennial bliss. For her part she 
 simply held there were occasions when a mar 
 riage established on a solid and purely reason 
 able basis should be welcomed and sagaciously 
 furthered, and this was distinctly one of them. 
 Had Eck Frege s millions, she was liberal 
 enough to prefer Eck, untitled as he was. But 
 unhappily one could not readjust these things. 
 One could but accept such facts as Providence 
 presented and make the best of them. That 
 is what she intended to do.
 
 Heart s Dearest 143 
 
 Certain miseries of her own experience she 
 would, if possible, avert from that ungrateful 
 child whose downcast eyes and persistent 
 twirling of one blue tassel seemed to pro 
 claim no surrender. Should then a creature 
 so youthful still that she could consume six 
 chocolate eclairs in swift succession, without 
 a symptom of indigestion, be permitted by 
 sane people in cold blood to be the arbiter of 
 her own destiny. 
 
 And what, when all was said, did Nelka 
 want? She knew not herself. She had no 
 definite ideas. She simply thought, in her 
 silly school-girl way, it would be nice to go 
 off with Eck on a sort of perpetual picnic. 
 Paul and Virginia! Now what did that mean? 
 In spite of Eck s brilliant mental endowments 
 and will-o -the-wisp great projects, what in 
 plain words was the position which he, aided 
 by Erich s influence, was moving heaven and 
 earth to procure? That of a mere secretary 
 to a wild horde of explorers and savants. To 
 this amiable nomad Nelka should engage her 
 self, and wait years probably until he could 
 support her. In this visionary fashion he 
 reckoned differently of course, and foresaw 
 mellifluous chances ; but how about those two
 
 144 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 sisters for whom even now he had to provide 
 something-a-ycar ? 
 
 Nevertheless, according to his naive pro 
 gramme, when he should deign to beckon, 
 Nelka was to desert her family and station and 
 to start on a wheel, in a balloon, anyhow 
 with him for unknown parts. While he was 
 penetrating jungles and making literature, she 
 would be hanging about fever-stricken ports, 
 and, like an adventuress, living alone in cheap 
 pensions, provided they had pensions in Africa, 
 which was by no means sure. Or would she 
 go jungling too a pistol in her belt? 
 
 The countess drew herself up, smiled an 
 Olympic smile, and hoped she knew her duty. 
 There were ineptitudes too insensate to admit 
 of discussion outside an asylum. That nice 
 little round black head persisted in thrust 
 ing itself among her thoughts and pleading 
 dumbly. It gave her a curious discomfort, 
 against which she rallied, and feverishly wished 
 it, with appurtenances, would accelerate its 
 plans, recede from civilization, and in clue 
 season vanish altogether beneath African skies, 
 a sunstroke, a lion, or something, of course 
 without hurting him. 
 
 " Perhaps we d better dress now, dear,"
 
 Heart s Dearest 145 
 
 she said affably ; " you will wear your brown 
 velvet, I presume?" 
 
 Nelka looked up, and stopped twirling her 
 tassel. 
 
 " I m not going, mamma," she said reso 
 lutely. 
 
 " Not Gfoing ! " 
 
 lunches," she declared inscribing in her 
 mental agenda, " at least while Eck is away, 
 and writes me not a word, and everybody and 
 everything make me miserable." 
 
 " This is not Baron Fregc s lunch, dearest." 
 
 " Well, his sister s then ; it is quite the same 
 thing." 
 
 " But we have accepted." 
 
 "You not I." 
 
 "But, Nelka " 
 
 " Say anything you like to them, mamma. 
 If you tell them I don t feel at all well, it is 
 quite true. The mere thought of the man 
 makes me seasick. Besides, papa told me last 
 night I need not always go out if I do not 
 like. He said there is no earthly reason 
 why I may not stay at home whenever I 
 please." 
 
 " I am sorry you thought it necessary to
 
 146 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 trouble your poor tired papa with such trivial 
 matters," the countess said very sweetly. 
 
 Nelka colored. 
 
 " I know papa is always dead tired. I 
 suppose it was selfish of me to bother him, 
 though it was only a moment. But some 
 times sometimes I don t know what to do 
 or where to turn," she said low and strenu 
 ously. 
 
 This was one of the remarks which the 
 countess thought best not to hear. 
 
 " By the way, Nelka dear, it may be an 
 old-fashioned notion, but at least it is a well- 
 bred one, I was taught when I was young 
 that when a man loved a woman and offered 
 her his hand and heart, he was paying her 
 high honor, the highest in his power, and 
 therefore, whether she accepted him or not, 
 she was bound to treat him with respect." 
 
 "It sounds all right," returned the young 
 girl, slowly; "but somehow there is some 
 thing the matter with it somewhere." After a 
 moment, " For my part, I think it funny," 
 she remarked disdainfully. " If I see a peach 
 on a tree and want it, should the peach be 
 grateful? To be sure, in some cases 
 she reflected, with a marvellous change of
 
 Heart s Dearest 147 
 
 expression, but broke off with a sharp, " Be 
 sides, nobody has asked me to marry him, 
 and never shall, if I can help it," which was 
 not, in the phrasing at least, strictly accurate. 
 
 " Well, well, child, I merely made a sug 
 gestion. Let it pass. But I really would 
 not drag my poor father into my petty per 
 sonal concerns," pursued the mother, gently, 
 " whether I did or did not lunch out." 
 
 " Very good," Nelka returned coldly, her 
 gaze steady. 
 
 " She is fairly at bay. Never have I seen her 
 so curious," mused the countess, and remarked 
 easily: 
 
 " I shall go, of course, and I am sorry to go 
 alone. Still it is not worth further discussion. 
 What do you propose doing?" 
 
 " I intend to learn to make a bisque," Nelka 
 returned, with sustained and childlike defiance; 
 " and I am going instantly out to the kitchen 
 to ask that nice little thing to teach me." 
 
 Her mother, after contemplating her an in 
 stant, rejoined : - 
 
 " By all means, my love," but sighed with 
 deep-drawn impatience when the young girl 
 had closed the door behind her. 
 
 Presently Nelka returned.
 
 148 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " There, mamma ! I made her come. Look 
 at us." 
 
 Comtesse Nclka wore a bit of white fluting 
 on the top of her head, had donned a long 
 white apron, pushed up her sleeves, and 
 stood at ease, her arms akimbo. Her ex 
 pression was brilliantly happy and amiable if 
 a trifle mischievous. 
 
 " Ah, Vroni, good-morning," said the lady, 
 urbanely. " You are going to give Comtesse 
 Nelka a lesson? That is very nice I am 
 sure. " 
 
 " But look, mamma. See me, see us ! " 
 
 The mother smiled blandly, without regard 
 ing her wayward daughter s masquerade. All 
 should be granted her, caprices, eccentrici 
 ties, nonsense, luxuries, dainty toilettes they 
 could ill afford. She should perceive and feel 
 their devotion, their self-sacrifice, their bound 
 less indulgence. In return, she should do 
 her duty. 
 
 " Your dinner last night was again perfec 
 tion, Vroni," she remarked with unwonted 
 benignity and expansion. " Your sauces are 
 so choice ; I get nothing so good elsewhere ; 
 and that supreme de pcches was exquisite. And 
 your accounts always so clear and reasonable.
 
 Heart s Dearest 149 
 
 You seem to get on so quietly with the others 
 too you have really conciliated them." 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes," Vroni answered with a short 
 laugh. 
 
 " Well, mamma, if you 11 not look at me, 
 and I do look nice, almost as handsome as 
 Vroni, I think I 11 go and make my bisque." 
 
 " Amuse yourself, dear child. I shall not 
 be gone very long." 
 
 Nelka turned on the threshold. " It is not 
 amusement. It is sober earnest. It is highly 
 important that I learn to make a bisque, you 
 know, mamma, and immediately." 
 
 Now in the comparison deliberately pro 
 voked by Comtcsse Nelka, and suavely ignored 
 by her mother, the salient disadvantages ought 
 to have been on Vroni s side. Appealing to 
 the comtesse herself for countenance, let us 
 see if they were. 
 
 There are various ways of drawing this com 
 parison. One way is not to draw it at all, to 
 regard it as non-existent, as did the Countess 
 von Vallade. Hers was a fine, a subtle way, 
 and many would do likewise had they her 
 presence of mind. May their tribe increase 
 and Allah grant them true vision ! 
 
 Another way is the way of the parti pris
 
 150 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 which sits enthroned in estimable craniums, 
 and categorically judges manners, morals, 
 tragedies, art, war, crops, politics, hailstones, 
 and all else under the sun, and is never at a 
 loss or puzzled, but always burly and cocksure, 
 because it knows beforehand with no doubt, 
 study, or examination how all things ought to 
 be and therefore are. A comtesse pur 
 sang and one of the protttaire; aristocrat, 
 plebeian; lady, cook; delicacy, coarseness; no 
 more to be said. Peace be with them of this 
 mind also, and true vision. 
 
 But some, wandering over land and sea, not 
 always in fair weather, and beholding " cities 
 of men and manners, climates, councils, gov 
 ernments " some no less who stay quietly at 
 home have been taught, chiefly, no doubt, 
 by their own great blunders and frailties, after 
 much stumbling and groping in the dark, after 
 sorrow and disaster, to cease forever from draw 
 ing hard lines of demarcation between classes, 
 between soul and soul, and arc learning it is no 
 use to box up and label wares so fluctuating 
 and protean as human attributes, since they 
 deride classification, interpenetrate, and law 
 lessly spring at one from the wrong box. 
 
 For such nomad spirits, they who make
 
 Heart s Dearest 151 
 
 weary pilgrimages, they too who in the body 
 abide at home, see strange and puzzling sights : 
 vacuity clad in ermine; kings hauling cod or 
 tending cattle ; a fishwife s face and voice be 
 neath a duchess s coronet; a lady, gentle and 
 punctilious, crying her wares on the market; 
 youth, skeptical, astute, and miserly, age, 
 ardent, full of faith ; the tiger and the ape 
 stalking in evening dress in Drawing-rooms 
 and West End clubs ; vulgarity, blatant in ex 
 clusive cliques where most decried ; mixed 
 motives everywhere ; everywhere flung broad 
 cast among high and low God s fair gifts of 
 beauty, brain, and goodness ; everywhere the 
 longing, struggling hearts of humanity, and in 
 every human heart the base and the divine. 
 
 Such seeking pilgrims then who once have 
 looked thus into the world s kaleidoscope can 
 no longer extol mere rank, or arrogantly hold 
 that in the increase of wealth, trade, and in 
 vention of machinery lies progress. Without 
 reviling of that which had in the past its raison 
 d etre, they are inclined to believe that while 
 the dominant conditions of worldliness and 
 class privileges endure, civilization has hardly 
 dawned upon the earth. With longing and with 
 confidence, they look toward no millennium
 
 152 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 indeed, yet to a coming age when the mission 
 of the slow, inevitable years shall be accom 
 plished ; when a sane and wholesome mode of 
 life and education shall be possible for all, 
 surrounding all, free as the sunlight and green 
 grass ; when every man and every woman shall 
 have at least a fair start, a chance, at least, of 
 attaining his highest possible development; 
 when public sentiment shall honor the worker 
 and regard chronic idleness in either sex as a 
 social disgrace; when woman shall be her own 
 calm guardian ; when prisons, slums, and 
 brothels, which now attest our cruelty and 
 cowardice, shall be as obsolete as the rack, the 
 thumb-screw, the oubliette, and all droits dc 
 seigneur ; when the nations shall have ceased 
 to be armed bands of barbaric warriors ; when, 
 in short, our apathetic senses shall be quickened 
 and illumined until we perceive the vital truth 
 that, however puny and impotent man may 
 remain before the vast forces of nature, as 
 regards his own species he is eternally respon 
 sible, irrevocably his brother s keeper. 
 
 Pilgrims of this complexion to them, too, 
 peace and true vision, but true vision at any 
 cost though peace fail have then gently 
 abandoned certain hoary social fictions, have
 
 Heart s Dearest 
 
 ceased unquestioning to bow the knee to 
 convention, legend, and tradition, yet duly 
 esteeming these last in their place; and not 
 unmindful all are significant, many indeed 
 beautiful and pathetic relics marking ttapes on 
 the stern and weary road our brave race has 
 trod in its interminable ascent. 
 
 They, the misguided pilgrims, approaching 
 in their own spirit the comparison above pro 
 posed, would, with sufferance, employ also 
 their own method, which some indeed deem 
 dangerously levelling and foreshadowing uni 
 versal disintegration, namely, to inspect the 
 two young human creatures as they stand, 
 observe them with fairness, take careful meas 
 urements- -physical and so far as possible 
 moral and honestly to record the results 
 as follows :
 
 154 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 VIII 
 
 BLUE blood, according to popular credence, 
 should have coursed through the smaller 
 hands and feet ; but, as it happened, Nelka s 
 were the longer, larger, and less firmly knit. 
 Vroni should have had the few freckles which 
 did no injury to Nelka s beauty, but high life 
 had monopolized them. The two were not 
 unlike in general coloring, that of Vroni be 
 ing warmer, more vivid. In height and shape 
 they were not widely dissimilar ; but Vroni s 
 bearing was the more resolute and spirited, 
 Nelka s at times somewhat languid which 
 in her circle was regarded as a grace, but in 
 Vroni s would have been denounced as 
 " dawdling." 
 
 As to the thing we vaguely term refinement, 
 of which happily are innumerable kinds, beside 
 the special sort monopolized by society news- 
 columns, neither face possessed the refinement 
 which profound thought may impart, or that 
 of patient sorrow, or of certain forms of ill
 
 Heart s Dearest 155 
 
 health, or that which the habit of pure and 
 ardent prayer may lend to the homeliest fea 
 tures ; but, so far as smooth fresh faces, like 
 young children s unetched by emotion and 
 care, may express refinement, and surely this 
 must be but in prophecy, one girl equalled 
 the other, and whether comtesse or cook was 
 the prettier would be a mere matter of in 
 dividual taste. Both had rather large, hand 
 some, pleasure-loving mouths. Both were 
 by nature careless and frank of mien. But 
 it must in justice be said for Comtesse Nelka 
 that, considering the massive disadvantages of 
 her environment, she was an exceedingly fresh 
 simple-hearted girl with little nonsense about 
 her. 
 
 In point of education, if by that we mean 
 the training of one s faculties, Vroni was far 
 and away beyond Nclka. The little comtesse 
 could, it is true, chatter in four languages. 
 She could sing small songs fairly well, knew 
 who Ibsen was and Tolstoi, but was not 
 allowed to sec GJiosts on the stage, or read 
 the Krcutzer-Sonata or Anna Karcnina. 
 Sudermann s HcimatJi also she might not 
 sec played, although she and all the young 
 girls of her set went placidly to Don Giovanni,
 
 156 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Rigolctto, and Trai iata. She never puzzled 
 her little head about these discrepancies in 
 social rubrics, and that was wise, for the great 
 panjandrum himself cannot explain them. She 
 attended art lectures, and was taken to picture- 
 galleries. She read whatever books her mother 
 thought proper for an eighteen-year-old girl 
 in the best society. They were not many, 
 and notably few were written by great authors. 
 Authors have an unpleasant way of some 
 times seeking to approach the essential mean 
 ings of life. 
 
 Nelka could dance admirably. When she 
 made her reverence before their Majesties, 
 she sank down and backward and back and 
 downward, until it seemed impossible for 
 her ever to come up again without touch 
 ing her fingers to the floor, and what she 
 did with all her mechanism while thus 
 mysteriously poised, you could not imagine, 
 unless she " telescoped " it in some marvel 
 lous fashion. At all events, a large portion 
 of her seemed to vanish altogether. Then, 
 boneless as a wave of the sea, yet with the 
 wave s soft solidarity, her eyelids demurely 
 drooping, a half smile on her lips, she 
 floated up again with a serene swan-like
 
 Heart s Dearest 157 
 
 motion and stood erect and suave, none of 
 her charming person missing. It was a 
 pretty sight, and a score of lieutenants would 
 ride hard to see it, and never failed when they 
 got half a chance, and much good it did 
 them, for Nelka von Vallade s destiny was an 
 open secret. 
 
 But this one perfect achievement hardly 
 equipped fair Nelka for the struggle for life. 
 Thrown upon her own resources, wrecked 
 upon the immortal desert island of fiction, 
 flung into the midst of a new and struggling 
 community, or simply required anywhere to 
 earn her bread and shelter without aid or 
 favoritism, it is to be feared she would have 
 starved. She could ride tolerably well. If 
 desert islands, struggling communities, or the 
 haunts of poverty could have provided trained 
 saddle horses and paid her for looking be- 
 witchingly pretty on them, she might have 
 made a fortune. She could skate and cycle, and 
 was a fine healthy girl and no doll. But they 
 had stunted her powers curiously, taught her 
 to do nothing at all thoroughly, and all that 
 she did was overpraised. Not even those much 
 spoiled urchins, Benno, Knod, and Waldemar, 
 were, in their schooldays at least, commended
 
 158 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 for what they could not clo, that insult seems 
 to be reserved for girls, but were forced to 
 do solid work for implacable masters who 
 took themselves and Greek and Latin prose 
 with unpardonable seriousness, and relentlessly 
 rubbed mathematics and other injuries into 
 the boys reluctant pates. That there were 
 a few things not with impunity to be trifled 
 with, the three learned in their youth, what 
 ever their world took pains to teach them 
 afterward. 
 
 But nobody really minded very much which 
 way Nclka s accents turned. Gracious and affa 
 ble, she sat in the class-room and let professors 
 parade miles of ologics and isms before her. 
 Her vapid themes received flattering marks, 
 and the master always touched up her draw 
 ing. A professor, pointing out to his class 
 the distinction between true nobility and the 
 modern paltry sort created through great 
 wealth or some other inadequate reason, 
 turned to her and said : " But you, com- 
 tesse, with your great and historic name, may 
 well be proud," etc. Nelka was not silly, but 
 for an instant felt as if she personally were the 
 Palladium of the Empire. It was all very 
 agreeable.
 
 Heart s Dearest 159 
 
 A maid sewed for her, half dressed her, 
 hung up what she carelessly threw down, kept 
 order for her, or there would have been none. 
 Her hands were for the most part pretty and 
 useless appendages like ribbons on her frock. 
 She was presented at Court at the age of six 
 teen, and had been exceedingly occupied ever 
 since with multitudinous social functions. In 
 spite of her helplessness, due to neglect of 
 certain faculties and to a systematic swathing 
 and compressing treatment of other ones, Nelka 
 was an intelligent being who, had they let her 
 go off and rough it with Eck Flemming, might, 
 inspired by love and under the wholesome in 
 fluence of necessity, have yet come to her own 
 as an efficient being. Loving and loyal the 
 girl was, a miracle of freshness among things 
 hollow and insincere. 
 
 When Vroni made her courtesy, Knix, she 
 called it, she just touched her toe to the 
 ground behind her, and bending the knees 
 gave a sudden little dip, a simple process but 
 good of its kind. She could dance after the 
 fashion of Hcxenfels. She could sing better 
 than Nclka, if the truth were known, though 
 only folk songs no Solfeggi di Bordogni, 
 no bianca luna or biondina bclla. She liked
 
 160 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 pictures better perhaps than did Nclka, and 
 coming from market always stood a few mo 
 ments, her basket on her arm, in the crowd 
 before two broad windows, and had her own 
 clear impressions, which she would not have 
 hesitated to express to the King, had his 
 Majesty given her the opportunity; while 
 Nclka, frank child as she was, yet felt con 
 scious there was a picture-jargon she had not 
 mastered, and dared not always like the thing 
 she really liked. In point of dense ignorance 
 of art there was little to choose between them. 
 But Vroni looked sharply at painted trees and 
 animals, and was quick to perceive anomalies. 
 She knew nothing of great authors; but then 
 all that Nelka knew of them was that they were 
 something for the most part to be avoided by 
 girls of the best society. Vroni had not Nelka s 
 vocabulary and polite phrases, but spoke the 
 Rough Alp dialect pleasingly, not without a 
 piquant charm, sometimes with a faint trans 
 mission of the soft tones Dionysius the weaver 
 had caught in Vienna, sometimes with a robust 
 brusqueness rather startling to the nerves ; but 
 her audience usually deserved it. 
 
 The peasant girl filled ably a position 
 which, beside skill, demanded judgment, fidcl-
 
 Heart s Dearest 161 
 
 ity, energy, self-reliance, and many other quali 
 ties of which Nelka, for no fault of her own, 
 rarely displayed a trace. Nor was it Nelka s 
 fault that she was continually imagining she 
 required incredible finery, and spending insen 
 sate sums, while Vroni, with a minimum of 
 needs, sent nearly every penny she earned to 
 Dionysius the weaver, which was well, for 
 he was weaving less and less. Certain austere 
 colleagues of his were busying themselves in 
 his affairs. Lachesis held his life-thread 
 loosely. Atropos had raised her shears. 
 
 Had the world demanded no more cooks, 
 did chemists already concoct our nutriment, 
 Vroni would not have been thrown out of 
 employment. She could have turned to any 
 one of a dozen serious occupations. She 
 sewed well and easily, made for the most part 
 her own clothes, and regarded it as nothing; 
 was deft and shrewd in turning and piecing, 
 and faultlessly and swiftly neat, holding all her 
 belongings in their appointed order. No do 
 mestic work was difficult for her, no farm 
 work or running or any amount of physical 
 exercise. She possessed intimate knowledge 
 of the care of vegetables and domestic animals. 
 She used ordinary tools like a boy, and hav-
 
 1 62 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 ing none would, like him, have constructed 
 rude substitutes. Placed in some unimagined 
 situation where none of her useful arts were 
 available, she still would have been wholly 
 unembarrassed, for her energy, combativeness, 
 elasticity, and mastery of things were trained 
 powers upon which she could depend. 
 
 Concerning what goes by the name of good 
 ness or innocence, by which many mean com 
 plete ignorance of certain phases of nature, 
 these two eighteen-year-old girls stood, it 
 must be admitted, upon diametrically opposite 
 ground. 
 
 Neither felt within herself any special in 
 centive to probe mysteries. But Vroni had 
 met rugged facts face to face, yet had been 
 spared a cynical or even frivolous interpreta 
 tion of them ; while Nelka in one sense unin 
 formed, had yet far more knowledge of the 
 world the phrase being used here in its 
 accepted sense, knowledge of evil, although 
 why it should not occasionally include knowl 
 edge of good is difficult to grasp than the 
 girl of the people. For many things arc re 
 vealed, above all revealed in a false light, only 
 through their pointedly enforced avoidance. 
 
 Nelka was so scrupulously guarded, so con-
 
 Heart s Dearest 163 
 
 tinually instructed what she must not read, or 
 see, or hear, or understand, or ever seek to 
 penetrate, she involuntarily scrutinized these 
 immense precautions and wondered what lay 
 beyond the Chinese wall encompassing her. 
 
 What she knew of the sacred theme of 
 motherhood tabooed to young girls of the 
 best society was gleaned from chance hints, 
 repressed smiles, half-spoken sly witticisms 
 and innuendoes, even though she herself at 
 sixteen had been publicly proclaimed, with 
 customary rites, a full-fledged aspirant for 
 matrimony. 
 
 Since with the best will in the world it is 
 not humanly possible for girls not congenital 
 idiots to preserve their minds the egregious 
 blank which certain circles insist they should 
 simulate, Nelka and her mates perceived much 
 in the forbidden field. 
 
 Novels, for better or worse, abetted this 
 branch of education. Operas which she might 
 see because " it was only music," but to the 
 plots of which it would have been shocking to 
 allude, lifted portions of the veil. Great Wag 
 ner, in ways unsuspected by the authorities, 
 was perhaps, with the humble exception of 
 honest Kck Flemming, the one true apostle
 
 164 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 of the unknown Eros that had ever crossed 
 her path. For the Master s titanic themes and 
 pulsating tragic figures moved her to vague 
 awe and reverence of the vast elemental forces 
 which the genteel influences encircling her, 
 the fatuous conspiracy of silence no less than 
 frivolous jest and sneer, strove to belie or to 
 belittle. 
 
 Curiously enough Vroni also when very 
 young was screened much after the conven 
 tional mode of the upper classes. Such 
 solicitude on the part of the peasants living 
 intimately with their hoofed allies may be 
 viewed with more or less incredulity, but is 
 nevertheless a fact. Dionysius the weaver 
 told his child quite as many arrant false 
 hoods as a person of the finest susceptibil 
 ities in the most rarefied worldly atmosphere 
 ever concocted for his. Small new arrivals in 
 the village were, if human, invested with fabu 
 lous and mythological ancestry; if of alien 
 race, were ostensibly bought somewhere. 
 The weaver punctiliously assured his little 
 daughter that he had brought home the new 
 born calf in his sack, and, sure enough, the 
 corroborating bag never failed on such occa 
 sions to lie ostentatiously by the door-stone.
 
 Heart s Dearest 165 
 
 On a certain Christmas Eve, or rather Christ 
 mas Day, for it was already three o clock in 
 the morning, Vroni was suddenly roused from 
 sleep. Ordinarily no witch-wind or thunder 
 clap could wake her. But they had had their 
 bit of Christmas tree adorned with candle 
 stumps and a few apples and nuts ; had ex 
 changed their simplest gifts of needed woollen 
 things, snuff, shoes, and aprons; had stood 
 gravely before the lighted tree and sung in 
 unison at the beginning and close of their 
 celebration the sweet and touching strains of 
 Hcilige NacJit ; and the deep charm of the fes 
 tal season, the glamour of the day, had sent 
 her to bed in a state of rapturous excitement. 
 Sleep had rest but fitfully upon her eyelids, 
 and in her happy visions she beheld waving 
 dream-lights, and heard dream-voices chant 
 ing always the familiar Christmas hymn. 
 
 Not quite sure of the actuality of the un 
 usual sounds and movements which had dis 
 turbed her, she slipped into her frock and ran 
 to the kitchen. She was, it seemed, really 
 awake, for a light stood on the table; a 
 great fire was crackling; in the chimney 
 corner lay, in a broad basket, two new 
 born calves too weak to stand and covered
 
 1 66 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 warmly with old sacks; while Agathe, in 
 immense agitation, tears streaming down her 
 cheeks, was tending them better than if they 
 were human twins, and feeding them from the 
 flask and tube once Vroni s own. The aston 
 ished child lingering with great dazed eyes in 
 the doorway, the mother curtly requisitioned 
 her. 
 
 " Step along quick, thou starer, and hold 
 this bottle," and flew forthwith to the barn to 
 lavish upon the chief sufferer the care and at 
 tention of which she was in sore need. 
 
 Presently Dionysius also came in from the 
 cow-mother. Agathe, as she sprang to and 
 fro, moaned aloud in pity for the brindle, 
 the feeble offspring, and for the loss to her 
 own estate, and arraigning fate, repeatedly 
 vociferated, 
 
 " But t was a fine big calf I wanted ! Woe 
 is me ! Oh Weh ! " 
 
 Although she heated milk six times for 
 those frail twins, and fed them from the 
 bottle, and kept them snug and warm, the 
 little things lived only through holy Christ 
 mas Day, and when they breathed their last, 
 Agathe wept with loud lamentation. But, 
 thanks to her devotion, the cherished brindle
 
 Heart s Dearest 167 
 
 recovered fully, and when first able to issue 
 from the stall, that she might break no leg 
 or horn or any other evil befall her after 
 her professional troubles, she was respect 
 fully proffered, as she crossed the threshold 
 of the barn, a piece of bread strewn with 
 holy salt, specially blessed in the church 
 on Candlemas Day for the rehabilitation of 
 bovine mothers, if members of Christian 
 families. 
 
 But early on that Christmas morning as the 
 child Vroni, half-dressed, her eyes still big 
 with amazement, sat on the floor by the crack 
 ling fire of fagots and pitifully tended the 
 helpless calf infants, Dionysius dropped upon 
 a stool close by and watched her silently. 
 
 Suddenly, in her quick way, the girl looked 
 up: - 
 
 "Say, father, didst bring them this time in 
 two sacks? Why didst thou buy so weak 
 ones and weak-legged? Yet they arc dear. I 
 like them rarely well, better indeed than the 
 last calf thou didst fetch, though he was 
 strong, and stood on his four legs and looked 
 at me. Say, father, what ails Brindle?" 
 
 Perhaps Dionysius gazing down upon the 
 basket saw nothing radically iniquitous therein.
 
 1 68 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 He may, too, have dreaded the harsh effect of 
 the half distraught Agathe s realistic ejacula 
 tions. It may be his little maid, crouching 
 there with \visc and motherly mien, appealed 
 to him in some tender way as herself a woman- 
 child, or he felt reluctant to fib on holy Christ 
 mas Morn. 
 
 At all events, he abandoned the whole brood 
 of conventional fables,- sacks, storks, rose 
 bushes, and cabbages, and gently told her 
 certain truths about the baby-calves, the 
 brindle, beasts, birds, trees, flowers, and her 
 self. She listened gravely, as children do, 
 hardly astonished, in no wise discomfited, but 
 calmly fitting what he said to anterior matters 
 half-noted, confusing, which now grew clear. 
 
 O O 
 
 That day at church she looked with softer 
 eyes upon the Manger, and better understood 
 Father Aloysius s simple and tender picture of 
 the Infant Christ among the animals. All day 
 long her mother and she, and the weaver no 
 less, were ministering to the poor things that 
 had not strength to live. It was a bitter grief 
 to her to see them die. 
 
 From that time, in her sentiments toward 
 any helpless new-born thing, human or other 
 wise, and toward the simple marvellous fact of
 
 Heart s Dearest 169 
 
 birth, floated, like sacred incense, memories 
 of the weaver s gentle revelations of the uni 
 versal laws of life upon this planet; memories 
 of her mother s unfailing goodness to animals ; 
 thoughts of the Child in the Manger, and great 
 soft eyes like Brindle s gazing at Him from 
 dusky places ; and with this, inevitably com 
 mingled, the vivid remembrance of those 
 scarce breathing forms in the basket, and the 
 appeal of their great helplessness for pity and 
 protection. Thus, for her, over the whole 
 mystery of birth hovered a Christmas conse 
 cration. 
 
 Nor did the subsequent rude obviousness of 
 farm-life, the manifold sequence of wholesome 
 natural events which at times frankly but 
 briefly monopolized the attention of the fam 
 ily, ever obliterate those early and powerful 
 impressions.
 
 170 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 IX 
 
 LESS adroit than a little child in humble fami 
 lies, Nelka stood rather awkwardly handling 
 dishes and implements, dropping things, and 
 soiling her apron. Her aspirations bisqnc- 
 wards she had been obliged temporarily to 
 curb, because Vroni, although most eager and 
 disposed, could not evolve crabs from her 
 inner consciousness. But, radiant to have her 
 lovely lady close at hand, companionable, and 
 imploring to be taught something as fast as 
 possible, Vroni had set her the task of mixing 
 a mayonnaise, a simple thing, yet one made 
 of ingredients that refuse to combine at hap 
 hazard. 
 
 " Is it very useful, Vroni?" asked the little 
 comtesse, anxiously. " For instance, on long 
 journeys?" 
 
 " It is a thing one has to know, if one knows 
 anything at all," pronounced the high Court of 
 Appeal.
 
 Heart s Dearest 171 
 
 Whereupon Nelka, with the rapt air of a 
 templar vowing himself to a crusade, began 
 to stir, repeating in a painstaking and childlike 
 way her instructions : " Drop by drop, drop by 
 drop," but failing so signally in the enjoined 
 frugality that Vroni soon had to rescue and 
 sustain the imperilled mixture. 
 
 " Why do you slowly twirl the plate with 
 the other hand?" asked the comtesse. " Does 
 that make it come faster? " 
 
 Vroni looked up slightly surprised. 
 
 " I never thought why," she returned. " My 
 master did it," - - for her a supreme reason. 
 Finishing the mayonnaise, she scraped it into a 
 glass, which she set away in the pantry, mean 
 while whistling between her teeth a vaudeville 
 chansonette; and as she carefully wiped the 
 mouth of the oil bottle, and whisked it across 
 the range of her olfactories, she unconsciously 
 cocked her left eyebrow with a delightfully iron 
 ical expression, Gireaud s inveterate greet 
 ing and farewell to that indispensable but 
 uncertain friend. 
 
 Nelka watched her with ever-increasing re 
 spect, a sort of fascination, and more depressed 
 than she cared to own. 
 
 " Now what else shall I teach the gracious
 
 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 comtessc?" asked Vroni, alert, as if they had 
 already accomplished wonders. 
 
 " Perhaps I 11 not work any more at pres 
 ent," the young lady returned in her kind way, 
 but quite fine and self-contained, and con 
 tinued serenely: "I think I shall learn quite 
 as much by looking on. Should n t you think 
 that would be a very good way?" 
 
 Vroni knit her brows to consider what was 
 to her a wholly novel scheme, and shook her 
 head dubiously, as she fetched a couple of 
 large bowls and mechanically began to scrape 
 salsify. 
 
 " Do you stand up always at such work?" 
 
 " No, but I know my manners," rejoined 
 Vroni, in this respect somewhat unduly 
 proud. 
 
 " But I do not mind at all." 
 
 " Nor I," said Vroni, calmly, and sat down, 
 working some minutes in silence. 
 
 " You do think I can learn the bisque ? " 
 burst plaintively from Nelka. 
 
 Most reluctant in this special case to disap 
 point or wound, too honest to flatter, moved 
 also by an instinct steadily and strongly de 
 veloping in her now, that bade her hold her 
 culinary lore high and intact, yet more than
 
 Heart s Dearest 173 
 
 half divining the source of the comtesse s sud 
 den ardor and persistency, Vroni was frankly 
 at a loss what to reply. 
 
 " Don t you think I can learn anything at 
 all? " came now quite piteously from the com 
 tesse s lips. 
 
 " Not to-day, not very fast," returned Vroni, 
 candidly, but with a curious, motherly indul 
 gence for the other s limitations. " How, in 
 deed, would that be possible? The gracious 
 comtesse takes it not amiss ; I cannot lie, and 
 if I did," she added with a bright laugh, 
 " twould be no use at all, for the oven never 
 lies, and flour, meat, and vegetables tell the 
 plain truth to all the world, and blab how 
 they ve been handled." 
 
 " I m afraid so," acquiesced Nelka, dejected 
 before the stern incorruptibility of inanimate 
 objects. To none such had she ever been to 
 school. 
 
 " The gracious comtesse," pursued Vroni, 
 her hands deft and swift at her work, " has not 
 the light touch in her fingers." 
 
 Nelka disconsolately spread out her long, 
 loose hands on the kitchen table, and looked 
 at them with marked disapprobation. 
 
 " Nor does the gracious comtesse know
 
 174 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 even the names of things, let alone what hap 
 pens when one puts them together." 
 
 "No," gloomily assented Nelka; "but the 
 question is, can I learn?" 
 
 " Some things can be taught, some cannot," 
 sagely asserted the very rapidly " dawning 
 colleague" of a great man. "The hand can 
 not, nor the feeling about things, and the eyes 
 that see when the back is turned." In quite 
 unconscious illustration she sprang up, ran to 
 her range, briskly adjusted some dampers, 
 moved a saucepan forward and another back, 
 all her manipulations rapid in the extreme. 
 Returning to her employment she remarked 
 with deep sympathy the tragic hopelessness 
 of the face she had always seen so radiant 
 and gay. 
 
 " There s a great deal in a knack. Perhaps 
 there is some other sort of work the gracious 
 comtesse would have more knack for?" 
 
 " I think not, Vroni," Nelka answered quite 
 simply and humbly. 
 
 "There are young ladies that do the click- 
 click on writing machines in windows." 
 
 Nelka shook her head. 
 
 " And beautiful shop-ladies." 
 
 The comtesse seemed no less disconsolate.
 
 Heart s Dearest 
 
 Vroni reflected a while with somewhat mag 
 isterial seriousness. 
 
 " AcJi was ! " she exclaimed. " The gracious 
 comtesse shall learn the bisque whether or no. 
 I undertake it, parbleu ! " 
 
 " Oh, Vroni ! " 
 
 " Ha ! T would be a blame on us, I m think 
 ing, if we could not manage a pot of soup ! " 
 
 "Ah, Vroni!" 
 
 " And other things I make no doubt," the 
 girl declared somewhat rashly, led on by Nelka s 
 happy animation. " But we 11 begin next time 
 when I can have everything in readiness." 
 
 Valiant and encouraged as if she had 
 already won a medal in her new pursuits, 
 feeling indeed quite thrifty, diligent, and do 
 mestic, the comtesse leaned against the wall 
 and smiled with sunny benevolence. Vroni 
 worked steadily on. 
 
 " It is pretty here," said Nelka, looking about. 
 " I had forgotten it was so pretty, the blue 
 and white tiles and your shining copper 
 things, and all." The door was half open 
 upon the veranda and the January air, though 
 crisp, was not too chill. " Yes, it is very nice 
 and fresh and sweet, and polished as a mir 
 ror. T shall be coming often now. You 11
 
 ij6 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 get quite tired of me, and I m going to learn 
 such a lot." 
 
 She gave a little languid sigh from the 
 over-exertion of so arduous a forecast, and 
 resting her head comfortably against the 
 wall, tipped up her pretty chin and stared, 
 with a dreamy smile and pleasing but vague 
 anticipations of the future, at Vroni s gradu 
 ated and imposing row of ladles. 
 
 Vroni, over her prosaic cleaning, scraping, 
 chipping, and cutting, shot quick, adoring 
 glances at her guest. 
 
 " It takes rather long to do things, does n t 
 it? " the comtesse remarked amiably. 
 
 "Well, they don t exactly do themselves. 
 Salsify is a bit slow." 
 
 "Vroni, as I m all alone to-day, you might 
 give me my lunch here," Nelka proposed with 
 buoyancy, for the idea savored of doing, 
 daring, and roughing it. 
 
 Over a dainty tray and choice morsels to 
 her taste, and in her glad spirit of adventure, 
 she fairly laughed to think how bravely she 
 had rebelled and left the Frcgc lunch-table in 
 the lurch. She would henceforth always act on 
 these broad bold lines. Besides, Vroni was 
 lovely, so quaint.
 
 Heart s Dearest 177 
 
 Now and again a head peered into the 
 kitchen and withdrew with respectful prompt 
 ness. 
 
 " T is rarely like the cuckoo in the clock," 
 Vroni remarked demurely, and both the girls 
 laughed long, finding in each other s merry 
 eyes a well of fresh incentive. Vroni worked 
 on, always in touch with her fiery but dis 
 creetly restrained steed, quietly feeling the 
 bit. 
 
 " Why do you run over there so much? " 
 
 " Because there are different things going 
 on, and each must have its turn." 
 
 " How clever ! " returned Nelka, and de 
 termined to note that, although what it meant 
 she had not the remotest conception. 
 
 Of course she and Eck would live mostly 
 at first in hotels, since he would have to take 
 long journeys, and could not afford a large 
 establishment. She should not mind that at 
 all. In fact she adored hotels. She should 
 not personally ever be obliged to work of 
 course. But it was just as well to under 
 stand things, so as to be able to order lovely 
 dinners like Vroni s. Besides, she should 
 not really mind working, Vroni looked so 
 
 etty. How charming it would be on some 
 
 12
 
 178 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 hunting expedition rather henvy dark-green 
 cloth, short skirt and gaiters, and a Tyrolean 
 hat with cock s feathers was by far the most 
 satisfactory but she would have to take a 
 lot of thin blouses, Africa was so warm she 
 did hope blouses would remain in vogue to 
 surprise Kck with the white cap, and apron, 
 and an easy command of sauce-pans. She 
 wished he could see her now. lie would 
 certainly think the cap becoming. lie had 
 smiled so beautifully when she was dressed 
 as a Roumanian peasant for the Charity 
 Bazaar. 
 
 Dear Kck! If he would only write. Her 
 heart felt a little sore, yet warm and, ah, so 
 tremulously kind. Perhaps a letter was on 
 the way. Probably. Surely. She was so 
 much happier than she had been in many 
 days without doubt, a presentiment. She 
 often felt something joyful must happen, and 
 it often did. After the bisque she would 
 learn to make an omelette surprise, it was so 
 delicious and amusing to find the ice in the 
 shell of steaming hot, fruity, creamy things. 
 Eck last time took two big helpings, and, 
 slyly, a third. It would be rather masterly 
 to produce that, say at Ugando, and turn with
 
 Heart s Dearest 179 
 
 a smile to Eck. He could bring two or three 
 nice men friends too. Dear Eck ! 
 
 Meanwhile, Vroni had finished her task, 
 and set away the vegetables to blanch in 
 vinegar. Next she whipped some cream, and 
 put it aside to await its proper place in a 
 complicated dish for dessert. Her movements 
 were swift and gentle. She passed, leaving no 
 trace, not so much as a spoon lying loose. A 
 trifle blunt and droll in her remarks, her smile 
 was warm, and her eyes glowed with delight. 
 "How did you learn it, Vroni?" 
 "The gracious comtesse means cooking? " 
 " Yes, that too. But particularly your nice 
 quick ways of doing things right." 
 
 " Fine cookery, my master, at the Schloss 
 taught me. But how to work," Vroni laughed 
 brightly. " Well, I take it t was my mother s 
 voice. T was always after inc. Nothing was 
 good enough for it. Nobody worked enough 
 to please it not I, not my father, not she 
 herself. " 
 
 " Oh, it must have fatigued you, Vroni ! " 
 "Nay, not so," the girl said stoutly. "It 
 did me but good service. Only oft-times it 
 angered me, for I was always a naughty thing 
 and wild."
 
 180 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 With a hearty burst of laughter at some 
 sudden reminiscence she continued: 
 
 "It is a high, clear voice. One hears it 
 far and wide. All the animals know it well. 
 She loves them so, and talks to them, and 
 understands them as does no other, I care not 
 who he be. The gracious Comtesse Nelka 
 would hardly believe how rarely well they 
 love her. Even the pigs had for her other 
 fashions." 
 
 " Pigs ! " Nelka made a wry face. 
 
 " My mother says since the Lord thought 
 well enough of them to make them, they are 
 good enough for her. She says, too, they are 
 clever, and have their own feelings and affec 
 tions, and are by a long way not so dull and 
 mean as some she knows. T is my mother s 
 way of speech. She 11 go on like that by the 
 yard. Truly, after she feeds and talks to 
 them, and gently rubs their backs, I ve seen 
 them play like great kittens, and roll with 
 four feet wagging in the air and seem to 
 laugh, but only for my mother. And the 
 cows, I could tell tales all the long day how 
 they are friendly with her, and think none be 
 her like. Twas of such a thing I was just 
 thinking. Twas a droll sight, and set me
 
 Heart s Dearest 181 
 
 laughing till I wept tears, yet could not stop, 
 and why I laughed I knew not, nor know now, 
 for t was but a simple thing." 
 
 With a boyish gesture, she brought down 
 her fist against the palm of her hand in merry 
 commemoration. 
 
 " Gracious Comtesse Nelka will understand 
 twas a fine sunny day in the field, and my 
 mother and I were raking and stacking the 
 hay, and my mother, as I said, has a clear, 
 high voice and loud, and to be heard every 
 where far and near, and all day long until it 
 stops at night. Twas going bravely that 
 day by the sunny weather, talking east and 
 talking west, and calling to neighbors all 
 over the place, for all the women were out, 
 and as far as one could see, were red and blue 
 kerchiefs bobbing over the hay. And graz 
 ing in the pastures a long distance off on the 
 other side, were the cows of the whole vil 
 lage, with the hired herdsmen boys mostly. 
 And our cow heard my mother s voice, and 
 sprang away across five fields and three ditches, 
 and stopped short at my mother s side, and 
 stood stock-still and looked at her quite sensi 
 bly and neighborly, as if just waiting for her 
 to pass the civil word about the weather.
 
 1 82 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 When my mother turned, she was amazed, 
 and stared and laughed. Then she spoke 
 gently : " Go back again, thou saucy one. I 
 want thee not," and gave the cow a little slap 
 upon the shoulder, and back she went all that 
 long way. But I had such giggles that my 
 work was naught, and my mother chid two 
 hours on the stretch, and till I die I think 1 
 must ever laugh when I remember me of that 
 cow s face." 
 
 " How lovely the life must be there!" said 
 Nelka with enthusiasm, recalling pastoral 
 effects at the theatre, Alartlia and L Ami 
 Fritz. 
 
 "Truly," Vroni assented with a warm home 
 feeling. " T was our little brindle," she 
 added, after a moment. " To be sure she had 
 good reason to like my mother, who once 
 saved her life, when she was in a sore strait 
 by her first calving. No other care except 
 my mother s could have pulled her into 
 shape but after that she was a thrifty 
 bearer. " 
 
 "Indeed," remarked the little comtesse, 
 astonished but very polite, after which she- 
 was silent for a while. 
 
 " It was not too hard work in the fields,
 
 Heart s Dearest 183 
 
 Vroni? Too rough? Did it not tire your 
 back ? " 
 
 " Oh, if it s not one sort of work, it s just 
 another," Vroni returned, with cheerful phi 
 losophy; "but, Gottlob, tis never one sort, 
 and no change. Of course, our kind must 
 work. Why, I suppose, did we not work, 
 we d starve, although I never thought of that 
 before. Comtesse sees we know no other sort 
 of life. To our kind life is work. I cannot 
 think how it would feel, always to make holi 
 day. T would not much please me for sure. 
 Field-work I always liked. Of aching backs, 
 I know naught, but not a little of aching 
 heads. Surely t is less hard than that dark 
 factory, that looks as if it must have foul 
 smells. I am at home where great winds 
 blow. I could not live cooped up or lolling 
 either, if the gracious Comtesse Nelka takes 
 it not amiss." 
 
 With a certain breezy strength she swung 
 a heavy kettle off her range, and over to a 
 corner from whence, stooping amid steam and 
 meat fumes, she remarked blithely: 
 
 " But t is a pity all have not my tidy work. 
 Mine is the prettiest for sure," and flung the 
 veranda door further open.
 
 184 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Nelka, becoming curiously thoughtful, 
 watched her quietly, admiring her pretty 
 and sure motions, but wondering most at 
 her systematic forethought, for she seemed 
 to be working far ahead, crushing roasted 
 breadcrumbs, and storing them in a glass jar 
 for something or other on the day after the 
 morrow, and impending oysters of the next 
 week; and while doing each task so com 
 pletely, performed many a neat little inter 
 mezzo, and ever and anon the expert solo on 
 the dampers of that big range, which looked 
 as complicated as a locomotive. 
 
 u I never dreamed there was so much head- 
 work in it," sighed Nclka. 
 
 "What then? Heel-work?" asked Vroni, 
 flippantly, but waited for no answer, as she 
 had already fetched from her store-room a 
 couple of handsomely browned roast ducks, 
 and with a fine blade began most skilfully 
 to carve them. While doing this exquisite 
 work, she had the habit of silence. Carving 
 was a branch of her art Gireaud had taught 
 her to regard with profound respect, if not 
 with veneration. Nelka, deeply absorbed, 
 followed every turn of the clever wrist, every 
 incision and clean stroke of the steel.
 
 Heart s Dearest 185 
 
 "It s wonderful!" at length exclaimed the 
 comtesse. 
 
 " T is tidy, " returned Vroni, frankly pleased. 
 " T is my master s own way. None other 
 has it, save myself." 
 
 Smiling a little roguishly, having laid the 
 bird open, she now proceeded largely to re 
 create him, until a careless eye would hardly 
 perceive the dissecting lines. Dexterously 
 binding his disintegration with coquettish 
 pink ribbons, she packed him in a hamper, 
 and turned her attention to his brother, whom 
 she likewise unmade and re-made artistically. 
 
 "Well!" gasped Nelka. 
 
 "They and these other things are for Count 
 Benno," prattled Vroni. "A cosy supper for 
 two was my order," she added innocently, at 
 which Nelka, her eyelids drooping, faintly 
 smiled. "I can venture to send the birds 
 carved, because the white Tiber is coming 
 himself for them, and will hold them with 
 steady hands. He s a queer, shy lad, white 
 Tiber, but good to dogs and willing, and can 
 be trusted with my ducks. Ha! tis not by 
 all men folk I d send them." 
 
 Filling a small jar with a currant-red con 
 coction, one of the small battalion she for an
 
 I 86 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 hour past had been guiding simultaneously 
 toward perfection, she fitted it in a snug cor 
 ner of the hamper, in which had disappeared 
 a dish of celery salad, and sundry small and 
 eligible concomitants, and explained: 
 
 " T is the Hubertus-Sauce Count Benno 
 likes so well. He told white Tiber to tell 
 me it was pJic-nom-c-nal 7 A stout word that. 
 I doubt I say it rightly." 
 
 " What a bright boy Benno is, to levy on 
 our kitchen. He always knew how to help 
 himself to sweets," Nelka was considering, 
 together with some other of Benno s idiosyn 
 crasies and vagaries, when Vroni said simply 
 and serenely : 
 
 " Now, if my gracious Comtesse Nelka 
 takes it not amiss, I want my kitchen." 
 
 The comtesse stared, surprised, and smiled. 
 
 " You actually mean to put me out ? " 
 
 " T is like this," Vroni explained, in the 
 placid strength of her position. "As Com 
 tesse Nelka knows, I have been doing but odds 
 and ends of no account." Nelka s face ex 
 pressed blank amazement. "Now, it is time 
 for work. My dinner needs my thoughts. 
 Soon the other servants will be coming in. 
 Besides, I am composing the menus for two
 
 Heart s Dearest 187 
 
 company dinners, which I ought to submit 
 to-morrow to the gracious countess. A cook 
 must now and then be alone with her own 
 thoughts." 
 
 That one moment, could Gireaud have 
 heard her tone, so convincing in its gentle 
 dignity, he who often enough was on the 
 point of tearing his hair because of her 
 obtuseness, it would have outweighed all 
 his sufferings. 
 
 "I will go, Vroni. But I shall come again 
 very soon. It is the nicest place in the 
 house, and next time I shall learn a lot." 
 
 Vroni held the door open for her. 
 
 " I ve liked it rarely well to have the gra 
 cious Comtesse Nelka so long with me in my 
 kitchen," she said slowly, in the soft tones 
 she had for few. Her eyes were loving. 
 
 " You are such a nice girl, Vroni. Such a 
 dear," Nelka returned, her hand extended. 
 
 Vroni stooped quickly and kissed it. 
 
 "Next time, Vroni!" 
 
 "Next time, gracious comtesse. " 
 
 That evening the Vallades were, excep 
 tionally, at home and without guests. The 
 countess after dinner wrote numerous little 
 notes at her little table, and six pages richly
 
 1 88 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 underlined to Benno. The count sat in his 
 study at the moment Nelka hovered upon the 
 threshold, not writing but motionless, his 
 head on his hand. 
 
 "May I come, papa?" 
 
 "Certainly, my darling." 
 
 As he looked up, his weary face changed, 
 for he loved his fair girl dearly, although he 
 had never taken time to occupy himself much 
 with her, nor did he in point of fact know her 
 very well. He perceived neither her weak 
 nesses nor her dormant strength. He took 
 his children s characters for granted in a 
 sketchy way, and felt personally injured when 
 they disproved the accuracy of his optimistic 
 preconceptions. 
 
 His sons had given his theories sundry 
 rude shocks, but, after each percussion, he 
 reassumed approximately his original position. 
 His daughters had never deranged him. 
 
 "What is it, Nelka? " he asked indulgently, 
 half seating himself on a corner of his table, 
 and throwing his arm round her. 
 
 She nestled in silence against him. 
 
 " It must be something very large. A 
 frock? A necklace? Out with it," for in 
 spite of ebb-tide in his fortunes, he usually
 
 Heart s Dearest 189 
 
 tried to arrange matters to please the 
 child. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "It is not things." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 " Do you think I am good for much, papa? " 
 
 He laughed incredulously. 
 
 " You ? Rather ! I should say so. " 
 
 "What am I good for?" 
 
 " Good for the eyes, and still better for the 
 heart." 
 
 He waited an instant, but as she did not 
 speak, went on pleasantly: 
 
 "Very good to laugh with, and at this 
 moment good to laugh at if you are trying 
 to have the blues a role quite foreign to 
 your character," giving her back a series of 
 encouraging pats. 
 
 Still she was silent. 
 
 "Good to love and be proud of," he went 
 on with real tenderness. "My dear little 
 daughter, my joy and blessing, the very flower 
 of my home." 
 
 Moving slightly she faced him wistfully. 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " Is it not enough ? Are you not glad to be 
 your father s comfort? "
 
 190 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " Of course, papa, but 
 
 Now Count Vallade s thoughts were occu 
 pied with really serious matters. Even as he 
 spoke, he was broadly sketching a paper ho 
 was about to draw up, in which he must vindi 
 cate and gratify the Government, conciliate 
 the respectable Opposition, enrage no farther 
 the rabid Socialists, and win over if possi 
 ble the Clerical party, in short, sit blandly 
 astride the thorny diplomatic hedge. This 
 somewhat lacerating position was his speci 
 alty. 
 
 It is, therefore, a proof of his kindness and 
 affection, that he had so much patience with 
 his pet s childishness. lie would indeed 
 rather sec her smile. 
 
 Believing that he read the cogitations of 
 the dear head upon his shoulder, he went 
 on : 
 
 "And later, though I hardly dare to think 
 how I shall miss you, you will be some other 
 man s blessing." 
 
 "His flower?" murmured the girl to her 
 father s coat collar. 
 
 This curious observation, the count was not 
 certain how to interpret, but he repeated with 
 emphasis :
 
 Heart s Dearest 191 
 
 "His flower! The fair flower he will 
 proudly wear upon his breast." 
 
 " A sort of buttonhole bouquet," commented 
 the muffled voice. 
 
 He smiled, slightly surprised. 
 
 " Has my baby grown cynical ? You should 
 not pour cold water on your old father s 
 fancies. At all events it will be a lucky fel 
 low that will get you. You will be his 
 
 "Sunshine," she suggested, almost inaudi- 
 bly. 
 
 "Well, what else, in a man s stern life, is 
 a lovely girl, a sweet young wife, but pure 
 sunshine? In her presence he lays aside his 
 professional cares. The mere sight of her 
 rests him, amuses, cheers, and entertains 
 him." 
 
 "His kitten." 
 
 " Oh, come, Nelka ! " he remonstrated good- 
 humoredly, "what is the meaning of this? 
 How am I to please you ? A woman softens, 
 enriches, warms, and embellishes a man s 
 destiny." 
 
 "His fur coat," muttered the stifled voice. 
 
 "Yet she is something far above him 
 something to be kept stainless, untouched by 
 the world s dust and mire."
 
 192 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 "The cornice," she remarked, gazing at the 
 ceiling. 
 
 " Rogue ! " 
 
 But he saw her lashes were wet. What a 
 sweet child she was! Not a line on her fair 
 face, peachy like the painting done when 
 she was six years old. 
 
 "You are tired, dear," he said solicitously. 
 "I think you d better go to bed. Besides, I 
 have some rather trying work to think about. 
 Come to me again very soon. Next time 
 we 11 have a good talk, and you shall tell me 
 what sort of proclamations you are getting up 
 in that little head." 
 
 "Yes, papa. Next time. " 
 
 He took her in his arms. 
 
 " Good-night, my pet. Be happy, and amuse 
 yourself. Leave care to me. " 
 
 He sighed, and his handsome pale face 
 clouded as he turned to his desk. He ran his 
 hand abruptly through his iron-gray hair. 
 
 She stood an instant irresolute, in her heart 
 a dim swarm of nameless thoughts and desires 
 struggling to shape themselves. 
 
 "If I might help you to bear it!" she 
 exclaimed fervently. 
 
 "Ah!" he returned, not without a trace of
 
 Heart s Dearest 
 
 impatience, " how is that possible ! Let us 
 be rational, my dear." Then, gently, for in 
 her limpid eyes was grief: "Be sure your 
 father loves you, Nelka." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 " And if you would help me, be your bright 
 fresh self. Let me feel that when I return 
 home from all sorts of storms and agitations, 
 you are waiting placid, smooth-browed, always 
 the same." 
 
 "The mantel-shelf," she said, but this time 
 to herself. 
 
 She stood presently by her mother. 
 
 "Good-night, mamma." 
 
 The countess also smiled affectionately as 
 she glanced up. She too looked tired and 
 worn. 
 
 "Good-night, my love." 
 
 " Could n t we go into the country ? " 
 
 "What, in the middle of the winter? " 
 
 "No, but some time." 
 
 "I don t know what you mean, child. Is 
 not Waldmohr country and Switzerland?" 
 
 Nelka lingered. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you, mamma help 
 you in any way? " 
 
 "Thanks, no dear," the lady returnod, a 
 13
 
 194 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 little absently. " Nelka, " she said with sudden 
 scrutiny, "aren t you a trifle pale for you? 
 Yours happily is not the sort of skin that 
 goes off early, still the nights we are not on 
 duty I d get a couple of hours extra sleep if I 
 were you. And use a little of that last prepa 
 ration of lanoline. I find it softening."
 
 Heart s Dearest 195 
 
 X 
 
 THE broad path winding up the slope of the 
 little park sparkled with new-fallen snow in 
 strong sunshine, and the trees were white. 
 Vroni, returning from early Mass, walked 
 briskly and for entertainment crunched as loud 
 as possible with her stout shoes. 
 
 " In Hexenfels we have no such fine paths," 
 she reflected admiringly. " The town gets up 
 bright and early, like a tidy maid. The plough 
 had already been here as I went down. Now 
 I wonder who sees to all the sweeping of the 
 snow." 
 
 Musing thus innocently upon the mysteries of 
 municipal housekeeping, she was not unmind 
 ful that a person she once casually but perti 
 nently met had knelt beside her and stood 
 at the church porch and stared as she came 
 out. 
 
 " A rude fellow with shiny eyes," she calmly 
 labelled him. " T is the same man. I remem-
 
 196 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 her me I did give him a good whack. Ha ! 
 Were it not just now in Holy Church, twould 
 have gladdened me to serve the other car as 
 neatly, for truly t is ill-mannered to take more 
 than one s share of kneeling place, and jostle 
 elbows when there s room for all to pray to 
 God in peace." 
 
 In hearty and jocund fashion she was de 
 voted to her Church. Not troubling her head 
 to meditate upon ulterior meanings, she loved 
 with joyful and childlike loyalty its prayers, 
 ceremonies, and symbols, its rich atmosphere, 
 and most ardently its music. When she left 
 her village for the second time, she had begged 
 for the tarnished gilt Heart pierced with seven 
 spears, an emblem which all her life had 
 hung on the kitchen wall. Dionysius pro 
 posed she should rather take a little waxen 
 lamb bearing the banner of the Cross, or even 
 buy herself a fine new blue-and-white Virgin 
 in the town. But Vroni insisted upon having 
 the bleeding Heart and the red rosary of imita 
 tion coral beads that hung below it. She said 
 wherever she went they would always look 
 cheerful and homelike. 
 
 A step came crunching behind her, a longer, 
 faster step than hers. She turned involuntarily
 
 Heart s Dearest 197 
 
 and saw the piano-man, before she remembered 
 her father had warned her an honest maid in 
 town carries her head straight. Now in Hex 1 
 enfels it would have been considered unsocial 
 if not proud had one not looked back and 
 passed at least a good-morning where two 
 were treading the self-same path. Slightly 
 vexed that she had recalled his injunction too 
 late, she hastened her pace, but the man s 
 stride gained on her. 
 
 Presently Vincenz Berg joined her and po 
 litely took off his hat. 
 
 She gave him one indignant glance, and 
 trudged on sturdily. 
 
 " It is a pleasant morning," he remarked affa 
 ble as any fine gentleman, and flourished a 
 handkerchief with a red border like Count 
 Benno s. The man she saw looked not un 
 like Count Benno, pointed moustache, clean 
 cheeks, shiny bold eyes, and all. 
 
 Vincenz wore a quiet-colored overcoat as 
 long as Count Vallade s, and was a good-look 
 ing fellow with an agreeable voice, a ready 
 smile, and exceedingly smooth manners. The 
 latter were in part a natural gift, in part ac 
 quired in the service of an ambassador whom 
 Berg, some years previous, had accompanied
 
 198 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 as valet to St. Petersburg, Athens, and other 
 distant points, thereby effectually seeing the 
 world, and enjoying a life of elegant idleness. 
 Neither the one nor the other happened to be 
 a specially spiritualizing process, and the com 
 bination proved devastating to his facile prin 
 ciples. He was however bright, brisk, and 
 good-humored enough, an able workman, 
 drawing and spending good pay, a favorite 
 with his mates, jovial and prompt at his beer. 
 
 Vroni saw no cross path in which she could 
 quickly spring aside. High snowy shrubbery 
 bordered the way. Turning back would do 
 no good. She was averse to taking to her 
 heels as if she were afraid. There seemed 
 nothing to do but to go on. Glowing from 
 the crisp air and inward irritation, her eyes 
 stormy, she walked with a rapid, resolute step 
 and looked straight before her. 
 
 Vincenz, smiling, greatly admiring her, 
 twirled his moustache. 
 
 " It s a very good path through the snow," 
 he said harmlessly like an old acquain 
 tance. 
 
 " Tis not wide enough for two," retorted 
 Vroni, fiercely. 
 
 "Oh ho!" laughed to himself the young
 
 Heart s Dearest 199 
 
 man of large experience. " So this is the 
 kind we are." 
 
 " I have seen you so long and often now," 
 he went on simply and pleasantly, " on your 
 veranda, and coming and going, and at church, 
 that I feel I know you by this time." 
 
 " But you don t," she flung at him with a 
 scowl. 
 
 " Well, I want to awfully, and there s no 
 harm in that I hope," he returned with a 
 laugh. " I m sure I m doing my best. My 
 name is Vincenz Berg." 
 
 She turned and looked at him squarely, in 
 spite of herself perceived his youthful pleasant 
 ness, and was vaguely startled that something 
 within her was pleading for him, while some 
 thing else distinctly resented his smiling inso 
 lence. At the Schloss were men more or less 
 of his sort, she remembered, and how Armand 
 Gireaud used to draw up his face in ineffable 
 grimaces and witheringly pronounce the band 
 jackanapes. 
 
 " I know you not," she said grimly, " nor 
 do I want to know a staring man, and a jost 
 ling man, and a man that follows honest maids 
 from Holy Church, and a jackanapes and," 
 waxing still stronger with the vigorous sound
 
 2oo Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 of her own voice, " you can go back or you 
 can go on, for I 11 trudge no further with the 
 like of you, as if we two belonged together. 
 Ha ! " and she stopped short. 
 
 " We do belong together," he returned 
 softly, wholly unperturbed by her oration. 
 " As to staring, when I see anything as pretty 
 as you, I have to look, don t I? Would you 
 have me shut my eyes ? And I m not follow 
 ing you home from church. I happen to be 
 going the same way, that is all. That s not 
 my fault, I suppose. How can you be so hard 
 on a fellow? " 
 
 His bold gaze rested insistently upon her. 
 He was already what he called in love. 
 
 " Saprelotte ! " muttered Vroni, her breath 
 ing quick, her nostrils dilating. She looked 
 helplessly about her for a weapon. A stout 
 broomstick would have suited her mood. 
 
 " Well, I 11 leave you the whole path, then, 
 if I must." 
 
 " Go ! " she exclaimed, and stamped her 
 foot. 
 
 He took off his hat with an air of quiet and 
 concentrated devotion, a trick he had caught 
 from His Excellency, and strode on. She 
 watched the tall lithe figure climb the path.
 
 Heart s Dearest 201 
 
 At some distance, before passing out of 
 sight behind a group of Norway pines, he 
 turned, dark against the snow, and swung his 
 hat. 
 
 " T is a jackanapes," she muttered, " and 
 like his impudence to make a soft voice at me 
 and say, We two belong together. 
 
 It seemed to her truly astounding that from 
 that day she hardly moved without meeting 
 Vincenz Berg. Busy upon her veranda, she 
 would assume unconsciousness of his confront 
 ing windows, but a subtle telepathy conveyed 
 his ardent messages, and she would frown 
 defiantly while setting milk jugs airing in the 
 sun. Coming from market or from church, 
 she could almost count upon him to cross her 
 path, look intently in her eyes, take off his 
 hat respectfully, and disappear round some 
 corner. Gradually she became so accustomed 
 to his manoeuvres that when by chance he 
 failed to appear, in her wonderment was an 
 infinitesimal and wholly indefinable sense of 
 loss. 
 
 " The jackanapes, t is time in truth, he 
 should repent him of his crackbrained swoop- 
 ings," she would then reflect, her quick 
 exhaustive glance scanning each nook and
 
 202 Dlonysius the Weaver s 
 
 passage where the monster had ever darted 
 out. She cherished the artless delusion that 
 her demeanor to him was uncompromisingly 
 austere, and never suspected the gleam of 
 merriment her eyes sent forth, or how invit 
 ingly her color came and went. For though 
 it was " a blame " to him, and, she honestly 
 believed, to her at first pure vexation, when 
 she found he spoke no more, nor even 
 followed her, but merely dashed out a door 
 way or round a corner, never twice from the 
 same ambush, his evolutions began to afford 
 her no small degree of excitement and in 
 terest. The complete uncertainty of his move 
 ments lent to them in her childlike mind the 
 zest of a merry game. Once, indeed, she al 
 most smiled back at his now familiar face 
 peeping over the ample shoulder of her own 
 butter woman at market, but frowned per 
 functorily and looked the other way. 
 
 Berg s conspicuously romantic behavior be 
 gan not unnaturally to awaken facetious com 
 ment in Vroni s immediate circle, where indeed 
 love affairs, open or surreptitious, were topics 
 no less absorbing than on higher planes. 
 " Vroni s sweetheart " they dubbed him, while 
 he but hovered upon the horizon. Everybody
 
 Heart s Dearest 203 
 
 possessed, she had already discoved, a past, 
 present, or potential sweetheart. Beside the 
 servants affairs of the heart, those of the 
 Comtesse Nelka and the Vallade brothers 
 were exhaustively discussed in her presence ; 
 and not without discriminating intelligence. 
 Never having read a novel, Vroni made her 
 own fresh discoveries of trite facts in the vast 
 field which she was beginning to perceive 
 encompassed her on every side. 
 
 " Thou, Melchior, what thinkest thou of 
 love?" she began blithely on a Sunday, as 
 the three sat at their four o clock beer, not as 
 usual in a suburban tavern, but in his house; 
 for he was nursing a cold, together with the 
 aggrieved notion that immunity from vulgar 
 physical ills ought, were things properly 
 managed, to be one of the perquisites of his 
 position. 
 
 He assumed a graver aspect preparatory to 
 utterances of weight. 
 
 " T is rubbish mostly," quoth Jakobine. 
 
 " But they are all at it," laughed Vroni, 
 " though fairly criss-cross and awry. Du licbcr 
 Gott, t is an odd distemper ! I m glad I never 
 caught it. Sccst, Melchior, they that would 
 marry have no money, and, should they wed,
 
 204 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 they d lose their situations. I ask thec, is 
 that fair dealing? And there be sonic love 
 sick with some that sigh for some that look 
 toward others. Truly I cannot think how that 
 would feel may be t is like a pinching shoe. 
 Then, Melchior, so thou be good with one 
 most nice and pleasant-spoken, and kind to 
 men and maids, and strong and comely too, 
 with a high head and clear eyes, thy father 
 and thy mother bid thee wed a grisly one 
 with gold, and though thou canst abide him not 
 at all tis most curious! art thou a most 
 gracious lady, canst do naught to help thyself. 
 Then there are other most strange things and 
 hard to understand. The HcrrscJiaft are all for 
 getting married. T is the main thing, it seems, 
 for gentlefolks, and there s much talk and fuss 
 till all the gracious lads and maids be joined 
 unto their gracious mates. The ladies sweet 
 hearts come with top hats on, bold as thou 
 willst, in broad daylight. But Franziska Brandt 
 must ever slip out slyly, when all the gracious 
 HcrrscJiaft are at dinner, and meet him by the 
 fountain or in the garden corner of the court 
 where t is pitch darkest. And one of the first 
 things they ever ask of thee is, No followers, 
 eh? in a quite awful voice."
 
 Heart s Dearest 205 
 
 "Art making progress, Vroni," sneered 
 Jakobine. 
 
 " T is time I learned somewhat," the girl 
 replied serenely. " I must ofttimes smile when 
 I remember me how I was ignorant of things, 
 and not so very long ago." 
 
 " T is plain enough whither thy thoughts 
 are flying fast." 
 
 " Hast not a sweetheart, Vroni? " anxiously 
 demanded Melchior. " Art not doing us that 
 ill turn?" 
 
 " Nay, nay, not I ! " but she colored with a 
 slight sense of guilt, for the ubiquitous Vincenz 
 had followed her to her brother s threshold. 
 
 " Then talk not thus," Melchior remonstrated. 
 
 "How so, brother?" 
 
 " So bold and pert," suggested Jakobine. 
 
 " So social democratic," warned the king s 
 coachman. " I cannot listen to such talk. 
 Our Club cannot abide it. We are all respect 
 able and very prudent men." 
 
 " I doubt it not, but what, pray, has thy 
 great virtue to do with me?" 
 
 " Thy ways and tone are free, and please 
 me not," he continued with a disgusted air. 
 " Dost begin by finding fault with thy supe 
 riors, willst end by siding with that low and
 
 206 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 crazy lot. Woulclst surely lose thy situation 
 which would reflect on me." 
 
 Vroni stared, and broke into a hearty laugh. 
 
 " Nay, Melchior, nay. T was not ill meant. 
 I found no fault. I but idly spoke of things 
 I see with my own eyes and hear with my own 
 ears, and that give me pains to fit together in 
 my mind, seeing they be misfits." 
 
 " I could wish thou dst ever think of my 
 position," he returned sulkily. 
 
 "Ac/i was!" she cried impatiently, "dost 
 think thou holdest up the whole palace ! Had 
 I a dozen sweethearts, where were the wrong 
 to thee ? " 
 
 He frowned, puzzled, and comprehending 
 not at all. Jakobine indulged in a chapter 
 of gloomy prophecies upon the doom of the 
 light-minded. Vroni, having only them, 
 promptly regained her temper, and did her 
 best to re-establish peace. With sunny 
 smiles she told tales which coaxed reluctant 
 twitches from even Jakobine s grim lips ; re 
 called home scenes to Melchior until he had 
 simple and human intervals ; proposed to 
 trim a hat for her sister-in-law, who accepted, 
 remarking that she, Gottlob, had no talent for 
 vanities ; agreed to knit a woollen waistcoat
 
 Heart s Dearest 207 
 
 for her brother, twas a new thick stitch she 
 said, that kept one warm ; and left them not 
 indeed approving, but half mollified by her 
 innocent wiles. Yet it was uphill work she 
 felt, as she turned from their door. 
 
 Jakobine had not asked her to stay. Jacko- 
 bine never asked her to stay or to come again. 
 Jakobine was as frosty to-day as in the hour 
 they met, and Melchior was putty in her 
 hands. Vroni on her way to market had oc 
 casionally gone straight to his stables. There 
 among his horses he seemed quite a different 
 man, so able and so kind not a bit respect 
 able ; but Jakobine was furious when she found 
 it out, it was indeed no secret, and Mel 
 chior asked Vroni not to come again, unless 
 for something urgent and unavoidable, he 
 added feebly. He had enjoyed her cheery 
 little visits, and the men were jollier with him 
 on the days they spied the white apron and 
 brown basket. Vroni nodded brightly right 
 and left since, they were all fellow-workmen 
 of her brother, and it was evident to him she 
 made a good impression, for even the head- 
 coachman spoke of her friendly manners and 
 offered him a glass of beer. But it was no 
 use to oppose Jakobine. So now they never
 
 208 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 met except in her intimidating presence. 
 Sometimes they telephoned ; Melchior was 
 very nice by telephone. It always gave her 
 a glad surprise to hear the home voice speak 
 ing from the wall. 
 
 " Melchior was not to blame for his cold," 
 she reasoned, as she reluctantly walked home, 
 still it was not quite the very worst cold that 
 ever was in the world. Had he the spirit 
 to take a brisk walk over the hills, say to the 
 Hunter s Horn, it would surely do him good. 
 Ah, the people looked so happy, and the 
 music was so gay, yet sometimes soft and sad, 
 and they sang songs that made your heart 
 beat and little shivers run down your back. 
 How wonderful to hear that men s chorus 
 hushing itself in one great, soft, long, sweet 
 sound. It was heaven. When they stopped, 
 the whole crowd was still as stone, and drew 
 its breath before it again began to chatter and 
 jingle glasses. 
 
 It was not happy to come out for one s 
 Sunday, and turn one s self about and march 
 home again. Probably she was the only maid 
 in the whole town who was having no pleasure. 
 In fact, there could be no doubt of this deplor 
 able circumstance. Of what use was it for
 
 Heart s Dearest 209 
 
 Mclchior to muffle himself up as if he were his 
 own grandmother, and sit huddled over the 
 fire, when he would have to be on duty in the 
 morning, as well as go once to the stables that 
 very night? Jakobine probably did it all on 
 purpose. She knew Vroni longed to go to 
 the Hunter s Horn and hear those men sing. 
 If ever she expressed a special wish, Jakobine 
 opposed it if she could. Should Jakobine tell 
 Mclchior he was well, from that moment he 
 would not dare to sneeze. 
 
 It was ridiculous. For her part she should 
 never marry. She had a poor opinion of 
 marriage, love-making, and all that sort of 
 thing. She should live simply and solely for 
 her profession, as her good Gireaud had 
 strongly advised. All the same, she wished 
 she might have some enjoyment. Sweethearts 
 seemed useful to go about with, at all events. 
 Everybody had friends and occasional gay 
 hours ; she knew nobody save Melchior and 
 Jakobine, and they, alas ! were never gay. 
 
 No, they were emphatically dreary. Still 
 they were her family. If they would be but a 
 trifle friendly, she would be so thankful. Never 
 in her life had she struggled so hard to be 
 civil as to Jakobine, who had not so much as 
 14
 
 2io Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 asked her to stay to supper. She wished she 
 might have stayed. After all, Melchior was 
 her brother, if he did mope and muffle. 
 
 Bright groups of fathers, mothers, children, 
 and lovers lagging behind, met her. She only 
 was alone. She would go home and begin to 
 knit Melchior s waistcoat. Truly a pretty 
 business for a young maid s free day. She 
 might as well be Tante Ursula. Vroni pitied 
 herself vastly. 
 
 But if she could but sec her father she would 
 not mind not hearing the chorus at the 
 Hunter s Horn. No, she would miss nothing 
 in all the world. With a real pang of home 
 sickness, her heart yearned for the weaver, and 
 her inner vision saw him vividly, pale and dear 
 in the old familiar clothes. 
 
 At that instant Vinccnz Berg, handsome, 
 friendly, and debonair, crossed the street and 
 carne straight toward her. 
 
 " May I not walk a bit with you? " he asked 
 without a shade of arrogance. 
 
 " Nay," she replied plaintively. " I must 
 go my way alone. " 
 
 Without a word he dropped behind, and 
 followed her. 
 
 " He also seems to be alone. For sure, he
 
 Heart s Dearest i \ i 
 
 gives up everything to follow me about. He 
 goes off gentle as a child when I but speak. 
 T is mannerly. Even my father would give 
 him praise for that. Doubtless he d take me 
 to the Hunter s Horn. Doubtless twould 
 gladden him no less to hear the songs. Ha ! 
 T would but serve my Jakobine right ! I 
 would my father had not bade me make no 
 friends with strangers in the street, for truly I 
 fain would laugh and jest to-day. I m a bit 
 wild at heart, and could greatly run and spring 
 and shout, were it not town and Sunday and 
 I, poor maid, alone." 
 
 She sighed and hurried on, ever conscious 
 of the subtle comradeship of the man s light 
 step behind her. 
 
 " T is true, he was right ill-mannered at the 
 Schloss and once again. But that was long 
 since. Doubtless he repents him sore. He 
 seems no longer like a stranger. He is 
 
 o o 
 
 patient, one must say, and minds my word, 
 and was right glad to see my face. Tis no 
 harm surely that he follow me, since he s no 
 wolf, but tame and gentle-blooded." 
 
 Smiling faintly, she felt no longer lonely, for 
 that companionable footfall kept rhythm with 
 her own. She experimented childishly, walk-
 
 212 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 ing faster, slower : it met her whim ; it followed 
 her to the gate, where as she turned she could 
 not help giving him one swift side-glance. 
 What it said, she little knew, but Vincenz 
 smiled all the way to the beershop.
 
 Heart s Dearest 213 
 
 XI 
 
 FORMALLY off duty, Vroni punctiliously 
 avoided intrusion upon her domain and its 
 viceroy. 
 
 " To-day I belong fairly nowhere, " she 
 lamented as she found her knitting needles 
 and some wool, and happily meeting nobody, 
 for she felt rather ashamed of her flagrant 
 friendlessness and isolation from all earthly joys, 
 stole into the servants dining-room, where, 
 if without true resignation yet somewhat com 
 forted and stimulated by the large suggestive- 
 ness of her small adventure, she proposed to 
 pass some hours of undeserved solitude. 
 
 At the large table beneath the hanging 
 lamp a man in a blue uniform appeared to be 
 writing either with his nose or with the upper 
 most tuft of his shock of flaxen hair. 
 
 " Oh, thou here, Tiber? Grilss Gott," she 
 said carelessly; sat down opposite him, and 
 began to take up her stitches.
 
 214 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 He started in joyful surprise, pushed his 
 chair awkwardly, half got up as if to salute an 
 officer, grew red, stammered " Griiss Gott," and 
 sat down again. As she said nothing more, 
 but with a half frown steadily regarded her 
 knitting, he shyly resumed his work. For 
 some time nothing by way of social inter 
 course took place between them, beyond the 
 click-click of her needles, a humble and steal 
 thy glance at intervals from under his white 
 eyelashes, and the angry spluttering of his 
 misused pen. 
 
 After a while she deigned to say indiffer 
 ently, without looking up : 
 
 " What leads thcc hither to-day, Tiber? " 
 
 He answered with the hesitating thick utter 
 ance which at times oppressed him : - 
 
 " Count Benno s off somewhere, but late must 
 come to town and dress again for something 
 else, a feasting at Baron Frege s, if I err not. 
 I was to bring his things and wait for orders." 
 
 " Truly," she remarked in her novel misan 
 thropical vein, "the plums are poorly measured 
 in the great world s pudding. T is all for some, 
 for others none." Yawning a little, she with 
 drew into the remote region of her thoughts. 
 
 At length Tiber s incessant scratching began
 
 Heart s Dearest 215 
 
 insidiously to distract her attention from her 
 great grievances. She peered at him inquisi 
 tively, as his heavy hand laboriously traced 
 oblique characters, by turns attenuated and 
 swimming in turbid ink a vigorous chiaro 
 scuro. 
 
 " Na, Tiber, what dost thou there so 
 busily? " 
 
 " Writing," he replied solemnly. 
 
 " Writing, for truth ! Have I no eyes to see 
 or ears to hear thee?" she added with a 
 laugh. "Ac/i, Tiber, art a queer lad but 
 good to dogs. There, I will not chide, since 
 upon the instant thou wearest then thy beaten 
 look. Say, what meanst with thy copy-book 
 and ragtag bits of paper ? Dost love to be 
 cooped up on a Sunday and bury thy white 
 head in scribbles? Hast no wishes, man? 
 Knowst no place where are merry folk and 
 laughter and songs that beat like great birds 
 on the wing ? " 
 
 She sighed, clicking with overcharged swift 
 ness. 
 
 " Wishes enough have I," returned the man 
 in his slow way, " yet all one wish." As if 
 fearing his own boldness, he broke off and 
 watched her furtively. Vroni paid no heed.
 
 21 6 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Slowly and shyly he pushed a heap of 
 scattered leaves across the wax-cloth table- 
 cover. 
 
 " Mayst see it, Vroni, if thou willst." 
 
 She took up the nearest scrap of paper and 
 read aloud : 
 
 " A detachment of the enemy s cavalry is 
 approaching across the third bridge over the 
 brook behind the wood to the north of the 
 tower. Licbcr Himmcl ! " Reading one after 
 another of the scattered fragments, " A de 
 tachment, the enemy, the enemy is ap 
 proaching. Truly a goodly lot of enemies. 
 Na! T is a long brook, ch, Tiber? The 
 enemy. Another. More. Hast nigh to thirty 
 enemies, all coming over the bridge at once, 
 and thou that wouldst not hurt a fly ! AC/I, 
 Tiber!" 
 
 For some unaccountable reason her rollick 
 ing mirth encouraged the diffident man not a 
 little. He rested his arms on the table and 
 stared across at the mischievous face under 
 the little white cap. On his honest features 
 was a broad smile of unutterable friendliness 
 and something more, and his blue eyes sought 
 hers with an insistence at variance with his 
 halting manner and inarticulate speech.
 
 Heart s Dearest 217 
 
 " What meanst thou with these thy ene 
 mies?" she demanded imperiously. 
 
 " Count Benno set me at it, that I may 
 learn to nounce. He says I glare at him and 
 contort instead of simply saying who in the 
 devil wants to see him. The manner of his 
 speech is high for me, but the kernel, tis 
 clear, is that I please him ill. So I m to 
 write it fifty times, and say it then out of my 
 own head and learn to nounce." 
 
 " Atschgdbele ! T is seemly of him to spring 
 from small roebuck to truffled turkey while 
 thou, sweating I mark well overmuch, dost trot 
 o er hill and dale his fifty mounted men on a 
 Sunday by fair weather ! " 
 
 " He gave no orders I should work to-day," 
 the man said mildly. " But having the task on 
 hand, likewise to wait for him, I thus filled up 
 my time. Count Benno is no hard master." 
 
 "Tis plain! " 
 
 " Truly he is kinder than any ever was to 
 me save my mother and," hesitating an in 
 stant, " thee, Vroni." 
 
 She looked at him half wonderingly under 
 the strong light, and liked the voice with which 
 he had just spoken, a deeper voice than Vin- 
 cenz s she observed and less smooth, but
 
 2 1 8 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 strong, sincere, and pleasant to the car when 
 ever Tiber forgot to stammer. 
 
 1 Stand up, Tiber, in thy high boots," she 
 said presently. 
 
 He rose obedient. 
 
 Turn round upon thyself, and slow." 
 
 He revolved as on a pivot. 
 
 "Again," she commanded. "Walk thither 
 to the door, once, twice, and thrice. 
 T is well." She nodded gravely. " Naught 
 fails thee. A good straight-legged strong 
 lad. Why then hast fear? Why canst not 
 nounce? " 
 
 Unused to introspection he answered noth 
 ing. 
 
 " Knowst not? Shouldst know," she said 
 curtly. " Why dost stammer and stare ? Why 
 tremble? Truly t is a blame on a man." 
 
 He had never before had the chance to look 
 at her so uninterruptedly and long, and made 
 the most of it. 
 
 " Speak, Tiber. I 11 not harm thce." 
 
 At this idea a great delighted grin crept 
 over his whole countenance. 
 
 Shouldst nounce the Kaiser to the King, 
 and not budge," she declared boldly, drop 
 ping her knitting. " Secst, Tiber?" Draw
 
 Heart s Dearest 219 
 
 ing near, she stretched herself to an incredible 
 height, and stood with arms akimbo, on her 
 face an expression of delicious nonchalance. 
 " So shouldst thou look ! " 
 
 With a great mellow laugh he responded : 
 
 " I look like thee!" 
 
 " Canst try, at least." 
 
 " Would gladly please thee, Vroni," he said 
 simply. 
 
 She resumed her knitting. He plodded on 
 with his protesting pen, and breathed hard 
 with the effort. 
 
 "Tiber!" 
 
 He started. 
 
 "Ac/i, Tiber! Didst agree to stop the 
 trembling, yet art at it soon again ! " 
 
 He drooped like a remorseful dog. 
 
 " Willst learn," she remarked graciously, 
 which instantly revived him. " I but meant 
 to ask thcc, what sort are thy people. For, 
 take it not amiss, I once did know a little 
 maid whom they did beat more than was meet 
 for her, and when one but spoke on a s*udden, 
 she did tremble." 
 
 " I Ve a rare good mother," he answered with 
 profound affection. " No man hath a better," 
 
 "And thy father? "
 
 220 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " T is my stepfather, a good enough sort," he 
 rejoined without enthusiasm, " since my mother 
 liketh him, and he be not rough with her." 
 
 " I wager he did beat thec ! " cried Vroni, 
 pleased with her own shrewdness. 
 
 " Hardly more than his own boys and the 
 work had to be done," Tiber replied with phil 
 osophical objectivity. 
 
 " Seest ! " she returned, and probed further. 
 " Dost write as though thou wert ploughing 
 a stubbly field or chopping wood. Since there 
 be no man alive who learneth not his penning 
 when a child, pray how, then, didst thou 
 miss it?" 
 
 " I m ever slow. Thou knowst," he said 
 meekly. 
 
 In his good eyes was some perplexity, for 
 he was quite unused to seek connections be 
 tween present effects and remote causes. 
 
 " Relate to me thy childhood," Vroni com 
 manded, quite grave and womanly. 
 
 With somewhat broken phrases and per 
 ceptible exertion, yet with a pleasant manly 
 ring in his voice, for the first time in his life 
 he endeavored to give an account of himself 
 and his deficiencies. 
 
 He had always been slow, slower than the
 
 Heart s Dearest 221 
 
 others. They d all to work hard. He as the 
 oldest boy had to be up at three or four o clock 
 in the morning to get his work done before 
 school, which was a good distance from the 
 farm. Then somehow he felt sleepy and dull 
 in the head, and was always falling asleep in 
 school, and the master had to flog him awake. 
 Being dull and sleepy when he got home, he 
 was again flogged for one thing and another 
 by the father. Tiber feared, with a rather 
 mournful smile, he had remained dull and 
 sleepy ever since. For sure, he had forgotten 
 the most the master flogged into him. At 
 any rate the little reading and writing he once 
 knew grew ever farther from him. He had 
 had indeed no use for learning on the farm 
 where he had worked till he came to serve 
 his time in the army. 
 
 It was the longest oration he had ever made, 
 but Vroni s lovely eyes were resting kindly on 
 him, and he found within himself as he went 
 on that which warmed his heart, loosed his 
 tongue, and revealed unhoped-for stores of 
 language ; he only wished he might talk on 
 all night with that sweet maid to listen. 
 
 Again she nodded her young head and re 
 marked oracularly :
 
 222 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " Seest? There is naught without a reason. 
 T is cooking has taught me that. How old 
 art thou ? " 
 
 " Three and twenty." 
 
 " Tis too old to tremble, all the same." 
 
 " Pray think not meanly of me, Vroni," he 
 returned quietly. " Perchance be there man s 
 work to do, I fear not overmuch and waste 
 not time in trembling no more it may be 
 than another. T is the nouncing and the 
 right placing of fine words that make my flesh 
 to creep. Then when the gracious countess 
 passeth me by chance in the corridor and 
 turneth her head thus," he jerked his head aside 
 with an air of disgust as if unpleasant odors 
 were prevailing " t is then I most do shiver." 
 
 " T is true," Vroni observed meditatively, 
 " she fretted even me on the first day. I liked 
 not the eyes she carried on a stick." 
 
 " I like not too well those she carrieth in her 
 head," rejoined Tiber, dryly. 
 
 " But gracious Comtesse Nelka? Thou shiv- 
 erest not when she goes by? " 
 
 " Nay. I d ride far for Comtesse Nelka." 
 
 " And I or crawl upon my knees ! Tiber, 
 show me thy ink. Du meinc Giiic, it has flies 
 in it!"
 
 Heart s Dearest 223 
 
 " Surely not flies in winter? " 
 
 " Crumbs and black lumps that might as 
 well be flies," she insisted, seized the inkstand, 
 emptied, washed, and refilled it from her own 
 bottle on a shelf. " Never again write with 
 flics, Tiber. Hast heard?" 
 
 His happy face sought to express contrition, 
 but could only helplessly bask in the joy of 
 her presence. 
 
 "And mark this, Tiber: when thou dost 
 start thy thirty-first enemies over thy paper 
 bridge for thy ne er-do-well Count Benno, 
 must let them approach with two p s, seest? 
 Bridge, too, for some reason or other, is 
 penned in the schools with an c at its last 
 end. Not that a letter more or less matters 
 much. The main thing is no flies and that 
 people know straightway what thou meanst." 
 
 " Adi ! Hast a deal of schooling, Vroni ! " 
 
 " T is true, I Ve my fair share," she admitted 
 serenely. " I went to school till I was quite 
 fifteen. Besides, my father knows a lot, and 
 I take after him. T is for that reason I m 
 not dull. Say, willst have me for thy school 
 master instead of thy Count Benno? Then I 11 
 give thec a copy." 
 
 Roguish, quizzing him, yet so kind withal,
 
 224 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and with her brilliant beauty that bewildered 
 him, she was attuning him to an heroic strain 
 in which not even a copy-book could daunt 
 him. 
 
 " Here a fresh pen and a clean leaf." 
 
 Rather neatly, and quite boldly, from con 
 stant rapid practice in her market-book, she 
 wrote : 
 
 Vcronika Maria Magdalcna Lindl. 
 
 " Secst, Tiber, canst write me fifty Vronis, 
 but never one with thy tongue lolling out thy 
 mouth. Hast heard ? And clutch not thy 
 pen as if twere saving thce from death by 
 drowning. Make not a single smudge. Keep 
 thy ragged letters well up on their legs, for 
 they do fall about most piteously. Mayst also 
 wipe thy pen once in three weeks or so, and 
 sit up brave, and wear a pleasant countenance, 
 and have no fit. Nay, not now, Tiber. Canst 
 hand it to me any time within ten years." 
 
 "I 11 do it for thee, Vroni. I will remem 
 ber me of every word." 
 
 " What s thy own name ? " 
 
 He told her. 
 
 "So. Tiber Gregor Johannes Merold. Hast 
 that too rarely fine, and with a quirl beneath 
 like Count Vallade s own."
 
 Heart s Dearest 225 
 
 A strong gleam shot over the man s face as 
 he saw the two names, hers and his, on one 
 page. She closed the copy-book and pushed 
 it carelessly aside. 
 
 "Now read me something, Tiber. Will 
 see how much of that they flogged in and out 
 thy sleepy head." 
 
 The passage indicated at random in the 
 newspaper, she thrust into his hands, filled 
 him with choking wretchedness. He careered 
 wildly through it, stopped to take breath in 
 the middle of the long words, and gulped 
 down the short ones whole. 
 
 " Halt, Tiber, halt ! Hand me the paper. 
 I mark but precious little sense therein." 
 
 " I, none," he groaned. 
 
 " Silver gold currency ! " she ran her 
 eye sagaciously over the solid column a 
 leader. "Ha, tis not worth the gabble. 
 The chief thing is to have one or the other. 
 Either is good enough for me. But thou, 
 Tiber, art for sure a terrible flounderer. Save 
 the black Anastasia, I never heard thy like." 
 
 " My tongue was ever heavy." 
 
 " T is not thy tongue alone," she retorted 
 sharply. " T is what lies behind. Dost not 
 understand, Tiber. A man should under- 
 15
 
 226 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 stand. My father understands all things." 
 She shook her head with serious disapproval. 
 
 "Would I were like him," Tiber said 
 gently, a shade of sadness in his trusty eyes. 
 
 "Fret not thyself, good Tiber," she ex 
 claimed, with a quick, kind smile. "So that 
 thou standest straight, with a brave face for 
 all men, the learning matters little. Even I, 
 myself, have small concern for newspapers, 
 save for the market-lists, which are good read 
 ing. But t is the butler who can tell all 
 the world s news, and many a time, a great 
 opinion." 
 
 " Tis a pretty gift," returned Tiber, with 
 a powerful pang of envy. 
 
 "And figures, Tiber?" she asked suddenly. 
 " How standest thou to thy sums? " 
 
 "Awful !" he groaned. " Hast now, Vroni, 
 the worst of me ! " 
 
 "A man needs must be sharp at ciphering." 
 
 " Count Benno chides that I do cheat myself, 
 not him." 
 
 " Shouldst cheat neither thyself, nor thy 
 count," warned his stern pedagogue. "What 
 thinkst thou would become of me, could I 
 not reckon faster than the market wives who 
 seek to trip me ? "
 
 Heart s Dearest 227 
 
 " T is a thing, somehow, I never could beat 
 into my pate," he said despondently. 
 
 Once more she flashed at him her warm 
 smile of consolation. 
 
 "Never thou mind, Tiber. Art orderly, 
 and I like thee. Yet were I thou, I d learn 
 to add my columns straight. That such a 
 man should know." 
 
 Ceaselessly in and out flew her hands. Her 
 glance wandered fitfully around the room. 
 
 With a little laugh she remarked : 
 
 " Dost comb thy hair straight upwards like 
 a cock. Maybe t is why thou sometimes 
 lookst afraid." 
 
 "Maybe." 
 
 " A man should never be affrighted, Tiber. " 
 
 "Nay, Vroni, nay. T is quite true. He 
 should not." 
 
 " There be some, indeed, that make them 
 selves too bold," she admitted, half reluc 
 tantly, and flushed slightly. "Yet," thinking 
 of Melchior, "I like not frightened men," she 
 added with a frown. 
 
 Tiber listened, intent and motionless. 
 
 "Men folk are little to my taste," she con 
 tinued, with some asperity, "being mostly 
 either craven things, or saucy and shiny-eyed
 
 228 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 except," she smiled again, and broke out 
 radiantly, " my father. Seest, Tiber, my 
 father has a look not Count Vallade has 
 the like! Nor can the young counts measure 
 with him any day. Not Herr Eck Flemming, 
 though he is fairly well to look upon. Not " 
 
 she hesitated, colored, and added, " not 
 any man, though with fine clothes and friendly 
 ways, and glad to see one when none else 
 cares nay, none has my father s look. None 
 is so dear." 
 
 Tiber, leaning forward, watched her great 
 loveliness, his dumbness struggling for ex 
 pression; yet he knew too well words were 
 not for such as he. His pale top-knot and 
 linty eyelashes caught the light. She met 
 his serious, manly gaze, the steadfastness of 
 which she instinctively recognized, in spite 
 of his peculiarities; and after a little pause, 
 she asked kindly: 
 
 "What thinkst thou to begin after thy time 
 of service ? Hast nearly finished, eh ? Willst 
 go back to thy mother and the farm ? " 
 
 He smiled for pleasure that she spoke of 
 his mother. 
 
 " Nay, not so soon. Am little needed 
 there."
 
 Heart s Dearest 229 
 
 "Willst surely not remain in thy Count 
 Benno s service?" 
 
 " T is not agreed upon, but talked of many 
 a time. He fain would keep me." 
 
 "Nay, Tiber," she protested, "take it not 
 ill, I know t is not my business. But if 
 before I jested somewhat and did jeer thee, 
 now I talk sense. Stay not too long with thy 
 Count Benno. The life s too idle for an 
 honest man. That much I see with my own 
 eyes every day. Now thou art a soldier, hast 
 enough work. But later, wert thou but his 
 valet, thou wouldst loll too much upon thy 
 lazy bones, and ape thy master, like the rest 
 of them. Nay, Tiber, truly I like thee better 
 as thou art." 
 
 " Hast reason, Vroni, and speakest sense 
 like a man. T is not my wish to stay, yet 
 one keeps sometimes what one has, rather 
 than seek new things too long." 
 
 " T is naught," she replied, with a peremp 
 tory wave of a knitting needle. 
 
 That quiet room, and only he and the 
 Madel ; they two beneath one lamp ; she knit 
 ting swiftly with her brown wool and big 
 white needles, meanwhile being lovely all for 
 him, dull, sleepy-headed Tiber; for him so
 
 230 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 merry, kind, wise, winsome, and enchanting; 
 this was more happiness than he had ever 
 known, almost more than he could bear. 
 
 The cuckoo clock ticked noisily. Vroni s 
 light click-click tapped accompaniment. 
 Tiber, his eyes devouring her, breathed deep. 
 His mental machinery moved somewhat pon 
 derously, and of this fact none was so well 
 aware as he. But he felt he could in time 
 say to Vroni alone, all on his heart, the dumb, 
 slow thoughts, he had never expressed, - 
 thoughts indeed, of which he was unconscious 
 until she called them into being. But one 
 straight thing he wanted first to say, and 
 dared not. He had known it long, yet never 
 had a chance to speak, believed, too, he must 
 be silent always with his full heart. But 
 this night had brought them nearer. It was 
 friendly in the still room and intimate to chat 
 of family, home, and one s life-work. Could 
 he but start his heavy tongue, he d have a 
 world to say to her but of all this he had 
 achieved not one syllable, when suddenly 
 Count Benno s bell rang.
 
 Heart s Dearest 231 
 
 XII 
 
 FOR the unceasing festivities inevitable be 
 neath the Vallade roof in those months, 
 because a charming child was about to be 
 devoured by an ogre, Vroni worked like a 
 hero. She composed exquisite dinners, and 
 lived up to her traditions. The more impor 
 tant the occasion, the more calm and master 
 ful was she. Countess Vallade declared the 
 girl was worth her weight in gold, a genius, 
 nothing less. Moreover, the lady, revoking 
 crystallized methods, issued a mandate to her 
 corps of domestics to presume to place no 
 straw of offence in Vroni s way. They one 
 and all might go auf Nimmenvicdcrschcn, pro 
 vided she remained. She took no shade of 
 advantage of the augmented strength of her 
 position, but quietly pursued the old lines 
 dictated by her own sense of justice and 
 mother wit. Still the novel distinction left 
 her stranded rather higher in loneliness than
 
 232 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 before. Uneasy is the head that wears any 
 sort of crown. 
 
 During the week she desired only her work. 
 She rejoiced in it, and in the confidence and 
 respect which her ability commanded. In 
 her province she perceived no drudgery. Her 
 varied occupations appealed to her ambition, 
 her enthusiasm, her artistic sense; never 
 became hackneyed, but presented the rich 
 charm of the ever-new and unrevealed, for 
 she, too, like her master, "created." 
 
 But she was a young thing and ardent. As 
 she became habituated to the routine of the 
 house, and to the group for the most part of 
 staid elderly servants who went their stereo 
 typed way, her pleasure-loving nature ruth 
 lessly demanded something more, something 
 which she was able to formalize only as "a 
 happy Sunday." Even for such as she, it 
 was hardly an extravagant claim upon the 
 world s fund of pleasure; for what she liter 
 ally meant was merely a little entertainment, 
 according to the simple customs of her land 
 and station, between the hours of four and 
 ten at night, every fourteen days. She clung 
 obstinately to her instinct of family, and to 
 that broken reed Melchior, and started forth
 
 Heart s Dearest 233 
 
 every free day with blithest hope, as if a 
 miracle would intervene to silence Jakobine s 
 nagging. But the best that ever happened, 
 was that in a crowd one became sometimes 
 oblivious of her. 
 
 Vroni could have wept aloud with chagrin 
 on the afternoon she for the first time found 
 her brother s door aggressively locked. In 
 credulous, she knocked and called, but in vain. 
 
 " It is because I told Jakobine I doted on a 
 military band," she reflected ruefully. "Oh, 
 why did I say it ! " 
 
 Melchior s house was one of a uniform row 
 of palace-servants cottages in a paved quad 
 rangle, with a fountain in the centre. The 
 houses looked deserted. All was still. 
 
 She stood irresolute. She could not bear to 
 turn away from that rampant inhospitality. 
 
 " Everybody is happy. Everybody is gone 
 somewhere. Mean, mean Jakobine !" 
 
 A brisk step crossed the quiet court. 
 
 " Well, that is bad luck ! " exclaimed an 
 amiable voice over her shoulder. " Here let 
 me try," and Vincenz pounded the door 
 valiantly with his walking-stick. 
 
 They waited, listening, and staring in each 
 other s eyes.
 
 234 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " T is no use," she said disconsolately. 
 "They ve gone without me." 
 
 "Were you late?" he inquired with sym 
 pathy. 
 
 " Late ! " she retorted vehemently. " I was 
 here on the stroke of the clock. T is Jako- 
 bine s handiwork ! " 
 
 "Jakobine should be well trounced for it." 
 
 "Oh," she returned quickly, with a frown, 
 "speak rather of what concerns you." 
 
 "Vincenz, my boy, go slow!" he said to 
 himself. 
 
 "I understood you to remark 
 
 She checked him, not without dignity: 
 
 "That is quite different. Even if my 
 tongue be quick, a stranger need not notice 
 it. Jakobine is my brother s wife hateful 
 though she be, and hard of heart on this fine 
 Sunday ! But what is that to you ? Why do 
 you linger here? " 
 
 He laughed pleasantly. 
 
 "Come, I like that. I happened to be pass 
 ing. I have friends living over there," with 
 a conveniently large gesture. "I stopped an 
 instant to see if I could help you. It seemed 
 a shame, a young maid should be left all 
 alone, and the door locked flat against her."
 
 Heart s Dearest 235 
 
 Vroni drew a long breath, and squeezing 
 back two tears, smouldered like a grieved 
 child. 
 
 " And t is the Grenadier Band ! " she sighed. 
 She stood on the door-stone, a little above 
 him, was arrayed in her best, which was neat, 
 dark, and plain, not without distinct refine 
 ment. The man watched her eagerly. 
 
 " And what, if I may ask, are you going to 
 do now ? " 
 
 " Nothing, " she replied mournfully. " Noth 
 ing at all." 
 
 " I think that is quite too bad." 
 
 She nodded in sad acquiescence, and pitied 
 herself vastly. 
 
 " T is bad, indeed." 
 
 " Now what if you and I should take a little 
 quiet walk together? " he suggested, in a 
 friendly and matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 "I did think of that myself," she returned 
 seriously; "but then you see we do not know 
 each other, and my father would not think it 
 seemly." 
 
 " Ah you have known me months and 
 months." 
 
 " In a round-the-corner sort of way. T is 
 no straight acquaintanceship. "
 
 236 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 "Ah after all the shoe-leather I ve worn 
 out in following you." 
 
 " Twas your own foolishtry, " she retorted 
 stoutly. " Nobody asked you. " 
 
 "Answer me this. Have I been patient? 
 Have I respected your wish ? Have I obeyed 
 your least word ? " 
 
 "Tis true." 
 
 They had strolled slowly half across the 
 quadrangle, and stood involuntarily by the 
 fountain. 
 
 "If I knew what to do with myself," he 
 remarked, with amiable ingenuousness. " I 
 am quite alone, too. It is odd enough, but 
 my friends also have left me in the lurch." 
 
 " T is a great shame," she cried warmly. 
 
 "Yes, isn t it? So I merely thought, both 
 being in the same boat, it would be reason 
 able to take a little outing together." 
 
 "Truly, it sounds reasonable," sighed 
 Vroni. 
 
 " Particularly as I am acquainted with your 
 brother." 
 
 "Oh, are you ?" she smiled, radiant. 
 
 "And it seemed to me we might look him 
 up follow after, don t you know? Suppose 
 we should just go up to the Hunter s Horn
 
 Heart s Dearest 237 
 
 to hear the Grenadier Band, and find him? 
 What could be more simple than that ? " 
 
 She clasped her hands in delight. 
 
 "And surprise Frau Jakobine," he sug 
 gested farther. 
 
 " Sapristi ! T would but serve her right. " 
 
 Why not, instead of going home to bewail 
 her lot, do what would be really clever and 
 desirable, what, in fact, might be called her 
 plain duty, assert, for once, her indepen 
 dence, and enjoy herself to the top of her 
 bent, in despite of Jakobine. Vroni regarded 
 the man s friendly face. He sat on the low 
 moulding of the fountain, tapped his boot 
 with his cane, and kept his alert eyes fixed on 
 hers. 
 
 "I don t know what I m waiting for," she 
 said slowly. For still something seemed 
 distinctly to restrain her word of assent, and 
 bid her to forego this step. 
 
 He got up. 
 
 "I 11 not urge you. Why should you go 
 unwillingly. Twas not to trouble you that 
 I spoke. I will go to the Horn myself, for 
 the music will be great. If I spy your 
 brother and his wife, I 11 say I left you here. 
 So good-by, and a pleasant evening to you."
 
 238 Di onysms the Weaver s 
 
 He took off his hat, and turned away slowly. 
 
 Vroni saw the staring row of little empty 
 houses; she saw the broad blue sky, and felt 
 the fresh air on her cheek. 
 
 "Wait," she cried, "I 11 just go along a 
 bit." 
 
 Out of the town and up a long hill, the two 
 walked together. It was the last of February, 
 and spring coming on apace. Vroni laughed, 
 glowed, and sparkled. Vincenz was careful 
 to tell her only innocuous tales of his wide 
 wanderings, such as he deemed would not 
 alarm or vex her, for he had wit enough to 
 perceive she was not as many he had known 
 and knew. They spoke, too, of themselves, 
 how persistently he had haunted her path. 
 Once he had darted from behind a statue of 
 a mounted king, and startled her. They 
 laughed at the remembrance. Then the day 
 he stood at the flower booth. Then that clay 
 in the rain. And when a nursery-maid upset 
 her perambulator, and the morning the dra 
 goons rode past. Already a host of droll and 
 familiar reminiscences. 
 
 In the large, brilliantly-lighted pavilion on 
 the hill, she sat in a corner, slowly sipped 
 her beer, and looked blissfully about upon
 
 Heart s Dearest 239 
 
 hundreds of couples, husbands and wives, 
 brothers and sisters, sweethearts, at many 
 tables, children too. Nobody minded her and 
 Berg. She wondered she had hesitated an 
 instant, it was all so simple and delightful. 
 The tone was gently gay; faces were kind, 
 voices happy. This was what she had craved. 
 It was life. Her eyes grew starry ; her cheeks 
 and lips glowed like rich flowers; she gave 
 Vincenz friendly and grateful glances. 
 
 " Tis strange, I spy not my Melchior and 
 his Jakobine. " 
 
 " Tis strange, indeed," agreed the man, 
 who had seen them making for quite a differ 
 ent quarter. 
 
 " Would they could see me now ! Would 
 they d walk in !" 
 
 Vincenz made a queer grimace. 
 
 "I wish that less." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Well I d rather have you all to myself. " 
 
 She gave him a shrewd glance. 
 
 " Hm ! I believe you know my brother not 
 at all." 
 
 " I may not know him very well. I met 
 him once in a crowd of men, you see. Prob 
 ably he has forgotten me."
 
 240 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 "Doubtless," she returned dryly, adding, 
 after a few moments, gravely: " T is a poor 
 thing to tell fibs. As for me, I cannot stom 
 ach them. Mind that if you want more than 
 a round-the-corner acquaintanceship with me." 
 
 "Never fear. T is my habit to speak by 
 the book. A man, a word, say I." 
 
 "How beautiful tis here," she exulted, 
 "and how they ll be astonished!" 
 
 "Do you think you d better tell them?" 
 he asked quite tranquilly. 
 
 She looked apprehensively at him. 
 
 "Perhaps I 11 not tell them just yet, for I 
 do fear me Jakobine would never let me come 
 again." 
 
 " Confound Jakobine ! " he remarked heart 
 ily, and Vroni smiled. 
 
 While she sat thrilling and throbbing with 
 the music, which now strangely softened her 
 bright face as with a veil of tender and half 
 regretful memories, now swept her soul toward 
 unimagined realms of recklessness, far away 
 on the Rough Alp in the little cottage by the 
 crag, Dionysius the weaver lay dying, his 
 last thought, unutterable love for his Madel. 
 
 His children, or most of them at least,
 
 Heart s Dearest 241 
 
 gathered at the homestead for the funeral, 
 Vroni frantic with sorrow. But something 
 strange was sent to steady her, and give her 
 strength to endure. Agathe s great strength 
 and rude health succumbed like a blasted oak. 
 Helpless and gentle, she lay ill; and, the 
 others leaving, except Sebastian, who stayed 
 to regulate affairs, Vroni tended her. In a 
 couple of weeks she, too, passed away. All 
 that she said of the weaver was her meek, 
 bewildered eyes gazing at his loom the oft- 
 repeated, apologetic murmur: 
 
 "Seest, Vroni, I was used to him." 
 "Truly, mother," the heartbroken girl 
 would answer, as if soothing a child, "wast 
 used to him." 
 
 So Agathe died, of a cold and strain the 
 neighbors said; and Sebastian gave his half- 
 stunned little sister much excellent advice, 
 and returned to his vegetables and devotions. 
 She, with her poignant heart-ache for the 
 weaver, and most pitiful in her remembrance 
 of the tempestuous mother, so softened in 
 those last days, took with her some recently 
 spun rolls of fine linen, marked For Vroni, and 
 promptly resumed her duties in the Vallade 
 house. Simple folk waste little time upon 
 16
 
 242 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 the luxury of prolonged and visible mourning. 
 Work they have always with them. 
 
 In her vast homesickness and longing, as 
 she came from ineffectual attempts at inter 
 course with Melchior and Jakobine back to 
 the stately house where none cared for her 
 self, but only for her skilled productions; 
 where no older and more experienced woman 
 sought to discover her human needs, to com 
 fort and sustain her young, sad heart ; where 
 Comtesse Nclka, it is true, murmured a few 
 gentle, pitying words to her upon her return, 
 but never again, after that first delightful 
 essay, was permitted to find time to cheer 
 herself and a sister-girl with kind companion 
 ship and sympathy, Vincenz Berg never lost 
 an opportunity to meet her, was always near 
 at hand, friendly, and solicitous. 
 
 In her extravagant moods he suited her 
 well. At other times she would turn upon 
 him with "sudden, undefined mistrust; for he 
 had ways and words that jarred upon her 
 when he was off his guard. For her deeper 
 feelings, the strength of her affection for her 
 dead father and her mountain home, she per 
 ceived instinctively Vincenz had no compre 
 hension ; and after one or two attempts, when
 
 Heart s Dearest 243 
 
 she looked at him strangely as if across a 
 chasm, she banished him completely from 
 that sanctuary. 
 
 But he offered certain compensations for 
 his hollowness and flippancy. He was adroit, 
 experienced, and full of worldly tact. He 
 made things kindly for her when the world 
 was gloomy. He comforted her at first, with 
 his devoted presence, and, as time went on, 
 cheered her with sunny and amiable non 
 sense. Being in love with her, he appeared 
 at his best, and at his worst was no monster 
 of iniquity, but merely a careless young fel 
 low of the baser sort. He made love to 
 her with gentleness, not too precipitately, and 
 she was young, and alone but for him. 
 
 Fearing Jakobine s interference, Vroni met 
 him clandestinely. She gradually ceased her 
 regular visits at Melchior s, and her eager 
 ness to go about with them cooled visibly. 
 Jakobine s lovelessness palled in truth upon 
 the young girl, after Vincenz s soft and un 
 failing devotion. 
 
 On a certain Sunday, Jakobine sent her a 
 message, bidding her not to call for them as 
 agreed, for they were invited by old friends. 
 Vroni, in the singularly effervescent mood
 
 244 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 into which recovery from the weaver s be 
 queathed headache was apt to plunge her, a 
 mood of physical languor and gayest irrespon 
 sibility, started out with Vincenz. 
 
 It was June weather. In the perfumed 
 breath of earth, of fields and woods, where 
 they strayed, in the scent of myriad roses, 
 laburnum, and acacia drooping rich with sweet 
 ness over high garden walls, in the love- 
 glances, song, and happy laughter of scores of 
 youths and maids, merry in groups, or steal 
 ing off by twos to whisper together in the 
 twilight, was a vast and subtle intoxication. 
 That day they wandered far. 
 
 While those below the salt were thus enact 
 ing their humble destinies, Eck Flemming 
 had long since sailed away, as secretary to his 
 scientific and exploring expedition; Nelka 
 von Vallade was engaged to be married to 
 Baron Frege; and for their lives neither of 
 the two could have told how it all came about. 
 
 Nothing whatever of an agitated nature 
 transpired, not even a little wee promise of 
 eternal fidelity. Countess Vallade took good 
 care to prevent solecisms. The atmosphere 
 was balmy to the last, when "dear Eck was
 
 Heart s Dearest 245 
 
 so unexpectedly whisked away." His party, 
 after long preliminaries, had, it seemed, sud 
 denly determined to set off at an earlier date 
 than that appointed, and Eck was summoned 
 by telegraph to join his chief at Marseilles. 
 
 Dearest Nelka happened to be staying a 
 couple of days with friends in the country, 
 when dear Eck came to make his hurried fare 
 wells. He had most unfortunately but a few 
 hours in town, for his young orphan sisters 
 were naturally entitled to his last moments. 
 Besides, the business arrangements dear Eck 
 so nobly made for them demanded some little 
 time. Eck was a noble fellow, and nobility 
 of sentiment and deed always, the countess 
 stated as her firm belief, carried within itself 
 its sure reward. Dearest Nelka would be 
 quite inconsolable, for Eck was as dear to 
 her as her brothers. 
 
 The count embraced him affectionately but 
 with a distrait air, and, waiving acknowledg 
 ments of influence and protection, told him 
 his future was now assured. 
 
 "With your ability and energy don t 
 speak of it, my dear boy, not worth mention 
 ing a brilliant career, and one after your 
 own heart. Ah, my dear boy, if I were
 
 246 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 young again and in your shoes ! Africa is 
 the place for a man to-day." 
 
 He then rang a bell, gave some papers and 
 orders to the man who answered it, fum 
 bled with a pile of documents, ran his hand 
 brusquely through his hair, and, with a some 
 what wandering eye, added: 
 
 " I congratulate you, my dear boy, I con 
 gratulate you, upon my word." 
 
 Although the moment seemed but too plainly 
 to invite a prompt exit rather than confi 
 dences, Flemming had, he believed, no choice 
 but to avail himself as best he might of its 
 unpropitiousness. As he opened his mouth 
 to ask the very fidgety gentleman for his 
 daughter, in clanked Benno, "Arm d, say 
 you? Arm d, my lord!" from the expres 
 sion of whose face as well as his father s, 
 presumably by appointment. Benno drawled 
 Africa was "pyramidal;" Eck "colossal 
 lucky " and a " plicnomcnal good fellow"; 
 and love s young dream was crowded out. 
 
 Flemming went to his hotel, and wrote a 
 letter to Comtesse Nelka. It was long, warm, 
 straightforward, manly, and resolute. It dis 
 played, although a love-letter, and written 
 in desperate haste by a soldier of fortune, a
 
 Heart s Dearest 247 
 
 praiseworthy degree of common sense; like 
 the heart which inspired it, was torn and 
 baffled by the grief of so inadequate parting, 
 yet rang with a brave strain of comfort and 
 protection that would have endued Nelka with 
 joyous strength to wait and hope. In short, 
 it was a very good letter, but it went astray, 
 -letters, like emotions, sometimes do even 
 in the best of families. 
 
 Had Nelka been opposed or provoked to 
 demonstration, she might have discovered her 
 latent power. But everybody was devoted to 
 her; she was petted, caressed, adored. Her 
 three brothers could hardly have been more 
 tender to a lady-love. Many nights for many 
 weeks she wept herself to sleep because Eck 
 had gone off without a word, and she thought 
 of him continually as was her habit for years. 
 They had always cared for each other; that 
 was a matter of course, and they had said it, 
 too, in words. But it grew with time more 
 and more evident that what her mother called 
 "the immeasurable ambition of youth" had 
 drifted him away from his little friend and 
 sweetheart. 
 
 Every one spoke of him with frank affec 
 tion. None sought to spare her feelings, or
 
 248 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 seemed, indeed, to assume that she had any 
 sensitiveness concerning him. She fell in 
 with their method, and gave no sign, except 
 that she was a little listless. They prophe 
 sied great things of him. Clotilde, who had 
 returned from extensive travels, stated with 
 conviction that Eck would never marry, at 
 least not for years, for he was too clever not 
 to realize a wife would be but an impediment 
 in the high flight he contemplated. 
 
 Nelka rather liked the splendid stones 
 flashing upon her hand, but grew silent and 
 apathetic in the presence of her elderly lover. 
 Still, she was hurried so adroitly from one 
 thing to another, she really had little time to 
 be consciously miserable. 
 
 Count Waldemar, her favorite brother, 
 whom she saw infrequently, he being sta 
 tioned at a distant garrison, looked rather 
 gravely at her when he first saw her after the 
 engagement. 
 
 "Well, lambkin," he said, "what s all 
 this? Rough on you, eh?" 
 
 "I don t mind much," she replied list 
 lessly, which was true at the moment, for 
 Baron Frege was not near. " See, Waldemar, 
 this is the ring. This tiny butterfly watch
 
 Heart s Dearest 249 
 
 came yesterday. Something or other comes 
 every day." 
 
 He put his arm round her. 
 
 "Nelka dear, never mind those things. I 
 do not understand " 
 
 "What don t you understand, dear Walde- 
 mar? Nelka, my darling, you must hurry a 
 little, or you will be late to dinner. Now, 
 Walclemar ? " 
 
 "I don t like it," he said bluntly. "It s 
 abominable, you know ! " 
 
 "You see for yourself she is happy." 
 
 "She is a baby. She has no conception 
 what the fellow is. I don t like it, nor does 
 Knod. We cannot get our bearings. Was 
 there no trouble when Eck left?" 
 
 "None, whatever," replied the countess, 
 blandly. 
 
 "It is deuced queer. I m awfully sorry I 
 did not see him at the last. I did my best, 
 but could not get off in time I could have 
 sworn " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It is no use," he broke out. "You know 
 we lieutenants don t believe in much, but we 
 believe in love," and restlessly paced the 
 room.
 
 250 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 "My dear Waldemar," returned the coun 
 tess, cool and clear. " Permit me to inquire 
 upon what Nelka and Eck Flemming would 
 have lived? Besides, so far as I know, he 
 said nothing explicit to her. Would you have 
 me fling her at him ? " 
 
 He stared at her questioningly. 
 
 "I think you men frequently make radical 
 mistakes in your premises. Love, in its 
 legitimate place, of course, is an excellent 
 thing; but not all women feel as intensely as 
 you may imagine. Not every girl is a poten 
 tial volcano. Nelka has a sweet, affectionate, 
 malleable disposition, not at all sensational. 
 In our family, on either side, I may say, we 
 have never, happily, produced Brunhildas. I 
 do not doubt she will be very happy and 
 content." 
 
 " With that old rake ! " 
 
 " A man of the world, a man, I concede, of 
 large experience but leading at present a 
 most exemplary life." 
 
 "The devil he does," muttered Waldemar. 
 
 " Then freshness and innocence have a mar 
 vellous influence." 
 
 "Swindle," he murmured, shaking his head. 
 
 " At all events," she added, in atone that
 
 Heart s Dearest 251 
 
 meant business, " may T beg you not to inter 
 fere? You see for yourself, Nelka is in brill 
 iant health and spirits. Ah, if you lieutenants 
 who believe in love," tapping him playfully 
 on the cheek, " were a little less self-indulgent, 
 and made less heavy demands upon your fam 
 ilies ! The sad truth is, no young men need 
 an inexhaustibly rich brother-in-law more 
 than you, Benno, and Knod. Particularly 
 Benno. But I suppose you, too, have not 
 come home without a purpose, eh? Well, 
 then, don t interfere. The beautiful sister 
 of three young men living at your pace, can 
 hardly enact an African idyl. What if she 
 also were always draining your poor father? 
 Do you happen to know what her absolutely 
 indispensable toilettes cost a year? No, no. 
 Some things are preposterous from the start. 
 All is for the best, and I am thankful matters 
 have gone off so pleasantly. " 
 
 "I cannot help it, it s a beastly shame," 
 muttered Waldemar, gnawing his moustache; 
 but he did not interfere, and when certain 
 revelations, and a strong appeal, reached him 
 from Africa, it was, indeed, too late.
 
 252 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 XIII 
 
 IT was, Countess Vallade declared, a boulcver- 
 sement as disastrous as unapprehended, and, 
 just before the wedding, annoying beyond ex 
 pression. Could Nelka but have been per 
 suaded to consent to an earlier day than the 
 seventh of December; but in that one respect 
 she had been inexorable. When they urged 
 her, she emerged from her gentle passivity and 
 became actually wild, even threatening to run 
 away and hide herself. Clotilde, whose judg 
 ment and influence upon her sister had been 
 most invaluable, advised temporizing still. 
 Clotilde suspected Nelka might be waiting for 
 something, a day, an anniversary perhaps, 
 and what it might bring. Clotilde dimly re 
 called some fancy of the sort in her own senti 
 mental days. Whatever it brought was laid 
 with similar objects, unopened of course; 
 there were some things a wellbrcd woman 
 never could stoop to do, and tied with a blue 
 ribbon in the countess s secret drawer.
 
 Heart s Dearest 2,53 
 
 So month after month they had humored 
 the child, inconvenient, in fact precarious 
 as the situation was, and now in this most 
 inopportune moment Countess Vallade had 
 to discharge Vroni forthwith. Not only in 
 the interests of respectability and morality 
 must she go, but also on account of dearest 
 Nelka, who had a curious weakness for the girl. 
 Nelka was in an unaccountable mood as her 
 wedding day approached. She must not be 
 farther excited or disturbed. She ought not 
 to be informed of the deplorable circumstance. 
 Vroni was perfection in her department. The 
 countess even contemplated re-engaging her 
 later, provided she reformed and became 
 steady ; but for the present one had unfortu 
 nately no choice. Decency demanded the sac 
 rifice, and dearest Nelka must be screened. 
 
 But on the evening Vroni was to leave the 
 house, Comtesse Nelka, in ivory white silk and 
 on her fair throat five rows of pearls, the gift 
 of Baron Frege, rushed into the kitchen and 
 after her a startled valet with a great white-fur- 
 lined cape. 
 
 "Where is she? I will see her! " she said 
 peremptorily, and Vroni came. 
 
 " I always liked you, you know, Vroni," ex-
 
 254 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 claimed the comtesse excitedly, stretching out 
 her bare white arms, " and I always shall." 
 
 The two girls looked an instant straight in 
 each other s eyes. One face was no paler 
 than the other. Nelka gave a little sob. At 
 this Vroni shivered, seized the extended hands, 
 and kissed them many times with quick hot 
 kisses, but spoke no word. 
 
 Next to Tiber, she had dreaded seeing 
 Nelka. Vroni thought she could face all the 
 world better than Tiber s honest eyes. It 
 was long before she saw them again. 
 
 "You should not take it so to heart, dear 
 child," the countess said late that night to 
 Nelka, sobbing in her bed. " You may believe 
 me when I assure you the lower classes have 
 not our power of keen suffering. Less sensi 
 tively organized, they do not feel as we do. 
 I ve seen them bury their children, shed no 
 tear, and go to work. It is terribly shocking, 
 Vroni s case, and heartless enough, just after 
 her parents death. You see it is as I say, 
 they are destitute of feeling. Don t cry so, 
 dear." 
 
 But Nelka sobbed on inconsolable for 
 whom, for what, and whether all for Vroni, 
 she did not say.
 
 Heart s Dearest 255 
 
 Jakobine was in no respect surprised. Had 
 she not from the first perceived Vroni s utter 
 want of principle ? In fact, the woman s 
 satisfaction in having her prognostications so 
 incontrovertibly justified seemed somewhat 
 greater than even her condemnation of the 
 culprit. 
 
 Melchior was cut to the heart, wounded 
 in his sham respectability as well as in his 
 honest family pride, and in his affections ; 
 for, in his feeble way, he was fond of his young 
 sister. His affection, it is true, possessed the 
 stamina of limp whalebone, and invariably col 
 lapsed when needed ; still it was a species of 
 human attachment, and it suffered because of 
 Vroni s mischance. 
 
 He had an interview with Vincenz, and, 
 Jakobine not being present, said what he 
 ought, and appeared very like a man. Berg, 
 all in all, made no bad impression. He ex 
 pressed undying affection for Vroni, and the 
 firm intention of marrying her the first 
 moment circumstances, the obstructive force 
 of which he more or less vaguely explained, 
 would permit. It seemed to Melchior, after 
 he had partially recovered from his first 
 shock, that if his club associates should hear
 
 256 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 nothing of it, and happily not every one knew 
 he had a sister, and if Sebastian and Sister 
 Corona were not informed, at all events, not 
 immediately, for they would certainly hold him 
 responsible, the matter, bad as it was, might be 
 patched and smoothed over. Though Berg 
 hinted at temporary embarrassment, he was 
 a high-class workman and earned handsomely. 
 After some years nobody would suspect there 
 had been the slightest irregularity. Melchior 
 had attained to these more mellow views when 
 he went to see Vroni in the room she had 
 rented upon leaving the Vallades. 
 
 " Take a chair, brother," she said, sat down 
 herself, and watched him. 
 
 " I never expected to see this day," he 
 began laboriously. 
 
 "Now, Melchior," she returned, her tone 
 hard and quiet, " I know all thou wouldst say, 
 and have no mind to hear it. Suppose thou 
 holdest thy peace." 
 
 He hesitated before whimpering: 
 
 "I had not hoped to find thee unrepentant, 
 Vroni." 
 
 " Am no sort that howls in full church to 
 waken pity ! " she retorted defiantly. 
 
 " Jakobine says "
 
 Heart s Dearest 257 
 
 " That least of all things will I hear, not 
 being of an over-patient nature." 
 
 Once or twice he tried to speak. 
 
 She interrupted : 
 
 " Canst tell me naught. Canst change 
 naught. Waste not thy words. Leave me 
 to go my way." 
 
 He rose at length and looked at her help 
 lessly, such affection as he had working in his 
 face. 
 
 " I feel like death about thee, Vroni," he 
 said quite simply. " Wast such a merry little 
 maid at home." 
 
 She turned pale. 
 
 "And father " 
 
 She left him standing, ran swiftly into the 
 next room, and locked the door. 
 
 Vroni had been fortunate enough to find 
 lodgings with a kindly woman, and occasional 
 work at a pastry-cook s in the vicinity. Her 
 evenings were spent usually at some place 
 of amusement with Vincenz. She seemed 
 utterly reckless, and greedy for excitement. 
 The society of coarse and boisterous men and 
 women, and loud gay music that drowned 
 reminiscence, best suited her mood ; for only 
 amid rollicking noise and mad laughter could 
 17
 
 258 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 she for brief intervals cease to see the pale 
 stern face of Dionysius the weaver, always 
 turned away, never the smile of content, and 
 the beautiful eyes looking down in love upon 
 her, as when she used to walk hand in hand 
 with him through the cornfields. AcJi Gott! 
 Were she but back again a little child in the 
 old days ; wild, naughty, and rebellious, to be 
 regarded severely, sent supperless to bed, 
 chastised with the big pewter spoon, but for 
 given at last and loved again. Because she 
 could not bear such thoughts, or the weaver s 
 averted face, she plunged deeper into the 
 mire. 
 
 Long before her child was born she had 
 fathomed Vincenz s shallowncss and insin 
 cerity. This was her worst punishment. Yet 
 being affectionate, and used to him and his 
 pleasant plausible ways, looking forward too 
 to a whole long life with him, she made the 
 best of him, as women will, and sought to 
 believe in him even \vhen she knew him to be 
 smoothly deceiving her, thereby becoming 
 herself less honest in her effort to live down 
 to his level. 
 
 More than a year had passed and still they 
 were not married. Vinccnz s reasons varied
 
 Heart s Dearest 259 
 
 with the amount of liquor he drank, which was 
 sometimes excessive; yet in no mood, how 
 ever unstable in other respects, was he other 
 wise than amiable and devoted to her. Her 
 baby daughter she was fond of, but not im 
 measurably. She tended it without rapture, 
 wistfully, finding in it no joy or consolation. 
 Maternal love dawns slowly in some hearts, 
 popular belief to the contrary notwithstand 
 ing. 
 
 It was a strange and miserable time. Vin- 
 cenz was sinking lower and lower in her esti 
 mation she herself, alas, also. Sometimes 
 she longed to cut those wretched years of 
 degradation out of her life, as one amputates 
 a diseased limb, and cleanse herself in heal 
 ing waters. But for the most part she but 
 lived on day by day, appearing in no re 
 spect to quarrel with her destiny. Whatever 
 her private meditations, no face was gayer 
 than hers at the jovial suppers they frequented, 
 no tongue more ready and droll. They went 
 often to theatres too, and heard much music, 
 which both loved. 
 
 Yet more and more she was withdrawing 
 into an inner life remote from Vincenz. Of 
 her finer self he had no appreciation, and she
 
 260 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 long since had ceased to reveal it to him. Of 
 her father she never spoke ; but night and day 
 his face, still unreconciled, pursued her. She 
 would plead with him by the hour, entreat, 
 explain piteously how, step by step, it had all 
 come about, beg him to see how she, at heart, 
 loathed her life. Not once had he relented. 
 Melchior she saw no more, except in the dis 
 tance, towering most English on the box. 
 Once she sprang quickly into a shop to avoid 
 meeting Tiber, striding along in a postman s 
 uniform, his tow-head well up, his face placid 
 and dutiful. 
 
 Little Anita she now sent to the care of her 
 sister Marie and Tante Ursula, since a second 
 child was imminent. Vincenz, after frequent 
 and too copiously explained absences, had at 
 last taken the necessary steps toward marriage. 
 Vroni, silent, listless, in a strangely bitter 
 mood, listened one evening to his complacent 
 flippant talk of the banns published at the 
 Rathhaus, and of the civil and religious cere 
 monies to take place in four days. 
 
 " For the child s sake, I fain would have it 
 since t is better for it to be born in wedlock," 
 was her singular remark. 
 
 "For naught else, Vroni?" he demanded
 
 Heart s Dearest 261 
 
 with the complacent air of one who knows the 
 worth of what he bestows. 
 
 " Nay, I know not." 
 
 " Wouldst tease me," he said with a smile. 
 
 She shook her head gravely, and after some 
 moments said : - 
 
 " Knowst I did never question thee or seek 
 to hurry thy plans." 
 
 "True, Vroni. There was never one like 
 thee for not pestering a man." 
 
 " Seest, Vincenz, my Nita has no father. 
 Nor will my poor baby soon to come have 
 but a scrap of one to cover it since the bless 
 ing of holy Church but barely falls before its 
 birth. I would ask thee now, since we twain 
 are to be man and wife, why hast thou de 
 layed so long? What need hadst thou to do 
 my little ones a wrong? This is of late my 
 thought." 
 
 " Why, Vroni, puttest things strangely, upon 
 my word. Thy little ones ! And since all 
 will so soon be well, why so solemn-eyed ? 
 I scarce see in thee to-night my lightsome 
 maid." 
 
 " I would know, Vincenz." 
 
 " Have I not told thee oft enough? I was 
 but waiting to take proper rooms and live as
 
 262 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 would befit thcc. Besides I have had certain 
 large demands to meet, through no fault of 
 my own, except that my name was on a friend s 
 note. Such things do oft arrive to vex a 
 man." 
 
 "Truly it seems most strange," she said 
 slowly, " since I do earn well, and gladly would 
 have helped thee." 
 
 " Ac/i, Vroni, let us not be gloomy; I meant 
 no harm, and do love thee beyond reason." 
 
 "Willst not speak out fair to me, Vincenz? 
 Trust me, and I 11 stand by thee ; but I breathe 
 ill where lies are in the air," and she brushed 
 her hand with a curious gesture across her face, 
 as if cobwebs were clinging there. 
 
 " Hast a queer mood on thee, but t will 
 pass," Vincenz rejoined indulgently, and chatted 
 of the wedding supper, to which many guests 
 were bidden. Mclchior had promised to honor 
 the occasion with his presence, and even Jako- 
 bine was deliberating. After all a wedding, 
 any wedding, was respectable. 
 
 The next morning, Vroni received an anony 
 mous letter. 
 
 " Surely thou bclievest not such an inven 
 tion?" he cried, blustering, as she showed it 
 him.
 
 Heart s Dearest 263 
 
 " God knows I would fain believe thee for 
 my children s sake " 
 
 " Anonymous letters always lie." 
 
 " Mayhap, for t is a false way to strike one 
 down." 
 
 " Tis some fool jealous of thy pretty looks 
 and minded to make mischief," he protested 
 with a laugh. 
 
 She regarded him in silence with intelligent 
 eyes. She detected the false note in his voice. 
 Suddenly she said: 
 
 " Vincenz, I pray thee, tell me the truth 
 this once." 
 
 " I ve naught to tell thee," he returned sulkily. 
 
 " Trust me, Vincenz," she pleaded. 
 
 " Come now, t is unlike thee, this suspicion, 
 this jealousy." 
 
 " I am not jealous. I want but truth 
 between us. Seest, Vincenz, I will forgive 
 thee whatever it may be, so thou be but an 
 honest man and speakest truth." 
 
 Vincenz had fully recovered his self-posses 
 sion. 
 
 " Hast naught to forgive, my dear, except 
 it be I am a fool about thee." 
 
 Brushing her face with the palms of both 
 hands, she cried passionately:
 
 264 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " Thou makst it so that I cannot breathe ! 
 Knowst me so little after all this time ? How 
 can I live with thee in falsehood? We twain 
 stand almost before God s altar. Vincenz, I 
 pray thee, for my children s sake, give me 
 true speech." 
 
 " Nay, Vroni, calm thyself. Hast never yet 
 made me such a scene," he responded coax 
 ing and laughing a little. " Willst marry me 
 fast enough " his glance resting significantly 
 upon her " I have no fear. Why makst so 
 big strange eyes? But it matters not. I 
 know thou rt not well. Show me thy frock." 
 
 On her bed lay her wedding-dress, the cus 
 tomary black cashmere of girls of her station. 
 Vincenz took from a box he had brought a 
 wreath of waxen myrtle blossoms for her hair 
 and a spray for the throat. 
 
 " Secst? Now shouldst smile a bit on me. 
 Ac/i was ! " he exclaincd lightly in response to 
 her look of pain. " That s nothing. Every 
 body wears it." 
 
 " If I must deck myself, I will wear violets," 
 she answered low, and remembered those few 
 precious ones she used to find beneath the 
 hedge and show with jubilant cries to the 
 weaver at his loom.
 
 Heart s Dearest 265 
 
 " Old women wear violets," laughed Vin- 
 cenz. "Art but a young thing, Vroni and 
 pretty art thou beyond all I ve seen, so that 
 a man has no choice but to love thee." 
 
 " Dost love me for naught else but my 
 looks?" she asked, her gaze fixed upon the 
 myrtle wreath in her hand. 
 
 " Surely such looks as thine are the best 
 reason in the world to love a woman," he 
 replied, and kissed her heartily. 
 
 " He would have me wear myrtle before the 
 altar," she was thinking with sickening disgust. 
 " T is what he is. Myrtle ! " 
 
 She stood at her window and watched him 
 saunter away with a dandy step and whistling 
 a lively street tune. He did not suspect her 
 suffering. Whenever she turned to him with 
 any message from within, they were as far 
 apart as two strangers passing each other with 
 out a glance. They did not belong together, 
 never had belonged together. It was not 
 only that his words were lies. He himself was 
 a lie a pleasant, laughing, wily, hollow lie. 
 
 While she stood still holding in her hands 
 the waxen mockery, a woman, breathless, dis 
 traught, threatening, indeed until she appre 
 hended her rival s hopeless mood, came in
 
 266 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and laid bare Vincenz s life, her own and 
 other lives, all wretched through his baseness, 
 all clamoring for redress and claiming him. 
 
 The woman, who had a pretty though hag 
 gard face, was perhaps four or five and twenty, 
 Vroni saw, and a peasant like herself. 
 
 She heard the whole tale with no word of 
 interruption. In many points it resembled 
 her own experience. 
 
 "Why comst so late? " she asked at length 
 with white stiff lips. 
 
 The girl sobbed: 
 
 " I heard not long ago, but he told me 
 t was not true. I Ic had no thought of mar 
 riage with thcc." 
 
 " Truly, t was like him," Vroni said, deadly 
 pale but quiet save for her bla/ing eyes. 
 
 "And he gave me the money for our pas 
 sage out, and said he would follow in the next 
 weeks, so soon as he could close up his affairs. 
 But I, for some slight reason and only at the 
 last, I trusted not his speech." 
 
 " Wait. Let me think. Didst write me this 
 letter?" 
 
 " Nay. I wrote it not." 
 
 " T is well for thy tale. I were loath to be 
 lieve one who stabs in the dark."
 
 Heart s Dearest 267 
 
 " Canst believe me," said the girl, simply. 
 
 "I believe thee. Hast an honest way with 
 thee though thou be a fool like me. Mayhap 
 after all the writer of the letter is another. 
 Truly a tidy wedding company." 
 
 The girl sobbed on. 
 
 "How many children hast thou?" 
 
 "Three." 
 
 " Thy youngest of what age ? " 
 
 The girl told her. It was rather younger 
 than her Nita. Vroni covered her face with 
 her hand and sat rigid for some moments, her 
 soul staggering. 
 
 "Art thou poor?" she asked at length, 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Ah, yes, that I am. T is little he can 
 bring me, and I am not well, being worn and 
 weary." 
 
 " Thou sayest thou dost trust no smile, no 
 word, no good deed of his? " 
 
 "Nay, I trust, forgetting; but never when I 
 am in fair sense and do remember." 
 
 "Dost like him?" 
 
 " Did he take me out and make much of me 
 as once he used, yes, surely I do like him 
 fairly well. Hath a pleasant way with him, 
 when he s not angered."
 
 268 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 "And dost want him still; wouldst take 
 him?" demanded Vroni, in her voice an icy 
 contempt for the woman, for herself, for 
 them all, for the ghastliness of life. 
 
 " Surely, since he alone can give me back 
 my good name." 
 
 " Ack Gott! " exclaimed Vroni, and laughed 
 low in ineffable dreariness. 
 
 The woman looked wonderingly at her. 
 
 "Go now," said Vroni, with deadly quiet; 
 " I think I can bear thee here no more. Canst 
 have the man. Mayst do what thou willst with 
 him without fear of me. Here, take this," 
 thrusting the wedding dress into the aston 
 ished woman s arms, " and this," giving her the 
 myrtle, " and this, and this. Nay, thank me 
 not. T is thine most willingly. Am sorry 
 for thec," she said more gently. " Truly I 
 never meant to rob thce. But go now, for 
 tis not in my nature to bear more." 
 
 After some hours of dry-eyed still misery, 
 she dragged herself into a church and knelt, 
 shuddering, behind a pillar. 
 
 " Father," she prayed, not to Him in heaven 
 or to any interceding saint, but straight from 
 her tortured heart to Dionysius the weaver, 
 " seest, here will I stay till thou dost speak to
 
 Heart s Dearest 269 
 
 me, till them dost help. Hast not punished 
 me long enough? T is more than two years 
 now since thou hast looked on me. Yet didst 
 use to love me well ! 
 
 " Gaze not aside and far above me, turn 
 kind eyes on me and forgive. Have pity on 
 thy Madel ! Seest, father, am a rarely wicked 
 maid ; have been so without head or care or 
 thought, so mad-like, yet never did I truly 
 mean to be bad. Must know that well, thy 
 self, father. Art so wise." 
 
 Behind her sheltering pillar she crouched 
 lower, huddled in her shawl. The church was 
 fragrant, dim, and still. Now and again crisp 
 footsteps echoed along the stone floor. She 
 heard nothing but the cry of her own heart. 
 
 " Seest, father, there is my Nita and this 
 my other child. So ist s. Were Vincenz an 
 honest man, I would forgive. Could forgive 
 his lightness and his feather-talk when my 
 heart is heavy as lead, could forgive the 
 drink, the cards, and the women ; should 
 mind the women, but could bear it and for 
 give and be a trusty wife to him were his 
 thought straight and clean, and his tongue 
 brave. Seest thyself, father, t is most plain, 
 I and my children cannot house with lies.
 
 270 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 That thou couldst never abide. For such 
 good name as such a man can give, I care 
 naught. Can he then give me that which he 
 hath not? Shall his poor name shrive me for 
 my sin? Nay, twere not sense or right 
 twere a most monstrous lie. 
 
 " Didst use once to press thy good hands on 
 my head. Ah, it has ached so and had such 
 evil thoughts since thou didst die and leave thy 
 little maid alone. Canst hold out so rarely 
 long against me? Thee I would forgive for 
 aught that thou couldst do. Once couldst 
 look stern for a while, yet afterwards didst 
 ever comfort me. Comfort me now, my 
 father. Sore am I driven helpless, broken, 
 and know not whither to go. 
 
 " T was from the very first he lied to me; 
 but I was careless, and light of head, and 
 comprehended not. Never an hour since I 
 knew him but he has deceived me. All that 
 seemed pleasantness was foul. And the other 
 girl and her poor children, and other women 
 and theirs, he, all smiles and lies for many 
 women, yet caring naught ! T is shame to 
 be a man, and wound hearts so ! And bitter 
 shame is on me and thee and thy good name. 
 Yet did I drown myself, Nita might miss for
 
 Heart s Dearest 271 
 
 somewhat I could give. T is this that is the 
 end of my thought, howe er I do turn it long 
 hours in my mind. 
 
 "Dost mind thee of that witch-night long 
 ago, when I was small, and great winds shook 
 the cottage till all upon the shelves did 
 quake ? Most gently did the mother cheer 
 Brindle, and bid her be of a stout heart, 
 and after did stand and speak her mind, and 
 make a giant shadow on the wall. And gruff 
 Bastian did fume and rage at thee. Wast 
 mending thy shuttle, and stooping o er it in 
 thy hands. Then didst raise thy head, and 
 say there be steep paths and no hand near. 
 Poor lad, poor lad, didst say full soft, and 
 wast sorry for him with thine eyes. Thou, 
 father, t is thy Vroni on the jagged path, and 
 knows not which way to turn. T is her heart 
 that s faint, t is her head that s wild. Willst 
 not yet say poor maid ? nor lay thine hand 
 upon the aching head? Willst ever turn 
 away ? 
 
 " Yet art listening. Dost but make as 
 though thou heardst not. T is to try me, I 
 know full well. Yet I pray thee in thy 
 mercy, not over long now in this hour, not 
 beyond thy child s last strength which is so
 
 272 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 spent, though heavy chastisement do I deserve. 
 Hearken while I do tell thee all. 
 
 " My Nita I was loving not enough at first. 
 I mind me I was frozen-like. Now I love 
 every hair on her soft head. Yet this child 
 more, this most, for this one is my 
 sin. 
 
 "Save God above, and His great saints and 
 angels, so far far off from such as me, thou, 
 father, thou alone dost hear, shallst read my 
 heart. Did no folk know, I d scarce to shame 
 myself for Nita. Seest, I was so heedless 
 and so young. I 11 not, indeed, make mean 
 excuse. Yet truly I did seek and foresee no 
 harm at all, and had no evil thought, save 
 giddily to run about for music, mirth, and 
 good cheer. 
 
 "But for this, my poor, poor child, I do 
 shame myself, before my very self, and not 
 before men who are now naught to me. For 
 I had learned to know what Vinccnz was, 
 though I did shut my eyes and make as 
 though I saw not. In my most inner thought 
 I did know and understand, yet lived on in 
 the mire being once therein. And because 
 this child is shame and sin, I do love it with 
 a pity high as heaven for the wrong that I do
 
 Heart s Dearest 273 
 
 give it with its life. Through this child, 
 too, I love my Nita better. This child, my 
 sin, is waking me to love that none may 
 measure save thou that once didst love me 
 so. Truly, this child doth teach me wider 
 thought. 
 
 " Here do I lie till thou dost take me back. 
 I cannot live without thee. Have grown 
 worse and worse since thou hast ceased to 
 smile. Help thy poor Madel. Be good to 
 me. Love me again. Seest not, it but makes 
 me bad when thou art stern so long? Ah, 
 we do need thee, I and my Nita and this, my 
 sad heart s child! For their sakes forgive. 
 Wast ever fair and straight in thy ways. 
 Thinkst thou to punish them for their mother s 
 fault ? Then for once hast not right and rea 
 son on thy side, and that I tell thee to thy 
 face ! Ah ! come to us. Ah ! leave us not. 
 Show me the way my weary feet must tread. 
 Abide with me and mine that I may find 
 strength to go on, and never grieve thee more. 
 Vatcr, licb Vdtcrchen ! " 
 
 It was the blind organist s hour. 
 
 He sat in his accustomed place, and his 
 soul spoke. 
 
 His loneliness, his sorrow welled forth, and 
 18
 
 274 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 filled the silence of the lofty vaults. His 
 slow plaint trembled on the incense-laden air, 
 hovered over the few isolated penitents, and 
 compassed the prostrate woman round about 
 with the sweet marvel of its lamentation. 
 
 She ceased to shudder and to sob. She lay 
 quite still, and waited. 
 
 The blind musician questioned, rebelled, 
 and stormed. At the very foot of the altar 
 surged and crashed his sea of tumult, and 
 broke in slow innumerable sobbing. 
 
 Vroni lay motionless as death. 
 
 Above the mighty moving flood of tone, a 
 voice began, calm, divine, compassionate. It 
 ceased and spoke again. It responded piti 
 fully to the many sobbing strains. Sighing, 
 one by one died away their moans, dominated 
 by the inexorable insistence of its peace, the 
 sacred and inscrutable peace of the human 
 soul that through agony has learned its 
 lesson of submission. And amid victorious 
 heavenly harmonies, Vroni at last felt the 
 loved hand, so long withdrawn, pressed on 
 her throbbing head. Again the weaver stood 
 with her and searched her face with the old 
 gentle questioning and no more sternness in 
 the dear brown eyes.
 
 Heart s Dearest 275 
 
 The blind man played on. Vroni knelt 
 long. Into her thought came light and unity. 
 She saw her way, her immediate way, stretch 
 ing stern before her, and undismayed set off 
 upon its thorns.
 
 276 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 XIV 
 
 WHEN young Vroni was dancing innocently 
 along the short cut to perdition, no hand was 
 stretched out to restrain her, no voice warned. 
 While she lived a loose, demoralizing life in 
 quasi-marriage, and an environment of more 
 or less ribald companions and tawdry pleas 
 ures, her intimate censors were less shocked 
 than they pretended, and left her to her own 
 devices. The avowed intention of the young 
 couple to commit matrimony sooner or later 
 lent a species of domestic halo to their irregu 
 lar relationship, and in point of social morals 
 distinguished them indeed from the majority 
 of their motley associates. 
 
 But when, with a strong spiritual revolt, 
 she shook off childishness, bewilderment, and 
 inertia, rose from the slime into which she 
 had fallen, consciously willed to return to the 
 old cleanliness, and bravely assumed the bur 
 den, for life, of the two luckless little memo-
 
 Heart s Dearest 277 
 
 rials of their parents selfishness, vast and 
 fierce was the storm of condemnation she 
 evoked, and all her little world plunged 
 promptly into her affairs to remonstrate, 
 polemize, and interfere. 
 
 None could comprehend her. She stood 
 alone, but set her mouth doggedly and never 
 wavered. In her own heart she knew that 
 Dionysius the weaver stood with her, shoul 
 der to shoulder, and he was a host. Yet a 
 certain lovely lady of high degree, and most 
 irreproachably established in life, grown weary 
 and languid now, and deathly sick at heart, 
 despite youth, beauty, rank, and wealth, 
 would, had she but known, have countenanced 
 Vroni s startling course, would, had she 
 but the courage, have done likewise herself. 
 There was another, also, unchanged in hum 
 ble fidelity. In our worst and most sorrow 
 ful moments we have far-off, unsuspected 
 friends. 
 
 " Art mad, stark mad ! " exclaimed Vincenz, 
 when she announced her purpose. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " It is impossible!" 
 
 "Willstsee." 
 
 " But it is bad of thee ; nay, worse, inde-
 
 278 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 cent, to cheat thy children of a father, since I 
 be ready and willing." 
 
 She opened her eyes wide with a wonderful 
 silent reply. 
 
 "Dost hate me? " he asked in agitation. 
 
 "Nay," she answered wearily; "but I 
 should hate thee and myself did I now 
 remain. " 
 
 "But I love thee, Vroni! I want thee. 
 I 11 not have it. I 11 prevent it. Art mine 
 by good rights, and I 11 keep thee! " he cried 
 in great excitement. 
 
 "Dost like me in thy way, I know," she 
 replied with dreary patience; "but twill 
 pass. Willst get over it, Vincenz, once I be 
 gone." 
 
 " I care for none save thee. Every man 
 has his little affairs. But I never loved a 
 woman as I do thee. Art more to me, art 
 different, I swear it!" His voice was warm 
 and strongly agitated. 
 
 She moved about, collecting her belong 
 ings, and answered nothing. 
 
 " T is thy condition. Willst later come to 
 thy senses;" but her clear and steady gaze 
 disproved his words. 
 
 "I ll fetch thy brother," he cried, dis-
 
 Heart s Dearest 279 
 
 mayed. "I ll get the priest to come and 
 reason with thee. I 11 get a doctor. T is 
 unheard of. The guests bidden, the supper 
 ordered, the marriage hour set, and thou at 
 the last moment meanst not to marry me 
 when I am minded to marry thee and set 
 thee straight and right again. Vroni ! Vroni ! 
 Canst not see ? T is mad, t is craziness ! " 
 
 The man s face was white and in his voice 
 were deep vibrations which neither she nor 
 he had ever heard. 
 
 "Vincenz," she reminded him, "could have 
 slipped away with no word, yet was minded 
 to be honest with thee. Seest I go not in 
 anger. Let us not quarrel. Let me depart 
 in peace. I wish thee well, but, by the liv 
 ing God, I 11 never marry thee or house with 
 thee in any wise." 
 
 " But why, why?" he cried, trembling and 
 hoarse. 
 
 "Have told thee, Vincenz. Tis the smil 
 ing lies. I 11 live with them no more, nor 
 suffer my children in their tender years to 
 feed upon such food." 
 
 He begged, implored, threatened, flattered, 
 coaxed, reasoned, promised, knelt, and wept. 
 He pleaded well and ill, truth and falsehood.
 
 280 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 He fetched others, all who would come, to 
 bombard her: her brother first, and Jakobine, 
 whom this amazing crisis unscrewed from her 
 holy pedestal ; the good-hearted landlady who 
 liked the poor young thing and wanted to 
 see her "nicely settled in life, and such a 
 pleasant-spoken, smart young man, to be 
 sure!" Even an old solicitor from a dusty 
 den over the way, to expound law ; and, finally, 
 the good priest, whose services were spurned. 
 To their arguments, moral, religious, mate 
 rial, legal, and purely personal, to all their 
 oratory and denunciation, she turned a stony 
 face, and answered seldom a word. 
 
 But when Jakobine, voicing the unanimous 
 conviction of the assembly, declared that 
 Vroni, in deliberately refusing the rehabilitat 
 ing marital establishment, so gallantly prof 
 fered by the abandoned bridegroom-elect, and 
 in thus ineradicably confirming her shame, 
 would be guilty of the worst sin of all in her 
 career of open vice, she started up, a flaming 
 spirit in her drawn and pallid face: 
 
 " The sin s not now, " she flung back sternly. 
 " The sin was long ago not now. And, may 
 hap, Jakobine, mayhap " long and steadily 
 with those accusing eyes, and with keen in-
 
 Heart s Dearest 281 
 
 telligencc in spite of her wretchedness, she 
 stood scanning her elderly and hostile kins 
 woman, " Nay, wouldst never understand. 
 Of what use then to bandy words?" she said 
 quietly, turned away, and dropped into her 
 attitude of passive endurance. 
 
 Once again, this time to Melchior, pathet 
 ically pointing out that sooner or later, do 
 what she might, her children would discover 
 her secret, and scorn her, she retorted, with 
 fiery scorn : 
 
 "Dost think I 11 duck and twist and sneak 
 like men? Nay, from my lips and none 
 other shall my children hear the truth, and, 
 if they love me they ll forgive." After a 
 moment, in the pause of consternation that 
 followed her amazing utterance, a poignant 
 tenderness illumined her haggard features, 
 and she added, low and firm : 
 
 "And they will love me!" 
 
 What in all this may have stirred the rusty 
 springs of Jakobine s benevolence, compas 
 sion, or other occult quality, is indetermi 
 nable; but advancing with austere decision 
 from the group, she now proclaimed, and it 
 was much for her : 
 
 "Vroni, willst do the thing thou oughtst,
 
 282 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and marry him forthwith, I 11 greet thee 
 henceforth, and be seen with thee as though 
 naught unseemly and unsavory e er had been." 
 
 The girl gave her another strange, long 
 look, and answered slowly : 
 
 "When I do think of thee, I 11 try to call 
 to mind that thou didst speak these words." 
 
 Their rhetoric and patience exhausted, in 
 all sincerity horrified by her utter immorality, 
 they left her as they found her inexorable. 
 Yet one and all hoped and believed with 
 Vincenz that coming events would break her 
 obstinacy, and heal her depraved and assuredly 
 diseased notions. 
 
 On the eve of her rejected wedding-day, she 
 withdrew to an hospital, where, in her care 
 less days, she had once seen women walking 
 and sewing in a large garden. She had still 
 some time to wait, but was much broken in 
 strength, and sadly in need of care and refuge. 
 So she, too, walked and sat in the pleasant 
 garden, and fashioned the weaver s fine linen 
 into tiny garments, and suffered various acute 
 miseries of soul and body attendant upon the 
 birth of her boy, Dion. 
 
 Turning again yearningly toward ancient 
 landmarks, desiring, too, in case of her death,
 
 Heart s Dearest 283 
 
 to recommend to mercy her poor little Nita, 
 she wrote from the hospital to her brother 
 Sebastian and to Sister Corona some rather 
 sturdy little letters, for even now she was not 
 good at whimpering. She took her pen in 
 hand to pen them the usual amenities : she 
 stated that, Gottlob, she was very well, and 
 hoped they were the same and also enjoying 
 very good health. After which, she penned 
 them the naked truth. In few words she 
 stated her case, her past, her present, her 
 contemplated future; and she humbly en 
 treated their pardon. 
 
 Sebastian responded with fulminations, and 
 exhorted nay, commanded her to marry 
 Vincenz Berg. The shadowy nun, no less, 
 from faultless but loveless heights, adjured 
 her erring sister to take the one step of repa 
 ration. Melchior journeyed to the convent, 
 and the three in council indited more letters, 
 in which the worthy Sebastian disposed some 
 what freely of the wrath of God, and flung 
 into his utterances an ex-cathedra fectus. 
 
 Vroni grew whiter as she read. It was all 
 quite true. She was a sinner, an outcast, a 
 disgrace to them, and the name was honest 
 save for her. She was bad, and they were
 
 284 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 good. Yet she knew no shadow of swerving. 
 She wrote no more. 
 
 Melchior appeared once, as accredited envoy 
 of the outraged family, a dreary ambassador, 
 visibly shrivelled as to affection, a mere totter 
 ing hanger-on and slave of conventionality. 
 Hearing her curt last word, he groaned and 
 went out. In due time, with what in fact 
 might almost be termed mundane promptness, 
 Sister Corona and Sebastian wrote they would 
 pray for Vroni s soul, but never see her in the 
 flesh again except as the wife of Vincenz 
 Berg which was practically an eternal fare 
 well, their ultimate destination beyond the 
 tomb being so remote from hers. In conclu 
 sion, Sebastian, for a man engaged chiefly in 
 agricultural pursuits, executed a very fair 
 species of Bull of Excommunication, none, 
 save a certain great tragedian, ever better 
 launched the curse of Rome. 
 
 Vincenz prowled anxiously around the hos 
 pital, where he was denied admittance. In 
 furiated by her course, infatuated with her 
 still, more keenly alive to her worth now 
 that he had lost her, wounded too, for the 
 first time in his vanity of conquering hero he 
 vowed he would marry her yet. It was but a
 
 Heart s Dearest 285 
 
 freak of illness, he jauntily assured Melchior, 
 and even boasted with vague suggestiveness 
 of tidings from the hospital, messages of con 
 trition and renewed constancy. Melchior 
 feebly responded they would hope for the 
 best. His sympathies, everybody s sympa 
 thies, were with Berg, who obviously was the 
 injured party. He had erred. Well, young 
 men would be young men. But he was hand 
 somely and generously eager to make amends. 
 He was behaving well, and he stood for law, 
 order, good citizenship, morality, and religion. 
 Wretched girls all over the world were left 
 in the lurch. One was used to the trite spec 
 tacle, and they had but themselves to thank 
 for their misery. But this novel turning of 
 the tables upon the man, the unique, uncon 
 scious irony of Vroni s attitude, naturally 
 roused a startled indignation. 
 
 Praying she might never look upon his face 
 again, Vroni, still pale and weak, her baby in 
 her arms, stole away by night to Hexenfels. 
 What it cost her, thus to confront her village, 
 would have nerved an army. But the village 
 folk, passive and shy toward the changed and 
 citified girl, molested her not at all. What 
 ever were her sister Marie s thoughts, she was
 
 286 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 a gentle creature, and uttered no reproach. 
 Old Tante Ursula was less reticent. Yet 
 even she, after days of aggrieved and Chris 
 tian denunciation, gradually got an inkling of 
 the amazing truth that this sombre, resolute 
 girl-woman of twenty, mute under attack, 
 unmoved by argument as the great crag by 
 butterflies, making with stern dignity and 
 much foresight the most minute arrangements 
 for the well-being of her two unsanctioned 
 babies, could be, in spite of facts and the 
 explicit assertions of her wrathful brothers, 
 no light o love. 
 
 ; T is ever the same little Vroni," mused 
 the old woman, in secret, " the naughtiest but 
 the dearest of them all." 
 
 Although never by word or look condoning 
 the girl s reprehensible and lawless course 
 in refusing to wipe the foul stain from the 
 family honor and her poor helpless children, 
 Tante Ursula, rigidly devout yet mellowed 
 by great age, finally abandoned scathing ora 
 tory, was good to Vroni during her brief stay, 
 and in her absence spoke many an indulgent 
 word for her, while those two little waifs 
 became the old woman s all-absorbing care, 
 her consolation, and her joy.
 
 Heart s Dearest 287 
 
 The girl-mother, in manner matter-of-fact 
 and unemotional, ironclad in stubborn peasant 
 pride, gave never a sign of the storms and 
 agonies within. But the Witch-Tooth, the 
 pile of fagots, the crooked plum-trees, the 
 forest, the corn-fields, and the great night- 
 winds could have told another story. Yet 
 she gained strength wandering among the old 
 haunts, and from her mountain fastnesses 
 took with keen eyes, sound judgment and 
 indomitable tenacity, her new life-bearings. 
 
 The babies were best off here; therefore, for 
 the present, here should they stay. Hunger 
 ing for them afar off would be a part of her 
 punishment. Here they would have pure air 
 and sure kindness, be screened from unfriendly 
 notice, indeed, amid Marie s brood, quite 
 inconspicuous. Every Easter she would come 
 to them, oftener if possible, but that was 
 scarcely probable ; for all her earnings were 
 spent, she must stay at her post and work 
 hard. The regular monthly payment would 
 be cheering to Marie, who saw coin rarely, 
 tailoring not being a lucrative business in 
 Hexcnfels. Vroni reckoned what she must 
 earn annually, what use for her own bare 
 needs, what for their comfort and growing
 
 288 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 necessities, more and more each year, and 
 what she ought to set aside in the savings 
 bank against the time they would need it 
 when learning their trades, or against an evil 
 day. 
 
 From marriage she had excluded herself 
 forever, had broken with tradition and train 
 ing, and wrenched herself loose from the close- 
 clinging notions and prejudices dear to her 
 class. The entire significance of this painful 
 process was even now unrevealed to her; but 
 each day threw fresh light upon the long, 
 hard, lonely, endless road stretching on before 
 her. But whether delusion or revelation she 
 believed that she was walking it with the 
 direct blessing and sympathy of Dionysius 
 the weaver, and to him, grievously far away 
 yet nearer than the uncomprehending visible 
 world, she confided her most trivial plans. 
 
 The great winds of the home country not 
 only blew new life and strength into her, but 
 seemed to cleanse her inner being, and inter 
 pose their purifying breath between her soul 
 and that evil time in ever-receding distance. 
 Yet when she clasped both children in her 
 arms, Anita winsome, sunny, a palpable de 
 light, while Dion lay a dark, soft mystery
 
 Heart s Dearest 289 
 
 upon her breast, she was conscious of bliss 
 transcending bitterness; and not to elude 
 remorse and shame or torture a thousand 
 fold more cruel than that she had endured, 
 would she annul the two fateful years that had 
 borne these precious fruits. From them, her 
 reproach among men, proceeded a sacred joy 
 and a lofty purpose, and with a deep and 
 hitherto unknown awe she marvelled at the 
 subtle shaping hand of destiny. 
 
 " God willing, I will keep them straight, 
 father. They shall be wholesome-minded like 
 to thee. Nita shall not be left alone, a young 
 thing, wild and ignorant of life. For her 
 protection there is that which she shall hear, 
 nay, I will not shrink. And Dion shall 
 speak the truth. I undertake it, father. 
 Thank God, they have thy eyes, not his. 
 Thank thee, my mother, and my master, I 
 know my work and can support them." 
 
 Thus the great saints of her private calendar 
 came, belated, to their dues, and she blessed 
 them daily for their good works, as she, 
 mournful yet resolute, left her beloved moun 
 tains thrice dear, now that they guarded 
 her treasures and entered upon the grave 
 and weary years of her atonement. 
 19
 
 290 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Meanwhile, a lovely lady of high degree, 
 upon whom the winds of heaven were not 
 suffered to blow roughly, whose marriage was 
 immaculate before Church and State, moaned 
 in her heart, unceasingly : 
 
 " I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed. I 
 have not learned to work. I could not teach 
 the youngest child. I know not whither to 
 go. I am too cowardly to die. Yet there 
 is nothing I would fear to do, or suffer, or 
 attempt, with Eck. But he is silent, and 
 Africa is far. My life is hideous. It is a 
 monstrous thing that girls are left so blind. 
 Had I but known ! " 
 
 And none at Court wore toilettes such as 
 hers, and her three brothers kept racers.
 
 Heart s Dearest 291 
 
 XV 
 
 PROMINENT among Vroni s unforeseen trials 
 was the extreme persistence of Vincenz Berg s 
 pursuit. On his account she left comfortable 
 situations and pleasant towns. He traced her 
 course, followed her from house to house, from 
 city to city, compromised her among strangers, 
 and agitated her with odious scenes. He went 
 down on his knees and implored her to marry 
 him, whined, wailed, shouted, swore, and prom 
 ised amendment beyond her loftiest ideals. 
 Doubtless for the most part he was in his way 
 sincere, although he usually appeared in some 
 what alcoholic temper. 
 
 He had lost his excellent position and was 
 evidently drinking habitually. For both of 
 these misfortunes he reproached her; she was, 
 he said, destroying him. Materially changed 
 he was, unquestionably; one had not imagined 
 a weak man, thwarted, could react with such 
 force. Sometimes he threatened to blow his 
 brains out and hers and the babies . She
 
 292 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 could not sec him thus demoralized without 
 a haunting sense of guilty responsibility, as an 
 unwilling accomplice in his ruin. Altogether 
 he succeeded often enough in making of her a 
 miserable, sickened woman, and spiritless until 
 she spurred herself on with the thought of 
 the sanctity of the cause for which she was 
 fighting. 
 
 A frightened woman she became, even she, 
 dreading a bright market on a sunny morn 
 ing, glancing furtively about as she crossed 
 herself and knelt upon entering her church. 
 Formerly, with the frolic expectancy of Hide 
 and Seek, or Catch, she had been alert for the 
 whimsical suddenness of that jaunty apparition. 
 Her pantomime of quick, exhaustive scrutiny 
 of portal, passage, and arcade was still the 
 same, but, ah ! the terrible irony of the essen 
 tial change in her informing spirit. 
 
 After a couple of years, however, this terror 
 persecuted her no longer. Months passed in 
 which she neither saw nor heard him. Later, 
 vague rumors of him reached her. He had 
 married a Protestant was rich was di 
 vorced had gone to America. Then at last 
 she breathed freely once more and found her 
 full strength.
 
 Heart s Dearest 293 
 
 In a monetary sense, she prospered beyond 
 her hopes. Her deposits in the savings bank 
 were encouraging, her payments to Marie reg 
 ular and liberal, the children well-fed and well- 
 clothed. When, every Easter, Vroni appeared 
 in Hexenfels, plainly clad, grave, and self-pos 
 sessed, the repose and determination upon her 
 handsome face, together with the impressive- 
 ness of her severe little matronly bonnet, were 
 gradually and subtly tending toward reinstat 
 ing her in public esteem, giving her, as it 
 were, a not ignoble place apart, and almost the 
 vicarious dignity, say, of a widow. 
 
 " T is the money," thought Vroni, shrewdly 
 and without bitterness, for she was beginning 
 to observe manifold phases of life. Yet it 
 could but soothe her cruelly wounded pride to 
 be treated with growing respect by her home 
 people. 
 
 Each spring Anita ran to her with open 
 arms, was glad, pretty, winning, and proud to 
 have a mother. The child was docile, blithe, 
 and full of prattle, sat over-young but with 
 decorum upon Father Aloysius s knee, and 
 never endangered the family spoon. But 
 Dion, scowling and shy, would watch Vroni 
 long with beautiful gloomy eyes in which her
 
 294 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 poor heart read reproach, repulsed her, would 
 not call her mother, would yield, she found, 
 to no caress or entreaty; but, left to his own 
 instincts, after t\vo or three days of her 
 martyrdom, would seize her on a sudden and 
 cling with speechless and passionate intensity. 
 
 " T is well I cannot sec them twice a year. 
 The parting is too cruel, and saps the strength 
 that I do greatly need for them," she would 
 say grimly to herself, gird up her loins, and 
 stride forth upon her battlefield. 
 
 Of men she voluntarily saw as little as 
 possible. But although she shunned merry 
 makings and all places that could steal a 
 penny from the inheritance of her children, 
 she was too handsome and too unique to es 
 cape man s notice, at times his intrusivencss. 
 She knew fatally well what in her case even . 
 the best of it was worth, for this was one of 
 the special phases of human nature her lot 
 had forced her to investigate. Some men 
 wanted merely to amuse themselves. Others 
 were honestly attracted and meant marriage, 
 until by chance a flying hint of her misfor 
 tunes reached them, when they forthwith felt 
 justified in approaching her with lax language 
 and revolting designs, such as she being
 
 Heart s Dearest 295 
 
 obviously fair game. She made short work 
 of them. The flash of her eye and her grim 
 contempt struck like blows. 
 
 But once she almost liked a man. He was 
 a friendly, manly, intelligent fellow with a 
 record for bravery. She saw him growing 
 fond of her and eager to declare himself; so 
 she nerved herself to intercept him with her 
 tale, that is, with its resultant facts, and saw 
 him blanch and slink away. For though 
 brave enough before guns, he, too, dared not 
 face the world. 
 
 She had indeed abjured marriage, but not 
 of her own freewill all kindly human inter 
 course, and had been glad of his companion 
 ship and good sense. For with her brutal 
 disillusions and her steadily ripening mind 
 she had become mortally weary of her women 
 associates incessant chatter of sweethearts, 
 and breathless estimate of the chances of 
 securing this or that man as life s ultimate 
 aim and triumph. So this defection gave her 
 a brief pang, left her wiser, and it may be a 
 trifle harder. 
 
 Neither he nor her sorrier suitors had the 
 brain to perceive that for the long, uphill pull 
 of matrimony, the unblemished lamb with a
 
 296 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 large dowry whom they all were seeking to 
 better their fortunes was not, even from the 
 worldly and practical point of view, where they 
 based all calculations, comparable to this able 
 and intelligent creature, tried in the fires of 
 adversity, finely tempered for any conflict, and 
 possessed of heart qualities of surpassing rich 
 ness and purity. 
 
 Fools that they were, they beheld only her 
 pretty oval face, her brown and ruddy skin, 
 her young smile, for that she kept, - a smile 
 is a thing that dies hard ; her eyes, her form, 
 her step, her charm, and over all, the ugly 
 stain upon her reputation which, according 
 to their low and cruel creed, made her fair prey 
 for the meanest of their noble fellowship. 
 
 Open-eyed, viewing much, one fated to be 
 confronted ever by distinct and manifold ex 
 periences, she would cry at moments in wither 
 ing scorn : 
 
 " Truly, men folk, high and low, have much 
 to learn of sense and decency," then meekly, 
 " and women, too, alas ! Yet cowards are the 
 men, despite their swagger. Tis well we four 
 crave naught of them." 
 
 Isolating herself habitually, and for enter 
 tainment thrown wholly upon her own re-
 
 Heart s Dearest 297 
 
 sources, she now began to read, at first with 
 exceeding effort, an evening paper. It filled 
 her with impatience to sit still at it, and the 
 novel mental exertion induced the phenome 
 non of curiously cramped and restless legs. 
 Frequently she laid it aside, only to take it up 
 again and regard it with frowning speculation. 
 
 "Ha! Twere a blame on me could I 
 strain naught of its sense into my brain-pan, 
 when the fat Vallade butler did draw the whole 
 strength out of the print and never blink." 
 
 It was arduous digging, but she persevered. 
 Twas at least, she reflected, no harm and 
 might sometime be a bit useful to the children. 
 Every night she had perhaps an hour free be 
 fore bedtime, sometimes more. Slowly and 
 painfully she established the habit of consecu 
 tive reading, a very different thing from 
 being able and not unwilling to read whatever 
 sporadic bit was strictly necessary in the line 
 of one s cooking. The love for this employ 
 ment was naturally of still slower growth, but 
 also evolved in time. Her evening paper, at 
 first so impenetrable, became familiar and easy 
 reading of which she finally made her choice 
 with almost the aplomb of the butler. 
 
 She took the leaders with tremendous seri-
 
 298 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 ousness and seized the heart of them when 
 they possessed one. At length she turned to 
 books, choosing by chance a volume of essays 
 noticed in her paper. The style was clear; 
 the themes, relating to human intercourse, 
 within her mental grasp. Words strange to 
 her she looked up in her dictionary. She 
 found a " lot of Kaudcrwelsch, but the talk was 
 brave sense." She continued to read thought 
 ful books. She had considerably more than 
 three hundred and sixty-five hours in a year 
 for her modest researches in literature, since 
 on every other Sunday she could command 
 nearly half a day. In three hundred and sixty- 
 five hours is time enough, however, for vari 
 ous things. 
 
 One autumn morning, nearly five years after 
 Mclchior had rushed groaning from the hospital, 
 he was drearily airing his royal equine charges, 
 when he met a young woman with a white cap, 
 a long white apron, a big brown basket, a 
 swift step, and a vivid face not easy to forget. 
 
 Instinctively he drew up his horses, and she 
 stopped short. 
 
 " Vroni ! " he cried, glancing quickly around 
 to see if they were observed, but it was a 
 rather lonely street.
 
 Heart s Dearest 
 
 299 
 
 " Griiss Gott, Melchior," she returned 
 coolly. 
 
 " Na Vroni ! " 
 
 " T is my name." 
 
 "Whence comst thou?" he stammered. 
 
 " From market, as thou seest." 
 
 " Knowst that be not my meaning. Where 
 hast thou whiled this long, long time? " 
 
 " In all four winds quarters," she answered 
 nonchalantly. 
 
 "What doing?" 
 
 " Earning my bread. Hadst been minded 
 to know aught of me, couldst have knocked 
 at our good Marie s door, eh?" 
 
 "Hast really come back, Vroni?" 
 
 " Ha, what thinkst? Mayhap I be a ghost." 
 
 "Art not wedded?" he asked timidly, 
 
 "Nay thanks and praise ten thousandfold 
 to God." 
 
 "And art in a respectable house?" 
 
 " As to that I know not, meanings being 
 many a time contrariwise twixt me and thee. 
 T is a house with a brave appetite. For that 
 I cook. T is a house with gold in its strong 
 box. Of that I have my dues. More I ask 
 not." 
 
 He gazed at her in wonder, curiosity, and
 
 300 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 no little excitement, strangely glad in spite of 
 himself. His life was dull and disappointing, 
 and Jakobine palled. There stood his repro 
 bate sister, pretty as a picture and quite at her 
 ease. 
 
 " T is most amazing and I ll not deny it 
 pleaseth me not ill to greet thee," he admitted, 
 vaguely apologetic. 
 
 " Fine thanks," she dryly returned. " Art 
 little changed, I mark, without or within." 
 
 " Thou, Vroni, how didst chance then to 
 return? " 
 
 " Oh, the family where I cook did of late 
 move hither. I was not loath. The town did 
 ever suit me fairly well." 
 
 She greatly puzzled him with the cool neg 
 ligence of her manner. It seemed to him 
 he was called upon to remonstrate, but a 
 gleam that daunted him was lurking in her eye. 
 
 "What family might it be?" he demanded 
 with anxiety. 
 
 Serious and deliberate, she replied: 
 
 " T is a family that makes bold to call itself 
 by name Prince Uhl-Rheda." 
 
 " O Lord ! " exclaimed Mclchior, and for 
 the first time in his official career was guilty of 
 the enormity of dropping his whip.
 
 Heart s Dearest 301 
 
 She gravely picked it up and handed it to 
 him. 
 
 "Uhl-Rheda!" he gasped. 
 
 "Tis the name that I did speak." 
 
 "Art there since when?" 
 
 " Nigh on two years, after much wander 
 ing and vexing change less to my mind. Al 
 ways before they d had a chef. But I," she 
 quoted calmly, " am quite as good a cook 
 and less extravagant and variable. T is the 
 message that did come down to me from the 
 gracious Herrsckaft." 
 
 " Vroni, do they suspect thy history? " 
 
 Her eyes clouded ominously, but she still 
 curbed her tongue. 
 
 " Did inquire naught concerning their past 
 doings nor they of mine. T were scarce 
 princely to pry into such humble matters. 
 I cook to suit their palates, have a head 
 for reckoning, and cheat them not. With 
 that they are content, and rightly so. I pray 
 thee, be thou likewise." 
 
 In her restraint was a warning a wise man 
 might have heeded. 
 
 " Scemst to sit rarely firm in thy saddle," he 
 murmured. 
 
 " T is as thou sayst, Mclchior."
 
 3O1 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " T is all most strange. Hast heard aught 
 from Sebastian? Hath he forgiven thee?" 
 
 She waited some moments, her nostrils di 
 lating, her breathing short and quick, her gaze 
 averted, before saying low and strenuously : 
 
 " / have forgiven him." 
 
 At this, what Mclchior called his principles 
 began to bubble : 
 
 " Nay, Vroni, so mayst a maid like thee not 
 speak of one who is the head of all of us, and 
 of truly holy life. T is grievous, on my soul, 
 to find thee bold when modesty and lamenta 
 tion would better suit thy case. When I do 
 mark thy carelessness, and mind me of those 
 two unhappy children, thy shame and my 
 own 
 
 Strong, resolute, and fiery, her spirit leaped 
 in her face. She put the basket on the pave 
 ment, took a step forward, and with an im 
 perious gesture stopped him: 
 
 "Thou, Melchior, I ll have a straight word 
 with thee, here and now. I pray thee, hearken. 
 Of thy sermons I am minded to hear naught. 
 Art thou disposed to give me of thy converse, 
 thou shalt henceforth speak naught to me thou 
 mightst not in thy civil manners to a stranger. 
 Art set neither by God Almighty nor by His
 
 Heart s Dearest 303 
 
 Majesty the King to tutor me, and how it doth 
 look inside me is truly mine own care, and 
 thine in no wise. Mark that, I pray thee. 
 
 " I grant I did ye all great wrong ; but in re 
 turn what did ye, my two brothers, but leave 
 me to die like a dog by the roadside or fall to 
 a worse fate, were I so inclined? Therefore 
 I 11 brook no word from thee, for t is not in 
 my nature. Let each square his sins with his 
 own conscience and cry quits with the other. 
 I ask naught of thee. I need thee not. Hast 
 heard ? 
 
 " I mind me, thou didst even now let fall 
 some words unseemly to mine ears, t is of 
 them we now do speak. I pray thee, favor 
 me with thy attention. Seest, Melchior, I am 
 the mother of two beautiful children, and I 
 have money in the bank for them, and I can 
 cook to-day in the palace of thy royal master, 
 the King, if so I do desire. My way I ve made 
 alone. Twas not a way of daisies. T was 
 hard toil, hard thought, hard fighting, and 
 much else bitter hard of which I speak not. 
 Do thou not mind that; t is my matter. But 
 that which I do pray thee to heed well, t is 
 this my present speech. 
 
 " Sebastian, as doth freely please him, will
 
 304 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 gather artichokes and pray his angry prayers. 
 T is naught to me. T is air. Thou, Melchior, 
 mayst look English at me from thy box. It 
 doth move me not at all. Can myself look 
 English, or worse still, so that be needed. Have 
 got beyond thee, Melchior, in that I fear naught. 
 Tis standing alone has done it, against the 
 world and for my Nita and my Dion. 
 
 " And once for all I say to thee I shame 
 me not for them no more. For all wrong 
 doing in the past, God is my judge. But for 
 my children I now know no shame ; nor mayst 
 thou dare again to speak that word and their 
 names in one breath. Hast heard, Melchior. 
 
 " Am proud of them. Will not permit one 
 syllable, one look, one thought flung at them, 
 as if they had no place or right upon this 
 earth. Ha ! t is pity, truly, thou canst not 
 take the beauties in thine arms and see 
 them, sweet and shy-like, spy at thee yet with 
 the father s own deep eyes. They d freshen 
 thee, my poor old Melchior, thou who didst ever 
 in thy secret heart long for a little child to 
 father and to love. 
 
 " Yet seest, ere that thou touchest them, 
 thou ncedst must honor every hair of their 
 dear heads, and me, because I m their
 
 Heart s Dearest 305 
 
 mother. Shouldst ever crave to see me, Mel- 
 chior, on these terms, shallst find me. I bear 
 no grudge ; can welcome thee to-morrow, and 
 greet even thy Jakobine in friendly wise. But 
 if our hands do ever meet, we 11 stand on this 
 ground that I now do say to thee, and on no 
 other. Otherwise English ! Have spoken. 
 Thou hast heard. Wish thee good-day." 
 
 Taking up her basket, she turned her back 
 upon the petrified King s coachman and 
 marched off briskly. 
 
 20
 
 306 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 XVI 
 
 ALONE, as was her habit, grave, self-contained, 
 Vroni went to Vespers in the church where 
 Vincenz used to kneel, too close, beside her 
 and look askance at her in prayer-time; 
 where at the portals he had waited with his 
 half-smiling stare, and from whence he followed 
 to intrude his sleek selfishness into the cool 
 sanctuary of her childlike thought: in that 
 church where too she had sought and found 
 more than earthly help in the hour of her 
 agony, and made her peace with Dionysius 
 the weaver, who she was convinced had never 
 left her since. 
 
 In sharp self-scrutiny and self-abasement, 
 she re-lived every epoch of that fateful time ; 
 for if she confronted the world valiantly, 
 before the tribunal of her own soul she ex 
 tenuated nothing, and was retentive of every 
 pang she had suffered and of every hateful 
 scene in which she had figured during the 
 period of her gay shamelcssness.
 
 Heart s Dearest 307 
 
 It was unsafe to forget, she meditated, upon 
 her knees; not always to dwell upon it, for 
 that weakened her elasticity, yet never to let 
 one line of it grow faint. For in her, some 
 where, buried deep and out of sight, was a 
 wild strain yet. She felt it leap when there 
 was music on a sudden, and sometimes, God 
 forgive her, when men s eyes looked kind on 
 her, and men s eyes, beholding her, were but 
 too apt to look too kind. It was then as 
 though her heart were a strange, strong, free 
 thing, glad, dare-devil, and gypsyish, caring 
 for naught on earth save its own whim. And 
 if this sleeping wildness should wake again 
 and rise up and seize her, what would become 
 of her Nita and her Dion? So she still 
 shunned music, mirth, and men, although the 
 steadily increasing sum in the savings bank 
 would have justified a little relaxation. It 
 was in truth an ascetic life she was leading, 
 but she called it by no high name. 
 
 Humbly thankful for what she had overcome, 
 for what she had gained of strength, she left the 
 church, and in the early autumn dusk ascended 
 the winding path of the little park, stopped at 
 sorrowful stations in her reminiscence, and 
 prayed her prayers and loved her children.
 
 308 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " For some cause I do fear naught for my 
 Nita-le, maid though she be ; yet many a time 
 I m grieving, knowing not what s in my 
 Dion s being, or whence his mood apart. 
 The Marie says ofttimes he s rarely far dff 
 in himself and like no child. Pray God 
 there be not in his blood too much of him. 
 Truly Melchior leans not in likeness toward 
 the father; nor doth Marie nor Sebastian ; nor 
 I myself, save in the outward features, though 
 twas the father s meaning loving me and 
 knowing not what should arrive of ill that 
 he did ever fairly spy himself in me. T is 
 odd one can count surer on a dumb beast s 
 heritage than on a human child s. My Dion 
 doth torment me. So there be in him of 
 Vincenz s strain, I pray it be but moderate 
 large, and like to Vincenz only when he was 
 a little curly headed child, so much, no 
 more. Yet many a time with aching heart 
 I tremble for my little lad for my Dion 
 was the sin." 
 
 At her next dusky station she stood some 
 time. She was resolved to live no longer 
 banished from the children ; and, Vincenz 
 gone, she had no fear. Their sweet baby 
 hood she had for their gain foregone and
 
 Heart s Dearest 309 
 
 mourned unceasingly though showing out 
 wardly a savage fortitude. But the time was 
 come for her to have them near. She felt 
 they now imperatively needed her. In the 
 spring Dion, after finally deigning to emerge 
 from his stony reserve, to recognize and asso 
 ciate with her familiarly, had said solemnly : 
 
 " Dost while long in the Unterland" 
 
 She endeavored to explain, in terms suited 
 to his baby-comprehension, the causes of the 
 infrequency of her visits. 
 
 Sombre and unconvinced, his great eyes re 
 buked her: 
 
 " Whilst long," he persisted, frowning. 
 
 She must have them ; yet how, where, under 
 what conditions she was wholly unable even 
 to conjecture. So profoundly lost in thought 
 was she that she perceived but by degrees the 
 voices, words, at last the paramount meaning 
 of a man and woman who had approached and 
 were speaking low and rapidly behind a clump 
 of trees the woman hardly above her sigh 
 ing breath. 
 
 " Ha, t is the park-business, and another 
 fool like me." 
 
 The man s voice urged and pleaded low, 
 warm, most strenuous.
 
 3 io Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " T is pity. There s awful foolishtry in 
 God s brave world. Would I could stop her ! 
 Would I could hold one single poor maid 
 back from the blind rush I myself did make. 
 But, alas, I cannot ! T is to men maids 
 hearken ever. She s minded to run off with 
 him. T is plain. A lady awfully fond but 
 breaking quite in twain for trouble, love, and 
 fear. Poor thing! Hear her sob. Do I mis 
 take not, he has a fairly honest voice, even 
 to mine own cold ears that be not over favor 
 able to such as he. Where, long since, did I 
 hear that voice? " 
 
 Listening more intently, she caught a few 
 clear words from the woman. 
 
 Swift steps startled the lovers ; from the 
 gloom a form emerged, dropped at the lady s 
 feet and clasped her knees. 
 
 " Nay, Comtesse Nelka, nay ! " 
 
 Eck Flemming seized the intruder s shoulder. 
 
 " Don t speak roughly to her. It is only 
 Vroni." 
 
 "Do not be afraid," poor Nclka, trembling 
 from head to foot, said sweetly ; " you know 
 I always liked you, Vroni, and I ve wondered 
 what had become of you in this long time." 
 She put her head protcctingly on Vroni s head.
 
 Heart s Dearest 311 
 
 " Get up, Vroni, you have nothing to fear where 
 I am." 
 
 " T is for the gracious comtesse only and 
 alone that I do fear me. I overheard. Com 
 tesse, tis sheer impossible. Oh, go away, Herr 
 Eck, go far from her ! " Vroni cried fiercely. 
 
 " Vroni, my good girl, let go the comtesse ; 
 come to your senses ; get up on your feet and 
 leave us. Our affairs do not concern you. 
 You forget yourself strangely." 
 
 Again he sought to separate her from Nelka. 
 
 But Vroni, kneeling still, one arm thrown 
 round the comtesse, half turned to face him, 
 and with ungovernable feeling exclaimed : 
 
 " Me, most of all do they concern: and t is 
 just because I remember of myself that I do 
 speak. And I will speak, and you shall listen, 
 Herr Eck Flcmming." 
 
 He made an impatient movement and ex 
 clamation. 
 
 " Come, Nelka, let us go on," he said. 
 
 " Nay, for I 11 follow," retorted Vroni, low 
 and vehement, rising quickly. " You cannot 
 shake me off. I 11 stop at naught. I will 
 alarm them all, so there be need. Will go my 
 self to Count Valladc and the countess. Will 
 telegraph to the Counts Benno, Knod, and
 
 3 1 2 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Waldemar. I 11 not tell Baron Frege, for he 
 shall never know." 
 
 "Vroni! Vroni ! " moaned Nelka, aghast. 
 
 The girl turned, and, in her old impulsive 
 ardent way, kissed the comtesse s hands. 
 
 " She s crazy," muttered Flemming. 
 
 " T is not the first time I m so called, yet 
 ever, to my comfort, when I be most sound of 
 sense. Herr Eck, I pray your pardon if I be 
 sharp and rude. I am not minded to do such 
 harsh things as I spake. I but said, mark you, 
 if there be need." 
 
 " I do not doubt your intentions are excel 
 lent," he replied, with authoritative kindness; 
 " but there is nothing whatever you can say 
 which we wish to hear. I must insist upon 
 your going at once. You must see yourself 
 it is an unheard of piece of presumption, 
 meddlesome, in short, to the last degree, and 
 I 11 ask you to have the kindness to go off." 
 
 "Herr Eck," she said quite gently, "that 
 I am a servant and you a learned young gen 
 tleman is mayhap what is in your mind. But 
 for that I care not. It is air. T is to your 
 heart I have a word to say." 
 
 " Speak, Vroni," said the lady, " I wish it. 
 We both will listen."
 
 Heart s Dearest 313 
 
 " Herr Eck, I pray you to look back and to 
 remember. Were, if I err not, a little orphan- 
 boy, son of Count Vallade s oldest friend ; 
 friends as lads, youths, and men, were they. 
 Not all great men at Court are faithful. But 
 the count took you into his home, sent you to 
 the best schools, gladdened your holidays, let 
 you miss naught, was proud of your brave 
 talent. You were like one of his own sons, 
 save hardier in body, stronger at book-learn 
 ing, and honester of heart, - leastwise, t was 
 so believed. T is many a year of goodness 
 you have to thank him for, and he is a gray- 
 haired man and sorely careworn, and the 
 one joy that gladdens him, t is the gracious 
 Comtesse Nelka. Speak I true words, Herr 
 Eck?" 
 
 The man was silent. He forgot whose was 
 this strange and penetrating voice in the 
 dark. 
 
 "And the young counts? Na, I know, but 
 t is chiefly the empty-headed way they re 
 bred. Fond of you are they every one. I 
 once did overhear Count VValdemar say Herr 
 Eck was his blood-brother, the one man that 
 he did really care for. They were your good 
 comrades years and years. They shared half
 
 314 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and half with you when you had naught save 
 for the Vallades. Truly they be fast and 
 senseless-selfish ; they do live the life and go 
 the pace, and howe cr else they may name 
 their pretty doings ; and whatsoever bad, mad 
 freak is on the wind, they grasp it with both 
 hands ; and with women sheer cruel, as most 
 doth please you men, Herr Eck Flemming; 
 but if there be one thing on earth these three 
 gay brothers believe in and hold high, it is 
 the gracious Comtesse Nelka. Is it true, Herr 
 Eck?" 
 
 " It is true, Vroni," he muttered hoarsely. 
 
 " Herr Eck, she is an angel. Leave her 
 one. She s miserable ; but she 11 know worse 
 misery if she does this thing. T is your 
 meaning to gladden and to care for her most 
 softly ; but you have but one little span of life, 
 and what if you should die? What then? 
 How would she live, she and her children? 
 For though you think not of it, and she, poor 
 gracious lady, less, t is fitting I at least do 
 now remind you, there be always children 
 following such steps, which is a thing of 
 great import, not likely to be put aside. In 
 all things there is a giving and a taking. T is 
 surely fair to reckon both ; and in your mind,
 
 Heart s Dearest 315 
 
 which doth possess so much of learning, to 
 weigh well if you do give enough to cover 
 all that which you do take from her." 
 
 It was impossible longer to spurn this un 
 bidden counsellor whose soft and solemn voice 
 so fast, so eager yet controlled, now in the 
 sturdy phrase of the Rough Alp, now with 
 a book-word but recently made her own, con 
 tinued its appeal, and hardly stopped except 
 when some passer-by briefly approached too 
 near, or when, for but an instant, she seemed 
 to seek her argument. 
 
 Leaning against a tree, Flemming stood 
 silent and heard the woman pleading in the 
 darkness as if she were his conscience incar 
 nate, so often had he himself dwelt weightily 
 upon every point which she accentuated ; yet 
 he flung his arm round Nelka and held her 
 close as if against the world. She, sobbing 
 no more, quite motionless, her cheek upon 
 his breast, listened and wished that she were 
 dead. 
 
 " See, Herr Eck, it is not possible the thing 
 you want not for you two. She cannot bear 
 rough things. She never learned to work. 
 Hardship would kill her. But truly t is not 
 these that be the worst to bear. Do you sup-
 
 316 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 pose the gracious Comtesse Nelka is one that 
 could know a moment s peace did her father 
 follow her, waking and sleeping, with stern 
 eyes turned from her? And your own dead 
 father who, dying, left you to his friend? 
 And the Countess Vallade ? " 
 
 Flemming gave a violent start, but Nclka 
 laid her hand across his lips. 
 
 " Ah, yes, Herr Eck, I know. Ofttimes we 
 serving-folk, without much striving, do spy 
 more out mayhap than the HcrrscJiaft fancies. 
 T is not fitting to bespeak it narrowly, but 
 of some matters I did chance to hear a hint, 
 and truly twas most grievous. Knew I then 
 what now I know, t is I myself would have 
 oped my mouth wide, fearing naught. But 
 five years gone, much did entangle me, nor 
 did my HcrrscJiaffs manners seem by good 
 rights my concern. Truly a wrong was done 
 you, and a greater wrong my Comtesse Nclka 
 for all your lives. Yet how about the 
 years, Herr Eck, when she did never wrong 
 you, when she did love you and was good to 
 you, and never let you, at least, feel her great 
 pride? Ah, Herr Eck, it is not wise to dwell 
 upon our wrongs alone. T is I may say it, 
 being prone to it myself."
 
 Heart s Dearest 317 
 
 " Oh, gracious Comtesse Nclka," and now 
 was Vroni little less than wonderful in 
 her protecting tenderness through which 
 throbbed her own stern sorrow, " it greatly 
 hurts and stings, when the world jeers one, 
 and folk worse than one was ever at one s 
 worst do have a sort of right to tread one 
 underfoot and call foul names. And it doth 
 hurt like knives when one s own do turn from 
 one, and brothers curse, for there be they 
 who truly curse in prayer. T is years until 
 one, plodding slow, teeth set, doth learn to 
 bear it, and make as though one careth not, 
 but one careth, and will ever care, till one s 
 death day. 
 
 " Even they that be rough and tough and 
 used to toil, and stout to fight their way 
 and let naught show upon the countenance, 
 die many deaths of grief, of loneliness, of 
 hopelessness, of misery and shame. And, 
 my gracious comtesse, my pretty, pretty 
 Comtesse Nclka, with her soft white ways, and 
 her gentle heart ach Gott, acli Gott!" 
 
 " You see, dear Eck," murmured Nelka, 
 piteously, " it is as I told you. I have not 
 strength to go. I have not strength to re 
 main. I am worthless."
 
 318 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Flemming held her in his close grasp, yet 
 spoke no word of comfort. A hot conflict 
 was raging in his soul. 
 
 " Strength to remain has my gracious Com- 
 tesse Nelka ! Strength not to stab her father s 
 heart, and not to wound all these people, that, 
 whatever they do lack, truly, tis much, 
 love her the best they know. Hcrr Eck 
 speaks not, but, in his great wisdom and his 
 learning and his pity, are his thoughts good 
 again. 
 
 "See. Tis that you two, just you two, 
 may not murder the peace of mind of 
 them that have been good to you ; and bad 
 again, t is true, but good was most and 
 longest. Then there are others. I pray your 
 pardon that I do speak of these when your 
 hearts so do swell and burst with your own 
 griefs. Yet I do make so bold, being moved 
 strongly in my thought, to say there be on all 
 sides little fools of working girls, of the sort I 
 myself used to be, five or six years agone; 
 mayhap not evil-hearted, but empty in the 
 head lacking instruction and chiefly want 
 ing they know not what, reaching out after a 
 little joy. 
 
 " A thousand such may go astray and the
 
 Heart s Dearest 319 
 
 world is none the wiser. But, Comtesse Nelka ! 
 If she did sacrifice all else and go away with 
 you, Herr Eck, she with her great name and 
 everything that others lack and crave, beauty 
 and money, and a rich, soft life, then all the 
 little working girls would say: See! She 
 had everything this world can give, yet did 
 but that she liked. Then why not we? 
 So she d push scores of them down down 
 so far that few would ever crawl up again ; 
 and no wonder, for God knows the crawling 
 up is bitter hard, and the hands that fain 
 would thrust one down again, and deeper 
 down, they do fail never more. 
 
 "And who will remember the comtesse is 
 innocent and good? And who will say you 
 were like brother and sister all your lives, and 
 grievously mishandled, in that twas no fair 
 play that did rend you in twain? Who will 
 believe, Herr Eck, that you be honest; that 
 you would die a thousand deaths rather than 
 hurt her; that you do stand there now this 
 instant, in silence, with your heart like to a 
 live coal in your breast, and mad with grief, 
 not for yourself alone, though you do love 
 her with your strong man s love, but like 
 wise because you do behold her in misery
 
 320 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and grievousncss of life and fain would save 
 and comfort her? 
 
 " But none will care for that. She will be 
 lumped with the bad and lost and shameless 
 ones. T is monstrous. Tis not sense. But 
 true it is. As if she ever could be aught but 
 clean and white ! But the world stops not to 
 draw lines, be there a body to hoot and stone. 
 Truly, t is a rare fool-world for women folk, 
 and that s the kernel of my thought. 
 
 " Nor do I now speak of the right and wrong 
 of things. Ha ! Were there but you twain, 
 and he who evilly did buy her ! My meanings 
 as to what sin be and be not are my own, and 
 none such as noisy tongues do bray in herds. 
 Mayhap, I could say more, not illy founded in 
 my reason, and in God s sight truth, though 
 ten thousand worlds do blunder ere their wis 
 dom teeth be grown ; mayhap, indeed, one day, 
 to my gracious Comtesse Nelka only, nay, 
 t is enough ! It may not be. 
 
 " Herr Eck, I do declare it be not possible, 
 not possible, that you, having a great heart and 
 wisdom beyond common folk, do hurt beyond 
 repair so many men and women, and most our 
 gracious and beloved Comtesse Xelka. T is 
 why, in your greatheartedness, you now most
 
 Heart s Dearest 321 
 
 stoutly do propose to save her, you that be 
 her other brother, her truest brother of them 
 all." 
 
 Speechless and close the two stood, and in the 
 stillness of the night, over their wrath, their sor 
 row, their love, despair, and passion ; over their 
 poignant yearning for happiness, hovered the 
 mighty angel of renunciation, his broad wings 
 drawing ever nearer, his message imminent. 
 
 Slowly, with lingering movement, Nelka 
 lifted her sad head ; softly she withdrew from 
 Flemming s sheltering arm ; reluctantly she 
 unclasped her clinging hands and stood apart. 
 He suffered it. 
 
 The church clock struck the half hour. 
 
 Nelka, dazed and chilly of soul, murmured 
 brokenly: 
 
 "They will be wondering expecting me. 
 The carriage was to meet me at my father s." 
 
 " I will take the gracious comtesse to her 
 father s." 
 
 As if waking from a dream to hideous real 
 ity, and unable to bear the burden of her days, 
 Nelka, with a little shuddering cry, sprang to 
 refuge, and he gathered her in his arms and 
 murmured, desperately, in a sudden relapse of 
 resolution:
 
 322 Dionysius the -Weaver s 
 
 " It is reason, what she says, not love. It is 
 truth ; there are other truths, strong and mas 
 terful. Speak the word, Nelka. My life is 
 yours, yours the decision. Command. I obey. 
 God knows I would not hurt you, dear, yet 
 only come with me and we will 
 
 "To-morrow," broke in the lady, faintly, 
 " we will say the rest." 
 
 " To-morrow," he rejoined in profound agita 
 tion, " is my last day. Speak now, for God s 
 sake, Nelka, and come, ah, come! 
 
 Vroni sank back, and grasped a railing for 
 support. In her suspense it seemed that all 
 was lost. The tide had turned, her strength 
 was spent. 
 
 " To-morrow," trembled slowly from Nelka s 
 lips, " you and I, my dearest, will say good 
 bye." 
 
 In the hush that followed, sounded a fine 
 bugle-note calling a brave man to the last 
 charge in a lost but holy cause. 
 
 " Nay, Herr Eck, speak now the farewell 
 word, and leave to-night having a great 
 heart." 
 
 Withdrawing a few steps, Vroni turned away 
 and waited.
 
 Heart s Dearest 323 
 
 XVII 
 
 BEER foamed in great tankards, the roast goose 
 was succulent and brown. At every table in 
 the large well-lighted room were men and 
 women in gala mood, and Vroni sat, at last, 
 between Melchior and Jakobine, flanked by a 
 group of pre-eminently respectable old ser 
 vants of the palace, all smoking strenuously. 
 
 Vroni retreating, Melchior and Jakobine 
 had pursued. She not heeding them, they 
 had shown themselves disposed to serve her. 
 Her bold declaration of independence, to 
 gether with her appreciated position in the 
 household of a prince, had won them. She 
 had anticipated this result from the day she 
 valiantly belabored her brother and went 
 home to weep for homesickness. When 
 after some weeks of deliberation Melchior 
 came with Jakobine s invitation for this 
 special evening, Vroni accepted with the 
 quiet air of one inured to family amenities. 
 Afterwards she frowned, smiled, and sighed: 
 
 " The worth of it know I full well. Never
 
 324 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 mind. T is mayhap better so, better some 
 day for Nita and my Dion. Then tis my 
 brother after all be said, and when I do 
 gaze upon his sad sheep face, my heart 
 doth mildly speak for him." 
 
 So she sat clear-eyed, serene, among the 
 royal liveries, at the most distinguished table, 
 where sententious politics rolled forth in the 
 most truly monarchical spirit, and the shining 
 personages over-conscious of their dignity 
 were less merry than their simpler brethren. 
 
 Vroni spoke little, was quiet, content, with 
 drawn into herself. It was the first time in 
 years she had participated in so much dis 
 sipation. She heard the heavy wisdom of 
 the men ; and had she desired could have re 
 futed it, for her dogged reading and uncowcd 
 thought had led her far beyond their plati 
 tudes. Melchior was at heart well pleased, 
 and Jakobine grumbled less than her wont, 
 for Vroni was sedate and still, stared neither 
 right nor left, and wore a bonnet like a lady s, 
 with not a feather or a flower on it. Her 
 dress too was severely plain. So was the 
 Queen s that morning when Melchior drove 
 her out. His affection, long smothered and 
 deadened, was reviving, and he was pleasure-
 
 Heart s Dearest 325 
 
 ably conscious of magnanimity. It occurred 
 to him it would do no harm to mention to 
 Sebastian that Vroni gave full satisfaction 
 at Prince Uhl-Rheda s, and that she made a 
 distinctly favorable impression upon his own 
 esteemed colleagues and associates. There 
 could be no doubt Vroni was swimming 
 alon<7 in the full stream of social rccog- 
 
 o o 
 
 nition. 
 
 The room became more crowded, the to 
 bacco fumes denser, beer flowed continually, 
 animation increased. 
 
 " T is wondrous strange," mused Vroni, 
 " that I did once so prize this flocking and 
 herding together in shallow liveliness that I 
 did sell my soul to get it." 
 
 Presently songs broke out here and there. 
 A zither tinkled, and a quartette of men s voices 
 swung into a strongly rhythmic mountain mel 
 ody. Across Vroni s face danced a sudden 
 light of youth and carelessness. She smiled 
 at her brother in gay reminiscence of the home 
 country. Her childhood gleamed in her lumi 
 nous eyes, and for the moment the sad years 
 were as naught. 
 
 The zither was swept to the ground with a 
 crash, followed by shouts of angry expostula-
 
 326 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 tion. A man strode forward, shook his fist 
 in menace, pointed, uttered imprecations and 
 ribald words. 
 
 At the first sound of his voice, Vroni s face 
 became rigid, while inwardly she cowered and 
 shrank as under physical blows. 
 
 Truths, Vincenz Berg was telling, hideous 
 truths gesticulating wildly, advancing un 
 steadily, stopped by the tables. It was to 
 Vroni as if she were exposed nude, body 
 and soul, before that throng, whether mo 
 ments or hours she knew not. 
 
 As in a dream, she saw another figure stand 
 ing in the little space in the centre of the 
 room, a tall fellow with a tow head ; and, 
 through her fright and the hammering in 
 her temples rattled in idiotic repetition a 
 meaningless haunting thing of long ago : 
 
 " The enemy is approaching, the enemy, the 
 enemy over the bridge, the enemy ap 
 proaching the enemy enemy enemy." 
 
 Calm and distinct above all noise and mur- 
 murings, she heard Tiber call to mine host : 
 
 "Cousin Wilhclm, this man is drunk and 
 raving sheer craziness. Let us put him 
 out." 
 
 But before Cousin Wilhclm could emerge
 
 Heart s Dearest 327 
 
 from his barricade of beer-barrels, and take 
 active part in the procedure, the man was 
 distinctly and very neatly out and not 
 immediately did Tiber reappear. Nodding 
 good-humoredly to those who spoke to him 
 as he was regaining his place, he remarked 
 carelessly, and without a glance toward Vroni s 
 corner : 
 
 "Tis naught. Schnapps makes rare crazy 
 jabber. Let us sing." 
 
 Melchior, whose blood had curdled with 
 horror, was recovering himself sufficiently to 
 reckon chances. The zither was tinkling 
 cheerily again. The august group in which 
 he sat seemed unconscious that a vulgar dis 
 turbance had the temerity to compromise any 
 person in their immediate society. One whose 
 back was turned to the room remarked 
 superbly : - 
 
 " One of them Social Democrats, most 
 likely, strayed in here by mistake," and had 
 never deigned to turn his head as Berg went 
 flying by. 
 
 Melchior wondered feebly if all were 
 strangers, as might be the case, or if, by ill- 
 luck, some present happened to know his sis 
 ter s story. He dared not speak to her. He
 
 328 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 wriggled on his chair. He wished she would 
 not look so ghastly pale. It would attract 
 attention from those who otherwise might not 
 suspect she had been implicated. He felt 
 most truly wretched, and almost failed to 
 answer when an tinder-butler spoke. Jako- 
 bine hitched her chair inch by inch away from 
 Vroni, who had not stirred, and seemed scarcely 
 to breathe. 
 
 How long she sat thus, she had no idea. 
 She looked at no one. It was all in vain. 
 She could never again be acceptable among 
 decent men and women. The world was blind, 
 unfair, and deadly cruel, but too strong for 
 her. Amid the merriment and jingling glasses, 
 blank desolation encompassed her, and a ter 
 rible sense of the utter emptiness of life. Vin- 
 cenz s unforeboded return had been so cruelly 
 sudden her spirit was quite broken. She 
 waited, irresolute, longing to flee, dreading 
 to move. Her seat happily was near the 
 entrance door. At length, while a well-tem 
 pered burst of laughter occupied the board, 
 she stole out, and Melchior and Jakobine, wise 
 as the serpent, appeared not to notice her 
 exit. 
 
 She went a short distance, and leaned, tremb-
 
 Heart s Dearest 329 
 
 ling, against a building. Hearing a step 
 behind her, she shuddered ; but it was a straight 
 firm step, and she breathed again. 
 
 "Thou, Vroni !" exclaimed a joyful voice, 
 and Tiber grasped both her hands. For many 
 moments she stood still with closed eyes. 
 
 " So ! T is enough," she muttered curtly, 
 stood erect and straightened her bonnet. " I 
 have not thanked thee, Tiber. Seest, I can 
 not. Wast ever a good heart, and so, good 
 night to thee." 
 
 With a fair show of resolution she started 
 on her way. 
 
 " Nay, Vroni, not so shallst thou shake me 
 off after long years," he began, stumbling a 
 little at the start his old trick though in 
 the room just now he had spoken with placid 
 ease. " Now thou art come again " a great 
 glad ring in his voice "I be minded, God 
 willing, never more to let thee go. By thy 
 leave I shall walk home with thee. T is 
 wiser for sundry reasons. And that I may not 
 do as once I did, fearing my own poor words, 
 and ever rare shamefaced before thee, I ask 
 straightway, willst be my wife?" 
 
 Like a man laying aside a heavy load, he 
 exhaled a huge breath of relief.
 
 330 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " There, t is out, Gottlob! I pray thee, 
 Vroni, answer not too speedily. Of thy 
 speedy answer I do fear me ere I have said my 
 say. Seest, art a far too tidy maid for me. 
 Am but a dullish fellow for one like thee. 
 Doubt not that I do know it. Nay, speak not 
 yet, Vroni, for if I be stopped in my rare run 
 of speech mayhap I ne er can get in pace 
 again. T is nigh on six years since I did see 
 thy face, but have been serving for thee ever 
 since like Jacob in the Holy Bible for his 
 tidy maid the Rachel. For I Vc done all that 
 thou didst say that night. Did leave Count 
 Benno s service on the grounds thou didst 
 point out. Did turn them over in my mind 
 and find them wise. For joiner-work am not 
 unhandy, and first did lean that way, and 
 searched but found no chance. So most 
 soberly did sit me down and think it out that 
 the best of me being my good legs, they best 
 would serve me as profession. But were it 
 not for thee, I d not be postman and promoted 
 twice, and for that I have to thank thee and 
 none else. Of much I have to tell thee, 
 Vroni, but t will keep. Secst, am mortal 
 slow, but steady and getting on, and fond of 
 thee, ah, Vroni, canst believe! since the
 
 Heart s Dearest 331 
 
 day I first did see thee, full seven years gone, 
 at Waldmohr. So ist s. Willst have me, 
 Vroni ? " 
 
 " Hast quite lost thy sense? Didst not hear 
 that man?" 
 
 " Mind not what that fool spake ! None did 
 mind or list or know or care. Fear naught." 
 
 " T was true, Tiber, every word." 
 
 " I know it damn him ! " returned the big 
 fellow, a sob in the throat. Doubling a stout 
 fist, he extended his right arm once or twice 
 straight before him in the night. "Willst be 
 my wife, Vroni? " 
 
 " Nay, Tiber, never." 
 
 " Dost like somebody? " he asked in alarm. 
 
 " I care but for one man, and he is dead 
 my father." 
 
 " Would I had known him," said Tiber, 
 gently. " I mind me every word thou once in 
 joy didst speak of him. In thy grief I did 
 think of thee many a time, Vroni but saw 
 thce not, Count Benno sending me no more 
 to town. T was sorrow and vexation ; but 
 now art come again ! " he cried with irrepres 
 sible rejoicing. " Have missed thee so sore. 
 Was spying ever for thce in the streets, in 
 every crowd, and for thy name on letters. To
 
 332. Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 two towns t was long ago I hied me find 
 ing out your whereabouts, but take it not ill 
 vex not thyself " 
 
 " Nay, Tiber," she said wearily, " speak out, 
 I pray thee." 
 
 " Each time I did spy him there before me, 
 and heavy of heart did turn about and go." 
 
 She groaned. 
 
 " Then, since I might not see thy face, I did 
 thy work that thou didst give me. Seest, 
 Vroni, in the Post tis not all legs. T is 
 somewhat head. Must learn there too, and 
 read, and write reports, and cipher. They 
 put one in new branches. Mayhap t is on 
 the train, mayhap off in a village, or with 
 the parcels, or at stamping all the night. A 
 man must learn all sides of it, that each may 
 lend a hand when there be pressure. I 11 
 tell thcc what I d tell no other. Ofttimcs 
 when I must drive a new thing into my thick 
 pate, it seems just to take marrow out of me. 
 Did I not hang on, and give me deadly pains, 
 I d get naught at all of that which other men 
 do catch in play and lightness." 
 
 " Tiber, thou art no mean man. Truly I do 
 respect thee," she broke out quickly, with a 
 touch of her old manner.
 
 Heart s Dearest 333 
 
 "Thy respect is good coin, Vroni; yet, by 
 Saint Peter and Saint Paul, respect s not all I 
 make so bold as to crave from thee. Wast 
 my little schoolmaster. Didst set me tasks 
 and tell me truths, but put in me stoutheart 
 edness. Without thee I had been a block, a 
 lump. Without thee I had never worked 
 upon thy matters each hour I did get. Until 
 then, in Count Benno s service I did hang 
 about much time and yawn. So without thee 
 I had not later what was needed in my tow 
 head didst call me Towhead dost mind 
 thee of it? for the work that suits me well. 
 For the racing and the running in all weathers, 
 I do like, and am greeted of many folk in 
 kindly wise, and the children on my rounds 
 make friends with me and spring with shouts 
 to meet me. Hast done a good work on me. 
 But t is for something else I want thee. Wast 
 a brave little schoolmaster, yet not for that art 
 thou so dear. Wast ever in my heart so 
 deep, so firm, so warm. Say, Vroni, willst 
 be my wife ? " 
 
 " Truly art thou duller than I did think," 
 she answered with sad effort, " yet dull in 
 naught save one thing only. Mayhap silence 
 were wiser. If I do answer thee at all, t is
 
 334 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 but to convince thee of thy great lack of 
 reason." 
 
 " Tis well, Vroni. Convince." 
 
 She enumerated the world s arguments, one 
 by one, against herself. No enemy could have 
 been more severe. 
 
 " T is naught. It hath no meaning." 
 
 She painted in careful colors the girl he 
 ought to marry. 
 
 " I like her not," he rejoined calmly. " I 
 like but thee. Nor saw I ever anywhere one 
 fit to wipe dust off thy shoes. Am dull, may 
 hap, in all things else save that I do see thee as 
 thou art, and have the grace to love thee with 
 all strength and warmth. Willst marry me? " 
 
 She sought to show him, rather brokenly, 
 for she felt weary and heartsick, how futile was 
 his hope; spoke of the children and the conse 
 cration of her life to them ; hinted at the sen 
 timents with which a man would be apt to 
 regard such children, so beloved by her. 
 
 He laughed a mellow laugh of incredulity. 
 
 "Thou, Vroni, tis not thine own wise way 
 of talk. Me, hating children ! " 
 
 "And never aught of peace of mind, since 
 scenes like that which did to-night affright me 
 might blast me any hour."
 
 Heart s Dearest 335 
 
 " That s my business," he muttered grimly. 
 " Be thou at rest." 
 
 "Tis my bad head coming on, Tiber, or 
 truly my words would better and more 
 strongly warn thee, as they in duty should, and 
 thou wouldst plainly see thy great unwisdom, 
 which any fool could tell thee." 
 
 " He were in truth a fool that did attempt 
 it! " 
 
 "Tiber, dost mind thee of the enemy the 
 enemy? " 
 
 "If I do mind me!" 
 
 " They gallop over all bridges in my brain this 
 night so that my thought is lame and weary." 
 
 " Dear head ! Would I might rest it where I 
 would ! And would thou gavst me leave this 
 night to take on the morrow to the Rathhaus 
 one of my fifty sheets, clean penned and 
 without flies, -on which is plainly writ our 
 two names joined as those who do mean 
 wedlock." 
 
 " Tiber," she said in deep emotion and 
 astonishment, "familiar though thou be, tis 
 a new man that I do see in thee. I know 
 thee, yet I know thee not." 
 
 " Truly t is no less in my own mind the 
 case," he returned with a little laugh, " for I
 
 33 6 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 do ever marvel at myself and at my trickling 
 speech, and am as one newborn. Tis the 
 gladness. So I do ask thee still once more, 
 willst be my wife? " 
 
 " Thou knowst it cannot be. Bid me good 
 night and leave me now. This is the house. 
 I thank thee from my heart for thy good ser 
 vice and thy trustiness. I bid thee good-bye 
 and God-speed, for in kindness am I minded 
 to see thee no more." 
 
 "Na, na! Tis a bit speedy, Vroni ! T will 
 never do. Must see, thyself, thou shouldst 
 not fret a good friend so. For that I be 
 thy good friend; though more beside by 
 the Kaiser s beard I deny it not ! " 
 
 As she said nothing, he went on presently 
 with a certain insidious boyishness : - 
 
 " Thou, Vroni, I did make some little things 
 for thee, boxes and shelves in wood with carv 
 ing, and everywhere a curly V. T is the 
 prettiest letter of them all, and works in rarely 
 well. The toys are nigh enough to furnish a 
 house, for many a night these many years did 
 I sadly turn to them for comfort. Tis naught, 
 mayhap ; yet I 11 not lie t is tidy work 
 enough. Say, Vroni, when may I come, only 
 to show thee such a little box? "
 
 Heart s Dearest 337 
 
 Low and strained, she answered : 
 " Scest, Tiber, I can bear no more." 
 He took her hands in his firm grasp : 
 " T is true that in my gladness I do seem 
 to have small thought of grievous things that 
 weigh on thee. And I would have thee glad 
 likewise, not mindful of old pain. Yet think 
 not I lack the heart to understand thy thought. 
 Though ciphering figures be not yet my way 
 to take mine ease, oh, trust me, Vroni, for 
 thee have I quite other wits. And must I 
 touch upon that I fain would bury out of 
 sight,"- he paused an instant, his tone lower, 
 very firm, the light from the great lamp over 
 the gate falling full on his manly face, " t is 
 only this I ll say: had la lamb, or such 
 like little thing and did some sudden evil 
 beast, a wolf or such, wound it and hurt it 
 sore, would I then anger me with the lamb? 
 So, that there be no mistake, I ask thee, 
 Vroni, willst be my wife? " 
 
 She looked at him intently for some mo 
 ments, and answered with poignant sadness: 
 " Mayhap t was no lamb ; mayhap t was no 
 wolf yet art a brave man, Tiber," and slipped 
 through the gateway. 
 
 22
 
 338 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 XVIII 
 
 "WAS it a blow I fairly did deserve must 
 bear it stoutly and whimper not. Did I 
 deserve it not then surely can I bear it. 
 Whether desert or not desert and how long 
 the heart must writhe for old misdeeds t is 
 the Hcrr Gotfs business." 
 
 For weeks after Vincenz s attack, thus rea 
 soned Vroni, day in, day out. Her argument 
 seemed sound ; nevertheless, after the manner 
 of greater philosophers, she suffered from heart 
 throes and depression. Of Vincenz she saw 
 no more, but dreaded him perpetually, and 
 relapsed into her old condition of nervous 
 apprehension. Withal, she was discontented 
 with herself, craving affection, thinking 
 oftener of Tiber than was consistent with her 
 theories, and, worst grief of all, perceiving 
 no way to secure her children. Now that 
 Vincenz was lowering, she determined more 
 than ever to have them with her, vaguely 
 fearing him. Who could foresee what he
 
 Heart s Dearest 339 
 
 in some fit of irresponsible rage, as recently, 
 might undertake? They would be safe only 
 with her. Yet she could not transport them 
 from freedom to a cage in town and be absent 
 from them all day at her work. What then ? 
 What, indeed? 
 
 On a chance half-holiday she walked 
 through busy streets, and pondered ways and 
 means, all ineffectual. As she passed, rigidly 
 plain in dress, and absorbed in thought, peo 
 ple turned to look at her, and turned again. 
 Most of them had no idea why their wander 
 ing gaze grew suddenly intent ; but now and 
 then a painter gave her an explicitly search 
 ing glance, and, were he so inclined, could 
 have informed them that in her clear-eyed, 
 straight-featured face lay a rare calm and 
 a reserve of power which amid the shifting 
 throng arrested and surprised attention. 
 
 Moving on aimlessly, she stopped an instant 
 before a broad window where a gleam of color 
 attracted her half-unconscious sense; and her 
 somewhat mechanical gaze merged into a soft, 
 half sad smile of recognition. She remained 
 some minutes rooted there. In her deep 
 hypnosis was nothing at which the passers-by 
 could wonder, for she stood where a perennial
 
 340 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 group of Lot s wives was wont to block the 
 pavement, and plunge into that rapt contem 
 plation created in some minds exclusively by 
 bonnets. 
 
 Vroni beheld but one object, a picture, a 
 memory, a vision; in point of fact, merely a 
 bunch of silk and velvet sweet peas, in many 
 shades of violet, lying upon a piece of old 
 gold plush. Her expression became singu 
 larly alert. She glanced up at the sign, which 
 with chaste simplicity announced Lanrc. A 
 series of keen observations embraced various 
 details. When she turned from that window, 
 she had again taken her fate into her own 
 hands, and beneath the resolution visible 
 upon her countenance, lurked a small spark 
 of rather diabolical humor. 
 
 Not many weeks later, the somnolent Mel- 
 chior, steering the yawning royal gondola 
 through a crowded thoroughfare, happened to 
 see, on a prominent square crossed by many 
 streets, a new shop, or rather an old shop 
 with new appointments, for it was taking on 
 whiteness with rare and discreet touches of 
 gold. On a breezy corner flanked by rows 
 of excellent and sedate business houses, it 
 began to assume a peculiar daintiness, and
 
 Heart s Dearest 341 
 
 an almost exotic charm. Each day he drove 
 up, observing it from afar, and deigned to 
 regard its developments with ever-increasing 
 interest. Large plate-glass windows replaced 
 more ordinary ones, and manifold changes 
 seemed to be going on in the structure of the 
 interior. Melchior was conscious of a rather 
 ignoble curiosity, for a man in his position, 
 as to the nature of the business demanding 
 this mild resplendence of environment. Pic 
 tures, he presumed. 
 
 Presently a sign went up, VERONIQUE, in 
 gold and white. At this foreign name good 
 Melchior stared with benevolent unconscious 
 ness. Thereafter, the chief windows dis 
 played a mass of old gold plush, artistically 
 rumpled round a centre-piece of snowy linen, 
 upon which appeared each day, with a few 
 fresh flowers, a new scheme of decorative and 
 tempting viands a charming still-life effect. 
 When Melchior beheld a fine fat capon carved 
 and re-adjusted, an ancient bottle in its 
 honorable raiment of dust and cobwebs, a 
 glass half filled with mellow Pommard, and 
 a bunch of purple grapes lying negligently 
 near : 
 
 "Pototauscnd!" he remarked. "Who d
 
 34- Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 have suspected a cook! But tis in grand 
 style and noble to make your mouth water." 
 
 More and more, driving leisurely toward 
 the shop, from one or another of various long 
 approaches, he enjoyed the sight of its white 
 and distinguished prominence. As on one 
 occasion he was turning slowly past it into a 
 side street, he shot through the open doors 
 one of his swift oblique glances of explora 
 tion and had he not been sustained by the 
 habit of strict propriety would have tumbled 
 down in a heap from his box. For he looked 
 straight into the quizzical eyes of his sister 
 Vroni, who nodded carelessly to him, as though 
 she had been bowered all her life in white 
 and gold, turned her back and went on, appar 
 ently giving instructions to a group of maids 
 capped and aproned like herself. 
 
 Despite his emotional uproar, he continued 
 to haunt that dreaded spot which exerted an 
 irresistible fascination upon him. From a 
 side door, he saw two brown and handsome 
 children emerge with a young nursery maid, 
 and start off for a walk. He followed them, 
 noted their hours, in suburban streets often 
 walked his grand equipage close to the pave 
 ment, heard their prattle, and his heart felt
 
 Heart s Dearest 343 
 
 as dull and empty as the majestic ark in his 
 wake. 
 
 Vroni s first patron the young assistants 
 thought an odd sort of customer. It was a 
 beautiful and great lady, whose hands Madame 
 Veronique kissed repeatedly and as quick as 
 a flash. Then madame led the lovely lady 
 into the little private room which looked 
 upon the garden where the children played. 
 When after a long time the two came out, the 
 lady s eyelids were pink under her veil, and 
 madame accompanied her straight out to the 
 carriage. That day the lady ordered nothing, 
 but came soon again, and took Nita and Dion 
 out in the woods with her; often she called 
 for them ; often she stayed long in the private 
 room ; and many orders came from her, and 
 from her fine friends. 
 
 Melchior reported the Frege horses stand 
 ing frequently and long at Vroni s door. 
 
 "Ha!" exclaimed his Jakobine, with wifely 
 explicitness, "the jackanapes comes bouncing 
 up like a very Hans Wnrst ! Yet," eying her 
 spouse malevolently, "there be mettle in her 
 which I do not mislike. Would all her kin 
 had her backbone." 
 
 Vroni s second customer was of another
 
 344 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 type. When madame, coming in, saw him 
 sitting at a little table in the corner, the 
 young maids noted that she colored rosy-red, 
 and sent them promptly to their tasks. 
 
 Tiber, gravely but with a twinkle in his 
 eye, continued to take minute sips of coffee, 
 and to watch her benignly over his tiny cup. 
 
 " Shouldst not come here," she began, with 
 coolness and decision. " Knowst I did plainly 
 tell thee my meaning." 
 
 Somewhat wistful, perturbed by her man 
 ner, he stared at her a moment; but, taking 
 counsel within himself, he returned after 
 rather long deliberation: 
 
 "Vroni, didst respectfully invite the public 
 to try thy fine cookery. If a postman be not 
 the public, I pray thee, then, who is ? " 
 
 The entrance of customers postponed her 
 reply. Regularly at a certain hour every 
 day, appeared white Tiber, good-humored and 
 serene, sipped his nectar with incredible slow 
 ness, and surveyed her to his heart s content. 
 On days when he could afford the time, he 
 prolonged his bliss by devouring an incredi 
 ble number of cakes. There was no chance 
 for private conversation in her well-filled 
 rooms, but across tables and strangers heads
 
 Heart s Dearest 345 
 
 much was mutely discussed between the two. 
 She sometimes heard both children, even 
 Dion, who was apt to be ungracious to 
 strangers, shout "Uncle Tiber!" before the 
 door. The maid in charge related that he 
 often walked with them a short bit. Of all 
 this Vroni thought her share, yet had little 
 time to dwell succinctly upon the future, so 
 exhaustively did her bold venture absorb her 
 powers. 
 
 It was, indeed, a great venture, for at the 
 start she had to risk her little capital. But 
 she prospered beyond her most sanguine ex 
 pectation. Her fine cookery shop reached 
 rich harvests. She worked early and late, 
 served dainties, lunches, and French dinners 
 within and without the house. Her energy, 
 elasticity, inspiration, and genius for organi 
 zation seemed inexhaustible, now that Nita 
 and her Dion were within reach of her arms. 
 Her suite of pleasant rooms speedily became 
 a place of fashionable resort for afternoon 
 tea, and her kitchen, in vista, was a sort of 
 grill room bright with blue and white tiles, 
 and gleaming metal, while she and her corps 
 of pretty and clever-looking maids commanded 
 the situation with calm ease.
 
 346 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Count Benno and his clanking comrades 
 honored her with orders, often with their 
 presence, and vowed she was "pyramidal. " 
 She provided grand dinners for the embassies. 
 Praises not only of her cuisine, but of her 
 judgment, shrewdness, immense experience, 
 and taste, as well as of her straight dealings, 
 sounded on all sides. People greatly approved 
 her manners, too, and the discreet tone of her 
 establishment. One knew at once, they said, 
 with what kind of woman one was dealing, 
 which was such a comfort in these degenerate 
 days. Her serious investigation of the char 
 acter and quality of guests at projected dinners, 
 her respectful attitude toward her business, 
 and many of her remarks were cited as orig 
 inal and amusing. She was considered a 
 rather unique personality. 
 
 The height of youthful feminine ambition 
 was to be married at St. Ambrosius and have 
 Veronique do the breakfast. A high person 
 age at Court remarked it was a mystery to 
 him, how the town had existed so long with 
 out her, for when she arrived, it was obvious 
 she had simply to slip into the place which 
 had always been waiting for her genius. Mel- 
 chior, at this epoch, drew up his horses to ask
 
 Heart s Dearest 347 
 
 the children if they were aware he was their 
 uncle. Nita affably accepted him forthwith, 
 but Dion, with a stare of haughty disapproval, 
 declared he "believed it not." 
 
 Across this prosperity lay a black shadow. 
 Sometimes it stealthily followed the children. 
 It had walked, too, behind her, when for some 
 special festival she had gone to inspect a 
 dining-room, for, as the Japanese their flowers, 
 she arranged dinners with exquisite adjust 
 ment to the essential meaning of their envi 
 ronment. The shadow cultivated the habit 
 of standing at her windows and peering in, 
 with a distasteful and faded jauntiness. It 
 seemed a shadow of sinister omen, and it 
 appalled her. There were nights when she 
 lay sleepless, mourning bitterly that she never 
 could escape from the past. 
 
 In her private room where were her desk, 
 ledger, and various account-books, was a 
 nearly life-sized photograph of the weaver at 
 his loom. She possessed, among her few 
 relics of him, a rude tin-type made by a 
 pccller, in return for his dinner. He had pro 
 posed to take her, but she gleefully piloted 
 him into the front room, and captured her 
 father. The artist to whom she gave her
 
 348 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 order had wrought the reproduction and en 
 largement with peculiar sympathy and skill. 
 Dionysius, in soft lines and plastic modelling, 
 occupied nearly one whole wall. The genius 
 of the place, he confronted, with deep eyes 
 and kindly but direct questioning, every one 
 who crossed the threshold. 
 
 Sitting in her low chair, her head thrown 
 back upon her hands, Vroni, late at night, as 
 was her wont, wistfully communed with the 
 weaver. 
 
 "What willst from me? Dost ask some 
 thing with thine eyes. Yet smilst as though 
 thou fain would say, My foolish Madel. 
 Truly, t is so. In which thing then be I 
 most foolish? T is Vincenz surely, that thou 
 meanst, for he doth try me and affright me 
 sorely, fearing I know not what. T is a 
 grievous and mean condition to be sore afraid. 
 Would I knew how to end it ! I take it there 
 be a remedy for all ills, did one know how to 
 find it." 
 
 Tranquil, half amused, the weaver looked 
 up from his work and contemplated her. Ever 
 searching for his message, she gazed thought 
 fully into the life-like picture-eyes. 
 
 "Smilst. Tis little worth, tis naught;
 
 Heart s Dearest 349 
 
 is that thy meaning ? " With a great start of 
 self-conviction : " Dost mean I did ever make 
 great talk of scorn for cowards, yet do shiver 
 and shake myself? Meanst there s naught in 
 life worth such affright? And Vincenz is 
 but a mortal man, no more, no less? Ach, 
 Vdterle, hast right and reason. I 11 do it 
 what thou meanst. T is a bitter pill, but 
 worse ones did I swallow many and ofttimes. 
 At any rate, t is ill to hoot at others, yet for 
 months and years to fear and quake. Truly 
 do I shame myself, and wonder much." 
 
 In spite of her brave convictions, she sighed 
 from time to time, and was sick at heart as 
 she considered her course of action. 
 
 One rainy day, the first time she again saw 
 Vincenz haunting the precincts, she went to 
 the door, bade him good-morning, and asked 
 him to come in. With a look as if he doubted 
 whether he had heard aright, he followed her 
 to her room, where the weaver s eyes met him 
 as he entered, and impressed him unpleasantly. 
 
 Vroni, very pale, remarked: 
 
 " I have to speak with thee. But first, per 
 haps, thou lit taste this to refresh thee. T is 
 the coffee Veronique of which, doubtless, 
 thou hast heard."
 
 350 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Pushing the cup aside, he said, with a faint 
 sneer : 
 
 "Art in a snug nest." 
 
 "Truly," she answered in a calm voice, 
 but her hands trembled. 
 
 " Canst laugh at a poor fool whose life thou 
 didst ruin, unless it be that in thy good luck 
 thou mostly dost forget." 
 
 " I laugh not, Vincenz, and forget not. " 
 
 "What willst say or do, that thou didst 
 stoop to call me in? Am little minded to 
 believe it be for love," he added bitterly, 
 "though knowing thee, one knows not what 
 strange whim may mount into thy head." 
 
 She moved abruptly, and said somewhat 
 curtly : 
 
 "Art right, Vincenz. T is not for love." 
 
 "For all that I do know," he flung in sus 
 picious jealous fashion at her, " t is to mock 
 me. Yet canst not mock in all things. T is 
 my will to see my children. I am their father. 
 Show me them." 
 
 Vroni rose and with a rigid hand grasped 
 a chair-back. Anticipating a refusal he as 
 sumed a hostile and threatening air. But 
 she, to his amazement, replied in a low and 
 strongly controlled voice :
 
 Heart s Dearest 351 
 
 "Art their father and shalt see them. T is 
 one reason why I bade thee to come in." 
 
 She turned to call them, stopped, looked 
 back imploringly at him, deadly anxiety, 
 prayer, and warning seeking utterance; but 
 restraining them all, she said only, turning 
 again, her hand upon the door : 
 
 "I do pray thee, Vincenz, to be minded 
 they be very young and till this moment, 
 happy." 
 
 For reply he drummed with his fingers on 
 the table, and smiling with a touch of the old 
 complacency looked out the window. 
 
 Nita advanced graciously, gave him her 
 hand, and asked with the air of one embar 
 rassed by riches in this respect: 
 
 "Which of my nuncles is it?" 
 
 Vroni hesitated. 
 
 "A friend," she said. 
 
 "Hast forgot thy coffee, Nuncle Friend," 
 Nita reminded him. "Hast not plenty 
 sugar?" 
 
 Vincenz smiled slightly upon the charming 
 little person but cared no more for her be 
 cause the boy, standing apart and scowling, 
 roused the man s spirit of conquest. 
 
 " Willst not come to me? "
 
 352 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 Beneath a mass of overhanging curls, Dion s 
 great sombre eyes peered out like a wild 
 thing s under a bush. 
 
 "Nay, I like thee not," he answered, and 
 to all solicitation remained obdurate. 
 
 Vroni stood waiting, passive, mistrust and 
 fear strong within her. She loathed the 
 thought that Vincenz could lay his hand on 
 Dion. Her instinct was to snatch him up 
 and flee with him. Suddenly she became 
 aware of her wild notions, and that Vincenz 
 at the moment wore no formidable but a 
 weary and singularly disconcerted air. 
 
 "If thou do play to him," she said softly, 
 "wilt win him fast enough. T is in the 
 nursery his piano." 
 
 Dion stood motionless by the player, grad 
 ually drew nearer, laid his head against Vin- 
 cenz s shoulder and when he rose slipped a 
 confiding hand in his, and led him back to 
 Vroni s room. 
 
 "Go now to Brigitte, little ones." 
 
 "Good-bye, Nuncle Friend," piped Nita. 
 
 "Mayst play to me again on my piano," 
 said Dion, solemnly. 
 
 " Had I them and thee I were a better 
 man," began Vincenz, moodily, and meeting
 
 Heart s Dearest 353 
 
 the singular eyes of the man on the wall, 
 glanced uneasily out the window. 
 
 "Mayhap, but I do doubt it. T is thy 
 meaning at the moment, but at the doors 
 of every gin-shop, loiter little children wait 
 ing to lead their fathers home. Hast other 
 children who did ne er prevail on thee in any 
 wise. Nay, Vincenz, be not fierce with me. 
 T is far from my intent to vex thee. I fain 
 would but answer thee with sense and truth. 
 Nor can aught uproot the thought in me, 
 which doth grow firmer every day I live, that 
 t is only one s own heart, plodding sternly, 
 that doth by slow degrees gain strength against 
 itself with Heaven s help," she added to 
 herself, " in ways that be most marvellous. " 
 
 " Hast it so good about thee, canst well 
 afford thy wisdom, " he retorted in dull rage; 
 for she was still desirable because beyond 
 his reach, the remote compassion of her voice 
 irritated him, and the comfort of her sur 
 roundings mocked his inability to share it. 
 " Dost live in plenty. Hast even thine own 
 serving maids to wait on thee; while I, tis 
 true, am fallen, and no more that which I was 
 of old." 
 
 " I have no servants, seeing I do work the
 
 354 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 most and largest. I do but train, from my 
 experience, my blithe apprentices for their 
 life-work. Vincenz, I do spy thy thought 
 which, trust me, is unsound. Were I with 
 thee I d ne er have had these rooms which 
 much do busy thy reflection. When thou 
 dost turn that in thy mind, willst see the 
 straightness of its reasoning. Nor is it sense 
 for me to dwell on that which I and the chil 
 dren might have been with thee, since tis 
 but sheer imagining. T is other business I 
 would bespeak with thee." 
 
 "In truth, I were right curious to hear it," 
 he muttered sullenly, regarding her despon 
 dently, yet with vague expectancy. 
 
 She moistened her lips and throat with a 
 swallow of the untouched cold coffee, and 
 looked one instant at the weaver. 
 
 "Vincenz, for some things I have to thank 
 thee, for others I do crave thy pardon." 
 
 With a bound he straightened himself and 
 stared with widely opened eyes. 
 
 "I did fear thee. T was a wrong to thee 
 and me. I fear thee no more. I did hate 
 thee. I hate thee no more. For fearing and 
 hating thee I do shame myself, and pray thee 
 pardon me. New thoughts of thee are come
 
 Heart s Dearest 355 
 
 are sent to me. I see thee otherwise. Art 
 but a mortal man, Vincenz, and I am minded 
 t is a blame to fear aught on earth save sin. 
 Art not too happy. Would I could see thee 
 brave and cheery at thy work again. Didst 
 have a liking for me once " 
 
 She hesitated. Vincenz had shaded his 
 eyes with his hands. In her face was a poig 
 nant mournfulness. 
 
 "Well, as to that," she went on, low and 
 sadly, "I fain would thank thee for all of 
 good in thy affection. I do thank thee for 
 gentle hours many a time. For the rest, I 
 do hold thee not wholly without mercy to be 
 blamed. T is a hard matter to disentangle 
 threads of right and wrong that ofttimes do 
 mix themselves most wondrously, and what be 
 wrongest in this world na, men roar loud 
 where the Herr Gott keeps silence. But this 
 I 11 say, Vincenz, I take it there be somewhat 
 to plead for thee, both by way of thy quick 
 silver nature and the poor breeding they did 
 hang on thee. And whatever blame be mine 
 
 o 
 
 by right how much, how little, I discuss 
 not, neither do I measure I do now take 
 upon myself. I hate thee not. I wish thee 
 well. So ist s."
 
 356 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 The man had buried his head in his arms 
 upon the table and was sobbing heavily, nor 
 was she quite dry-eyed. 
 
 After some time, he raised his head, and 
 said gently : 
 
 " T is probable that thou dost mean to 
 marry." 
 
 "Leastwise, I do weigh that matter." 
 "Then canst no longer wish me well." 
 Touched by his submission, she replied: 
 "Nay, henceforth I wish thee well. And 
 if I do marry, which may or may not be, t is 
 a just man juster than any I have known, 
 save one." 
 
 After a long pause, he asked humbly : 
 " Is it thy meaning I may ever come to 
 greet thee, if I be mindful to vex thce no 
 more? Forget thee, Vroni, can I never, and 
 I did like the cloudy little kid." 
 
 "Take it not ill that I do say thee nay," 
 she returned with great gentleness. " Seest, 
 Vincenz, it were painful, and rarely awkward 
 at this present; nor can I wholly trust thy 
 flickering mood, which now is light, and in 
 a moment, darkness. But this I tell thee 
 straight and sure. Art thou ill or in need 
 I 11 be thy friend. Dost turn from drink and
 
 Heart s Dearest 357 
 
 slippery ways, I 11 rejoice none more. Dost 
 look about and try to comfort where thou 
 hast caused much misery, dost have some 
 care of children joyless through thee, yet on 
 whom thou in sheer carelessness didst bestow 
 the gift of life, I 11 honor thy endeavor. Yet 
 dost thou naught of this, art thou wrong and 
 wretched, I 11 not turn wholly from thee. 
 I 11 be fair to thee, and seek no more to for 
 get thou art the father of my children. In 
 time, t is my most firm intent to tell them 
 all. I am minded neither to speak nor act 
 lies to them, God helping me. In time, may 
 hap, I will receive thee. I promise naught. 
 I but say mayhap. On thine own self doth 
 that depend. Yet once more say I strongly, 
 I do wish thee well. Canst, if thou willst, 
 set thy teeth hard and be a man. Go now, 
 Vincenz. Trust somewhat to the years that 
 ofttimes do work in mercy for us. God speed 
 thee. Lebewohl"
 
 35 8 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 XIX 
 
 TIBER S queer blondness, shabby blue uniform, 
 and placid, somewhat humorous observation 
 entrenched themselves no longer behind Lil- 
 iputian mocha-cups and ramparts of tiny 
 cakes. His corner was vacant many days; 
 none had seen him ; Vroni missed him acutely, 
 and when late one evening he was announced, 
 and shown into her sanctum where she sat 
 writing, not penning, to Armand Gireaud, her 
 heart began to beat rather fast. 
 
 Tiber, unsmiling, sad indeed, seemed to enter 
 with a definite purpose. He sat down and 
 seemed about to divulge it, when he was ar 
 rested by the consciousness of the presence 
 of a third party. Long and in silence he 
 looked at the weaver. 
 
 " Art strangely like him," he said very gravely, 
 and sighed. 
 
 "What hast thou, Tiber? Art little like 
 thyself." 
 
 " Vroni, have come to take my leave of 
 thee."
 
 Heart s Dearest 359 
 
 " Art going away? " she said slowly. 
 
 "Nay, but," after a pause, "I do give thee 
 up." 
 
 She sat quite still and eyed him steadily. 
 
 " T is wise," she returned at length. " T is 
 doubtless very wise. T is as I bade thee," 
 but her tone was lifeless. 
 
 " Surely art not surprised ? " 
 
 " It matters little if I be surprised or no, 
 since I do tell thee thou dost act most 
 wisely." Her voice was toneless and her ap 
 proval numb. 
 
 He leaned forward, in his good face great 
 trouble and yearning : 
 
 " Why shouldst thou be surprised? Art so 
 clear in thy mind. Dost surely right well see 
 my case. I had not thought to speak it out, 
 it stands writ so plain before all eyes that 
 thou art now a dame too great and fine and 
 rich for me." 
 
 " Sapristi ! " she ejaculated softly. 
 
 Poor Tiber could not look at her and say^ 
 what he had to say, so he contemplated the 
 weaver, whose kindliness encouraged him. 
 
 " When I did find thee I did thank my God. 
 Nor was I too dismayed by the cool welcome, 
 so sorely much had hurt thee first and last.
 
 360 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 The hope within me was strong enough for 
 ten men in like case. Was so bold as already 
 to cast mine eye on cottages, and did spy one 
 building on the outskirts, nigh to fields and 
 meadows for the children. For I do earn, if 
 humbly, yet enough to keep a wife and thrifty 
 house. Thou didst see me march in here in 
 brave humor, not abashed. And at the first, 
 did slyly praise myself for my methods, and 
 saw things straight before me, and had great 
 joy and pride in thee and thy good manage 
 ment. But as I came and came, and saw thee 
 great thyself among the great, the truth began 
 to dawn on me." 
 
 " What great marvel hast discovered ? " she 
 murmured, her elbows on the table, her chin 
 on her clasped hands, her face soft, inviting, 
 tenderly quizzical. 
 
 But he, his grave eyes always uplifted, went 
 steadily on with his tale : - 
 
 " Moreover the little maid Brigitte, in great 
 pride of thee, did make known to me what 
 thou hast done for thy sister on the Alp." 
 
 " Ha, we needs must muzzle that mouth 
 piece ! " 
 
 "Brigitte did relate with glee how that her 
 mother and her lame tailor father and the many
 
 Heart s Dearest 361 
 
 many children were living in the cottage by 
 what she did call the Witch Tooth, and had 
 naught to pay save to keep things straight. 
 That thou through a man of law hast bought 
 the place for a goodly sum of thy brother 
 Sebastian, thy brother Melchior approving, 
 and neither did know the purchaser. That 
 then through thy man of law hast let repairs 
 be made and all claims paid, and a spacious 
 wing be added for room and comfort s sake." 
 
 " Ha, t is not a kingly pleasure-Schloss ! " 
 and Vroni smiled through a sudden shimmer, 
 yet seemed half ashamed. " Seest, Tiber," 
 she pleaded deprecatingly, " the deed s far 
 less than thy words do sound. T is plain 
 living on our Alp. Yet I do love it every 
 inch, and could not see the old place pass to 
 strangers. Fain would I have my children 
 wild and frolicsome there in summer-time; 
 and when the town grows stifling-tame, and I 
 do pine for space and winds, and homesick 
 ness is strong on me, fain would I turn me to 
 the hills." 
 
 Tiber watched her as she spoke, but looked 
 off, continuing: - 
 
 " Hearing the same, I did seem to get a chill 
 and hollowness in my inside. Willst wed a
 
 362 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 capitalist, said I to myself, thou that art of 
 the plain folk and of no account ? Then the 
 little maid in chirping pride did boast to me 
 what thou didst earn last month. That sum 
 did knock me flat. Straightway I hied me 
 home, and there did pound my head in rage, 
 and cry, Wast e er a dolt and fool, and stayst 
 it all thy life. " Turning toward her he added 
 firmly, " Beside all which, t is unseemly a 
 man do hang upon the earnings of his wife. 
 Hast heard. So isfs." 
 
 Vroni had risen as he spoke, and drawn ever 
 nearer, smiling, smiling; stood close to him, 
 put two hands on his shoulders, and, many 
 swift shades of feeling working in her face, 
 said tremulously: 
 
 " Towhead, I be minded thou and I much 
 do beat about the bush. Is my great wealth 
 thine only pain, canst be easy in thy mind. 
 Does naught else hold us twain apart t were 
 a blame on us to make a mountain of a mole 
 hill. T is true much gold passeth through 
 my hands, but I must needs spend largely to 
 keep my great machine in running order. For 
 my children shall I hoard only in modesty and 
 simple reckoning. So cruel be I not as to 
 steal from their future lives the needs of
 
 Heart s Dearest 363 
 
 hearty work which is a help and blessing. 
 For the rest, we will promptly use for others, 
 as we do go along, the most that I may earn, 
 in ways of which we 11 later speak, wherein 
 thy sense and trustiness will greatly serve the 
 purpose. So much for the money that doth 
 so vastly awe thee, to thy shame, say I. Did 
 hold thee to be braver. Hast made me say 
 outright: Towhead, will take thee, if so be 
 thou lit take me. " 
 
 The latter half of her speech was more or 
 less muffled and interrupted. Much and long 
 they spoke that night, but longer were their 
 long silences. 
 
 " So take it not ill that I do look at marriage 
 with mine own eyes," said Vroni, at the close 
 of some recital, " and t is fair to say to thee, 
 Tiber, that much as I do trust thee and our 
 chance of peace together, prove we not true 
 companions, I for thee and thou for me, I 
 should hold it baseness to house together." 
 He regarded her with benevolent irony : 
 " Ha, Vroni, willst divorce me ere the knot 
 be tied? " 
 
 " T is but my thought I fain would tell thee." 
 " So God will, we shall have time for tell 
 ing thoughts."
 
 364 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 " Seest, Tiber, I do love thec well, and trust 
 thee utterly, yet would not rush blindly 
 
 " Na ! Hast the face to call this rushing ! " 
 he protested with a queer grimace. " T will 
 be a decade soon since I first did court 
 thee." 
 
 She smiled but persisted : 
 
 " Have worked my way and thought my 
 thoughts alone, and pray thy patience do I 
 plainly say thou shalt be my friend and com 
 rade, my loving husband and my dear. But 
 not even thou canst with the gift of thy good 
 name change aught of good or ill in my past 
 life. And t is for no protection that I do 
 marry thee. Hast heard ? " 
 
 He took her face between his hands and 
 scrutinized it fondly : 
 
 " Ah, Vroni, Vroni, canst not yet believe I 
 understand thec?" he murmured with great 
 tenderness, adding, after a moment: "Yet 
 since the Lord did make me big and burly, 
 willst not vex thy dear heart overmuch, be I 
 so bold as to hold an umbrella over thec 
 gainst stormy weather?" 
 
 "Truly, that much I ll take not ill. Art 
 the sort of man I like, Towhead," she mur 
 mured with emotion. " Art a brave lad."
 
 Heart s Dearest 365 
 
 "Ay, and good to dogs," he responded 
 dryly. 
 
 " Thatwe can sit and laugh ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " T is high time." 
 
 " I could fear having a so peaceful heart 
 and restfulness that s new to me." 
 
 "T is well known the Lord takes care the 
 trees grow not as high as the sky. Yet I fear 
 naught, now that tis plain I be not the fifth 
 wheel of thy coach." 
 
 " Ei! Coaches and such grand connections 
 we 11 leave to Melchior. T is enough for the 
 whole kinship." 
 
 " Many a time doth he sail gloriously past 
 my Madame-chen s door, I mark me. Cometh 
 also even on his legs, my little friend Brigitte 
 did let fall. I had not thought thy brother 
 was possessed of legs." 
 
 " T was Nita took him by the hand and 
 led him in. Poor Melchior ! Ofttimes was I 
 angered hotly with him, yet my affection 
 clings. He hath a rare joy in the children, 
 and for my life I know none other in his dull 
 days. T were pity not to let him freshen 
 himself with them. I did give him tea and 
 civil greeting as to one who cometh daily 
 no more, no less. Likewise to his Jakobine,
 
 366 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 who soon after did march in staidly with 
 another old tea-aunty, gave I fair courtesy, and 
 did serve the tray myself, which I did mark 
 was pleasing to their worships." 
 
 "Art a brave lad, Vroni, and good to 
 dogs ! " 
 
 " I fain would tell thee, Tiber, if thou wilt 
 grant me time to speak a little sense, that 
 Nita collects Nuncles, where other children 
 seek for butterflies and postage stamps. T is 
 a motley lot." 
 
 " I know being one of them." 
 
 " And Nuncle Crossing-Sweeper and Nuncle 
 Bootblack, the latest whom she doth lead in 
 sweetly for broken cakes and scraps. Nuncle 
 Crossing-Sweeper is a friendly old man. But 
 Nuncle Bootblack, though his dancing eyes 
 do please me, is sorely tempted of my goodies, 
 and it were ill-advised to leave him unmo 
 lested in my storeroom." 
 
 " Vroni." 
 
 "White Tiber?" 
 
 "Knowst all thou dost earn will belong to 
 me?" 
 
 " What meanst?" She raised her head. 
 
 " By law," 
 
 " Ah, yes. By law, T is true. I had for-
 
 Heart s Dearest 367 
 
 got. Na, have already said, we 11 ne er quar 
 rel about money." 
 
 " T is a rarely funny old goodwife the law," 
 he remarked thoughtfully. 
 
 " Truly, many and ofttimes." 
 
 Presently Tiber began a low mellow laugh, 
 and laughed on in quiet enjoyment, pausing 
 but to chuckle again. 
 
 " Look at thee and me, Vroni, at thine work 
 and at mine ; at thine head and at my own ; at 
 thy rich earnings and at my salary ; nay, more, 
 look at all thou hast bravely done with thine 
 own single strength ; and to think the fruits of 
 this, thy merit and thy deed, are shortly mine 
 to have and to control, both what thou hast 
 laid by and what thou still dost earn ; thy cot 
 tage on the Alp and thy goodies in the store 
 room. Truly tis so passing droll a horse 
 might laugh. Tis monstrous, yet tis law." 
 
 " T is not the only monstrous thing and 
 not the worst," she responded very low ; and 
 the postman drew her closer, with a larger, 
 higher, and more manly tenderness than 
 Count Benno von Vallade had ever felt for 
 any woman. 
 
 "At least tis one I shall know how to 
 manage."
 
 368 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " By some sort of special contract, I suppose. 
 Am unlearned in these matters, yet know I 
 what be sense and what I will." 
 
 " I pray thee, Tiber ! Are not thy upright 
 ness and thy love stronger than any contract? 
 It irks me to think of promise great or small 
 twixt thee and me." 
 
 "Nay, Vroni," he said firmly. "A little 
 chat of one thing and another I needs must 
 have with thy man of law. In this case I do 
 hold it for the best. Besides," he added, seeing 
 her look grave, " there be that which I fain 
 would have signed and sealed in my behalf. 
 I would buy thy cakes at thy lowest wholesale 
 price. Nay, more, it would appear but just 
 that thou shouldst grant me a commission, see 
 ing that I did gorge myself with them in a 
 way that was pure advertisement for thy fine 
 cookery." 
 
 " My Towhead," she whispered, " my true 
 mate and my dear." 
 
 When, shortly, her dusty postman went 
 tramping out and in, great peacefulness within 
 his heart and upon his pleasant countenance, 
 lords and ladies had to wait until he met due 
 honors. The world thought it an odd choice
 
 Heart s Dearest 369 
 
 for a handsome woman like Veronique, who 
 with her neat income might really have looked 
 higher. With that business, she could have 
 secured a very respectable sort of merchant, or 
 a well-to-do if small hotel keeper. Still as Tiber 
 seemed to interfere not at all in her delectable 
 mission, the world concerned itself little with 
 him, and few suspected the restfulness, the 
 strength and beauty of their companionship. 
 Working girls flocked to Vroni as needles to 
 the magnet. She seemed always to have time 
 for them, and her keen insight read their na 
 tures and their needs. Maids fresh from the 
 country and at a loss for friends and amuse 
 ment, found both in her pleasant quarters; 
 where she tempted them with sweets, probed 
 their foolish hearts, steered them adroitly past 
 thin ice, gained their confidence and affection, 
 gave them good bits of happiness, and with 
 music and brightness tided over lonely and 
 dangerous Sundays. Generous to wayfarers, 
 kind and pitiful to sorrow and stupidity, she 
 had small mercy upon certain forms of care 
 less and brutal selfishness. Occasionally her 
 words, with many an odd sapristi and sapre- 
 lottc, fell like biting hail upon the head of 
 some young working man, and still more sav- 
 24
 
 370 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 agcly upon ungentle gentlemen. Often she 
 and her towhead went late at night " fishing " 
 
 o o 
 
 in dark streets and parks. In the course of 
 years many strange and pitiful fellow-crea 
 tures men, women, and little children did 
 they find to succor and to comfort. 
 
 In their manifold quiet schemes, one other 
 worked with them, the Comtesse Nclka. The 
 views which they shared and which informed 
 their endeavor would have been pronounced 
 at Court distinctly destructive to the well-being 
 of society. Perhaps to the extremely minute 
 human fraction known under that head at 
 Courts, those views may not have been inor 
 dinately flattering, but no more were they in 
 imical; while to the vast proportion outside 
 the pale, they were of that loving and pitiful 
 quality that leads of necessity to unwearying 
 brotherly deed. 
 
 The Countess von Vallade, observing now 
 and then a mere superficial fact, thought Nelka 
 a trifle eccentric in these matters. For what, 
 she would like to inquire, were the number 
 less charitable Clubs and Societies? Besides, 
 nothing was so unwise as to play special prov 
 idence, and transplant people suddenly here 
 and there to distant towns, and set them learn-
 
 Heart s Dearest 371 
 
 ing this and that. So much notice was apt to 
 spoil them, and such projects never turned out 
 agreeably and as one expected. She had no 
 objection to Veronique. On the contrary, she 
 was racy, many found her most fascinating ; 
 of course in her profession inimitable unap 
 proachable. That the countess had always 
 declared. Nor had she ever been so indis 
 creet as to mention Vroni s youthful flightiness 
 and her fattx pas. But Nelka seemed to go 
 there oftener than to her friends, too much 
 was too much; then some things they at 
 tempted the countess must really pronounce 
 excessive. 
 
 To which Nelka would respond simply : 
 
 " Vroni and I both think we have good rea 
 son." 
 
 The countess was, in fact, not greatly exer 
 cised. Nelka in her position could after all 
 give tone in any fashion she fancied, and a 
 little eccentricity was rather chic. Then she 
 neglected nothing indispensable in the way of 
 social functions, if she avoided much for which 
 the countess herself had interest. 
 
 Many painful experiences had fallen to that 
 lady s lot. Benno was shot in a peculiarly 
 ugly sort of duel, and his loss was a great grief
 
 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 to them all. Knod, for certain excesses which 
 even the army could not countenance, was 
 cashiered. Count Vallade had resigned on 
 account of failing eyesight. All in all, the 
 countess could not be thankful enough that 
 Nelka was so well established in life. Some 
 times the countess said " established," some 
 times " settled " or " provided for." Whatever 
 she said, she meant that she was delighted and 
 proud that Nelka was the wife of Baron Frege. 
 
 The countess was more than content with 
 Nelka s society, with her gentle and affectionate 
 consideration. There never was so devoted a 
 daughter. Then her tact with her father. 
 Then one of her carriages, always at the count 
 ess s disposal, really providential, since they 
 were obliged to give up their own. And never 
 did the mother notice that in her presence her 
 amiable daughter spoke of nothing near her 
 heart. 
 
 Vroni sat smiling over a hortatory letter 
 from Sebastian. Since wedlock had bestowed 
 upon her a modicum of character and virtue, 
 he was good enough to send her reams of 
 instruction as to the management of her chil 
 dren. Hearing a knock, she glanced up care 
 lessly. Comtesse Nelka, very pale and beauti-
 
 Heart s Dearest 373 
 
 ful, entered, and Vroni, with one look at her 
 face, sprang forward. Without a word, Nelka 
 put a newspaper into her friend s hand. 
 
 Vroni gave a marked passage a swift glance, 
 dropped upon the floor, laid her head upon 
 the comtesse s knee, and wept passionately. 
 
 " God forgive me," she exclaimed, " but 
 He s killed the wrong man ! " 
 
 Nelka sat quite still except for a slow shiver 
 now and then, and the soft and regular move 
 ment of her hand smoothing Vroni s hair. 
 A stranger entering would have inferred the 
 kneeling woman was the chief sufferer. 
 
 At length the comtesse spoke, faintly but 
 with calm : 
 
 " I have known it a week, Vroni. I could 
 not come before." 
 
 Vroni sobbed on, vehement and inconsol 
 able, muttering broken and fierce little arraign 
 ments of the deity ; but, presumably, our petty 
 notions of Ihe-majeste do not prevail in the 
 vast Beyond. 
 
 "Waldemar sent it with this letter," said 
 the gentle voice. " The others do not know, 
 -that is, I think not," she amended. 
 
 Vroni glanced at the letter, lifted the fallen 
 paper, read the marked paragraph to the end,
 
 374 Dionysius the Weaver s 
 
 and with a complete change of expression 
 cried : - 
 
 "A great and gallant death, right nobly 
 for a friend ! Ha, t is a blame to weep for 
 such a man." 
 
 Nelka s smile was like nothing Vroni had 
 ever known except some ineffable music she 
 once heard. 
 
 In long retrospection the two beheld the 
 intricate weaving subtly woven by the years, 
 and were still as in a church. At last 
 Vroni raised her wet eyes and murmured ar 
 dently: 
 
 "T is braver than a hero s death, the life my 
 gracious, dearest comtesse lives. While Count 
 Vallade has his angel nigh at hand he will 
 never quite despair. Truly he doth wear more 
 of peace on his fine countenance than in the 
 old troublous days I do remember of, such 
 rare comfort and companionship hath the poor 
 blind gentleman." 
 
 Nelka stooped and kissed her cheek, and 
 again sat motionless except for a repressed 
 sigh or a long shiver now and then until she 
 said tranquilly: 
 
 " Dear, let me see the children one instant 
 before I go."
 
 Heart s Dearest 375 
 
 They came, Nita blithe, Dion reluctant; his 
 thought remote, in his eyes a listening look, in 
 his hand a crumpled bit of paper scribbled 
 with bars and notes. 
 
 For Dion became a great musician, and out 
 of gloom and sweetness spoke mightily to the 
 sorrowing hearts of men. 
 
 THE END
 
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