BWTTRAND AOftffS C-- 14* PA* 1 LON9 P" S O U C I A NOVEL. BY MRS. J. H. TWELLS, AUTHOR OF "THE MILLS OF THE GODS." "Si Ton pouvait soumettre le gi'nie des artistes a unc analyse chi- mique, on trouverait un quart de folie et de naivete sur trois quarts d'amour. Seulement, cet amour apres avoir erre dans les e"tendues, fouilli' les espaces, sollicite 1'infini, se formule presque toujours dans un seal objet qui semble a I'amant re"aliser toutes les exigences de son rfive." PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. LONDON: 16 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1878. Copyright, 1877, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & Co. CONTENTS. BOOK I. NOBODY'S CHILD. CHAPTER PAOE I. A Manufactory of Pifferari in the Rue des Acacias . . 7 II. Tonio makes a Resolution 11 III. A Perilous Escape 15 IV. Madame Margot A Good Samaritan .... 21 V. "Sumtimes Kisses and suintiines Kix" .... 26 VI. Fortune versus Supper 31 VIL A Night in the Market-Place 40 VIII. " He's vuss nor Vicked He looks Green !" ... 46 IX. Buried in a Snow-Drift .......54 X." She is from Paris, Wife" 58 BOOK II. TONIO. I. Th^ophile's Prophecy 83 II. " I do not Love you any more" ...... 68 III. As Comfortable a Companion as a Keg of Gunpowder . 75 IV. " Say Good-by, Souci, and kiss me !" . . . .81 V. " Oh, who would be a Woman ?" 85 VI. " Lasciate ogni Speranza" 90 BOOK III. VIOLA. I. A Holiday in Vogogna ....... 97 II. " Die Vergissmeinnicht" ....... 100 III. Shrimps and Oysters 106 IV. The Lily of the Valley Ill V. Home Again 113 VI. "This is mein Liebchen, Antonio !" 117 VII. What is Love ? 121 VIII." Love's Sweet Bait from Fearful Hooks" . . . .124 IX. Mephisto's Misstep 129 X. " Viola, I have been Thinking" 135 XI. The Violet-Broidered Kerchief 140 XII. "A Yellow Primrose was to Him" 144 XIII. " Love's Words are Writ on Rose-Leaves, but with Tears" . 154 XIV." Oh, what a Drear, Dark Close to my Poor Day !" . . 160 XV. " Le seul vrai Langage au Monde est un Baiser" . . 164 XVI. Renunciation 168 XVII. "What IGone without a Word ?" 171 6 2)46336 6 CONTENTS. CHAPTER PACK X VIII. Besting under the Shadow of the Gourd . . .174 XIX. " Fadeth Sweete Flower, and Beauty Pales away !" . 177 XX. An Unwelcome Suitor ..,....] XXI." There is no Blood upon these Hands of Mine" . . 192 XXIL On the Wing 196 BOOK IV. LAURELS. I. " Are we so soon forcot f" . . . . . 201 II." Hath She her Faults ?" 209 III. " Sweet were the Days when I was all unknown" . . 214 IV. Lie still, Young Adder !" 218 V. " Our Whole Life is a Glucupicron" . . .222 BOOK V. VIOLA. L In the Rue du Bac .;.,.... 234 II. A Joyful Surprise . . 241 III. "Nina! Nina! We shall never see his face again !" . 243 BOOK VI. SOUCI. !._ who is That ?" 248 II. " He is very Proud and Shy, Jeanne" .... 255 IIL Baffled . 257 IV. Baffled Again '. 1 263 BOOK VII. HEINRICH. ^ 'I. *' A mon ame il faut mon Dieu !" , . . 270 II. "All is Lost except a Little Life!" 274 III." It may be a Link !" 282 IV. The Signet-Ring 288 V. "Am I too Late?" ...... I . 291 VI. !< An Immortal Soul is Passing now !" , . . 294 BOOK VIII. CYPRESS. I. "LeVideetleNeant" .304 .II. The Tiger-Cub has attained its Full Growth . . .307 I [I." She'll be a Soldier too She'll to the Wars !" . . 317 IV. Two Letters 326 . V. The jSole Work of a Lifetime .330 S O U C I. BOOK I. NOBODY'S CHILD. CHAPTER I. * A MANUFACTORY OP PIFFERARI IN THE RUE DBS ACACIAS. " A child forsaken waking suddenly, Whose gaze afeard on all things round doth rove, And seeth only that it cannot see The meeting eyes of love." THAT ingenious spur to exertion Mere Ursule's crutch has been seldom needed to stimulate Souci's energies; she is popular as Beranger himself with the loungers about the cafes, the griaettes and idle miUtaires, the bonnes and their charges, who compose her chief audience. People rarely pass her without a second glance, although to the eye of flesh 4he sallow, unchildllke face, with its strange, woful eyes and stern-set lips, offers scant satisfaction. Perhaps to the psychic vision, whose optic nerve separates man more or less widely from the^brute creation, there ap- pear embryonic possibilities in this atom of humanity, beside which, curve and coloring seem weak and pitiful things. To such vision, it is a terrible little face, sharpened by precocious shrewdness, by craft born of treachery, and distrustful cyni- cism, the outgrowth of experience ; a face that has never known real laughter, and but seldom the luxury of tears. A tangled thatch of dusky hair; eyes in whose depths lurk.s that daring devil, hopeless misery ; white teeth gleaming from out 8 SOUCI. the sunburnt pallor of her face ; lank, brown limbs of a certain fantastic grace; an adroit sleight of hand; and a piping, bird- like voice of singular sweetness and purity, this is Souci. She is well known in the Paris streets, in the hotel court- yards, about the boulevards wherever her harvest of small coin may be reaped the jingle of her tambourine can be heard accompanying the clear treble of her voice. Mere Ursule finds her very nearly as remunerative as her pet cripple, Tou-Tou. But Tou-Tou is unique: it is not vouchsafed to many babes to be crushed so effectually in their infancy that all likeness to the human form is obliterated for- ever. Patched together by the inexpert hand of a hospital tyro, he had been permitted to crawl through life after such fashion as would elicit the compassion of a well-to-do worm, looking cheerfully upon his deformity as the nucleus of a comfortable fortune. In a sunshiny corner of the Champs Elysees he was deposited daily, his wizened face always smiling, his ragged cap never empty. There are few eyes insensible to beauty, but there are fewer still for whom the horrible has not a ghastly fascination. A well-managed stump is often more lucrative than a broken heart in a starved frame, boasting all its members. ******* Perhaps Souci is envying Tou-Tou his misshapen little frame to-night, as she cowers, a bruised and aching bundle of misery, close to the damp wall of the attic where she had been thrust, half dead with pain and fear, by Mere Ursule, after the cruellest beating she had ever experienced. Tou-Tou was never beaten : his spark of life was such a faint and feeble glimmer that even Mere Ursule held her hand, fearful of ex- tinguishing it entirely. It was clearly against her interest to allow the vials of her wrath to overflow upon that defenceless head ; but with Souci it was different. She had lived in an atmosphere of kicks and curses ever since she could remember anything, and she had learned to endure in a passive, dogged silence, unrelieved by cry or tear, which was eminently satis- factory, if aggravating. But on this occasion the old woman's crutch seemed to have gone deeper than the bruised and quivering flesh, seemed to have struck down into the soul, piercing it, at last, with the iron of a frantic, desperate resistance. KOBODF'S CHILD. 9 For the first t'mo in her sad little persecuted life, the mad instinct, of revoh had arisen within her, the wild-cat in her nature had sprung into frenzied being, and the child had turned upon her tormentor, with tooth and nail, in the impo- tent fury of a maddened animal, an animal caught in a trap from whence escape is impossible. Thus far Souci can remember, with a strange mingling of wild joy and abject fear: joy which sends a thrill to her finger-ends, as she recalls the sight of Mere Ursule's torn and bleeding visage; terror at the prospective vengeance in which the hag will assuredly find ample consolation. With her elbows on her knees, and hands pressed tightly over her ears, to shut out the shrieking of the wind as it rushes with demoniac fury through the narrow street, and moans and sobs ceaselessly down the chimney, drowning the frightened twitter of the sparrows by its violence, Souci lives over and over the cruel hours of the past day. Once more she sees the vindictive glare of the old crone's wicked eyes, feels the clutch of the claw-like fingers, the heavy blows, the hot breath hissing maledictions into her ear. Again she hears the triumphant cackle with which her fury spent Mere Ursule had thrust her, half insensible, into the cold, dark garret, wliere, dry-eyed, numb with misery, she had lain until night had brought her companions trooping in. Hidden by the fast-deepening shadows, she had been unob- served. Sleep, which fled from her pain, came swiftly to their exhaustion, and so the slow hours had crawled along, during which, only dumb, inward cries had rent the aching little heart. The bells from the towers of Notre Dame toll out the hour: the storm is holding its breath for a final outbreak, and Souci raises her head and stretches her cramped limbs as she counts the strokes. " Only three !" she sighs, drearily. " Only three ! OK when will the light be here ?" With a moan of weariness she resumes her former attitude, for to the overstrung nerves and excited brain every sound seems to have power to torture her. Even the heavy breathing of the sleepers stretched on all sides of her, the nibbling of the mice in the wainscot, tlu: scuttling of the rats over the bare floor, all familiar sound.s to her, have grown suddenly unendurable. A* 10 . SOUCL A low rumble of thunder in the distance is followed by a vivid lightning-flash, which brings into sudden, ghastly relief the gaunt forms and pallid, upturned faces of her wretched companions. Shuddering with a new horror, she closes her eyes and crouches closer to the chill wall. Sleep, whose gentle touch softens into holier beauty the rosy-flushed faces of our darlings, as though the sheeny brightness of angels' wings were shed upon them, seems to harden and deepen the lines and hollows in these prematurely old faces, branded by their ineffaceable birth-mark precocity in evil. Material here for countless tragedies: men- and women-children "not so much born, as damned into the world" of all ages, of divers nationalities, of various degrees of birth, all acknowledging a'common fraternity of beggary. Flotsam and jetsam of 'the over-population, gathered from the depths and from the scum : dwarfed in body and soul ; terri- ble larvae from whence springs the hydra-headed monster revolution. There is no philosopher more stoical, no cynic more rabid, no heathen more benighted, than the Parisian gamin. Fearless, subtle, unscrupulous, fierce in anger, cunning in revenge, keen-witted, with a swift alertness of intelligence and a caustic wit peculiarly his own, he rejoices in his con- tempt for all things, human and divine. To him life never appears a much brighter or better thing than it appears at present : a garret to sleep in ; a sufficiency of black bread, with an occasional bowl of garlic soup ; the street to wander in at will ; nothing to do, and nothing to fear worse than a blow or a curse, constituting his idea of happiness. At the last dread Day who shall be answerable for that out- growth of civilization to which he belongs, that deformity which disfigures the symmetry of the world's fair face like a huge, unsightly goitre, the pifferari of a great city? NOBODY'S CHILD. 11 CHAPTER II. TONIO MAKES A RESOLUTION. " Wherefore was I spared to cry out, Woe's me ?" WHENCE comes this sudden loathing horror of her sur- roundings ? Why, as the first streak of dawn appears in the sky, does Souci's pent anguish burst forth in that smothered, agonized cry, " Tonio ! oh, Tonio ! I cannot suffer it any longer ! Tonio ! where are you ?" Who can tell precisely when patient endurance slips over the edge of despair when the crisis of one's pain is reached, and one must cry out for human sympathy or die ? Souci's appeal might have risen from its moaning iteration to a shriek, which would have startled into angry conscious- ness all that motley group stretched in the abandonment of utter weariness on the naked floor, had not her ice-cold fingers come in contact with the face of a lad lying within reach of her outstretched arms. Aroused by that touch, and instantly on the alert, Tonio cautiously creeps towards the girl, subduing his voice to a whisper as he asks, anxiously, "Is it you, Souci? Did you call me? Ah, I was dream- ing, I thought I heard her speak, she is sleeping," he mut- ters, and composes himself once more to slumber. A suppressed sob breaks from Souci's lips. In an instant he has reached her side and has become aware of the convulsive quivering of the slender form, as she chokes back those tearless sobs which wellnigh suffocate her. ' What is this ?" exclaims Tonio, his voice rising with alarm. " Why are you crying like this, Souci ? Are you frightened ? Have you seen anything? Speak, can't you ? What have you, then?" " Hush ! hush !" implores the child, comforted already by the familiar voice and Tonio's evident anxiety. " Don't speak so loud, and don't be vexed with me! Mere Ursule never sleeps, you know, and Diudon is just there !" she adds, lowering 12 SO 17(77. her voice to an almost inaudible whisper, as she points to the opposite side of the room. " The devil take him 1" is the lad's fierce rejoinder. " Was it he who made you cry, with any of his infernal tricks ?" "No, no! Oh, Tonip, do speak low, you frighten me so; and, besides," she adds, with a sort of disdainful apathy, " I am not crying : I never cry!" " Well, if you're not crying, you're shaking like like any- thing, and you're all cold and scared like. You must have seen something ! Come, Souci, tell me !" For a moment there is silence, while she leans her head against the boy's shoulder, incapable of further speech in the intense relief his words have brought her after the intolerable silent suffering of the past night. Now and then a long-drawn, shuddering sigh escapes her, as she rests there, with his arm about her, while he chafes gently her cold fingers, breathing upon them from time to time. After a little, he slips off his worn jacket and places it about the girl's shoulders, at which she makes no resistance : it is so sweet to be cared for ; Tonio will be cold, but then, she had suffered so long Replacing his arm about her, the lad observes that she winces at his touch. " What is this, Souci? You've been hurt, somehow " " Yes," answers the plaintive little voice. " She tried to kill me yesterday, she tried her best to kill me, and, oh, I wish she had !" the child concludes, with sudden passion. " Pah ! I hate that sort of talk !" returns Tonio, promptly. '' Who tried to kill you, and what for?" " Mere Ursule," whispers Souci, glancing fearfully around her. " She beat me with the crutch, worse than ever, and, oh, I ache so ! I have not slept all night, and the wind howled, and the rats were so dreadful hungry, I could see their white teeth in the dark corners ! Ugh !" As she thus sums up her miseries, Tonio gnaws his lip viciously, his face darkening with a heavy frown. " Do you mean to say that she-devil dared to beat you ?" he bursts forth at last, forgetting caution in his excitement. " Say it again, Souci ! Tell me .all about it, be quick !" He is breathing hard and fast; his voice has grown strangely hoarse. The girl moans softly as she rocks herself to and fro. Is Tonio angry with her too? CHILD. 13 "Why did she beat you?" he urges again. "What had you done ? Speak, can't you ?" " She beat me because I did not go out with you," Souci replies, in a weary voice. " She said we made more money when we went together, and that she had six months more to get out of me, and she would make me worth my keep or she would kill me, and then " " And then ? Go on !" '* Then she said she would beat you, too, and cut off your ears, and I got wild ! I told her if she dared to strike you or cut off your ears that I would run away, that I would go back to the ' TrouveV or to old Pierre and that / would stick a knife into her!" (This last threat is triumphantly confessed.) " Go on !" is Tonio's sole comment. " Then she held me by the wrists and beat me ; but I got free, and then I struck her and tore her cap and, I think I bit her! Fichtre! I left the print of my nails on her!" Souci glancing furtively at her companion, to see how he receives this astounding information, is surprised and hurt at his apparent unconcern. Through the gloom of struggling dawn she can discern the outline of his figure drawn up in a shapeless heap before her. His head is bowed upon his knees, clasped about with his thin arms. What does it mean? Is he not going to speak to her ? Has he can he have fallen, asleep again ? There is agony in the thought, to this wretched little crea- ture, hungering so intensely after sympathy and tenderness. She forgets to rock herself or to moan : a strange apathy creeps over her ; she feels as if she were turning to stone. The jacket slips unheeded from her shoulders ; she is no longer cold ; the sting of her bruises has ceased. She has reached that stage of misery when a merciful numbness robs every faculty of its power of suffering. " He is like all the rest !" she sighs, wearily. " Nobody ever cared for me, nobody !" The rain has ceased, the clouds are drifting apart. A pale shimmer of daylight lies athwart the eastern sky; faint gleams pierce even tlir grimy wimlmv-panes of the gruesome apart- ment where Souci sits thinking her bitter thoughts. II. r eyes are resting now on the pathetic array of musical instru- 2 14 SOUCI. ments, standing in a, melancholy row against the wall, worn- out harps and phthisicky guitars, tympanum-torturing hurdy- gurdies and cracked violins, resting from their labors, trying not to dream of the Anvil Chorus or that endless duo from La Favorita. From these the sad eyes stray listlessly over the various objects dimly visible about her, falling at last upon a grotesque figure stretched across the threshold of the room. This is Dindon, Mere Ursule's grandson and able coadjutor. He is a sharp-witted youth, who unites the strength of a man with the cruel instincts of a bad-hearted boy. He is of powerful build, with a thick bull neck, and short, bowed legs, of whose strength he is not unduly proud. He aids his grandmother in entrapping into her den the waifs and strays which abound in the luxurious city. He also assists in teaching them the professional lie in the professional whine, to strum the most harrowing of the operatic gems on the wheezy instruments allotted to them, or to squeak forth, in their childish fal- setto, spicy ballads of an equivocal morality, for the support of the Institution. A few favored ones he also instructs in a dexterous sleight of hand, which is playfully indulged in to the detriment of their neighbors' pockets. For Dindon is a lad of many resources and varied accomplishments, some of which have once or twice brought him almost within reach of the clutches of the law. Mere Ursule, well stricken in years, and of that witch-like ugliness seen to perfection in old Frenchwomen, with her avaricious, gleaming eyes, her crab-apple wrinkles, her moth- patches and warts, and grizzly-bearded chin ; with her hoarse, crackling voice, and ever-ready crutch, is not held in greater abhorrence than this young monster, her grandson. Souci wonders vaguely of what he can be dreaming, as he rolls his red, shock-head about, and she sees his wide, thin- lipped mouth expand into a sardonic grin, disclosing the great, cruel-looking, square teeth. With a slight shudder she averts her eyes, and now they turn yearningly towards the strip of sky visible through a broken pane, a strip of the pearly gray of early dawn, with here and there, still trembling, the faint, fading glimmer of a star. How wistfully she watches them, until, one by one, they vanish before the dawning of the morning ; her great, sorrowful eyes filled with the undefined longing NOBODY'S CHILD. 15 of the soul to be free, to be floating away somewhere, up there among those fleecy clouds, near those tranquil, beaming >tai >. somewhere out of the reach of blows and curses, hunger and tears ! It was an old yearning of this child's. She could never see a bird or a butterfly, or any winged thing, without envying its power of soaring into a higher, purer, safer atmosphere than that in which she had always drawn her breath gaspingly. She would linger, fascinated, to watch a poor frail moth flut- tering gayly about the gaslight of a shop-window until its reckless career ended in the inevitable suicide, when she would turn away with a sigh of envy, seeing naught of sadness in this pathetic epitome of life. " They always seem to find the light somehow, and they always die so soon /" she would murmur, to herself. '" Why was I born ? oh, why was I born ?" Souci's soul is asking this solemn question through those despairing, uplifted eyes. This question which swells the vast chorus in that awful " cry of the children," ascending ceaselessly from this toiling, sweating, unintelligible world of ours to the great, far-off, white throne. Who shall answer? There is a key to this problem : God holds it in his hand. CHAPTER III. A PERILOUS ESCAPE. " Wait, my faith is large in time, And that which brings it to a perfect end." TENNYSON. IN the semi-stupor into which Souci has sunk, she watches, without a sensation of interest or curiosity, the movements of Tonio, when at length he rises stiffly to his feet and hurriedly gets himself into his jacket. Then, cautiously making hia way to the end of the room, he selects two pairs from the number of well-worn sabots, slings his violin about his shoul- 16 SOUC1. ders, and, seizing Souci's hood and tambourine, rapidly and noiselessly retraces his steps. Kneeling beside the girl, he approaches his lips to her ear, whispering firmly, " Wake up, Souci ! I say, wake up ! I am going to take you away from here forever! Come! wake up ! Do you hear, Souci ? You shall never be beaten again!" The wan face of the child relaxes not in a single line ; the great white lids have fallen over the vacant, staring eyes. Tonio waxes impatient. Catching her thin arm almost roughly, his whisper grows harsh and shrill. " I say, Souci, don't go to sleep again. We are going to run away, I tell you. See, the sky is lightening, it is almost morning ; there is no time to lose ! Come !" Slowly the little unkempt head turns a weary, white face towards him, the heavy lids are raised, and the sorrowful eyes open widely upon him. " What ? What do you want?" she asks, in a dreary monotone. " Oh, let me be !" With a shud- dering sigh she turns shrinking to the wall. Tonio is in despair. " Souci !" His lips touch her ear, his voice sounds menacing, his voice, which is always lowered and softened when it addresses her. " You must get up and come with me at once, or I shall leave you here ! / am going. You will be beaten to death if you stay. Come with me, I shall never let them bring you back here. Sacre nom de Dieu ! Will you move, or must I carry you ?" At last these vehement words, uttered with desperate force, seem to penetrate the inner consciousness which had grown benumbed. With a half-stifled ejaculation the girl strives to raise herself to her feet, but, weakened by suffering, stiff with bruises, and with every muscle strained, she staggers and clings moaning to Tonic's outstretched arm. " I cannot oh, I cannot !" she murmurs, while the lad ties on her hood and forces the tambourine between the cold, rigid fingers. " And see ! there ! that is Dindon ! We can never pass him !" Tonio, following the direction of her startled gaze, distin- guishes through the gloom the bulky outline of Dindon 's form lying across the threshold. His heart sinks within him. " Courage !" he whispers. (i We must pass him ! Follow me, and mind where you step !" NOBODY'S CHILD. 17 Stealthily they creep along, close to the wall, scarcely daring to breathe, stepping carefully over the sprawling limbs of their sleeping companions. Safely they reach the spot where their exit is barred by the hateful figure of Dindon. Palpi- tating all over with excitement, and wild with the joyful hope of escape, Souci's braced nerves carry her safely over the ob- stacle. Tonio is about to follow, when the sound of a low chuckle freezes the blood in their veins. Glancing downward they perceive the wicked-gleaming eyes, the wide-grinning mouth of the enemy, whilst Tonio becomes aware that his ankle is firmly clasped, as in a steel-trap, by ten relentless fingers. " Ah ha I" sneers the young ruffian. " my little beauties ! my innocent little pigeons ! my sweet sugar-plums ! You think of taking a little promenade by the light of the moon, do you ? You like to ramble in solitude, to sing your love- ditties to the stars, do you? Well, don't let me interfere with your little plan, only leave this leg behind you, will you ?" So saying, he pinches the thing of skin and bone viciously, and gives it a wicked twist, which almost causes Tonio to lose his equilibrium. Bracing himself against the door-post, the unhappy lad makes a futile effort to wrench his foot from the grip of those cruel hands, while his face grows ashen with rage and pain. "Isn't it comfortable, poor little dear?" whines Dindon, exerting all his powerful strength without apparent effort. " Come, now ! the good Mere Ursule shall make it all comfort- able for you, and for the little one there. Sapristi! how wicked she looks !" " Devil !" whispers Tonio, hoarsely. " Take your hands off! Let me go, I tell you, or you'll repent it for the rest of your life! Off! I say, off!" And the boy's eyes gleam dan- gerously. " Ha ! ha ! ha !" chuckles the brute, " it is caught in the trap ! caught by the leg and can't get out ! Oh, dear, no ! not by any means, ha ! ha !" At this moment, like a subtle poison which fires the brain, glides a whisper into Tonic's ear, " Kill him ! Here ! kill him !" and the solid wooden sabot, which had fallen from the boy's hand at the shock of Dindou's exclamation, is thrust into his clenched fingers by Souci's, no longer trembling. A gleam of wicked joy flashes from Tonic's eyes. 2* 18 souci. " Will you let me go ?" he hisses between his teeth. For answer Dindon gives his leg another violent wrench, which forces him down hard upon one kuee. Swift as thought the sabot is raised and brought down with a firm, well-aimed blow, which strikes Dindon full on the left temple. Without a cry or sound the bullet-head falls back upon the floor, and the great hands relax their hold. With a spring Tonio clears the passage, flies down the creaking staircase, through the long, mouldy-smelling apartment below, where Mere Ursule's heavy breathing proclaims her where- abouts, gaining the little weed-grown court without pausing to take breath ; Souci following like a shadow, feeling a strange exaltation, which has conquered fear, bringing out into the yellow, gleaming daybreak a little pallid face, all alight with the fire of the evil spirit within her, that same spirit that lent strength and courage to Judith and to Jael in days gone by. Closing the door behind them, Tonio glances ruefully at the cord by which the spring-bolt of the porte-cochere is drawn from its socket. This cord has been twisted, high above their reach, around a hook driven into the wall. The court-yard is empty of ladder, pole, or the slightest suggestion of assistance. With one glance Souci takes in the situation, and as Tonio turns towards her with a helpless look, she drops her tam- bourine and sabots on the ground, springing to his side, and crying, " Up with me, Tonio, quickly, on your shoulders ! I can manage it !" Like a cat she scrambles up and stands erect, with her bare feet on Tonio's shoulder, while she, rapidly untwines the cord with both hands. A moment later they stand outside the door, which has closed behind them, outside, on the threshold of the big, cruel, over-thronged world, a pitiful enough little pair of pilgrims. Tonio, raising his cap, passes his hand across his forehead, on which great drops of moisture have gathered ; then, stoop- ing, he presses his lips to the thin cheek of the child who stands motionless beside him, dazed, shivering, with wide- dilated eyes, and quick, panting breath. A moment she stands thus, while the lad thrusts his feet into his sabots, then gravely makes the sign of the cross on her bosom. NOBODY'S CHILD. 19 This one outward symbol is her faith. Its meaning, its awful significance, are unknown to her. She has seen it made use of in supreme moments of other lives, in the fear of death, in the agony of remorse or despair, and she has adopted it, as she has many another trick of gesticulation, with an imitative facility peculiar to her. Even Souci has her modified Fetichism. A man, extinguishing a street-lamp opposite, glances curi- ously at the children, smiles at the little pantomime, whose tragic significance escapes him, and passes on with his ladder. " Oh, yes, he loves me ! Tonio loves me after all !" Souci is whispering to her heart, as she allows him to slip her chilled feet into their sabots, and mechanically follows him along the narrow Rue des Acacias, until they turn into a broader thor- oughfare. Here, breathless from their rapid movement, and completely exhausted by the contending emotions of the past hour, they sink down upon the steps of a small estammet to rest. Half stifled by the thumping of their hearts against their ribs, they sit gasping, silently- trying to realize the momentous fact .of their escape. Tonio is the first to recover his sang-froid. Pulling off" one of his sabots, he studies the heel of it attentively. " There is no blood on it," he whispers, at last, drawing a long breath of relief. " See, Souciette ! do you think it hurt him much ? He dropped as though he had been shot. Souci," leaning closer to her, and with a tone of horror, " do you think it hilled him ? n The girl glances at the heavy wooden shoe. A faint streak of red dyes her sallow cheek as she replies, fervently, " I hope so, oh, / hope so /" Tonio stares at her. " Souci !" he cries, " do you know what you are saying? Would you be glad to have me a murderer? If he dies I shall be put in prison, I should be killed." " No, no, no !" She covers his lips with her hand. " Don't say such things. It was good to kill him, the big, cruel, wicked boy. I hope he is dead, the poor little children we left behind us will not be tortured any more by him. Poor little Tou-Tou ! Oh, I wish you had killed him long ago !" Her eyes flash with joy at the thought. The lad watches her wonderingly. " How wicked you are, 20 SOUCI. Souci !" he says, sadly. " I believe some day, when you are grown big, you will kill somebody. You look as if you could now." " Do I ?" She laughs hysterically. " Well, yes, perhaps I shall if ever I see any one as wicked as Dindon, and I am strong enough. Sapristi! I will kill him as easily as I crush this ugly black beetle." And she grinds underfoot viciously an innocent insect of unwieldy proportions which struggles vainly to get out of her reach. To Tonio this sudden display of a savage instinct is revolt- ing ; he averts his head with a shudder of disgust. "I tell you," cries the over-excited child, ignoring his disapprobation of her sanguinary sentiments, " I tell you the world is full of bad people, of cruel people. One might starve among them and they would not give one a crust. One might crawl half frozen to their door and they would kick one back into the gutter. Oh, I know them ! I don't forget, and I never shall forget ; and when I'm grown up I shall kill every cruel man or woman I see !" She ends with a harsh laugh, and the beautiful eyes glitter with a demoniac light. " Bah !" is Tonio's sole comment. " You'll see !" she cries, fiercely. " You'll see ! Do you think I am always going to be a helpless little child ? Do you think I am going to spend all my life screeching through the streets and picking up the coppers they fling at me ? Do you think tJiat, Tonio ? Because, if you do, you're mistaken ! One day I shall be a great woman, yes ! what are you staring at ? I shall be a great woman ! I know it ! I feel it, here !" She clasps her thin little hands over her wildly- beating heart, and her face grows transfigured by the intense excitement which sways her like a reed in the wind, as she stands now looking down into Tonio's upturned, scornful face. Presently she speaks again in the dreamy, far-off voice of an improvisatrice, while the light gradually dies out of her eyes and is followed by their habitually mournful softness. " Ah, yes," she says, " you cannot understand or believe me, I know ; but you'll know some day what I feel here now. I am ugly, and little, and poor, oh, I know all that as well as you ! but one day I shall sit on a throne, and men and women shall kneel before me ! And then the sun shall shine forever, and the wind shall never moan and cry through the night; rain shall never NOBODY'S CHILD. 21 trickle like cold tears down the window-pane, nor the flowers shiver and drop their leaves in the cold blast. Oh, I will have none of these things to make my heart ache! But I will have Mere Ursule brought to the block, and I will burn to the ground that miserable place in the Rue des Acacias ! And Dindon shall rot in a dungeon, and old Pierre shall be whipped in the Place de la Bastille !" bhe stops, panting, her face grow- ing strangely pallid ; then, in a lower tone, " And Tou-Tou, poor little Tou-Tou, and all the others, shall be brought into a great garden, full of fountains and trees, and music that never stops ; and they shall have enough to eat, and warm clothes, and more flowers than they can gather, and they shall never Le beaten again /" Once more she pauses, and Tonio whispers, gently, " And I, Souci, have I no place in the garden ?" An exquisite smile breaks over the girl's wan face. With- out withdrawing her gaze from the distance, she stretches out a thin, brown hand, and, laying it tenderly on the boy's curling hair, replies, in a voice of vibrating sweetness, " No place for yoii, Tonio? Oh, yes; you shall sit beside me on my (krone, and le my king /" As the last words leave her lips, she sways slightly back and forth ; the next moment she lies at his feet, white and rigid as death. The bow had been strained to its utmost tension, the cord had snapped. CHAPTER IV. MADAME MARGOT A GOOD SAMARITAN. ..." For mercy has a human heart ; Pity, a human face." To see a man stunned by a fall or a blow, or reduced to inanition for want of food, is not entirely foreign to Toriio's experience ; but there is something so awful in this sudden and, to him, unaccountable insensibility, this frozen immobility, which simulates the last dread sleep so perfectly, that the poor 22 SOUCL lad can only cast himself down beside the little senseless form of his companion, crying wildly, " Souci ! Souci ! open your eyes ! speak to me ! oh, you will not die and leave me here alone /" his voice rising to a shriek as the idea forces itself upon him that she may even now be dead. As that cry breaks from his heart in the stillness of early morning, a window is thrown open above, a woman's night- capped head protrudes itself, and a voice calls out, " What is this? Who is there? Away with you ; a pair of tramps, bringing folks out of their beds with your noise ! For shame ! As usual, not a sergent-de-ville within a kilo- metre !" And she withdraws her head, wrathfully. " Tiens ! she is dead, the little girl ! Say, then, Justine, did you not see the little girl?" This time a man's voice, and in it a quaver of awe and pity. Tonio raises his streaming eyes. " Yes, monsieur," he groans, " she is dead dead from want !" And he stretches himself once more on the cold stone beside her, face downward. Justine is not many seconds tying on a woollen petticoat, and, adjusting a knitted shawl about her portly shoulders, has de- scended the staircase and unbarred the door before her better- half has resumed his interrupted morning nap. Quickly and gently she raises the heavy head of the unconscious child upon her arm, glancing pitifully at the half-closed, unspeculative eyes, the wasted features, the parted white lips which yet wear a ghastly smile. " Pauwette" she utters, " dead from want ! Mon Dieu ! mon Dieu !" Carrying her within, she lays her on a table, and directs Tonio to take down the shutters. With trembling fingers he obeys, and, when the daylight pours into the room, Justine shakes her head doubtfully. This is no common swoon ; this waxen pallor is death's own hue ; these rigid limbs are those of a corpse ! " Pshaw ! this is wasting time, and perhaps, after all " She lifts a jug from under the counter, and holding it across to Tonio, who stands mute now, a picture of despair, she orders him in quick, firm tones to fill it with rain-water from the hogshead in the yard. The boy flies to do her bidding through the door at which she has pointed, while Justine rapidly pours into a glass some dark-colored liquid, which she tries in vain to force through Souci's tight-clenched teeth. Presently she thrusts her hand under the ragged frock. " But, mon Dieu !" NOBODY'S CHILD. 23 fhe exclaims as Tonio enters, " this child is not dead ! her heart throbs still, like a weak little bird's, it is true, but there is life !" And then, as he casts himself with a loud cry of joy on his knees beside her, Justine dashes handful after handful of cold water in the stony, upturned face. Presently the lips relax a little, and quick as thought a few drops of the liquid are poured down the quivering throat. These are fol- lowed by a spoonful of cordial, and soon the good woman's efforts are rewarded by seeing the great, sad eyes gazing up at her wonderingly, while the tremulous lips form weakly the word " Tonio !" " Hush ! don't speak, little one, not just yet !" and as the lids threaten to sink once more over those wonderful eyes, another spoonful of cordial is administered. Tonio, still kneel- ing, fixes his gaze upon Justine's face with the rapt expression of a votary before the shrine of his patron saint ; he longs to kins the border of her woollen petticoat. Dares he do so? He advances one trembling hand ; she glances down upon the eager face, frowns, and says, with a strong patois accent, " Va-t-en, mon petit ! I am going to carry the little one into the kitchen ; go before, and open the windows, it is breakfast she wants, sure enough." Few men or women in their quartier could have believed Madame Margot's sharp little black eyes capable of holding the expression of kindly interest which lights them up when, half an hour later, she stands, with a hand on each hip, con- templating a couple of vagrants, up to their eyes in bowls of bread and bouillon. Justine Margot has faithfully earned the reputation of being the thriftiest housewife, the keenest business-woman, the best mother, and the sharpest-tongued shrew in the faubourg. Her husband, a great, lumbering, tawny-bearded fellow, with a deep voice and undecided opinions, made himself of much consequence at the clubs of the workingmen, in rival taverns, everywhere but at home. There he preserved a discreet hu- mility of deportment, and was rarely allowed to draw himself up to his full height. In the business of the estaminet he was emphatically a sleeping partner, his wife keeping the books and managing all tilings with a rigid eye to their interests, which never slumbered nor slept. They had, according to French prescience, limited their family to three sons, all of 24 SOUCI. whom resembled the mother. It seemed as if the ruling spirit would even deny their father a share in his own offspring. These boys were well clothed, well taught, well behaved ; they loved while they feared their sharp-eyed mother, and held their big, gentle-voiced father in unmitigated contempt. Justine Margot was not in any respect a bad-hearted woman ; in mind she was above the average; she had only made the mistake common to the daughters of Eve, married the wrong man. " She sleeps like a young dormouse, that child," she says, glancing over her shoulder at Souci curled up in a clothes- basket on a couple of shawls ; " she was just starved and worn out, that's what ailed her." These words are the sole explanation vouchsafed to the good-humored-looking giant when he slouches into the kitchen at Justine's shrill call to breakfast. The three boys are al- ready seated at the table, each with a small bowl of soup before him ; their father drops into his chair beside them. Madame stands at the other end of the table with a loaf of bread in one hand and a great knife brandished in the other. Tonio sits near the fire, with his eyes fixed upon this scene of domestic comfort. "Ah, musicians, are they?'' ventures M. Margot, his eye resting upon Souci's tambourine, which hangs beside an egg- beater on the spotless wall. " Look out that they don't steal anything, my love !" he drawls. " Bah ! you're a fool ! Mind your breakfast, that's all you've got to do !" And she slaps down on the table before him a huge slice of bread already buttered, and proceeds to perform the same service for the three children. Steadily, tirelessly, she stands there, cutting round after round from the yard-long loaf, spreading the butter upon them, distributing them with impartial liberality. The boys and their father de- vour their slices silently. Generally Madame prefers silence : it expedites the conclusion of the meal. To-day she is in a loquacious mood ; somewhat stirred, perhaps, by the event of the morning. " She's an ugly little toad," she begins, with another glance at the clothes-basket ; " as yellow as a lemon and thin as a skeleton. I don't believe the child ever had enough to eat in her life before," almost a smile on the woman's lips here. CHILD. 25 " Why don't you speak?" she cries out, sharply, as her hus- band crunches his bread in a safe silence. " What do you wish me to say ?" he demands, maekly. " Ah ! you are enough to ^ry the patience of a saint ; rn ! I must not only speak for you, but give you ideas too ; ah, mon Dieu !" It is not an angry but a weary sigh with which she concludes her sentence. The inane simplicity of her part- ner was her heaviest cross ; she often wished that he would box her ears, or assert himself in any manly manner. His unvarying mildness was as irritating to her as a Spanish-fly- blister which she dare not tear off for fear of excoriating her flesh. " How many slices have you had, my sons ?" (Chorus.) "Eight." " And you. Jules ?" " Eleven." " You've had your last, then ; go !" And she sits down to her cold bouillon, whilst the boys seize their caps and books and vanish. Monsieur Margot drags his long limbs over to the basket in which Souci sleeps tranquilly. " She is thin, that's a fact, and ugly, too, my dear, as you said," he murmurs, hoping to propitiate his wife before he leaves the kitchen. " Yes ; and if I hudiit said it you wouldn't have thought it," she replies, with her mouth full of bread. " You never find a thought yourself, do you, in that big, bushy head of yours ?" " Well, I don't know," he answers, hesitatingly, dishevelling his tawny locks still more by running his long fingers through them ; " I don't think I do much : still," he continues, in a ruminating tone, witli a faint gleam of malice in his eye, "still, how did I come to marry you, Justine? You didn't a>k me, did you?" For the first time for many years Madame Margot looks at her husband with a slight feeling of admiration ; he is not so terribly lete, after all. " A precious fool I must have been, if I did," she replies, burying her face in her soup-bowl. " Yc.-. \> '>." assents her husband, "you are right, my love, as you always are ; a precious fool you were I mean we were no, 7 was a precious fool, \v> !" B 3 26 SOUCf. " And always will be/ (supplements his spouse, clearing the table in the twinkling of art eye, and setting it back against the wall with unnecessary force. " And always will be !" ha djj^iwls out, turning towards the front room, where customers are already tapping on the little tables to announce themselves and order their coffee and rolls. CHAPTER V. "SUMTIMES KISSES AND SUMTIMES KIX." * " If I only knew What was my mother's face my father too !" " THEN you cannot tell me how old you are, or where you came from, before that old wretch got you in her clutches ?" ' Oh, yes, madame, I I came from Pierre, Pierre La- roque." " A cobbler? in the Rue Petit St. Denis?" " Yes, madame." " Hein ! But he he is not married !" " No, madame. Saprelotte ! he is afraid of women, ( 7te is !" " And who is your mother, child ?" Souci smiles sadly. " Mother ! I never had any mother." The great eyes grow mournful ; she taps her foot impatiently. " Truly ! Then this old Laroque picked you up under the cabbages in his garden, one fine morning?" " He had no garden, madame " " Or found you in an old shoe brought to him to repair, or it may be that you are telling me lies," Madame Margot concludes suspiciously, drawing her heavy brows together. " Do you ever tell lies?" " Oh, yes, madame ; Pierre used to say that I could lie like tin vrai Gascon /" The child smiles complacently over this accomplishment. Justine raises her hands in horror ; Tonio, standing by, colors furiously, but says nothing. NOBODV'S CHILD. 27 A wonderful metamorphosis has taken place in the exterior of the two children. After a night of refreshing sleep by the kitchen fire, and a wholesome breakfast, Madame had stripped off their wretched rags and suaibbed them mercilessly, scour- ing the black dye from Souci's fair locks, and the grime of weeks from their pallid faces. Under the combined influence of hard soap, warm water, and violent friction, they shone out in an astonishing manner, and after having been fitted out completely, in comfortable -suits purchased by this good soul at that fashionable emporium of cast-off clothing, the " Temple," they could do nothing but walk around each other admiringly, gasping out their interjectional delight and wonder. At length instinct taught Tonio that they should begin their travels, and his stiff, but earnest, little speech of thanks was cut short by Madame's desire to learn something of the ante- cedents of this woful-eyed child, who had interested her so deeply. " Has no one ever told you that it is a sin to tell lies ?" she asks, drawing the girl nearer to her and speaking solemnly. " But no, madame ; everybody tells lies, everybody but Tonio ; he says it is mean to lie. Bah ! he is bete when he says so." Justine glances admiringly at Tonio, whose head is bent, so that he loses that gleam of encouragement. Souci contem- plates her new jacket admiringly. " Well, my child, you will tell me the truth to-day, will you not ? Is Pierre Laroque is your father still alive ?" Souci looks confused. " Old Pierre is alive, oh, yes, but I don't want to go back to him. Please, dear lady, do not send me back to old Pierre please please !" In an instant she is on her knees, with her head buried in Madame's black silk apron, trembling with excitement and dread. " Get up !" cries Justine, impatiently ; " you are a perfect little firebrand ; I'm not going to send you anywhere, but I should think you would wish to return to your father " "Yes, madame, if I knew where to find him," sighs Souci. In answer to the good woman's puzzled look, Tonio draws nearer, and in a few words tells the story which had been con- fided to him the day Souci appeared in the Rue des Ac:n -ins. That she had been picked up one winter night, two years be- fore, from the door stepby old Pierre, half frozen and wholly starved. That he had revived her by pouring gin down her 28 SO VCI. throat, and had given her food and made up a bed for her in the corner of his own little bedroom. That he was very poor, and too old to work much, so that when the second winter had passed, he had resolved before another came, with its fuel and lights, its rheumatism and high prices and scant work, to rid himself of a burden which had no claim upon him. (No claim ! and he had rescued this child from the merciful embrace of the Death-angel !) Mere Ursule's proposals had come at an opportune moment, and the old cobbler had, not without a struggle, consigned his only bit of sunshine to her guardianship. " Do you remember nothing before the night Laroque found you ? Let me see ; you must have been at least seven years old then," Madame, somewhat softened by these revelations, demands of Souci. " Yes, madame ; I remember wandering about in the streets all day every day, and sleeping in them too. Sometimes good people would take me in, and give me a nice supper, and let me sleep in the kitchen. Once I was kept for three whole days and nights in a shop to run errands and mind the door ; but they found out that I had come from ' Les Trouves,' and belonged to nobody, so they sent me away. Dame! I was sorry to go ; they fed me well there." " How came you to leave the Asylum, child ?" " I I ran away, madame." " How long had you been there ?" " Oh, always ; I don't remember." " Were they not kind to you there ?" " Sometimes," the child answers, in a low voice*: " the matron was kind, and some of the nurses, but, oh ! the boys were all bad and cruel to me, and some of the girls too. I would rather die than go to the ' Trouves,' madame," she con- cludes apprehensively. " And how long were you living in the streets, poor child ?" " A long, long time, I can't say how many weeks, but when I ran away the flowers were blooming and the trees covered with green leaves and the sun was warm and bright, and when old Pierre found me I was half buried in snow, he said." There is silence for a moment ; Madame's face has grown wonderfully softened and subdued. NOBODY'S CHILD. 29 " What shall you do with this little girl ?" she asks Tonio, gravely. " She is not strong, and, you see, has broken down already ; yesterday " " I know, madanie," sighs the boy. " But, sacristi! I am well to-day !" bursts forth vehemently from Souci's lips. " I was never ill in my life. I have my tambourine and and Tonio ! We shall do very well ; and thank you kindly for the nice clothes and the good breakfast ; and adieu ! Come, Tonio, there is some one in the salon, madame, come, we must be off !" She has tied on her new hood, and, leaping on a chair, has taken down her tambourine before Justine has recovered breath for a fresh inquiry. Rat-tat-tat ! rat-tat-tat ! on the counter outside and the shuffling of many feet recall to Madame's mind that the eleven- o'clock dejeuner d la fourchette is demanded imperatively, and that stupid Rosine has not yet returned from the market. Seizing the soup-ladle, she hastily fills half a dozen tiny tureens, and placing them on a tray, hands it to her husband, whose paper-capped head and mildly-expostulatory face appear at that moment at the door. Checking his unuttered reproaches by an energetic " Tiens ! don't waste time talking ; I forgot them ; voila tout !" she fills her apron with the long, thin loaves of bread and carries them in herself as a sop to Cerberus. Swiftly returning, she stops to give Tonio a parting admoni- tion : " Don't keep that child in the streets all night ; you can make enough out of the silly gawks who stand and stare at you to pay for a couple of clean beds every night. Mind what I say to you, she's not strong enough for this sort of work." And, choking down something akin to a sob, the good woman hastily kisses Souci on both cheeks and turns away with a curious mist veiling the bright eyes. Tonio looks wistfully towards her as she stoops busily over the oven ; then, with a sigh, he takes Souci's hand, and they ]i:i.-> out through the little restaurant into the street. Many years ago, in the first happy twelvemonth of her wedded life, before the silver leaves in her orange-blossom wn-ath had grown tarnished, when her home and her husband were still new and pleasing in her sight, there had been laid on Justine Margot'fl bosom a tiny infant daughter. A pale little snow-drop it was. a sprite-like babe, whose great dark held a mournful look in them which they had brought 3* 30 SOUCL from the spirit-world. For in this world it had not lingered long enough to grow sad about anything, and after it was laid under its daisy mound Justine know that something had gone out of her life forever. She did not grieve much outwardly, but her voice took a sharper ring, and her eyes grew hard and bright, and when other babes came in due course they were watchfully tended and scrupulously cared for, but there were no wild and frantic kisses, no idiotic mumblings and ecstatic caressings, lavished upon them. Perhaps it was because they were all boys, great, strong, roystering babies, and so had differed from the fragile little snow-drop which had wilted and faded so soon ; perhaps it was because the mother had made her idol, and even after it had been broken no other should fill its place. All that day, after Tonio and Souci have departed, Madame Margot's patrons find her strangely absent and preoccupied. She waits upon them with mechanical assiduity, it is true, but there are several extraordinary combinations served to them. One bon-vivarU, a jolly barber from the opposite corner, is taken aback at having a dish of tripe served with his gateau d la Madeleine as dessert ; another is amused to find his coffee- cup full of cognac, and his " petite cuilleree" of coffee in a liqueur-glass ; while a miserly old chap, who was reputed rich, and never ordered more than one course for breakfast or dinner, always carefully stowing away the remaining bits of sugar in his vest-pocket, is delighted at the hors-d'oeuvre and entree for which he is not charged a centime. The unwonted gentleness of speech and manner of their usually sharp-tongued hostess gives rise to various conjectures. " Jules has got the whip-hand of her at last," whispers one man to his neighbor. " Bah ! he don't look like it," is the response, accompanied by a shrug and a knowing wink in the direction of the liqueur- stand. Jules watches his wife furtively and draws his own conclu- sions. " Those brats have stolen her Sunday ear-rings, I'll lay a wager ! Well, I told her so." In his soul he wishes she had a pair of ear-rings stolen every day in the week, if this magic softness of voice and manner is the result of her loss. And all the while she is saying to herself, reproachfully, " Why did I let that child go, that child who looked at me with Fifine's eyes ? Oh, Fifiue, my little one, my baby, come XOBODF'S CHILD. 31 back to me !" as she chokes down a sob, which may find vent only in the silence and the darkness of the uight, whilst Jules snores placidly beside her. CHAPTER VL FORTUNE VERSUS SUPPER. "And she had a light and brilliant voice which rang like silver, and it was pure as the gold which runs from the furnace, and she sang well songs which were not well, and her windpipe gave shape and form to things which were flat." MEISTER KARL. Six o'clock of an April afternoon. The Champs Elysees thinning rapidly of the loiterers who have lounged and whis- pered and ogled each other under the budding chestnuts, in the violet-scented air, since noon. An unbroken line of lamp- lit equipages trails itself a glittering, undulating serpent from the Bois to the Place de la Concorde, whilst in the chiaro-oscuro, lights are beginning to gleam, here and there, like fireflies among the trees. About the entrance of a popular restaurant is gathered a group of those good-natured flaneurs and their vivacious womankind, who delight in sipping their limonade-gazeuse and their vanilla-ice in the open air, where they can see and be seen, hear and be heard, in short, where they may have as many senses gratified at once, as possible. At this moment the incessant chatter, which irresistibly re- minds one of the monkey-cage at the " Zoo," has been charmed into that subdued murmur, interspersed with occasional pious ejaculations, which, with the French, is the nearest approach to silence. The cigarette of Monsieur has gone out between his fingers ; the spoon of Madame is arrested in mid-air ; the ice a la vu nil tr. has melted, and, overflowing its glass, runs in a tiny rivulet across the marble table and drips slowly over the glossy flounces of Madame's best black 's-d-vi's, " besides, this bird is a mere fledgling ; it will be years before one can tell whether she can do more than chirp prettily, I do not see salmon-trout here, waiter ! and, du reste, were there not some harsh high notes ?" " You are right, Victor, perfectly right, and I was a fool, as I always am when a voice touches my heart," assents Raoul, with a sigh of genuine regret that in this instance he could not continue to be a fool. " There was certainly sharpness an aigreur which promises to break the high notes some day ; but, ah, what sweetness, what compass, what liquid modula- tions in the lower tones ! I have never heard their equal ! Ah ! and a thoroughly untutored voice, too ! What a superb XOBODF'S CHILD. 35 instrument to cultivate !" Another deeper sigh brings a smile to the younger man's face, followed by a comic frown of annoy- ance. " Alas, mon cher, what perverse fate brought these little vagabonds across our path to destroy the harmony of our din- ner and your digestion? I fancied your hands were pretty full at present with the German tenor and that charming didblcsse, Catalina." Raoul Delacroix pushes his rather long hair back impa- tiently from a broad white brow, exclaiming, " You have cer- tainly struck a discordant note now, Victor! I have tried to forget during the last half-hour that virago with the seraph's voice, and that pig-headed, flute-throated Teuton, ah, mon Dicii.ftn ai nne indigestion, and you will not let me !" " They arc trying," assents his friend, conmiiseratingly ; " but what would you have? Genius would not be recog- nized if it were not captious and capricious, eccentric and disagreeable ; Catalina has had a grand succeg, you know, i7 faut payer le bonheur .'" And he bends tenderly over his Ostond oysters. " Little you know about it !" smiles the other, derisively. 'What can'you know of the discouragements of a life like mine? Ah, mon '," he continues, moodily, "when I am brought in contact with the fierce jealousies, the puerile pique, the complex passions with which human nature stultifies and degrades art, I feel like a man chain-bound, forced to look on while a petulant child chips and defaces with his toy hammer one of the glorious old Greek models, the Apollo or the Antinous ! Peste! lam thinking seriously of throwing up my appointment and going off to some benighted land whore rival prime-donne and salary-bribes are unknown." He brings his slender brown palm down upon the table with an emphasis which causes the glasses to ring. The Vicomte de Verignon imperturbably raises his Ghablis to his lips, sips a moment, and replies, " That would never do, mon cher ; all Paris would be up in arms were the favorite (tirecleur of the Qmucrtatoirt to resign his post. True, it is no sinecure ; I am not so ignorant as you suppose of the other side of the drop-curtain ; but you are too sen-hive, Raoul. Why do you not take things philosophically. :is I do?" at this instant he is contemplating rather skeptically the cob- 3G SODCL webbed bottle in its basket cradle, " it saves so much wear and tear to the constitution," he concludes, languidly caress- ing his blonde moustache with a hand white and soignee as a woman's. " It will nevertheless come to pass," abstractedly pursues the other, as he waves aside waiter, oysters, and Chablis, all together. " One of these days you will look around for llaoul Delacroix and his place shall know him no more." " Keally, my friend, your plaint waxes pathetic," returns Victor, with a gleam of amusement in his blue eyes. " Oh for the wings of a dove ! and that sort of thing, eh ? What has ruffled your plumage to such an extent? Is Raboulet sulky again, or has la Signora committed suicide with her scissors ?" " Would to Heaven she had !" exclaims Kaoul, relaxing into a grim smile. " I am thoroughly disheartened, Victor," he resumes, sadly. " The pettinesses which soil the skirts of art pain and disgust me, as would the mire clinging to a queen's robes when she is being dragged to execution. Queens should live royally and keep their ermine fleckless, and die whilst the halo of their sovereignty is yet undimmed. A royal roturiere is loathsome in my sight ! I tell you, I would leave Paris to-day. I am worn out, body and soul !" He leans back in his chair with a weary sigh. Victor, bending all his energies upon the dissection of a vol-au-vent, glances towards him compassionately. " In the mean time prepare for thy journey, friend." he says, cheerily. " Eat something ; fill thy glass ; it appears to me you are becoming morbid ; nothing better for that com- plaint than champagne. Waiter, a wine-card !" As he picks out the truffles to pile them on his friend's plate, Victor's laughing face grows serious. " You are suffering from a common affliction, llaoul," he says, "only yovr mistress is a little more capricious and exacting than ordinarily is the case. You have bowed your head before art in an abject idolatry ; you have given up to her your youth, your fortune, your every aspiration of ambition ; you have been loyal and true to her from the first, forsaking all others ; and she has served you as such wenches have invariably served their lovers, from the days of Cleopatra down. She has entranced you, mocked you, eluded you, nion Dieu ! betrayed you NOBODY'S CHILD. 37 " And lost me a world of nobler aims and more satisfying pursuits," interrupts llumil, draining at a draught a foaming goblet of bis friend's prescription. " Ah, I am sick of her !" " Yet. the voice of the siren has a charm for you still," laughs Victor, pointing over his shoulder in the direction whence he had watched Souci's retreat. " Notwithstanding the ear-piercing notes, you were keen as a hawk after her, mon ami!'' " That is just the thing," returns Delacroix, smiling in spite of himself; " it was simply the faultiness of her execution which tempted me. Ignorant as a thrush of her gift, the child is adorable ; taught the money-value of it, she becomes detestable." " Then why not leave her this blissful ignorance, and save yourself the pain of watching the transformation ?" his friend asks, curiously. " Because it is a crime to murder such a gift as hers ; be- cause, let the consequences be what they may, that voice will no more be silenced than one of those stars will be blotted out of heaven because Galileo did not find it there ! One day, that voice will raise itself and her out of the gutter, mark me, if she, lives.'' u Which is extremely improbable," observes Victor, replen- ishing his companion's glass. " Such a wan, sad little face as it was when she was not singing ! She looked bright and wicked enough over ' Lisette,' did she not?" " Yes ; but, as you say, very fragile. One can see what she has suffered, in those great, melancholy eyes, the only good feature she possessed, by the way." "True; still, they were remarkable enough to redeem a plain face. ' />'> yens, noirs vont an purgatoire, " hums Victor, lighting a cigarette. " Jiliu-k "/' .s .'" exclaims the other. " What are you talking about ? Her eyes were the most wonderful gray I ever saw: melting, dreamy, woe-begone ; flashing and fiery by turns ; variable as her capriccio voice " " And her temper," supplements his friend. 1'crhaps. Victor, who taught that child of the pave the language of forest birds? Where did she learn to trill and gurgle like a sky-lark ?" The same singing-master teaches both, I imagine," smiles 4 38 SOUCI. Victor. " It is a pity such a fine piece of mechanism should have been placed in such a mean case !" " But, mon ami, this may be but the chrysalis, from which shall emerge something gloriously beautiful, some day. Rest assured, Victor, this child, grovelling now amid the sewers of Paris, shall be heard, when the time comes, throughout the length and breadth of the land." " So be it," acquiesces the young Vicomte, a little impa- tiently, rising to light his cigarette, unable to appreciate his companion's enthusiasm in regard to this waif. " Where bound, Raoul ? To the theatre or the Rue de Helder for the concert?" " Neither : I am out of tune to-night for society. I shall walk out beyond the barrieres, somewhere and exorcise the demon which possesses me ! Good-night !" " Beaux reves, cher ami! lam booked for the Embassy to-night, d domain!" and they separate ; De Verignon spring- ing into his cab, and Raoul striding off in the direction of the Barriere de 1'Etoile. ******* As a clock of curious workmanship strikes out the hour of midnight from the chimney-piece of an artistically-furnished apartment in the Rue d'Antin, Monsieur Delacroix draws back the velvet portiere and enters. He has probably succeeded in casting out the devil of discontent which had disturbed him, for his face has recovered its inscrutable calm and the gentle gravity of its habitual expression. " Strange !" he murmurs to himself, with a faint sigh, as he lights a cheroot and ensconces himself, a little wearily, in a luxurious arm-chair, " strange, that for forty years my life has satisfied me, I have desired nothing outside of it, and now, all at once, this extraordinary dissatisfaction seizes me ! At the age when most men are sowing their wild oats, I was studying, and perfectly happy in my favorite pursuits. When other men of my years were falling in love and marrying, I had neither eyes nor ears for anything but music and art ! And now ?" He glances around the spacious room, whose corners the solitary wax candle leaves in black shadow, and shivers slightly. " Now, I am alone and desolate !" He smokes on in deep thought for a time, and then, rising, he takes up the candle, and, approaching a Venetian mirror set in antique NOBODIES CHILD. 39 frame, he stands contemplating coldly, critically, his rugged features, his deep-set, clear, gray eyes, his dark hair and mous- tache, already touched by time. " Is it too late ?" he asks himself. " Old, worn, uncouth, could any one care for me now ? Alas, I have filled my heart with a vain shadow, and it cries out for the substance, now when it is too late ! Victor is right. A man cannot live by art alone, without stretching out empty arms, one day ; and that day has come to me." Turning away, a silvery beam of moon- light stealing between the curtains of the window catches his eye. Drawing back the velvet and lace, he pushes gently forward into the soft and mellow radiance a pedestal of jasper, on which stands an exquisite copy of the Castellani " Artemis." " At least I have thee, thou ' large-browed huntress,' cold as thou art in thy faultless beauty, thy ' splendid nullity' !" Raoul mutters, and, gazing rapt in admiration at its large and noble features, the grand outlines and proud poise of the head, there dawns dimly upon his consciousness the recollection of an unformed little face, seen for the first time that day. " How admirably those great, shadowy eyes, with their impenetrable depths, would suit this face !" he thinks.- " Poor little child ! I shall see her to-morrow, and save her if I can. Perhaps she might come to care for me in time and she is flesh and blood can speak and break this drear silence about me ; and thou, Artemis, art only the soul of beauty, petrified !" 40 SOUCL CHAPTER VII. A NIGHT IN THE MARKET-PLACE. "Good-night, good sleep, good rest from sorrow, To these that shall not know good-inorrow ; Ye gods, be gentle to all these !" " Six, eight, ten, and fifty centimes, one franc ; and two franc-pieces, three and four are seven ! Seven francs, Souci ; we are rich ! See, child, you have done bravely to-day ! We shall have something extra for supper. I say, how would you like to eat up all of these seven francs ; go to a good place and order everything, you know, just to see how it feels to have enough ?" " Roast onions and pigs' feet," suggests Souci, with gleam- ing eyes. " But then," her face clouding, " if we go on spend- ing like that we shall never get away from Paris. You said we would never be safe here : that Mere Ursule or Dindon might meet us any time in the streets. Diantre! they shall never catch me again, I promise you. Oh, Tonio, let us get only bread and cheese, as always, and and an onion and save the money !" " Very well," sighs the lad, resignedly. Souci's heart is touched. " You shall get a round of sausage for yourself, Tonio ; I don't need it. You're a boy, you know, and," answering his glance of inquiry, " Mere Ursule always said boys ate double." Tonio laughs, and, restoring to his pocket the rag in which their slender fortunes are knotted up, they start off to purchase their evening meal and seek quarters for the night ; for, true to his promise, Souci had not yet been allowed to pass a single night in the street. Having procured their supper, a round of sausage, a lump of black bread, and one stale tart, seduced from a pastry-cook XOBODV'S CHILD. 41 by Souci's covetous eyes, they stow it carefully in the lining of Tonio's cap and trudge wearily along, halting at last before the door of the " Yellow Tiger." The landlady of this unsavory hostelry at first appears in- clined to close the door in the faces of the little wayfarers. Souci watches her warily ; for this ancient dame, with her gruff voice, bearded chin, and solitary front tooth, standing sentinel-wise against the dark cavern of her capacious mouth, recalls forcibly to the child's imagination a pet character of fiction with which Tonio is wont to harrow up her soul in delightful narrative, a certain ogress of cannibalistic tend- encies who supped off little children and preferred girls. " Come," she whispers, tugging at the boy's coat-sleeve, " I don't want to stop here !" But her voice sounds weak and quavering from fatigue, and Tonio stands firm. Diplomatic- ally displaying his little hoard, he demands blandly, " How much, granny, for a couple of beds ? We can pay, you see." And he jingles the coin in his hand. At this welcome sound the crone opens the door a quarter of an inch wider. Her customers generally kept chalk scores, and rarely " settled" without acrimony. " Can't you read ?" she asks, pointing a grimy forefinger in the direction of the window lighted by a couple of tallow dips, where propped against a greenish glass bottle stands a dirty card on which is inscribed in large letters, "SINGLE BEDS, 3 SOUS PER NIGHT, DOUBLE DITTO, 25 CENTIMES." Tonio shakes his head ruefully. To his illiterate eyes the information might as well have been written in Sanscrit. " We can't stand here all night !" he exclaims, impatiently. " Can you lodge us, or not ? what's the figure ?" The landlady unhesitatingly doubles her usual price and extends a wrinkled palm. Tonio deposits upon it the required coin, and they are permitted to enter. Through a narrow passage, redolent of garlic, they pass into a small, brightly- lighted tap-room, where sundry blue-shirted ouvriers can be dimly discerned through the dense pipe-smoke, which brings the tears to Souci's eyes, lounging, drinking, and squabbling amicably. The sudden glare of light, the confused clatter of tongues and clinking of glasses, almost daze the poor children. 4* 42 SOUCL Their hostess, selecting one from a row of keys hanging over the bar, is beckoning them to follow her, when a chair is brought suddenly down on all fours, and a voice crying, gayly, " Hoik, stop a bit, my little man, and give us a tune on that fiddle of yours ! Come, scrape away and give us a lively air !" arrests their steps. They turn to fly. Instantly there is a general descent of chairs, a stamping of hob-nailed shoes on the bare floor, and a chorus of voices vociferously echoing the demand for some music. The landlady, with a keen eye to business, now approaches, whispering persuasively, " Come, play a bit, my son !" Tonio irresolutely fingers his bow, and looks at Souci. She, drawn up proudly and with arms folded across her breast, and flashing eyes, turns towards him and exclaims aloud, " You sha'n't play ! Do you hear? Not one note ! I am tired. I told you not to come in here ! You sha'n't play, I say.!" Tonio's head droops ; his hand trails the bow along the floor. At this instant a big-headed, brawny-armed man, whose flaming red nose betrays a decided weakness for strong waters, rolls over towards them from a distant table. " Mais sac-d- pupier .'" he roars, as he perceives Souci, " it is the little nightingale of the Champs Elysees ! Fichtre ! it's a rare bird you've caught to-night, Mother Grosjean ! None of your fiddle-scraping here, young man ! We shall have a song, and a jolly one, too !" " Yes ! yes ! a song ! a song !" resounds throughout the room. Souci stamps her foot, and, turning her back upon her expectant audience, preserves a dogged silence. By this time a group of men, more or less sober, have gathered about the child ; some expostulating, some threatening, all noisy. Tonio, grown pale as ashes, watches her anxiously. All at once he strikes up a popular air on his instrument ; instantly its melody is drowned by shouts and hisses. " A bos le violon /" they cry. " We will have a song ! Come now, mam'selle, take a sip of this and you'll feel more like it." And a glass of vile absinthe is held to Souci's lips, now white with anger. Swiftly she turns, and with one pas- sionate glance sweeps the faces of her persecutors, then, dash- ing to the ground the offered glass, she springs past them, gains the door leading out upon the street, and makes a frantic, but vain, effort to open it. Panting like an animal at bay, she NOBODT'S CHILD. 43 clasps her hands in piteous appeal ; her tambourine drops at IHT feet ; her eyes are wild and staring. Instantly she is seized in an iron grasp and lifted high above the head of the big man who had first addressed her. " Some birds sing best in the air !" he shouts. " Perhaps thou canst ; try !" The rest laugh and applaud. Tonio trembles. Souci is now in a frenzy of excitement. Burying her hands in the bushy hair of her captor, she kicks out viciously with both feet. With a howl of pain and rage the giant flings her to the ground. " Vixen ! Wild-cat ! diallesse /" he yells, whilst the blood pours from his rubicund nose and his uprooted hair blinds him. "Sacre nom d'un cJiien! Where is she? I'll break every bone in her cursed " Through the now open door a sergent-de-ville, attracted to the spot by the unseemly hubbub, is placidly gazing. In the distance can be distinctly heard the sound of flying feet skim- ming lightly over the asphalie. ******* " That big man will surely kill you if he ever sees you again, Souciette !" says Tonio, with his mouth full of sausage, as. half dead with exhaustion and nearly famished, the two children devour their humble repast under the shelter of the market-place. " You must have kicked all his teeth down his throat ; and served him right, too ; but we must leave Paris, or he may kill you some day." Souci is leaning languidly against the partition, the tart only half consumed in her hand, her face even paler and more wan than usual. She does not appear terrified by Tonio's prognostications ; her fit of passion has left her strangely \\vak and apathetic. " Well." she says, dolefully, " he can only kill me once, and I don't care much !" " Oh, Souci !" cries the boy, with a half-sob. " You are tired of the life we lead, or you would not say that ! I know it is very hard, but what can I do ? Now, if you had only consented to speak to the gentleman to-day, I feel sute he im-ant to do something for us; he had such a good, kind face, and he seemed to pity you so !" " I was afraid," she replies, in a weary tone. " I am afraid of people; they are all cruel ; I don't want anybody but ymi. I am glad," she goes on, as if thinking aloud, " I am glad old 44 SOUCT. Pierre sent me away and that Mere Ursule beat me, for if they had not, I would not be with you ! Tell me a fairy-tale, Tonio." With a swift transition of feeling characteristic of her, she smiles, though tears hang on her long lashes, and pleads coax- ingly for her favorite treat, tired and sleepy though she is. Tonio looks wildly about, seeking inspiration. The moon has not yet risen, but myriad stars stud the blue canopy over their heads. Souci draws her companion's atten- tion to their beauty. " Is it the fairy-world up there, Tonio, and is this the birth- night of their king, that they are lighting all their lamps ? See ! they are sending off rockets, too !" as a shooting-star flashes across space and disappears. " Fairy-world ?" murmurs Tonio. " That is all nonsense, you know ; there aren't any fairies, really; and yet, I wonder what there is up there? It's fine, anyhow, and restful-like, and blue, isn't it?" he concludes, with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction, which is echoed by the child beside him, whose imagination is straying wildly, as usual. " It is like a great field," she says, dreamily ; " like that meadow at Vincennes where we spent Sunday, where the but- tercups grew so' thick and shone in the sun like gold ! Ah, far-away stars !" she cries, stretching her thin arms up towards them, " I want you, to touch you, to gather an armful of you as I did of the little gold flowers ! You winking, twinkling, mocking little stars ! It is all so dull and dark and hateful down here, and so bright and beautiful where you are ! Tonio, see ! how they smile and nod and beckon " The words come hesitatingly, the voice grows fainter, the weary head sinks upon her breast, Souci sleeps. Drawing her gently towards him. Tonio supports her head upon his knees, and, with his arms clasped about her, falls asleep almost immediately, sitting bolt upright that he may the better guard her from the chill pavement. Between the pillars of the market-place the moon's rays presently steal and flood with their golden glory this pathetic group. Tenderly they kiss the pallid, sleep-calmed faces, and linger on the low-laid head of the little outcast as lovingly as upon that proud, " white wonder," Artemis, on its pedestal of jasper. NOBODVS CHILD. 45 CHAPTER VIII. " HE'S VUSS NOR VICKED HE LOOKS GREEN !" " The sleepless hours who watch me as I lie, Curtained with star-enwovcn canopies, From the broad moonlight of the sky, Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes, Waken me when their mother, the gray Dawn, Tells them that dreams and that the moon are gone." Six weeks of itinerant vagabondage, of tasting the sweets of liberty and the doubtful delights of an ill-lodged and scantily-fed independence ; a month and a half getting out of Paris, the difficulty of accomplishing this project appearing daily more insurmountable, and one night spent upon the damp bricks of a market-place, have in no wise checked the ardor of the runaways. " By this time to-morrow we shall be in a foreign land !" Tonio had startled Souci by declaring, before she had quite opened her eyes the next morning, as he tried to restore cir- culation in his cramped limbs by stamping vigorously on the pavement. " I I don't think we are getting away very fast," says Souci, slyly ; " and, oh, dear, I do wish we need not go ! There is no place in the world like Paris !" And the girl looks about her, smilingly, as they emerge from the market-place and wend their way towards their favorite nook on the Pont Neuf, where they sometimes breakfasted. " No place like Paris !" exclaims Tonio, slightly contempt- uous. " Why, there's hundreds of cities bigger and splen- dider than this, and not so far away, neither! There's .Mar- seilles, and Lyons, and Tours, and the place I came from, Italy ; that's rather a poor place, though : they have nothing to cat there but macaroni ; and there's Versailles, I've been there ; oh, it's splendid ! and Home, and lots of 'em !" memory and breath failing together. Souci's eyes are big as saucers. 46 SOUCL " Really !" slie gasps. " Oh, how I should like to see them ! Can we walk to them, Tonio?" " Walk to them ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! how ridiculous you are, Souci ! Walk ! ha ! ha !" The quick tears rush to the girl's eyes. " You need not laugh at me," she says, in hurt tones. " I'm not laughing, ha ! ha ! Why, they're thousands of miles from here, over sea andjand; you go in ships and on railways ! I've been in a ship," Tonio concludes, pompously. " Tell me about it," implores Souci, meekly, as they en- sconce themselves in their niche on the bridge and Tonio draws forth a handful of roast-chestnuts which he has purchased en route, and which, with a couple of rolls, form their light and nutritious breakfast. " Well, you see," he begins, anxious to restore his little com- panion's good humor, " it was after my father was shot, you know, and corporal Niccolo " "Ah, begin at the beginning!" pleads Souci, all smiles. "Your father was a noble prince, you know, and lived in a palace of gold and silver " " In Italy," continues the lad, gravely munching a chestnut. " And when Napoleon your Napoleon made war upon my country, my father was taken prisoner and shot ; and then Niccolo deserted, ran away, you know, and escaped in a fishiog-boat with me, I was only a very little chap then, and we were picked up by a brig, and sailed about for ever so long on a great, blue sea ; and the sailors made me a little suit of clothes like theirs, and by-and-by we landed in Paris." "And Niccolo, he was very good to you?" prompts Souci. " Oh, yes ; he took me about with him everywhere ; he had some money of my father's, so that he did not work for a living. Sometimes we went to see the pantomime, and often to the Porte St. Martin. Ah, that was good ! And he would buy me suo-e d-orge and apples, and make swords and guns for me, and ships, and oh, lots of things. Yes, he was good to me, poor old Niccolo !" Tonio pauses, retrospectively. "And then he fell down-stairs and broke his neck," finishes Souci the oft-told tale. " Yes," adds Tonio ; " and then he died, and I was put out on the street without a sou to starve." KOBODY'S CHILD. 47 " Poor Tonio !" A little hand slides into his. " Heigh-ho ! Why do all the good people die?" " Don't know, I'm sure. Some of the wicked ones take a great deal of killing !" replies the lad, shelling a nut and dexterously popping it into Souci's mouth. " How happy we should be if he had not broken his neck !" cries she. " Perhaps he would have taken us to a theatre to-night !" ecstatically. " Perhaps he would have got drunk and beaten you as he sometimes beat me," replies Tonio, philosophically. " You see, my child, there's lights and darks and sweets and sours about everything, and sometimes when Niccolo got a lot of red fire in him he was crazy, and if I hadn't run off and hid myself in the loft there wouldn't have been much left of me. He was a good little fellow when he was sober, but when he got drunk, Bigre I look out then for the cracked crowns and girls can't always get out of the way." " Tonio, does everybody get drunk when they are grown up?" " Yes ; everybody who is poor and miserable. I don't think rich folks do. Why should they ? They haven't got no misery to drown." Souci sighs heavily. Old Pierre under the influence of red fire appears before her mind's eye. With a shudder she draws closer to her companion. " You will never get drunk, Tonio, shall you ?" she whispers, earnestly. " Yes ; I dare say." Another sigh. " Well, what's the go ?" " Nothing." "I want to know what's the matter? Are you going to cry, Souci ?" " No !" indignantly. " Only you said I should never le beaten again. When you get drunk you will beat me, they all do, that's all." And she breaks down with a sob. " Then I sha'n't ever touch a drop of anything ! Cheer up, Souci ! it was only a joke ; I didn't mean it," cries the 1 oy, self-reproachful, peeling for her the biggest chestnut he could find. " Then that was a lie !'' comments Souci, severely, drying her eyes on her apron. 48 SOUCL ' Yes, so it was. See here, Souci," changing the subject abruptly, " do you remember that I promised to show you, some day, what old Niccolo took from iny father's neck after he was shot?" The diversion is a success. Souci beams again. " Oh, yes, show it to me now, do, dear Tonio, do, do ! I have thought of it night and day !" she cries, mendaciously. " Wait ; I see somebody coming. Nobody must see it, you know." "Would they take it from you? Sapristi! if they dared " "They might try, but I don't think they would get it not as long as I lived, anyhow !" he replies, with a flash in his eyes. " Is it gold?" she whispers, awe-stricken. " No !" contemptuously. " What can it be, then ?" " Wait, and you shall see." A man wearing the uniform of a sergent-de-ville passes slowly over the bridge. " I pnnnot wait !" exclaims Souci, excitedly. " I hate waiting !" " You would not have them take it from me, would you? Here comes another man! I don't think I can show it you to-day ; there are too many people about now, to-morrow " This was more than human nature could bear. Souci bites her lips hard to restrain the passionate reproaches behind them. Suddenly a flash of joy lights up her face. " Oh, I forgot!" she cries; and, slipping one arm about Tonio's neck, she whispers, caressingly, " I have got something to show you, too, Tonio ! something to give you, ah, it is beauti- ful ! You shall have it when" " " When you have seen this !" interrupts Tonio, tapping his chest, where the treasure is concealed ; and, rising to his ft et, he looks anxiously about him, along the bridge; under it; up in the air ; far and wide ; not a creature is within sight. Reseating himself, swiftly he tears open his jacket and vest, and, thrusting his hand under his red flannel shirt, he draws forth a small oval plate of Berlin iron, which is attached to a slender steel chain about his throat. "Dame!" exclaims Souci, disdainfully, "is that all? it's NOBODT'S CHILD. 49 usly enough ! and such a fuss as you made about it ! What's it for?'' Tonio smiles. He is polishing busily its rusty surface with the sleeve of his jacket. "Wait," he says, gently; "don't be impatient," turning it over lovingly in his hands. Souci watches him curiously. At this instant a shadow falls across them. They look up. The scr>/ent-d<--ville' is returning on his beat. Tonio covers the medallion hastily with his hat; the man passes on. " Does it open ?" bursts forth Souci before he is out of sight, her quick fancy suggesting the possibility. " Yes, it opens. Look !" After one more glance around them, Touio touches a spring; the ltd flies back ; a shriek of delight escapes Souci's lips. Within the unpretentious shell lies a kernel rich and rare. A row of small brilliants sur- rounds the miniature, exquisitely painted, of a girl, whose perfect loveliness is enhanced by the magnificence of her attire. A girl in the first bloom of maidenhood, like a rose- bud amid the sheeny satin and foamy lace and shimmering j >earls of her bridal dress. A girl with clear olive skin and the rich flush of youth in cheeks and lips, who looks out from her dark, rippling tresses, through velvety-brown eyes, upon these two wretched little > paupers, with a loving, tender glance which almost speaks sweet words to them. Why, Tonio !" gasps Souci, at last, tearing her eyes away from the beguiling face and fixing them upon her companion's quivering features.. " Why ! it is like you, only it's a lady ; the eyes are exactly like yours ; and the mouth and that curly hair, and sec, Tonio ! the dimple in the chin ! Oh, /' /to /.< if .''' " It is my mother," the lad replies, in a low, tender voice. " YOUR MOTHER!'' She can say no more; she can only bend over it in amazed incredulity, stealing furtive glances at Tonio's grave face the while, to make sure that he is not jesting. They are still gloating over it, Souci delighting in the gleaming jewels, the rich costume, the artistic arrangement of the hair. after the manner of her kind, Tonio drinking into his very soul a draught of love and comfort from the sweet face which smiles up into his own. Mmlre nn'ii!" the words sound like a caress. "0,lellis- ///('-(.'" he murmurs to himself. 5 50 SOUCI. " What is her name ?" asks practical Souci. " Her name was Lucia is it not a pretty name, Scnici ? Lucia ! She died when I was quite a little chap," he adds, in a lower tone. " My father's name was the same as mine, Antonio," he resumes, after a moment. " Oh ! to be beautiful like that !" cries Souci, rapturously. " Tonio, I I am not even pretty, am I ?" " Pretty ?" He looks at her steadily a moment, then back at the picture, and shakes his head. " No, Souci, you are not the least bit pretty ; your skin is yellow, and your cheeks aren't red, and your nose is too big, and " " Hush !" she exclaims, imperiously, " I don't want to be pretty !" And her eyes fill with angry tears. " You're not pretty, either P " But you said I looked like this, 1 ' Tonio says, calmly, won- dering at her sudden passion, and pointing at the picture of his mother. " Then, I take it back ; you don't !" replies the child. Once more the shadow of a passing figure falls upon them this time the patrol eyes them suspiciously. Tonio rapidly closes and secretes the medallion ; then, turning to Souci, he asks, " And now, what have you -to show me ? Be quick, for the morning is being wasted, and we haven't made a sou to-day." The girl's eyes are turned^ away. She is looking at some distant object floating along on the turbid river. " Tonio," she says, dreamily, " have girls mothers ?" " Yes, Souci.'' "Where is mine, then? Where is she? Where is she? OH, WHERE is SHE ?" And her voice grows into a wail. " How can I tell, Souci ?" replies the boy, sadly. " Oh, I want her ! She wouldn't say I was ugly, and had a yellow skin, and a big nose, and she would love me, 1 know she would. Oh, why can't she hear me, and come to me ! Maman ! Maman /" Her voice rings out upon the air and startles the half-dozen brawny-armed llanchisscvses who are beating their linen to rags under the bridge in a vain effort to cleanse it in the muddy Seine. " Souci ! you are wicked ! Do I not love you ? I don't care whether you are pretty or not 11 But Ida!" she interrupts, with an hysterical sob. NOBODY'S CHILD. 51 "Chtrie! petit chat! Soudette!" pleads Tonio. "I am d ying to see what you have for me. You promised to give me something. What is it?" Smiling through her tears, Souei draws from her pocket a gorgeous violet-velvet pocket-book, richly ornamented with gilt. " Voila, /" she says, " it is for you, to keep the money in, you know, isn't it beautiful?" " Where did you get this ?'' he asks, turning it about ner- vously. " Where did I get it ?" she repeats, with a puzzled look. " I cribbed it, yesterday, from the counter of that shop where you went in to ask the time. Don't you remember? Dont yon like it, Tonio?'' Gradually the truth breaks in upon the boy's mind. He lays the pretty toy down upon the parapet of the bridge and covers his face with his thin, brown hands. " Madre mia /" he murmurs once more, and then big tears force their way through his fingers ; tears which seem to scald his eyes, tears which do not flow readily, and which blows and harsh language have failed to draw forth for years. Souci's heart beats quickly. She does not understand this emotion, but it pains her bitterly. With a lithe movement she draws herself closer to him and lays her cheek against his shoulder, adding, in faltering tones, " I took it for you, I thought you would be pleased, and you don't say any- thing " " You took it ! Do you mean you stole it?" exclaims the boy, pushing her roughly from him and gazing at her with pained, angry eyes. " Say anything /" he goes on, excitedly ; " I don't want to have anything to say to a thief!" The child shrinks back, fairly cowering before the stern anger of his voice and manner. Trembling all over, she watches him as he sits with compressed lips and moody brow with eyes fixed upon the hateful pocket-book. She cannot comprehend this abrupt change from his habitual gentleness and sweetness of temper. What has she done to draw down upon herself such displeasure as this, she who has only wished to give him an agreeable surprise ? Oh, it is wicked in him to treat her so, and all because his mother was a great lady, and she hadn't any; oh, it is cruel and hard, and she hates him ! Here the poor little child breaks into passionate sobs. 52 SO UCI. Springing to his feet, Tonio catches up the pocket-hook and bends down to her, saying, " Tell me which shop you took this thing from : I must take it back this instant. Where was it ? what street ? I can't remember." His brows are kuit with the effort to recall the locality. " I don't know ; oh, I can't tell, you frighten me," sobs Souci. " We went in to ask the time, you said. Oh, Souci, try to tell me where to take it; I must take it back!" Already he feels with a pang that he is branded forever as a thief; his eyes burn into her very heart. The hand holding the pocket-book is suddenly covered by another, stronger hand. " Aha ! caught at last !" says a quiet voice in his ear. For the third time the shadow falls across the unfortunate children, who gaze with wondering alarm in the imperturbable face of the sergent-de-vitte. He is intently examining the pocket-book, inside and out. " What have you done with the money ?" he demands of Tonio. " Money ?" stammers the lad. "I there was no money. I did not open it, sir." " Ah, truly ? A likely story that ! I've been watching you for half an hour. I saw you both examining it." Souci's lips have parted to pour forth indignant denial of this accusa- tion, but Tonio checks her by a swift imploring gesture which does not escape the ferret-eyes at his side. " Ha ! the girl wishes to confess the truth, but you However, it is of little importance ; you will march off with me, you young scamp, and we'll soon know what you've done with the money." Almost before the words are uttered, Souci has snatched the pocket-book from his hand and flung it far away over the para- pet of the bridge into the yellow stream below, crying wildly, " It was I ! I took it ; he never steals, he is good ! Do not dare to touch him ! He will not go with you, and you can catch me, if you can !" And, with one cat-like spring, she too has cleared the parapet, and is scrambling with perilous dexterity down the slippery stone-work of one of the arched supports beneath which flows the tranquil Seine. Startled for once out of his self-possession, the officer of the law takes a step forward, expecting to see the fiery little crea- ture struggling in the water ; but, to his infinite annoyance, he encounters the vision of an elfish figure cosily ensconced in a XOBODV'S CHILD. 53 niche just beyond his reach, uplifting to his a malicious, sun- burnt face, whose white-gleaming teeth and sparkling eyes are full of mocking diablerie. Tonio, accustomed to the girl's sudden freaks, can scarcely repress a smile as he notes the contraction of the bushy brows over those keen eyes which never permitted themselves to be thwarted by even much prettier pictures than this. One moment of moody silence on the bridge, while Souci clasps her brown little hands and shakes her tambourine gayly over her head to the accompaniment of the hoarse cackle of the washerwomen, who stand, hand on hip, contemplating the position of affairs. " Ha ! ha ! he'll not catch her, the little limb of Satan, not he, indeed !" they chuckle, admiringly. But the scrgent-de-ville has laid a firm grasp upon Tonio's shoulder, and, beckoning a brother official who is approaching, he briefly recounts his misdemeanor and delivers the boy over to him. With one despairing glance at Souci, Tonio moves away, knowing well the fruitlessness of resistance ; but, before they have taken many steps, Souci is beside them, panting like a hunted fawn, having scaled the parapet once more and darted past the outstretched hands of the little group which had now gathered on the scene, gasping out, " You must take me too ! I did if, I steal everything, you must take us both !" She casts her arms frantically about Tonio. With a grim smile the officer accedes to the very extraordinary request, and they are marched off amid the buzz of wonder, pity, and derision with which lookers-on always greet such little incidents. * That night, and for many a night thereafter, Souci moans herself to sleep in the dormitory of a juvenile reformatory, her greatest grief being the fact that a wall several inches thick separates her from her beloved companion, save during the hours of recreation, throughout the endless days. Souci never stole again. 6* 54 SOUCL CHAPTER IX. BURIED IN A SNOW-DRIFT. . . . . " ' If I am born into this earth, where is my part ? Have the goodness, gentlemen of this world, to show me my wood-lot, where I may fell my wood, my field where to plant my corn, my pleasant ground where to build my cabin.' " ' Touch any wood, or field, or house-lot at your peril !' cry all the gen- tlemen of this world: 'but you may come and work in ours for us, and we will give you a piece of bread.' * ***#***$ " The State must consider the poor man, and all voices must speak for him. Every child that is born must have a fair chance for his b read ." E M E RSOS . A SNOWY pall covers the meadows and the highway ; the north wind bites cruelly, and darker and more impenetrable grows the twilight, deepening into night, for the sun has long since sunk slowly behind the leafless woods, which stretch gaunt, whitened limbs out against the purple of the evening sky. A sublime tranquillity, a ghostly stillness, unbroken by a sound, reign over this vast, white solitude, whose spectral dreariness is relieved only by the dark, irregular line marking the fence- boundaries of the fields, sleeping so placidly under their snow blanket, or by the peaked roof of a farm-house here and there, from whose chimney issues a curly vapor, spark-sprinkled. In the far distance rise, clearly defined, the steeples and spires of the busy city of Lyons. Night has fallen, when a heavy wagon, drawn by three powerful Breton horses, about whose necks hang cheery-sound- ing bells, appears toiling along the unbroken white of the high-road. Laden with grain and household stores from the distant market-town, their pi ogress has been so impeded by the deep snow that darkness has overtaken them. Wrapped in a thick cloak, the collar of which is turned up about his ears, meet- ing the brim of his hat, the belated farmer lustily cheers NOBODY'S CHILD. 55 and encourages by chirping expostulation the noble brutes he drives. Giving them their heads, for upon their sagacity alone he depends to find the road to his farm through this blank desert, he calls to them affectionately from time to time, " Come, now, Rosine, stir yourself, my girl, you are giving Tricot the most of the work to-night. Go it, my brave Bap- tiste ! pull away, my lad ! we'll soon be snug at home ! Fpr shame, Rosine ! What ! hanging back again ? Houp-ld ! get on, iny brave darlings !" etc., in the broadest peasant dialect, which the honest brutes appear to comprehend per- fectly. From time to time the farmer casts a backward glance under the hood of his wagon, where, with their arms clasped tightly about each other, slumber peacefully among the sheaves two way-worn tramps, whom he had discovered perishing with cold and fatigue by the road-side some miles back. " He in /" the good man mutters, " that child may freeze before we reach the farm. Honp-ld ! get on, I say !" Another frantic plunge and a continued strain on the great muscles, and the faithful animals stop of their own accord before a huge gate enclosing a farm-yard, at whose extremity stands a thatched stone house, with its lower windows all aglow with warm, red light. Before the whinny of the tired horses has ceased, the door opens, and a woman, holding a lantern above her head, calls out, in clear, ringing patois, " Is it thou, Antoine ?" The farmer, having already descended from the wagon, approaches his wife, bearing in his arms a still sleeping child. " Here, wife," he says, " I bring you a poor little half-frozen wretch I picked up in a snow-drift ; take her within, and do what you can for her." Without a word the woman extends her sturdy arms, and, receiving in them the light form, bustles back to the warm kitchen, leaving her lantern behind her. The other sleeper, who has been aroused by the cessation of movement, has leaped to the ground, and now offers his assist- ance to the farmer in unharnessing and feeding the horses. During this operation they are followed closely and persist- ently impeded in their movements hv half a do/en 'In^s, who bark and yelp incessantly their welcome to the master. With the utmost patience and affection the good farmer min- 56 SOUCL isters to the comfort and well-being of his great dumb friends, talking to them constantly in the tenderest accents, calling them pet names, and pointing out their several beauties to the astonished lad, who, Paris-bred, is not accustomed to seeing much gentleness wasted upon the brute creation. True it is, no woman had ever been blessed by hearing from the good man's lips such caressing words not even his bright-faced, buxom wife, whom he loved right well as did those great, broad-flanked brutes who whinnied at his voice and touch. " Come, now," he calls out in his cheery voice, " we will go within, my lad, and warm up a bit." And with a last lin- gering look at his pets, he locks the stable and strides towards the house, followed by the boy and the vociferous dogs. These are now ordered off by an imperative word to their kennels, all save one, an old mastiff, whose age renders him more orna- mental than useful, and who is the pet of the chimney-corner. As they enter the house, from which an appetizing odor of potage issues, a fragile-looking girl, sitting thawing before a blazing oak- and beech-wood fire, springs forward, and, catch- ing the half-benumbed hand of the lad in hers, cries, " Oh, why did you not come sooner, Tonio ? I have been so mis- erable ; do not leave me again !" And she pulls him towards the little bench which she had occupied and makes him share it with her. The farmer, who is boisterously saluting his wife on both cheeks, does not perceive this little outburst, and seating himself at once at the table drawn close to the fire, on which stands a smoking tureen of soup, flanked by a dish of bacon and greens, to which he is particularly partial, calls out to them jovially to " draw up their chairs and eat their fill." A comfortable jug of cider occupies a corner ; home-made cheese and a smoking loaf, with a pot of honey, complete the frugal meal. Gathered about the hospitable board, the children are plied with the wholesome food thereon. The farmer talks loud and with the drawl peculiar to his province ; his wife chirrups an accompaniment ; the jug of cider passes swiftly around. Never have Tonio or Souci enjoyed such a feast ! Their frozen hearts melt before so much joyous warmth and plenty : their eyes brighten ; their tongues are loosed. They chatter like monkeys ; they laugh at nothing. They embrace each other, NOBODY' S CHILD. 57 and shower caresses upon the purblind mastiff who snuffs ami- cably about their feet, and give him surreptitiously, morsels left upon their plates. The past is forgotten ; the horrible, weary length of months spent behind high walls that shut out the sun- shine; the subsequent weeks when, apprenticed to different trades, they had passed their nights in devising rash plans of escape, hoarding carefully for that purpose the sum of money they had earned by extra work at the Reformatory; and then, eventually, the frantic plunge taken once more for liberty, for the free Bohemian existence which they might live together. The meeting at the railway station at dawn of morning ; the start in the third-class carriage ; the elation, the joy, which possessed them as they felt themselves being borne away from Paris ! Then the exhausted purse, the hunger, the fatigue, ending piteously in a snow-drift which might have been a grave. They forget all this; they glance not towards the future; thanks to their mercurial temperaments, they are able to bask in the sunshine of their present respite from suffering. The awful tide against whicli they must once more struggle, which swallows up in hungry, wide-stretched jaws frail barks like these, and sucks into merciless, fathomless depths innumerable souls, seems far out of reach of them to-night, its sullen roar drowned in the cheery clatter of this homestead. After supper, Tonio performs heroic feats on his violin, and Souci sings her choicest ballads. The farmer, lying back in his big chair with a pipe between his lips, marks time with his great feet and applauds enthusiastically. The old dog wags his tail in lively appreciation and gives a joyful bark of approval, while the good-wife stares with aston- ishment. " Where did you learn to sing like this?" drawls the master, smiling broadly at the girl. " 1 am a street-singer of Paris, monsieur," replies Souci, curtsying. " You don't make much money by it, do you, my little one ?" asks the practical old fellow. " Your clothes aren't any too comfortable for this weather. Wife, haven't you got a dud or t\v<> that y.u could turn to use for this girl? she's barely cov- ered, and thoc il.ivs arc cold." " And see, Antoine ! oh, mon Dicu ! her poor feet are quite frost-bitten in these miserable shoes !" She has drawn c* 58 SOVCL them off tenderly, and is now applying some simple domestic remedy which will afford relief. The farmer turns away his face from the sad spectacle. " Ah, yes, that's the sort of thing you see in Paris ! It is a hard place, that, for the poor, a hard place and a cruel place. Come, boy," he continues, rising, and looking towards Tonio, " we'll go and find a cosy nest for you somewhere, and the wife shall put the little one to bed, for I want to have a bit of talk with her after." With a cheering word to Souci, Tonio follows his host to the loft, where he soon drops into delicious sleep on a comfort- able bed of hay. covered warmly with the woolliest of blankets. The " bit of talk" draws its slow length far into the night, and resolves itself into a plan by which these homeless ones are to be sheltered throughout the remainder of the winter- season in the childless hearts and home of this worthy couple. In such humble temples does " the greatest of these" oft- times enshrine itself to the glory of God. CHAPTER X. " SHE IS FROM PARIS, WIPE." A * "Passion and expression is beauty itself: the face that is incapable of these is deformity itself. Let it be painted and patched and praised and advertised forever, it will only be admired by fools." BLAKE. "Seeing those birds fly makes me long for wings." BROWNING. WHAT a happy winter that was, and how the weeks flew by ! Laughter- and jest-laden, yet not idle weeks, for the children felt as if they could never show their gratitude so well as by letting it ooze out of their finger-ends in tireless ministrations towards their worthy hosts. Tonio made himself useful in the barn and stable, while 'Souci turned the instruc- tion she had received at the Reformatory to account in manu- facturing for herself a wardrobe from the " duds" bestowed upon her, and in adding materially to that of the good farmer's wife. She also aided in the duties of the farm-yard, enjoying NOBOD1"S CHILD. 59 intensely the vivacious greetings of poultry, pigs, and geese at feeding-time, choosing her favorites among them, and growing softened and more gentle through the beneficent influences of this healthful, simple, rustic life, of which the novelty had not yet worn off. Before the daffodils had ventured to peep forth, before spring had fairly come, Souci had changed so utterly in ap- pearance that few would have recognized her as the thin, solemn-eyed little creature who had sung a year ago in the streets of Paris. She had grown taller, and, though far from robust, had gained flesh and strength. Her complexion, of a clear pallor, boasted no ruddy tint, but the hollows under the eyes had disappeared, and the long dark lashes formed the sole shadow on the face. Her hair, of a bright yellow color, had grown long enough to bind in curious braids about her well- shaped head, and her large, sensitive mouth disclosed teeth regular and white as pearls. Few would have thought her handsome, it was the one bitter grief to her that she could not consider herself so. But what beauty of form or coloring has been found to equal in power, to work such mortal woe, as that same large-featured, tintless, passionate-eyed face, in the high noon of its maturity ? Be sure that the sirens who have sung men mad since the creation have not been of the Sir Peter Lely type. They were women who could not simper, or mince, or languish, but whose mobile lips could relax into the great bewildering smile which ensnared souls to their undoing ; women whose sensibility and emotional nature were not painted in rose-hues on their cheeks, but were hidden far out of sight of the daws who peck at the glitter of false jewels as eagerly as at the gleam of true. They were women who embodied a magnetism so subtle and so potent that friends and foes yielded equally to its influence ; whose power for good was submerged in the greater fascination of evil ; who, blinded by victory, used their strength, -like Samson of old, in dragging down the fair temples of men's lives, crushing themselves, perchance, under the ruin they had wrought. Into such a woman as this Souci is developing day by day. Better you say had she perished in the snow-drift on the highway? better had the good Samaritan who rescued her passed by OB the other side ? 60 SOUCI. We shall see. Plato tells us, " The scul of man has in it a driver and two horses : the one strong and willing, quick to obey and eager for applause, for honorable praise ; the other unruly, ill-con- ditioned, greedy, and violent, whom only flogging and the goad can control. Do what the driver within us will, our better horse may be seduced at times from his duty, his evil yoke- fellow may obtain the mastery and bear away all to destruc- tion." In some natures this contradictory pair exist but in a coma- tose state, stirred neither by the instinct of progression nor the impulse of rebellion. In a lethargic dulness they creep along their allotted span, incapable of grand virtues as of great vices ; neither soaring to the heights nor descending to the depths ; never having watched the sun rise from the brow of Olympus, nor held hand over throbbing heart amid the drear shadows of Avernus. Such natures, colorless as crystal, without its purity, radiating from themselves neither heat nor light, polyp- like floating sluggishly upon a turbid, brackish stream they miscall life, form but the neutral-tinted background encircling the arena where the great struggle goes on eternally; where the lists are entered, spear in rest, and visor down ; where the pulse beats high and the sweat pours forth ; where knightly prowess and knightly heart bear off" the prize ; where mortal thrust is ofttimes dealt unwittingly and the vanquished bites the dust in silent agony ; and where the victor is crowned immortally. There are men and women born gladiators. To them the tranquil monotony, the stagnant routine of a cut-and-dried existence, pure and simple, are stifling. The mechanical exer- cise of certain faculties but indicates to them the rust accumu- lating upon others of a higher order: the hum of the spinning- wheel, the whirr of the threshing-flail. music to some ears, becomes a discordant roar in theirs. Women are not all made Griseldas, as there are " men, by St. Thomas !" who " cannot live like bees /" Scarcely have the days begun to lengthen and the spring sun to beam down warmly on the newly-awakened earth, when Souci is beset by a fever of restlessness. Vague longings for the old, wandering life, full of incident, adventure, hardship, as it was, possess her ; the slumberous inaction, the tranquil NOBODY ~S CHILD. 61 peace of these long, warm, drowsy days at the farm, oppress her suffocatingly. She is but a child of the pave, remember ; her vagabond instincts are bred in the bone. The ozone of the hills and valleys, untainted by the malarious breath of cities, pains the moral lungs unaccustomed to its purity. "7'ai beSoin de mencanaillcr /" poor Sophie Arnauld used to cry, satiated with champagne and luxury, ortolans, petits abbes, and French 'nobles, stirred by the same vagrant restlessness which inspires discontent in Souci. The " evil yoke-fellow" in her soul champs and frets, strain- ing against curb and bit, to bear her away from this safe refuge, this peaceful shelter, into the rough -jostling world, into the heat and tumult of the conflict which shall rage, henceforth, about her until the end. The first suggestion of departure is nipped in the bud by the good farmer's wife, who has grown fond, in her un- demonstrative fashion, of this wayward, fanciful child, and dreads nothing more than parting with her. By redoubled kindness she strives to reconcile her to the life of respectable vegetation at which Souci's every instinct rebels, and against which every bird, and bee, and butterfly, darting hither and thither in the free sunshine, wheresoever they list, tempt her to mutiny. Each day she eyes more and more wistfully the old tambourine hanging on the wall of her little bedroom ; each morning, upon awaking, her gaze seeks eagerly, from the tiny window beneath the eaves, the far-off spires, glittering in the sun, of the city of Lyons. ********* June has come, and with it Souci's resolution bursts into blossom, her restlessness ripens into revolt. "I will go!" .she says to Tonio, in firm tones, as they linger in the orchard among piled baskets of cherries they have gathered for the market. " I must go ; it is stronger than I ; I must go ! Yes, you beauties," she empties her last apron-full of the ripe fruit on the over-heaped basket as she speaks, " when you start for the big city yonder, I shall go with you too !" Tonio, silent and downcast, does not attempt to dissuade her further ; his futile arguments are exhausted ; nothing re- mains for him now but a sad acquiescence. " She is from Paris, wife," the farmer whispers when Jeanne G 62 SOUCI. sheds a few unrestrainable tears on his shoulder that night after Souci has fallen asleep with a smile on her lips. " What canst thou expect ? It is a bad, hard place, and a cruel place, is Paris !" " She will come back, Antoine, oh, say she will come back to us, when she is tired and hungry and foot-sore again ?" She searches his face piteously for a ray of hope. " I don't know. She is a stubborn little lass, and will have her head," he answers, slowly ; " as hard to manage as a month-old filly. A proud one she is, with a fierce bit of spirit about her. No, you must not expect to see her here again, my good Jeanne ; she will starve before she will return to us now !" Here his voice breaks, and he blows his nose boisterously. Jeanne is only human, therefore it is not to be wondered at that, after those first bitter tears have relieved her, she begins to resent a little Souci's obstinacy, and to accuse her in her heart of ingratitude, knowing naught of the species to which the child belongs. When, at the moment of separation the next morning, Souci clings, with passionate sobs and tears, to her benefac- tress, after having embraced tenderly every dumb beast and fowl she could catch in her impetuous arms, her emotion is set down not unreasonably to hypocrisy, or at least to some Parisian affectation which is beyond the comprehension of these blunt, simple-hearted folk. They stare open-eyed at an exhibition of grief to which her voluntary renunciation gives the lie, and chilled by their apparent coldness and insensibility the children clamber up into the wagon, which is to carry them into the city of Lyons, with heavy hearts and proud trembling lips. The farmer cracks his whip, the old mastiff runs for- ward wagging his tail and barking feebly his farewell, and they start off without one backward glance. Jeanne stands at the gate, shading her eyes with her sun- burnt hand from the rays of the morning sun, watching with longing intentness for one more look, one smile, a wave of the hand from under the white cover of the wagon, in vain. Then, throwing her apron over her face, she runs into the house, and, going straight up into Souci's little room, she kneels down beside the bed, and weeps as Rachel of old wept when the solitariness of her childless home broke wofully upon her, and she " would not be comforted, because they were not." BOOK II. TONIO. CHAPTER I. PROPHECY. " The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze." YOUNG. IN the city of Lyons there is a long, narrow street of old- fashioned, gabled houses with dormer-windows in front, whose first floors are occupied by petty tradesmen, shoemakers, tailors, grocers, and the like, while the upper stories are devoted to other branches of industry. In -one of the dormer-windows aforesaid, a girl sits, leaning out a little to catch the fast-fading light of an April evening upon the work which she stitches rapidly. The girl is young, not more than fifteen, if one may judge from the graceful lines of her figure defined like a silhouette against the yellow twi- light, but when she rises presently and, laying aside her work with a sigh of relief, lights the taper floating in a cup of oil, one is surprised at the evident disparity between her youthful- ness of form and the stern sadness which marks her noble features, the soft melancholy which lies in the deep gray eyes. The little room is barely furnished, but scrupulously clean. There is a tiny cooking-stove, a table, two chairs, and a foot- stool. On the walls hang a couple of cheap prints ; and on the window-seat stand a few pots of mignonette and hyacinth. The floor is bare. The girl busies herself about the stove for a few moments, then drawing forth the table, she covers it with a white cloth, and places a couple of plates, knives and forks, a small wheateu 63 64 SOUCI. loaf, and a tiny pat of butter upon it. She is about to peep into the steaming saucepan for the second or third time, to make sure that the good bouillon is thoroughly heated, when the sound of footsteps, hastily mounting the stairs, causes her to lift her head and listen with a bright smile on her lips, which alters the whole face by its magic light. " Just in time, Tonio !" she exclaims, lifting the saucepan from the stove and ladling out its contents, while the handsome youth who enters hangs his cap on a peg beside the door and draws the chairs up to the table. " Who do you think I met to-day as I was carrying home some work, Souci ? Guess !" he asks, presently, between his spoonfuls of soup. " I cannot ; tell me, please," the girl answers, eagerly. " Old farmer Antoine ; he had been bringing in a wagon- load of cherries, I wonder who gathered them for him ? and he seemed so glad to see me. Souci, it will be three years next month since he brought us to the city and left us crying in the market-place. How you cried, and yet how stubborn you were ! nothing would persuade you to go back with him, poor old fellow !" " And was I wrong, Tonio ? Are we not happy, happier far than we could ever be in that stifling farm-house, living like moles? Ah, we can work with a will now, when we feel that we are free ; and our evenings ! oh, Tonio, could we ever have had such evenings as we have now ?" Souci clasps her hands with the old familiar gesture, and her eyes glow. " Too happy to last, I am afraid," Tonio answers, seriously. " I am always afraid of happiness. How jolly we were before that dreadful morning on the Pont Neuf " He checks himself suddenly, biting his lip with vexation. With a little cry, " Oh, don't, Tonio !" the girl, whose face has flushed scarlet, starts up from her chair, and, crossing the room, pretends to be busy in preparing the next dish. " Never mind, Souci, it's all over now ; and that year in the Reformatory did us both good. You learned to sew all these wonderful things," glancing at a pile of neatly-folded work on the window-seat, " and I was taught the trade which is to make our fortune. How else " " Yes !" interrupts Souci, with a flash of the old impetuosity, and holding her head very erect. " Yes ! and I was taught, for TOA70. 65 the first time in my life, Tonio, that I should not steal or wear .'" " I know, my poor girl ; I was very hard on you that day ; I have been sorry for it ever since. But," he continues, cheer- ily, " it was all for the best, you see ; we are as happy as the day is long, and to-morrow will be our holiday." " Ah, that is true," smiled Souci, gratefully ; " and I have learned a new ballad, Tonio. Such a beauty ! Nanine taught me the words, and I invented the air. Listen, it goes like this." And, laying down her knife and fork, she warbles in an under- tone, " Laissex-tnoi arranger ma chevelure Et mettre mes gants blancs, Ainsi que mes pierres fines et mes diamants " " Pardon ! Monsieur Pipelet has sent to know whether the work is finished." A comical old face, with a pair of twinkling eyes and a good-humored grin, is obtruded through the open door. "Entrez, Monsieur Theophile ; you are welcome," says Tonio, grandly, offering him his seat. " Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, la-la-la la-la !" warbles Souci, louder and louder. The man comes in sideways, and, declining the chair with a wave of the hand holding a shoemaker's last, he leans against the wall, listening to the sweet, clear notes which fill the room with harmony. " Confess that you came to hear me sing, and not about the work, and I'll sing for you again !" cries Souci, at last, laughing and nodding at their next-door neighbor. He studies his leather apron a moment silently, and then stammers, " Well, mam'selle, perhaps it was that ; I couldn't help coming in to hear the end of that verse. You see, I don't get much music out of this," and he glances at the last, " and I am so fond of it ! Oh, mam'selle, it is a pity for you to go on binding waistcoats and working for that little fool of a Pipelet. when, mon Dieu ! you could fill the Opera-House at Paris with such a voice as yours !" The girl has risen from her chair, and slowly approaches him as he speaks. " Patience, M. Theophile," she says, in a calm, low tone ; " all that you say is true, quite true. Some day / shaU Jill the Opera-House in Paris !" Then she goes back to her seat, and, taking the bofetle of ordinaire, she fills 6* 66 SOUCI. her glass to the brim. " Here ! drink this to that day, Monsieur Theophile, that glorious day which the future has in store for me, when I shall have the great world of Paris at my feet !" " Souci, you are mad !" mutters Tonio, sadly. Little Theophile draws nearer. Drinking the wine down at a gulp, he sets the glass on the table, and draws his sleeve across his lips. " May I live to see the day, mam'selle !" he says, with earnestness ; '' and I feel that I shall. If it should cost one-half my clientele, I shall go up to Paris to see your triumph. Yes, mam'selle, among all the splendid bouquets and flower-crowns that are thrown to you, you will find one little simple wreath, and then you'll know that poor old Thoo phile, the bootmaker, lived to see that day !" The tears sparkle in the bright little eyes ; the Punchinello face is crimson with enthusiasm. Souci seizes his hand and presses it fervently. " Merci ! merci !" she cries. " And now listen to my new ballad." Closing the window, she lets out the full power of her mag- nificent voice, which has gained in volume, in flexibility, and in strength since we last heard her on the Champs Elysees, four years ago. Breathless with delight, her auditors stand spell-bound. The room appears to expand, the low-coiled walls to fall away. The bare floor changes into soft velvet turf; there are varying clouds overhead ; and the music of running brooks, and the song of myriad birds, till the air. Sordid poverty and the grind of ceaseless toil vanish forever ; the great wide universe, breathing forth beauty and light, as in the first days when He made it and saw that it was good, stretches out before their eyes, transfigured under the influ- ence of that wonderful voice. When she ceases singing, the air still seems to vibrate. She is calm ; Tonio and their neighbor stand silent, almost awed. " Eh lien!" she says, at last, "have I struck you dumb? or deafened you with my noise in this cramped little cup- board?" And she throws open the window again, and leans out to breathe more freely. " It is a miracle !" is the only comment which Theophile can find in his stunned little head. " A miracle !" Then he edges out of the room, and returns to his tapping and pegging with a dazed look in his eyes, as if he had witnessed in fact a supernatural phenomenon. TONIO. 67 Tonio and Souci led a twofold existence. The first year after their arrival in Lyons had proved one of such various and trying vicissitude that Tonio could not but acknowledge, with a shudder of fear, that Souci would be unable to bear another twelvemonth of vagrancy. She reluctantly agreed to his suggestion that they should abandon their street-wandering and earn their living in some less exposed and more respectable employment, but only on condition that one day out of each week should be spent after the old fashion, with tambourine and violin in the open air. In vain had Tonio striven to dissuade her from these weekly relapses into vagabondage ; in vain had he assured her that her long-skirted, neatly-fitting print gown and little white apron were far more becoming than the short, striped petticoat and black bodice she persisted in assuming on her holiday. She would only laugh, and answer with mock reproach, " Only one day out of the seven, Tonio ! and you grudge me that !" Deep in her heart she hid a secret hope, a hope on which she fed during the long, busy hours whilst she stitched and braided countless articles of apparel, in which she took no more interest than that they would give her the means to keep alive and wait. " One day every week I shall sing in the Place des Terreaux," she would whisper to herself; " there are always people there, about the Hotel-de-Ville and the Musee ; I shall sing there to the stocks and stones who stare and clap their hands and go their way. But some day a great man a prince, per- haps shall hear me, and then " This was her dream. Poor, restless, ambitious little heart! Year after year has rolled by, and she still stitches waistcoats in her attic. They are "as happy as the day is long," Tonio has said, and had it not been for that Eve-transmitted tendency of hers the desire for the unknown Souci could have echoed his assertion. As it was, she was a very woman, imaginative, aspiring, full of unquiet hopes and fancies ; looking over and beyond the boundary-line of her lot in life ; straining her gaze ever towards the unattainable. Why is it that we are, none of us, as happy in our present as we believe that we have been in our past? and shall we not assert the same when in future years we look back upon to-day ? 68 SOUCI. In the flower-crowns we long for, we do not perceive the thorns which shall pierce the tender flesh; in the cup of adula- tion we dream of, we divine not the bitterness of the lees. And if we did, would that deter us? No. Human nature can no more do without unhappiness than human lungs can dispense with oxygen ; it is part of our birthright, and we will not be cheated out of it. Thus each man and woman makes of his or her life a little Iliad of woes; gnashes his or her teeth, and rails at destiny. Poor Destiny ! It is my belief that the much-abused Parcae are but three pegs formed by the ancients on which we hang our own perversity. CHAPTER II. "I DO NOT LOVE YOU ANY MORE. . . . . " The hart, though hard pressed by the hounds, ****** - * * Is more to be envied, though Death with his dart follow fast to destroy, Than the tame beast that, pent in his paddock, tastes neither the danger nor joy Of the mountain, and all its surprises. The main thing is not to live long, But to lice!" .... OWEN MEREDITH. Souci has been singing on the Place des Terreaux. A motley throng, gathered about her, applaud vociferously. Silence follows, and once more the sweet voice is raised in a succession of exquisite trills. At that moment a fiacre passing swiftly is suddenly stopped ; a gentleman hastily descends, and, bidding the coachman wait, crosses the Place in the direction whence the voice proceeds. -"Surely but no, it is impossible!" he mutters; "yet I could swear there is not such another voice in France !" Elbow- ing his way through the crowd, he attains a position whence he can overlook the heads of those in advance of him. Instantly he recognizes the little singer of the Champs Elysees, whom TONIO. 69 he had sought vainly for many weeks, years ago, in the streets of Paris. Raoul Delacroix is not prone to give "way to outward demon- stration ; his is a quiet, rather reserved nature, which rarely betrays itself in visible signs, the character of his mind being rather intellectual than emotional. Few would suppose, as they glance at the tranquil, self-reliant face, that his heart is beating wildly, as he had almost feared it never could beat again, whilst he stands listening to the final roulade with which Souci finishes the afternoon's performance. When Tonio approaches him with the tambourine he con- trives to say a few words to him, which cause the lad to flash a quick glance up into his face, and to ask, promptly, " Which hotel, monsieur?" " Hotel de 1'Univers, at the side of the railway station of Perrache ; do you know it ?" " Perfectly, monsieur ; I shall be there at eight o'clock." Tonio is about to pass on, when the gentleman touches him on the shoulder. " Stay ; here is my card. Can you read ?" " Yes, monsieur." (M. Theophile, Souci, and he struggle ambitiously with the rudiments every evening.) "Raoul Delacroix," reads the stranger. " You will ask for Monsieur Delacroix, No. 38." "Bien, monsieur." It is not until Souci has finished her frugal supper and has settled down to a piece of work which must be taken home in the morning, that Tonio unburdens himself of the mysterious command the strange gentleman had laid upon him. Souci listens with every sense on the alert and with wild thrills of joy running through her. "Jf. is the prince, at last ! at last /" she says; and when Tonio bursts into a loud laugh at the gravity with which she announces this fact, she springs up and boxes his ears. Then, throwing her arms about his neck, she kneels down beside him, and cries a little, from excess of joy, on his shoulder. " Ah, Tonio, I have waited so long for him, 90 long, and now all will be so different ! Oh, let us go and tell dear old Theophile, shall we not?" " Tell him what ?" asks Tonio, calmly. " Tonio, you are cruel !" the girl exclaims, chilled by his manner. 70 SOUCL " No, Souci, I am not cruel, but you are crazy ! May-be this gentleman desires a servant, a valet, and intends proposing the situation to me ; perhaps he wants to send me with a mes- sage somewhere or to " " Don't, Tonio ; I shall cry again if you go on so !" " Well, wait until I come back and tell you what to cry about. There goes the half-hour !" A neighboring clock struck at this moment. " I promised to be at the Hotel de 1'Univers at eight o'clock precisely." He takes down his cap, and, kiss- ing Souci lightly on the cheek, disappears down the stairs. The poor girl tries vainly to concentrate her attention upon the pattern she is braiding ; the stitches go wide of the mark : the needle runs into her finger. She throws the work on the floor and tramples on it. "/ hate it ! that's the truth ; I hate it ! Stitching, stitching, stitching ! it's only fit for a machine, not for a woman, or a girl ; not for me, anyhow !" And then the little firebrand seats herself in the window, and, leaning out, watches for Tonio's return before he has fairly disappeared from view. She sniffs the mignonette and the hyacinth alternately ; she hums an air to herself, very low, lest she may attract some of the neighbors to seek a chat with her. She wishes to be alone when Tonio returns ; she wishes to be alone now, to think about everything. " How glad I am I did not give up altogether singing in the street ! how lucky that I happened to be in the Place des Terreaux to-day ! Oh, I love you!" she murmurs, turning her face in the direction of the Place, and kissing her hand towards it. " Dear Place des Ter- reaux ! I shall always remember you with pleasure !'' Here the clock of the Hotel-de-Ville strikes eight. Souci starts to her feet. " This is the hour ! in a moment they will speak together. What are they saying now, I wonder ? Is he kind and true and good ? Is it, after all, me that they are talking about ? I did not see him, perhaps he never heard me sing at all, and Tonio is right ! Oh ! poor Tonio, he will be afraid to tell me if this is so !" Thus she torments herself, pacing up and down the narrow room, until she is weary ; then, creeping back into the window- seat, she glances down through the gloom into the street. It has grown too dark now to distinguish any one so far below her; she is therefore considerably startled when she hears Tonio's voice at her elbow, the rumbling of vehicles outside TONIO. 71 having drowned the sound of his footsteps on the floor. He seems quiet and grave, perhaps a little sad, but he speaks firmly and decidedly. " Put on your hat, Souci; he has sent me back for you. The gentleman has sent for you ; he wishes to speak to you ; don't you understand ?" " Then it is me after att I He has heard me sing, and he has sent for me !" exclaims Souci, joyfully, snatching up her hat. " Yes, he has heard you sing," answers Tonio, shortly. Twenty minutes later they stand in Monsieur Delacroix's sitting-room at the Hotel de 1'Univers. The gentleman is writing. " Pray be seated," he says, in- dicating with a wave of his hand a couple of chairs. He folds, seals, and addresses his letter. Souci . and Tonio sit down on the extreme edge of the gorgeous crimson velvet arm- chairs. Presently M. Delacroix draws nearer to them, and, seating himself, looks kindly at Souci. She, returning his look, finds herself in some way assured that this man is true and good and kindly. " Have you told her ?" he addresses Tonio. " Nothing, monsieur." " That is well. My good girl," turning to Souci, " it was my intention to leave Lyons to-night for Paris ; indeed, I was en route to the station when I was arrested by hearing your voice on the Place des Terreaux. I have had some conversa- tion with your companion, and I have determined to make you a proposal. Your voice, though superb, is lost for want , of cultivation. I am willing to undertake your education and the proper instruction of your voice. I propose to prepare you for the career of a singer, in short, for the lyric stage. You may, if you are patient and indefatigable, one day achieve a glorious success, a triumph such as you have never dreamed of! To-morrow we shall start for Paris." Souci's eyes have grown larger and more luminous at each word as it fell from M. Delacroix's lips. Her awe, her timid- ity, vanish. Springing from her seat, she seizes the stranger's hand and presses her lips upon it. " Oh, thank you, thank you, sir ! You fill me with joy ! You have discovered my secret hope ! You have given me new life ! Oh, Touio, 72 souci. speak ! Thank the good gentleman who will teach me how to be a great singer ! Oh, thank him for me !" Tears are on her cheek, tears of joy, of gratitude. Tonio's face is strangely sad ; to all her excited speech he returns no word. " Calm yourself, my child," Delacroix says, earnestly, af- fected himself by this involuntary outburst. " You must learn to control yourself. You do not look very strong. The flame within will consume the frail vase that holds it, if you are not careful. See, poor child, how you tremble now from over-excitement !" " Pardon, monsieur," murmurs Souci, in a mortified tone. M. Delacroix smiles. " Then you accept?" he asks. " Oh, yes, monsieur ; we accept, do we not, Tonio ?" " I am not in the bargain," the lad answers, gently. "What? Not in the bargain? What do you mean? Monsieur, he does not understand. Tell him, please, that we are to go with you to Paris, and the rest " llaoul Delacroix glances keenly at Tonio. " Who are you ?" he asks. " Her brother ?" " No, monsieur." " No, monsieur," interrupts Souci, eagerly, " he is not my brother, but we are to be married some day, in a year or two, is it not so, Tonio ?" " Married !" M. Delacroix reflects. Souci slips her hand into Tonio's, who grasps it tightly. " This will not do ; this would spoil your career. You are mere children ; this talk of marriage is ridiculous ! How old are you?" " I am sixteen, sir," answers Tonio, a little stiffly. " And you ?" " I don't know." Souci's eyes flash ominously. " I judge you to be little over fourteen," giving her a scru- tinizing look. " Do you spend every day in the streets ?" he asks, pityingly. " No, sir ; I get work from the tailor. I sew all the week excepting one day." " You sew ! Dleu ! and with that voice ! Child, you must never sew again ; there is nothing so ruinous to the chest. Come, be sensible ; I cannot take you both with me. This lad is willing to separate himself from you " TONIO. 73 " Tonio ! is that true ?" bursts forth Souci, forgetting polite- ness in the pain these last words inflict. There is no reply. " He is willing to part with you for a time for your great good " continues M. Delacroix. "For a time? For what time? How long?" she asks, sharply. " For a few years." An hysterical laugh breaks from Souci's lips. " A few years !" she echoes, slowly. " Then, sir, if he is willing / am not. I do not want to talk any more ; I shall not go to Paris ; I shall not be educated ; .1 shall not have a glorious career ! I renounce it all. I thank you, but I shall never leave Tonio !" Her face is white as marble ; her eyes, dilated with suffering, turn wistfully towards the lad, whose head is bowed on his breast. " Souci, you are wrong," he murmurs. " Do not think of me, do not cast away this chance of happiness for yourself. Souci, we shall meet again some future day " " Silence /" cries the girl, almost beside herself. "What can you think me ?" Then turning to Delacroix, she adds, piteously, ' Send us away, monsieur ; I am weary, and it grows late." A shade of something akin to reverence comes into Raoul's voice as he rises, and, opening the door, says, gently, " Good- night, little girl ; you carry a rare jewel in your bosom, a loyal heart. Keep it pure and faithful as long as life beats in it. Good-night." And they pass out from his presence silently, neither of them able to articulate even an adieu. Silently they walk through the shadowy streets side by side, both hearts too full for speech. Silently they mount the steep staircase to the topmost floor. As Souci draws her key from her pocket and unlocks her door, Tonio lays his hand on her arm, arid, in a husky whisper, says, simply, " Kiss me, Souci ; kiss me good-night, Souciette !" The girl hesitates, a slight shiver passes over her. The thought that Tonio had been willing to part with her is bitter within her. " I cannot !" she says, in a clear, cold tone which seems to cut him like a knife, : ' I cannot ; / do not love you any D 1 74 SOUCI. more /" And she passes into her dark little room, closing the door between them and slipping the bolt into its socket with ostentatious vehemence. For one moment Tonio stands irresolute, with head bowed against the cruel door, on the other side of which the girl's face is pressed as yearningly ; then, with a powerful effort, " Good-night, Souci ! good-night, cherie /" he whispers, touch- ing with his lips the senseless wood, and moves slowly away towards his own humble quarters on the floor below. He is not surprised to find a light shining from under his door, nor to discover the little bootmaker, Theophile, awaiting his return with eager curiosity and kindly interest expressed in every feature. Late into the night the two sit and talk earnestly together ; so late, indeed, that Nanine, the good-humored little wife of M. Theophile, waxes almost wroth at this burning of the midnight oil, and raps against the wall more than once, hoping to break up the discussion. When they separate at last with a hearty grip of the hand, Tonio's face, though very pale, has a resolved, heroic look upon it, and the grotesque features of the good tailor are twitching with suppressed emotion. Surely among the celestial recorders of noble deeds there is one who takes note of the sacrifices of humble hearts, who writes with a sunbeam on the heavenly scroll the names of such as Tonio. TONIO. 75 CHAPTER III. AS COMFORTABLE A COMPANION AS A KEG! OP GUNPOWDER. " Her check was pale but resolved and high Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye." SIR W. SCOTT. . . . . " Do not mock me : Though I am tame, and bred up with my wrongs, Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap, Like a hand-wolf, into my natural wildness, And do an outrage. Prithee do not mock me !" The Maid's Tragedy. THE next morning Souci springs out of bed with a smile on her lip, and dresses herself with even more than usual care. Neatly she braids and twists the abundant yellow hair in close coils about her head, and, bringing forth from its hiding-place a fresh, new muslin gown, upon which she has worked in secret during many hours stolen from the night, her smile deepens into a ripple of laughter as she anticipates Tonio's delighted surprise and glowing compliments upon her appearance. Already she has repented of her coldness towards the dear companion of so many years, the tender, unselfish, patient friend whose inexhaustible love has proved itself beyond the intrusion of a doubt. " He will be so humble this morning," Souci says to her- self, as she ties on her little black silk apron as the finishing touch to her toilette, " so humble, and a little melancholy ; he will sigh and lean his head on his hand and will not eat much ; and I I shall be, at first, very cold and distant ; and then when I see how really unhappy he is, then perhaps Here she breaks off her self-confession, and humming a bar or two of a song, she strips every blooming bit of mignonette, every stalk of hyacinth she can find, from the plants on the window-seat, and, arranging them with artistic grace in a 76 souci. handleless mug, she deposits it in the centre of the table on which the cloth is already laid. " He shall have an omelette to-day, poor Tonio, an omelette with kidney in it." And she flies down the stairs to the first floor, where resides the tailor, Monsieur Pipelet, who furnishes her with work. Gliding into the little kitchen behind the shop, she holds a spirited parley with the cook, and in exchange for a small piece of money she procures four fresh eggs and a soup^on of kidney. In five minutes the omelette is smoking on the table, and a delicious aroma of coffee fills the little room. Then Souci grows impatient. " Tonio is late to-day, perhaps, though, he did not sleep last night, why, surely that is seven o'clock striking! The omelette will be quite spoiled " She has taken up her discarded work of the night before, hoping by means of some employment to curb her restless impatience. Ten minutes pass ; not a sound of footsteps on the stairs. What does it mean ? Replacing the breakfast on the stove, Souci rapidly descends to the chamber of Nanine, where she fancies Tonio, resenting her unkindness, may be found breakfasting with M. Theophile. The door is locked ; the key hangs on a nail above her head. Turning away, she glances through an open door into the work- room ; it is empty. A chill feeling of desolation creeps over her. " Where is everybody ?" she wonders ; and then she turns the knob of Tonio's door, after having knocked timidly and received no response. His little room also is empty ; the bed has not been used ; a candle has burnt down into its socket in the candlestick on his table ; the pegs upon which his scanty wardrobe hung are bare. Souci stands petrified ! Presently the thought strikes her that Tonio has resented those last cruel words she had spoken to him, and is avenging himself by a cruel joke. And yet it is unlike him ; unlike his inva- riable, unselfish forbearance, his ever-tender avoidance of pain or sorrow for her. Returning slowly to her room, the girl glances mournfully at her carefully-prepared breakfast-table drawn close to the window, and shudders as she observes a golden bar of sunlight falling across the snowy cloth and dividing, as with a fiery sword, the place where Tonio was wont to sit from hers. " Shall we never sit here together again ?" she moans. " Oh, Tonio, how can you be so cruel !" Then TONIO. 77 her thoughts grow clearer, and she is ready to smile at her first hopelessness ; her eyes fall upon the hat she had worn the previous evening. " Ah ! how foolish I have been !" she exclaims, starting up with a glow of joy in her face. " He has gone off the first thing this morning to see the gentleman at the Hotel de 1'Univers. Silly Tonio ! he will offer him- self as a servant to this gentleman, rather than allow me to be deprived of the chance he offers me ! But he shall not : we are happier as we are ; and so I shall go and tell them both !" ******** " Monsieur Delacroix, No. 38 ; I wish to see him." The concierge rings a bell : a servant appears. " A message for No. 38, show Mademoiselle up, and in form Monsieur Delacroix." Souci's heart throbs painfully as she follows the gar^on along the corridor leading to the apartment she had entered so joy- fully the previous evening. The servant's knock is answered by the tranquil face of Monsieur Delacroix, who, with a faint gleam of surprise, invites her to enter, and offers her a chair. A pang of disappointment shoots through Souci as she glances around, and she exclaims instantly, without noticing the prof- fered seat, " Then he is not here, after all ! You have not seen him, you cannot tell me where he is?" " First, my dear child, tell me who lie is, that I may be better able to answer you," M. Delacroix replies, with a half- amused, half-vexed expression in his face. " Tonio ! has he not been here this morning ? Oh, sir," drawing nearer to him and speaking in a tone of piteous en- treaty, " if you know where he is. why he is treating me so cruelly, I implore you to tell me! He is all I have in the world; we are everything to each other; do not part us; it would kill me ! Do not listen to him ; he does not mean what he says." Tears are streaming from her eyes down upon the pure, crisp muslin ; her voice is broken with choking sobs. Raoul Delacroix looks at her amazed ; he begins to regret having allowed this child to interest him for a moment; it seems to him that she would be about as comfortable a com- panion as a keg of gunpowder. He takes her hand kindly and draws her over to the sofa, saying, with a certain sternness in his manner, 7* 78 souci. "This is folly; there is no cause for these tears and sobs. I have not seen or spoken to your friend since last night, when you were present ; nor have I the slightest intention of separating you from him. All that is over ; I was satisfied with your decision, and shall not attempt to shake it. Now," the sternness melting into a smile of infinite sweetness, " are you content, my good girl, and a little a very little ashamed of your suspicions ?" Souci dries her tears hastily and tries to smile. " Oh, sir, forgive me ; I was very wrong to come and disturb you with my trouble, but people have always been cruel to me always, I mean strangers," as a remembrance of the farm-house flashes over her, " and I could not help doubting you. But I must go now ; perhaps Tonio is searching for me as I did for him this morning. Ah, would not that be droll ?" And she laughs a little nervously. At this instant there is a knock at the door. "Another visitor!" exclaims M. Delacroix, slightly ele- vating his eyebrows, and desires the servant to admit him. " Perhaps this is Touio, come to upbraid me for treacher- ously running off with you," he says, smiling at Souci. " Perhaps ! Oh, I do hope it is !" Her eyes shine like stars, her lips are slightly parted, her whole attitude expresses joyful expectation. M. Delacroix watches her admiringly. " What spirit she has ! what verve in everything she does ! How unconscious, too, she seems of herself!" His eyes are fixed upon her face, and as the door opens he does not turn ; he wishes to catch the varying expression which he feels sure will succeed the entrance of the visitor. To his surprise, he sees the light suddenly die out of the splendid eyes, the lips close tightly in a stiff, straight line, the whole figure suddenly relax like a bow unstrung. Never has he witnessed more eloquence in a human face. It startles him, and he turns to discover its cause. Bowing and scraping inside the door stands the Punchinello-faced bootmaker Theophile, gorgeously attired in his Sunday suit of broadcloth, in which he appears to even greater disadvantage than in his leathern apron. "Pardon! mille pnrdons, monsieur!" he ejaculates, as M. Delacroix advances towards him. " I have come on the part of my friend, Mam'selle's friend," waving towards Souci, TO.V/0. 79 " who is a noble lad, sir. and an honor to to anybody he chooses to call his friend " " Yes, yes," interrupts Raoul, glancing at the clock on the chimney-piece, " that is all true, no doubt ; but, my good man, I start for Paris by the 9.30 train, and 1 have not yet break- fasted." " And is Mam'selle to accompany you ?" asks Thdophile, delightedly. " No ; she has refused my offer, and that affair is settled." Tlu'ophile's face falls visibly. " Then, saprelotte ! what is to become of her? The lad has gone, I saw him off in the train at five o'clock this morning, gone, God knows whither !" There is a moment of profound silence : the ticking of the clock on the chimney-piece is distinctly audible. Then Souci, moving with the swift, noiseless glide of a panther, crosses the room, and confronts the poor little man who has made such a bungle of the job intrusted to him. "Traitor! wretch! devil!" she hisses through her partly- closed teeth, " how dared you come here to tell me this thing? How dared you. I say ! how dared you ?" She looks terrible in her wrath ; but the valiant little man does not shrink. " We talked all night about it," he says, calmly ; " and he told me of Monsieur's proposal to make a great singer of you, and that only but for him you would now be on your way to Paris. And so he put himself out of your way ; for he said as how this gentleman told you that you must never sew no more ; that you were not strong, and all that about the fire in the vase, and your chest, and what a triumph you would come to have some day " " All right, my good man ; we know all that. Now you sit down for a minute, and let me talk to this poor girl. 5 ' Then Raoul goes up to the stricken creature, who leans, white and wan, against a table, with her hands pressed tightly over her heart. " Tonio has done an heroic action ; you should glory in it !" are his first words, rightly divining how to arouse her best in -lings. " He knew what was best for you, and he has proved that he loves you better than himself. You will live, perhaps, to thank him for this sacrifice. In the mean time, you must try to make yourself worthy of it and him. lie, too, will rise. Rest assured he will never be content to 80 SOUCL occupy his present sphere; there is nothing ignoble in it, but he has the making of other things in him. So have you. God has bestowed a valuable gift upon you ; you must use it as He directs. Perhaps I am the instrument which has been chosen to help you. Will you not let me do so ?" His face is full of grave and gentle feeling ; his voice, low and sweet, finds its way to her anguished heart as no other voice, save Tonio's, has ever done. Into the hard, tearless eyes bright drops begin to gather ; the tight-drawn lips wax tremulous. No sound passes them, however, except the heavy, quick-drawn sighs ; the tears roll down her unconscious face and drop upon the clasped hands. Presently M. Delacroix speaks again : " You will go home now ; you will let this good little man take you home, and you will arrange your affairs there as quickly as may be. I shall postpone leaving Lyons until the mid-day train ; at a quarter- before twelve I shall call for you. Will you be ready then, or must I say evening?'' " I will be ready, monsieur." The words are uttered in a flat monotone. In the same mechanical way she walks towards the door, opens it, and traverses the corridor. M. Delacroix signs to The"ophile to follow her, and, placing four or five napoleons in his hand, desires him to procure what is necessary for her travelling costume, then, with a kindly smile, bids him adieu. It is perhaps not surprising that Raoul Delacroix sits down to breakfast, a quarter of an hour later, without that sauce piquante indispensable to the enjoyment of a meal, viz., a good appetite. The sole au gratin seems insipid to him ; the omelette aux fines herLes is too strongly impregnated with garlic ; the coffee, strange to say, is simply abominable ; and when he falls back on his strawberries and claret he finds the former sour and the latter sourer. " Bah !" he exclaims, pushing his chair back from the table impatiently, " one can never get anything fit to eat out of Paris !" TONIO. 81 CHAPTER IV. " SAY QOOD-BY, SOUCI, AND KISS ME !" " Ro dear I love him that with him all deaths I could endure; without him, live no life !" MILTON. NOT one word does Souci vouchsafe to Tonio's loyal friend, as he shuffles along beside her, or behind her, according to the space allowed him on the narrow pavement. He is hurt and grieved to the core of his honest nature by the fierce wrath which has been visited upon his unlucky head. Steadfastly resolved, however, to fulfil to the letter his promises made to Tonio, as well as the commission intrusted to him by M. De- lacroix, he breathlessly follows Souci when she dashes up the five flights of stairs leading to her eyry. With Machiavelian acuteness (as he thrusts his elbow between the jamb and the closing door) he exclaims, " I have a message for you from Tonio, mam'selle, a message and a parcel !" and thus saves himself from a crushed bone and an ignominious dismissal. " Come in," she says, coldly ; and he accepts the curt invi- tation instantly. She has thrown herself down on the window-seat, without removing her hat, and is staring blankly at the opposite wall. He stands facing her, trying to collect his thoughts. For his life he cannot tell what to say first. " Well ?" she says, haughtily, with a withering glance at him. "You said you had a message forme! What is it ? Tell me quickly, and go !" The'ophile is astounded. Can this be the kind-hearted, soft-mannered girl his Nanine admires and loves so fondly? Can this proud, bitter-looking woman, with her airs afgrande dame, be the same gentle-handed creature who nursed his wife last winter through that dreadful rheumatic fever? Oh.no, he is dreaming. These scornful lips and eyes cannot belong D* 82 souci. to the sweet, blithe-hearted maiden who had sung her new ballad for him but two days ago ! Instinctively his hand seeks his cap and removes it. " Mam'selle," he stammers, "have you ever thought of what would happen if you were to fall ill and become a burden, a helpless burden, upon Tonio This is the speech he had arranged, and he stumbles headlong into it. "How is that?" she flashes out. "A burden on Tonio! Did lie say this?" " No, no ; I say it. I " " I don't want to hear what you say. You have betrayed me ! You are like Judas ! I hate you!" " But lie said, Tonio said, as the train moved off with him, 'low have been a good friend to me, Theophile; be so to her, to my little Souci, my darling ' " The little man's voice quavers. A low moan breaks from Souci's lips. "He said," goes on Thdophile, recovering himself, "that you were always dreaming of singing in the Opera-House of having a great career of the prince who was to " " Hush !" she says, faintly, holding up her hand. " He said, ' When 1 am gone, go to the Hotel de F Univers and ask for M. Delacroix ; tell him all that I told you last night, and pray him to be good and tender to my Souci. Then go to lier and say these words,' " here Theophile pauses an instant to recall exactly the message : " ' Tell her Tonio loves her better than his life, but fie is a poor boy, without power of any sort; he can do nothing for her, and it is because of that he leaves her, assured that it is for the best. Tell her Tonio will always love lier, and one day Souci and he shall meet again? " Like a well-conned lesson these sentences are uttered by the faithful little bootmaker, who looks considerably relieved when they are safely delivered. The girl sits motionless, her eyes drooped now upon the floor ; so white and still is she that, but for an occasional low moan, one might fancy her asleep or dead. After a short interval she looks up at Theophile, and the dumb anguish in her eyes frightens him. " Come here," she says, gently. He comes close to her, wondering greatly. " Where is he? Don't tell me a lie," raising her hand as he is about to speak ; " it will do no good. Tell me only where TONIO. 83 he is gone. From what station did he start? What place was the ticket taken for? You were with him; you know! Oh, tell me/" Her voice sinks into a low wail. Suddenly, by some unwonted intuitive perception, Theo- phile becomes aware that this girl, so passionately pleading with him, is no longer a child, that she is a woman, with all a woman's intensity of feeling, her tenacity of purpose, her deep subtlety, where her affections are concerned ; that this is not a child's futile fretting for the loss of a pet playmate, but a woman's sore grief and passionate despair ! A mist comes over his eyes ; his voice fails him. She looks up again and reads his face like a book. " You can tell me nothing ; you know nothing, or you would tell me. I see that in your face. Now, go! I want to be alone !" And forgetting M. Dela- croix's commission he obeys the imperative, agonized voice, and goes slowly out of the room. Immediately the door is bolted against all intruders, and when Nanine taps at it a quarter of an hour later she receives no response, and is obliged to go sadly away. Souci does not hear her, for she has crept into her little closet where her bed stands, and, taking down Tonio's violin, which hangs beside her tambourine, she covers it with tears and kisses, as though it were a living thing, and so keeps her heart from breaking. * * ***** In the mean time, Nanine, under Theophile's instructions, has trotted forth to procure suitable apparel for the young girl who is to start in a few hours for Paris. With all her sym- pathy for her friend's trouble, Nanine cannot repress a faint sigh of envy as she reflects upon the altered prospects of the iittle ouvriere. '' Suinte Vierge! just to think of it ! a hun- dred francs, all at once, only to fit her out for the journey !" And then, with a true woman's instinctive delight in spending money, Nanine goes to a fashionable shop on the Place Belle- Cour, and exercises that indigenous good taste which exists even among the lower classes in France. Next to shopping for herself, a woman enjoys shopping for other people ; and Xanine enters into the undertaking with energy and zest. Before the carriage containing M. Delacroix draws up to the door, she has the pleasure of seeing Souci transformed from one of the neatest and jauntiest of grisettes into a demurely- clad and unexceptiouably-genteel young lady. Gloves, boots, 84 SOVCI. tournure, veil, all are en regie, and the white, statuesque face under the tasteful bonnet suits admirably its new setting. It is marvellous how far a native can stretch a hundred francs in those beguiling French shops ! After Naniue has paid at the caisse, she finds she has enough money left to pur- chase a small travelling-bag. Into this Souci will only permit her to put the short striped petticoat and black bodice, making over all the rest of her belongings to the good little woman, who stands aghast at such reckless prodigality. Everything furniture, clothing, kitchen-utensils she helps to transfer with her own hands to the little room below ; everything, ex- cepting the old violin and tambourine, of which she makes an unwieldy brown-paper parcel. " Mam'selle, you are too good ; you are taking too much trouble !" remonstrates M. Theophile, when he encounters her on the staircase with her arms full of saucepans and china. " Ah, no, M, Theophile," she answers, quietly; " it is bet- ter that I should have this to do. You see, I have half an hour yet ; if I had to sit still and wait, I am afraid I would not go at all." And then, taking advantage of her softened mood, he had given her the napoleons M. Delacroix had sent her, and the packet which contained the half of Tonio's savings. From the latter she deducted the amount Nanine had disbursed for her, and, having set down the articles she was carrying on the landing, she turned a sorrowful face towards Theophile, and said, softly, f " I am sorry I was so rude to you ; forgive me." " Mam'selle " he began, overwhelmed by this contri- tion. " Ah, no ! not marrfselle" she pleaded ; " say, Good-ly, Souci, and kiss me !" And the Punchinello face, quivering all over, bent towards her and touched her lightly on both cheeks. TON10. 85 CHAPTER V. "OH, WHO WOULD BE A WOMAN?" " Oh, who would be a woman ? who that fool, A weeping, pining, faithful, loving woman ?" Love's Pilgrimage. " She spake not, moved not, but she looked the more As if her heart were action, speech, and feeling." " Is this all?" asks M. Delacroix, as he deposits the brown- paper parcel and the little travelling-bag beside Souci in the railway-carriage, and, receiving a nod in the affirmative, he follows them. The whistle sounds shrilly, and they arc off. "Are you comfortable, my child?" he says, with a kind smile, leaning forward to adjust the blind so that the sun shall not beam directly into the tear-brimmed eyes. " Ah, don't call me your child! I'm nobody's child, nobody's ! I belong to no one but Tonio !" These words the first she has uttered to him since the early morning burst forth irreprcssibly, while the eyes over- flow, and for a few minutes she sobs bitterly. When she looks up again, she finds her companion engrossed in the peru- sal of a newspaper which he has spread before his face, and upon glancing through the window she sees the city of Lyons, where she has passed three such happy years, fading away in the distance. Her passionate exclamation has jarred harshly upon Raoul Delacroix's sensitive nerves. Intrenched behind his journal, he seeks resolutely in his mind some plan by which this im- prtuoiis young creature can be reduced to a rational bring. A couple of hours pass heavily. M. Delacroix has discarded his paper screen, and, with closed eyes, is dropping into slum- ber. Monsieur!" Souci, grown intolerably lonely, and weary 8 86 SOUCL of the monotony of the landscape, ventures timidly to break the silence. "Mademoiselle?" The grave eyes are open now, and their owner sits erect. " Where is my sac de voyage, monsieur?" He rises, and, taking it from the compartment above her head, hands it to her. " Merri!" She opens it and draws forth a tiny packet. " Void, monsieur ; here is the money you gave M. Theophile for me. I did not require it. Tonio," oh, the loving pride with which she speaks that name ! " Tonio left me half of all his savings, and so I paid my month's rent, and Nanine bought these things for me, and there is some left," she adds, proudly. " I am sorry," M. Delacroix says, smiling a little as he thrusts the packet in his vest-pocket. " I am sorry, because I hoped that I might do everything for you, and now you have cheated me out of the pleasure." Encouraged by a faint ghost of a smile which flits over the girl's pale face at this, he continues: "I had no idea I was running away with an heiress !" But the smile has faded, and there is no response. A few minutes later the train stops at a station for refresh- ments. Souci looks up, startled. " Is this Paris ?" she asks. " No, my mademoiselle, this is a Iniffet, where I shall get you a sandwich and a cup of coffee." So saying, M. Dela- croix descends, enters the restaurant, and presently reappears, carrying a little of everything he could lay his hands upon, and followed by a gar^on bearing a cup of steaming coffee. Souci has not yet learned that a person suffering from emo- tional derangement is never expected to eat, being supposed to subsist on some spiritual manna specially provided by na- ture ; therefore, as she has fasted since the evening before, she brightens up a little at the sight of the good things and gratefully partakes of them. M. Delacroix is enchanted. " She is not sulky, at least," he says to himself. " She is convalescing rapidly. By the time we reach Paris she will be chatting and quarrelling like a magpie." But he is mistaken. After the cravings of hunger are TONIO. 87 appeased the poor girl relapses into her sad musings, and the hours glide by as silently as hefbre. She is wondering whether Tonio has stopped at a buffet, whether he too has been re- freshed by a good cup of coffee. " Ah me," she sighs, " how hard he used to beg for a second cup from me ! Oh, Tonio, I could never refuse you anything now !" After a while she falls asleep from sheer weariness, and M. Delacroix covers her up warmly with his shawl and follows . her example. When the train stops suddenly, Souci sits up, rubbing her oys. and tries in vain to convince herself that she is still dreaming. No, for here is the tall figure of M. Delacroix bending over her, armed with umbrella, wraps, and travelling- bags, and it is his kind voice which says, " Come, mademoi- selle, we have arrived; this is Paris." And then she stag- gers to her feet, and, feeling dizzy and confused, follows him into the blinding glare of the waiting-room. A few moments later she is being whirled along in a fiacre through the gayly-lighted streets, with their subdued roar of animated life, and before she can realize anything, finds her- self mounting a staircase behind a buxom, ruddy-cheeked woman, who carries a lighted candle and keeps up a sprightly monologue, directed towards M. Delacroix, bringing up the rear. This jolly matron is Raoul's foster-sister, and the neat little old woman with a face like a dried apple, and whose old eyes brighten with pleasure at the sight of him, was one of the prettiest Normandy peasants in all St. Lo, when he had rotrd. some forty years ago, a chubby babe, upon her bosom. She has received his telegram and letter from Lyons, and all is prepared for the reception of his protegee. It is true that, even as she covers her foster-son's hand with kisses, Madame Basselin cannot forbear eying the young girl with a comical expression of surprise. " The child is shy and reserved," he had written ; " be as gentle and thoughtful for her comfort as you would be for Henriette. Knowing thy good heart, I need only say, she is an orphan, and alone in the world, save for thee and me." " Qnel drole de farceur qite mon Raoul! elle est Lien avancte, cet enfant /a/ 1 ' she smiles to herself. As soon as they are left alone together in the tiny sitting- room. Madame Basselin following her daughter into the 88 SOUCI. kitchen to assist in the important ceremony of serving supper to their " well-beloved," Raoul approaches the collapsed little figure sitting dejectedly where she has been placed, on a low chair, with her head bent, and her hands locked tightly together. " You will be quite comfortable here, Souci ; these women are very kind-hearted, and will do their best to make you happy," he says, in his low, grave voice, as he watches her a little anxiously. She does not raise her head or change her position, and only answers by a long, shivering sigh. In an instant Raoul is down on one knee beside her, and has taken a cold, listless liand in his, pressing it kindly. " You are tired, and a little stunned yet," he says, " by the swift journey and the strange faces; and hungry too, no doubt. You will feel bright and happy to-morrow after a good night's sleep, and I shall come the first thing in the morning to see how you have fared." The hand he holds suddenly withdraws itself from his clasp to catch his wrist with a frenzied grip. " Oh, don't leave me, monsieur ! don't go away from me to-night ! I cannot stay here alone, I cannot ! Oh ! Tonio ! Tonio !" And, covering her face with her hands, she sobs in half-suppressed gasps which are pitiful to hear. Inwardly a little impatient of this unassuageable grief, out- wardly gentle and kindly as ever, M. Delacroix strives to soothe and comfort the aching little heart, and succeeds only after much exercise of angelic patience and pity in winning from her, as she dries her passionate tears, the assertion that she does not care whether he leaves her or not ; that she hopes she will never see him again ; that it is through him that she has been separated from Tonio ; and, finally, that she never will forgive him never! " However this little caprice of mine may develop," ponders Raoul, as he wends his way towards the Rue d'Antin, " of one thing I am tolerably certain, and that is, that one cannot grasp a nettle without getting one's hands severely pricked, and that no good ever came of grasping a nettle that I ever heard of. That child is a perfect little heathen ! She has no more womanly softness about her no more instinct of grat- itude than a young tigress ! How she hates me, and resents TONIO. 8d my cruelty! Cruelty? Alas, may it not indeed prove cruelty in the end ? God knows ! Were we poor mortals but gifted with prescience, what numberless quagmires and bogs might we avoid stumbling into ! how carefully would we avoid making pets of those tiger cubs who inevitably, on coming to their full growth, turn and rend us ! Tiger cub ! the very name for her ! Pattes de velour scarcely hiding les grijfes underneath ! With her lithe, gliding step, and her sinuous movements ; her cruel, lambent eyes with their slumberous depths to throw one off one's guard ! Wicked little creature ! Had she lived in the good old days of the casting out of devils, I fear that glowing spirit of hers would have been transferred to the herd of swine that ran violently down the steep place into the sea ; or had she existed in the bad old days when all abnormal or highly emotional organizations were denounced as witches, she would assuredly have endured martyrdom at the stake. How- ever, fate has placed her some centuries later, amid the en- lightened tolerance of modern Christianity, down whose 'steep places' one may glide decorously, hugging one's unexorcised demons comfortably without molestation ; therefore look to it, Raoul Delacroix, that there be no jagged rocks, no treacherous landslide that may precipitate this soul with which you have intermeddled,, maimed or mutilated, into the fathomless sea Eternity." And with this solemn admonition, self-bestowed, Raoul, having entered into his quarters, bids his Artemis a lingering good-night, and seeks the repose he hopes may bring him counsel. 8* 90 SOUCL CHAPTER VI. "LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA." . . . " I am too unhappy "To die; as some too way-worn cannot sleep." " Love give me strength ! and strength shall help afford." SHAKSPEARE. " SHE is deplorably, but not hopelessly, ignorant, my dear Monsieur Delacroix ; no, not hopelessly. I always say whilst there is life there is hope ; and there seems to be a good deal of tough, very tough, life about Mile. Basselin." Here Mile. Julie Coulons smiles a little maliciously, and smoothes the wrinkles out of the black lace mittens which do not hide her extremely nervous and yellow little hands. " She is still homesick, you say ; still pining and sad " be- gins Raoul, wondering in his soul how she could be otherwise in the custody of the cast-iron little woman before him. " Sullen, sir, sullen. As yet she has not shown either a dis- position to study or a desire for recreation. She walks alone during play-hours, and in class never speaks unless obliged to do so. She is un pen insupportable ; but we do not despair, monsieur ; we do not despair. We have broken in spirits as contumacious as Mile. Basselin, and made admirable, accom- plished women of them. Patience and perseverance work wonders." And she smiles this time encouragingly. " And her voice ? she sings occasionally, when she is alone ?" " Sings ! never, sir ! We do not permit singing, except during the lessons. She does not look as if she would ever transgress our rules in this respect. She seems to have a detestation for music of all kinds. During the singing-class hour she sits with her hands over her ears, as if she were de- mented ; and I haVe seen her shudder and turn quite white when a hurdy-gurdy stopped before the house. One day there came an old blind fiddler, who had been attracted by the voices TO.V70. 91 of the young ladies in the play-ground, and hoped to get a few sous from them. I happened to be present at the time, and Monsieur may imagine my consternation when I saw this ex- traordinary girl emerge from a distant shrubbery, and, walking rapidly over to the entrance-gate, empty her purse into this vagabond's hand through the bars, whilst she implored him to begone, and never, never to come and play there again ! I assure you, monsieur, I could not believe my eyes ! I was obliged to order her into the house and set her a task to mark my disapprobation of such eccentric proceedings." Here Mile. Julie bridles self-approvingly. Monsieur Delacroix feels as if he would like to shake her. " The fiddler did he return ?" he asks. " But assuredly ! He comes regularly every day at the hour of recreation, and this is the signal for Mile. Basselin to go off alone to the farthest extremity of the grounds, and tear up and down there like a young tigress. Ah ! elle est incroyable, cette jeune fille Id .'" A sigh emphasizes this ejaculation. Raoul glances at his watch a little impatiently. " Will you have the goodness, mademoiselle, I have not much time left, to have me announced to Mile. Basselin ? It may be possible that my influence " " With the greatest pleasure, Monsieur Delacroix. I only trust that you may not find her in one of her impracticable moods. I have the honor to salute Monsieur !" And with a sweeping curtsy, and what she means for an entrancing smile, the little woman vanishes. The instant the door is closed, Raoul starts up from the stately yellow damask sofa on which he has tried in vain to find a comfortable angle, and strides up and down the perilously-waxed floor. Two windows looking upon the Faubourg St. Honore" are hermetically shuttered and shrouded by yellow curtains; two others opening upon the play-ground let in a discreetly-tem- pered glimpse of June sunshine and the subdued twittering and half-repressed laughter f a score of French girls, who saunter arm-in-arm through the winding gravel-walks or gather in groups under the shade of the grand old trees. One or two directly beneath him cast furtive, mischievous glances up at the window against which Raoul leans, with his eyes fixed upon a solitary figure walking with folded arms in the most deserted portion of the grounds. 92 SOUCL It is too far for him to recognize her, but Raoul feels morally certain that in this desolate-looking object he sees the unrea- sonable little being who has vexed his soul during the last fortnight more than he likes to acknowledge, even to himself. " Poor little Pariah !" he murmurs, as he observes the start with which she perceives the approach of an under-teacher, and the proudly-lifted head when she receives her command to return to the house immediately, change her pinafore, and betake herself to the salon. Raoul wishes he was close enough to discover whether there is the faintest gleam of pleasure softening the great gray eyes, or the slightest quiver of excite- ment about the sad, drooped lips, as the announcement of his visit is made to her. He rather thinks there has not been ; for, as she draws nearer, the teacher is evidently urging her to hasten her steps, which injunction she ignores completely, moving languidly and with apparent reluctance towards the house. Monsieur Delacroix feels like a man who, having caught a wild forest-bird and caged it, is now obliged to watch it beat itself to death against the bars. This is not a pleas- urable exhibition certainly, and the prospect fills him with a fierce impatience against himself, his rash undertaking, and the helpless bird it is now impossible to restore to freedom. He smiles a little bitterly as Talleyrand's cynical conclusion, " to guard oneself in future from generous impulses, because they are generally the best," recurs to him ; and, absorbed in reflection, he does not hear the opening or closing of the door. How long Souci might have stood unnoticed is uncertain, for Raoul Delacroix is much given to losing himself in revery, had not a quick, petulant sigh broken from her lips. At that sound he turns quickly, and, walking towards her with out- stretched hand, says, with^his winning smile, " Good-morning, mademoiselle. I did not hear you come in. Did you enter through the key-hole, fairy-fashion ?" There is no response to this sally. Raoul folds his arms. She is standing just in- side the door, with her head a little bent and her arms hanging straight down. She wears the class-uniform, a dark navy- blue flannel, made with scant skirt and ill-fitting body. To Souci the class-uniform is not becoming. Raoul thinks he has never seen her look so sallow, so unchildlike r so ugly, be- fore. He wishes with all his heart he had not stopped over- night in Lyons. TOXIO. 93 Mile. Julie Coulons's last injunctions had been delivered in the corridor: " Be sure to curtsy on entering and on leaving the salon; so," here the lady performs one of her most elab- orate, style de Tundi-n n'yime; " do not forget to inquire for the health of Monsieur and his family, and to assure him of your determination to profit by the immense advantages offered by our establishment," etc. Whether Souci heard these instructions at all is doubtful ; she certainly does not follow them. Silent, motionless as a statue, she stands, heedless of Monsieur Delacroix's kindly greeting and proffered hand. " Will you not come and sit by the. window with me ? I have but a short time to remain, and I have some questions to ask you," he says, after a moment. " What questions?" she asks, without offering to move or raising her eyes. " First, are you unhappy here ? Are they not kind to you ?" " I don't know. Yes, I suppose they are kind." Her voice is dull and monotonous ; there are no changing tones in it. "You have nothing to complain of? You are perfectly comfortable ?" She bends her head. " Why, then, do you not try to study, to learn something? It will be like entering a great, new, beautiful world to you when you shall be able to read books. Listen, Souci : I am like you, alone in the world ; I have neither parents, brothers, sisters, nor near friends ; but I have books, and in them I find the dearest, closest companionship. They are my friends, my comforters, my pleasures ; they never weary, never deal treach- erously with me, never forsake me " He stops abruptly ; a shudder had passed over the girl's frame at his last words. " The world is a very barren world to me too, Souci," he con- tinues. " I do not know how I should be able to live in it were it not for my books and my music. Have you seen Signore Valdini yet?" " Yes ; I have seen him." "And you sang for him? What did he say?" demands llauul, eagerly. "I did not sing; / shall never sniff again." This is said in a tone of quiet determination. Ilaoul bites his lip to repress an impatient exclamation. 94 SOUCI. " Souci, I should prefer to sit down : will you not take a chair ?" he says, gently, drawing one of the orange-hued fau- teuils towards her, and seating himself in another. " I am not tired," she says, coming closer to him and speak- ing in the same dull voice ; " I do not want to sit down. Have you any other questions to ask me, or may I go ?" " No, you may not go, and you must listen to me. If you prefer to do so standing, I have no objection ; but I think it is my duty to tell you that you are behaving very badly, and that Tonio, did he know of it, would agree with me. You have wasted an entire fortnight of valuable time ; you are throwing away the chance of one day meeting Tonio again. He will rise; he will become educated, accomplished, hold a position in society ; whilst you will sink into the lowest rank of ignorant outcasts. For, after a certain term, I shall give you up, unless I see that you are trying to give yourself a chance " At this instant a great tear which had trembled indecisively on Souci's long lashes falls with a splash on the yellow damask arm of M. Delacroix's chair. Raoul, without raising his eyes, goes on steadily : " This school is pronounced one of the best in Paris ; Signore Valdini has consented to un- dertake the training of your voice ; I have done the very best I can for you ; it rests with you now to repay me by your effort to improve, or to show me that I have been a fool." No other tear has followed that first one, but the bib of Souci's holland apron is saturated. " I will try," the words are scarcely audible, " I will try, monsieur, to be like Tonio ; to study, to become educated ; he shall not be ashamed of me ! Oh, I wish I was dead!" " Souci, my good girl, you must not think me harsh and unfeeling. I am sorry, very sorry for you, but I must help you to grow a noble, strong-hearted woman, a woman that Tonio would glory in." " What do you wish me to do ?" she cries, dashing the tears from her eyes impetuously. " There is nothing, no labor, no trouble, that I would not accept joyfully if I thought that one day you would restore Tonio to me ; that you would take me back and leave me, poor, friendless, unknown, in my garret at Lyons with him ! See, monsieur," here she draws up the narrow sleeve of her sad- colored gown and shows him the emaciated arm within it, " see, monsieur, I have been trying TOXIO. 95 to die. Ah, God ! it is those who wish to die who cannot. I think ! I cannot eat, I cannot sleep, or, if I do, I dream such sad dreams ! But, if you say that you will find Tonio ; that one day I shall meet him again " She does not complete her sentence : there is no need. The rapturous smile in the eyes, on the lips, the proud lifting of the head, and the sudden rekindling of life and energy throughout the drooping figure, are eloquent enough. M. Delacroix extends his hand impulsively. " It is a com- pact !'' he says, holding hers firmly and speaking in grave tones. " You shall do your utmost to attain the object for which you are placed here, and I shall take every possible means to discover Tonio. Is it a bargain ?" To his consternation, the girl sinks down upon her knees, and, with a frantic mingling of tears and hysterical laughter, kisses over and over the long brown hands on which no woman's lips, save his mother's, had ever rested. A rush of contending emotions, not altogether painful per- haps, checks the remonstrance which, after a moment, Raoul feds compelled to urge against this rash impetuosity, this reckless want of self-control. " Education of the head will not suffice, mademoiselle," he says, raising her gently to her feet. " There must be moral discipline as well ; do you know what that means ?" There is a curious twinkle in his dark eyas now. " Ah, yes, I know !" she replies, contemptuously. " It is to stand and sit as straight as a stick, and, if one cannot do it naturally, one can learn it with a back-board strapped under one's arms ; it is to smile when one feels like weeping, and to laugh out aloud when one feels like cursing ; it is to say, ' I'nriJon, madame] when one's fingers tingle to box some- body's ears; it is to kiss a girl on both cheeks while one trios the quality of her gown betwixt one's finger and thumb, and, the moment her back is turned, call it a miserable' rag; it is to curtsy profoundly when the teachers enter the room, and make grimaces at them behind one's book ; it is to eat very little before people, and to be a glutton in the dormitory ; it is ah, I know; I have seen enough of it in these two end- less weeks, of the sweet lying, and smiling deceit, and treach- erous politeness ! Bah ! Tonio would not glon/ in //icse. /" " No," assents llaoul, smiling in spite of himself; " nor is 96 SOVCI. it desirable to learn all these things ; but you will soon be a woman, Souci, it appears to me you have grown during this last fortnight, and a woman lien elevee does not throw her- self on her knees in a salon or or kiss a man's hand anywhere.'' The girl listens with bent head and a sudden flush dyeing the sallow cheek, but her lips are still curved in the scornful smile with which she had spoken last. " I only ask you to learn as fast as possible to read and write correctly, and to observe carefully all Signore Valdini's " " Ah !" she raises one hand appealingly, " I am afraid I cannot sing, monsieur ! I am sorry, but it hurts me so ! it makes me cry even to think of singing !" Raoul thinks her tragic manner a little affected. " Then we shall wait for that. I will speak to Valdini my- self. You shall not sing until you long to do so ; the rest will be beneficial to you. And- now" M. Delacroix glances at his watch, and finds that he has overstayed his appointment by ten minutes " I must leave you, Souci ; and I can do so feeling that you will keep your promise faithfully for Tonios sake. How proud he will be of you some day ! Good-by, little girl; you will be happier now." " 1 trust you /" is all she says ; and, after one grasp of the hand, Raoul goes, rather relieved that the dreaded visit has ended so pacifically. Souci flies up to the dormitory after M. Delacroix has left her, entirely regardless of the rules proscribing that portion of the house during the day. In a recess, curtained off, stands a formidable collection of boxes and portmanteaux, little and big, battered and new ; some covered all over with the names of towns and cities they have passed en route to the great capital, others bright and fresh and clean, never having gone beyond the barrieres of the city where they were made. Souci passes the interesting, scarred veterans without a glance, and, kneeling down before one of the neatest and newest of the untravelled ones, she proceeds to dash out of it, pell-mell, the neatly-packed clothing within. Then, drawing from its depths an old, shabby violin, and sitting flat down on the floor, she gazes at it mournfully, and presses her lips to it again and again, holding it tenderly as a mother her first babe, " I shall make myself icorthy of you, Tonio, my iccll-beloved ; I swear it !" she says softly to herself. BOOK III. VIOLA. CHAPTER I. A HOLIDAY IN VOGOGNA. " In the valley the tiny bells Hear the rustling of the brook; The rushing of the wind it tells Dying in the forest nook." VON Ceizr. " And old and young came out to play On a sunshine holiday." .... MILTOH. " A priest went strolling through the land; Hey ! 'twas in the May ! He caught a young nun by the hand ; Hty ! 'twas in the May, they say, Hey ! 'twas in the May !" Flemish Song. IT is May, and a fete-day in Vogogna. Tliis primitive hamlet not unpicturesque in its rustic homeliness lies in the luxuriant, flower-decked Val d'An- zasca like an humble cairngorm-pebble set about with gems of every hue. Looking down from the Alpine heights above upon the sweep of emerald turf, crossed by silvery trout-streams and studded all over with the pink- and purple-rhododendron, the dazzled eye rests with relief upon the quaint little brown patch lying at the mouth of this Happy Valley. Vogogna boasts a posting- station and a patron saint. The former brings its inhabitants a very occasional whiff of the outer air beyond the Alps, the latter supplies them with a yearly holiday on each anniversary of his nntn-dn-fe, and so win.- tor himself their ceaseless gratitude for a martyrdom which hud perhaps little voluntary self-abnegation to glorify it. K 9 97 98 SOVCI. High mass has been performed in the little lichen-roofed chapel this morning, an unwonted prodigality of repast has succeeded it, and now the villagers are spreading themselves far and wide out-of-doors, their festive array forming pretty bits of color in the bright sunshine. The more energetic among them saunter along the streams angling for trout, or gather wild flowers wherewith to deck the maidens of their choice ; others prefer a lazy far niente, stretched on the warm moss carpet, staring up into the fleckless ether. A little apart from the rest stroll two figures, each remark- able in its way. A tall, slight man, with a stoop in his shoul- ders, a pale, irregular-featured face, and eyes of a limpid blue, with the touching wistfulness of a child in their expression, a child in whom a sense is defective. His head is un- covered, and his long, fair hair, streaked with gray, falls waving upon his shoulders. At this moment his lips wear a peculiar smile, and his gaze is fixed dreamily upon the peak of Monte Rosa in the distance, whilst he caresses with his bow a violin, black from age, upon which his chin rests lovingly. Beside him walks demurely a girl, whose hands are filled to overflowing with wild flowers, but whose eyes and ears are ab- sorbed by watching him and drinking in the exquisite strains of his instrument. The Vogonese had long ago concurred in the opinion that Heinrich Hablemann was mad, and, excepting on those occa- sions when his musical talent could be utilized in their village dances, he was shunned by the neighbors, who looked askance upon all that was unintelligible to their dim understandings. They resented, also, the fact that he was a foreigner, a German, who had transplanted himself, his mother, and his infant daugh- ter to this obscure Swiss-Italian village for reasons lest known to himself and which these inquisitive peasants had failed to discover. They had discussed the question privately and pub- licly ; they had wheedled, threatened, and manosuvred in vain to draw a solution of the mystery from the old Frau Hable- mann, who did not hesitate to bid them go about their busi- ness in her rough gutturals ; and from the placid Heinrich, who shielded himself behind an impenetrable courtesy, and, when they grew importunate, would draw forth his violin and smilingly lose himself in a musical revery. VIOLA. 99 During twelve years had these three Germans occupied their little cottage, with its bit of flower-garden in front and its long, carefully-cultivated kitchen-patch behind. They must have had money, for Herr Hiiblernann, with' the exception of tying up a rose-bush occasionally he was passionately fond of flowers, and something of a botanist or gathering a basket of apricots, never was known to do anything useful or laborious. His hands long, slender, musical hands were white as any gentleman's, and he was rarely seen without a sheet of music or his beloved instrument under his aim. Next to his violin he worshipped his little daughter, who looked upon him with a tender, protecting love, preferring his companionship to that of children of her own age, supremely happy in her absolute devotion. The exquisite beauty of this child, her sunny temper and winning ways, had made her a sort of idol among the villagers, who were never weary of inventing legendary accounts of her origin and parentage. They did not hesitate to assert that such a fair blossom never came of such uncouth stock, Frau Hablemann excelling her son in homeliness. In short, she was undoubtedly a gift-child, nothing being more elastic than the superstition of the Italian peasants, and had fallen from heaven into the lap of this hideous old Frau ! Dio ! what a strange freak of heaven, when there were so many ruddy-cheeked, glowing-eyed young matrons to be found with empty knees ! This incongruity with her surroundings only served to render the snowy-skinned, azure-eyed babe more dazzling to the eyes of the peasant-women who gazed half fear- fully upon her dimpled loveliness, and brought their own olive- skimud, dusky-haired bairns to catch a reflection from the aureole which seemed to radiate from that gold-flossed head. Herr Hablemann and his mother had never mastered the Italian language, nor did they desire to do so. They were neither of them of a loquacious habit, and were eminently unsociable with their neighbors. The Frau rarely stepped over the threshold of her cottage, unless sent for in dire emer- gency to some sick-bed in the village, for she was skilled in herbs, and accomplished wondrous cures, and few visitors ever troubled her. They kept no servants, and never entered the little chapel. Being Lutherans, they were debarred even from the spiritual consolation of priestly visits. Between this 100 SOUCI. silent, rugged pair the girl grew up, a sunbeam, warm, bright, untarnished, from the hand of God ; sportive, gay, and inno- cent as any humming-bird ; prattling German and Italian with equal facility ; taught all household tasks, fine needle-work, and rare lace-making by the old grandmother, in all else ignorant as a cowslip. A week ago to-day Frau Hiiblemann had awakened her with a kiss upon the eyelids, saying, when the child sprang up startled by the unwonted caress, "It is thy birthday, Liebchen ; thou art twelve years old to-day !" And then she showed her a fine new bodice, all braided and embroidered by her own ingenious old fingers, and a striped skirt and snowy chemisette, which completed the peasant costume the child always wore. " I shall wear it to-day for the fete !" she cries, springing joyfully out of bed on this bright May morning. An hour later she descends in all her bravery, and proceeds to survey herself from head to foot, as she stands on a chair before the old-fashioned mirror. A lovely picture looks out from that worm-eaten frame, but Liebchen steps down from the inspection free from the faintest sensation of gratified vanity. She knows she is beau- tiful only as a lily knows it when it sees itself reflected in the limpid stream. , CHAPTER II. " DIE VERGISSMEINNICHT." "Son violon ne le quittait pas. Pour so reposcr il jouait du violon pour se remettre en verve il en jouait encore." BAMBOCHE. VESPERS are over, and the dancing has begun on the green. It is not a contemptible ball-room this, with its elastic turf underfoot and its gorgeous canopy overhead ; with its myriad flower-scents outrival! ing Lubin,and the soft glory of the moon, which shall presently pale by comparison a million wax-lights. As for music Pa^anini himself would have lingered in an VIOLA. 101 ecstasy to catch the wondrously beautiful improvisations which flow from Heinrich Hublemaim's soul to-night. It had come to be an understood thing that this eccentric Ilhinelander was to furnish the music for their fetes whensoever the villagers saw fit to call upon him ; and nothing could exceed the amiable humility, the untiring patience, with which he accepted and fulfilled his role. Only, after the most indefatigable of the dancers had declared herself at last hors de combat, and the weary revellers begun to disperse in groups of twos and threes homeward, throwing a careless " Grazie, signore!" behind them as they trooped away, it was Heinrich's invariable custom to wander off alone in an opposite direction, playing as he walked, his eyes fixed straight before him with the unspeculative stare of a somnambulist. Out of the narrow, humdrum, sordid life of the peasant he walked through the gates of divine harmony, and, shaking the dust from the feet of his poor, cramped existence, he talked with the angels in their own tongue. And sometimes, too, he would call forth all the elves and gnomes and tricksy sprites which make up a midsummer- night's dream, by fantasias the most fantastic, the wildest, the sweetest, which resounding throughout the valley would wake the slumbering echoes and break up into bits of gleeful rever- beration the solemn silence. These would die away into some adagio symphony of Haydn or Bach, breathing the very spirit of peace once more into the night, or into the tenderest of nocturnes, offered in ecstatic homage to the snow-crowned, mystic beauty of moonlit Monte Rosa. Long after the last light had been extinguished in the village, Liebchen's listening ear would catch the faint refrain, growing ever fainter, borne towards her on the evening breeze ; but when the notes grew clearer and more distinct, she would nestle down deeper in her little white cot, for then she knew that her father's face was turned towards home. Every moment he would draw nearer and nearer, until the sweet strains ceased abruptly as he entered the village and silenced his instrument out of regard for the weary sleepers who must rise with the sun. Liebchen would listen then for his step in the room adjoin- ing hers, where he would move noiselessly about, creeping to bed by the moonlight. After laying his treasured violin in its well-worn case, he was wont to draw it tenderly to his side, 9* 102 SOUCI. throwing one arm across it, and, with the smile of a child on the pale, wrinkled face, he would fall asleep with that last noc- turne lingering in his soul. * * * * * * * " Art thou weary, dearest ? We are so selfish ! Do not play another note; thou art pale and tired !" And Liebchen, marvel- lously lovely in her broidered bodice, and with a spray of starry clematis twisted in her golden hair, lays an imperative little hand upon the old man's bow, and thereby checks the evolu- tions of a score of couples. " I am not tired," urges Heinrich, gently, as angry excla- mations rise about them ; " I am not at all tired, Liebchen." But the blue eyes have a strained, haggard look in them, and his face has an ashen hue different from its ordinary pallor. . Liebchen instinctively follows the direction of his gaze, which is growing almost terrified now. Approaching them from the village she sees a man dressed in a scarlet livery and top-boots, with a silver cockade in his hat. He draws nearer and glances keenly about ; instantly all eyes are riveted upon him. " II Signore Hablemann ?" he demands of Hein- rich, touching his hat respectfully. "Yes, yes; I am he; what is your business with me?" inquires the German nervously, and in unintelligible Italian. The dancers gather around, straining their ears to catch the stranger's reply ; they are disappointed, however, for he says, simply, " La Signora Hablemann would speak with you immediately," and, with a bow, turns back in the direction whence he came. Drawing her father's arm through hers, Liebchen, with one anxious glance at his altered countenance, leads him through the group of grumbling couples, and they walk swiftly towards the cottage. In the rustic porch before the door they are startled to find half a dozen strange faces gathered together. Liebchen hesi- tates to approach, from a novel sensation of shyness ; Heinrich also advances with evident reluctance. A lady richly attired, with a pale, aristocratic face, on which rests a cloud of per- plexed annoyance, leans slightly on the balustrade, as if watch- ing for the return of the messenger. A girl of twelve or thir- teen years clings tightly to her mother's hand, crushing all her pretty silk furbelows and lace frills as she shrinks closer and VIOLA. 103 closer to her side. An angular, very staid-looking person, plainly dressed, wrapped in a Scotch plaid and wearing a straw bonnet trimmed with gay tartan ribbon, stands at a little dis- tance, striving in vain to check the yelping and snapping of an exquisitely-hideous Skye ; a couple of liveried servants con- verse together in whispers with frantic gesticulation ; and Frau Hablemann surveys the group, cool, collected, ugly, and silent as usual. " Dlo! what a lovely child ! Oh, see, Mees Crawford, what an angel!" exclaims the lady, whose brow clears instantly at sight of Liebchen ; and she moves a step or two forward, and with a winning smile, says, " We have been waiting for you, signorina; you will interpret for us, will you not? Unfortu- nately, I do not speak German, nor do any of my people, and this good woman," glancing towards the Frau, who is speak- ing in low tones to her sou, " is becoming quite impatient with my stupidity." " I shall do my best^signora," replies the girl, timidly, gazing with rapt admiration at the fair, clear-cut face bending to- wards her, and thinking that she has never before listened to such musical Italian. " We were posting from Dorno d'Ossola to Pallanza," re- sumes the lady, whilst the daintily -dressed doll at her side relaxes her frightened grip a little and devours Liebchen with her round brown eyes ; " but in descending one of these hor- rible hills," here she shudders slightly, " one of the wheels came off our carriage, and we were very nearly upset. As it is, the carriage is much strained, and will require a day's repair before we can use it. In the mean time we must lodge some- where. Can you tell me if there is a decent inn within walking distance?" Liebchen shakes her head, with a smile ; but before she can reply, her father, from whose countenance every trace of dis- turbance has vanished, approaches and offers them hospitality in his gentlest tones and worst Italian. The lady turns with a puzzled look to Liebchen, who interprets in her pretty patois. After a moment's consultation with the tartan lady, their in- vitation is accepted, with profuse thanks and apologies. The girl's expressive gesture when the inn was mentioned has determined them to remain in their present quarters, which at least look clean and comfortable. 104 SO UCI. After dispatching her servants to the " Corona," the only inn the village affords, and where the usual characteristics of Italian hostelries prevent their enjoying that repose to which they are entitled, the lady allows Liebchen to conduct her into the sitting-room, to remove her hat and lace mantle, and to offer her a glass ojf red wine, which she drinks as gratefully as though it were her favorite Lacrima Christi. Mees Crawford performs the same office for the French doll and herself, except that she politely refuses the wine and asks for a bowl of goat's milk instead. When this is brought to her, warm from the goat, she closes her eyes and drinks it down with an expression of agony in her face which fills Liebchen with wonder. " If she doesn't like it, why does she drink it?" the child asks herself. Later, she discovers that whatever Mees Crawford believes to be her duty she performs unshrinkingly often with a wry face. Frau Hiiblemann is busy making suitable provision for her guests in the sleeping department. Ruthlessly she turns Liebchen out of her downy nest for the little stranger's accom- modation, and makes up a hasty bed in the attic for the un- complaining Heinrich, upon whose couch the angular limbs of the English governess are to repose. The Frau's immaculate bedroom, with its snowy draperies and its mountain of eider- down, is to receive the chief guest. Liebchen and her grand- mother are to occupy a sofa-bed in the sitting-room. After a light but wholesome repast the tired travellers with- draw to seek rest among the lavender-scented pillows of the good Frau, and Liebchen steals out-of-doors. Guided by the soft strains of the violin, she reaches her father's side, as he sits on a rustic bench at the farthest extremity of the kitchen- garden, solacing himself by a talk with his " familiar." "Thou art like a spirit, Liebchen," he says, making room for her beside him. " I did not hear a rustle or a footfall ! And the Contessa. and the others, can they spare thee to me for a minute?" " Ah, dearest ! I was so impatient until they all went to bed ! I could hear thee calling me with this," touching his in- strument, "all through the supper-time and through the endless hour afterwards ! And now, my father, I must bring thee in-doors; thy supper waits, and thou wast not well to-day, remember. Thou must sleep early." And she twines one VIOLA. 105 arm about his bowed neck and lays her head against his shoulder. Not just yet. Licbchen," pleads Heinrich ; " the night is so perfect, let us enjoy it. Dost thou smell the honeysuckle, intiiif GelicLte? Stay, I shall play our favorite for thee, and then," with a sigh, " we shall go within." The girl withdraws her head from his shoulder and sits spell-bound, whilst he draws from his instrument an almost human utterance of mixed tenderness and despair, a wail of melancholy woven into sweet, passionate cries of rapturous love, of aching ecstasy, which tremble off into broken sobs and weary, heart-hungry sighs. It seems to tell the old, world-worn story in words of fire: the hope, the longing, the despair ; delicious pang and sharp wild grief throbbing in every note, whilst throughout runs the same strange, wonderfully-sweet air, like a silver thread through dim and gloom-shaded woof. " Ach Gott .'" murmurs Heinrich, passing his hand over his furrowed face, down which the silent tears are stealing. " Wt/cJie schrecktichfs Loos ist mir gefaUen ! Aiif eine kiirze '/.< it iiiiiuiitixi IK Gliicltseb'gkcit genossen zu haben, imd nun fiir immer derstlben beraubt zu icerden !"* Liebchen, pained and puzzled by this outburst, caresses him silently. Strange, mysterious words always broke from his lips when he played this favorite air, a marvel of his own composition, which he had christened "Die Vergissmeinniclit"^ and dedicated to her lost mother : it never failed to stir to its depths the heart of this solitary, silent man. " She is in heaven, dearest," whispers Liebchen, pressing her golden head upon his breast. " In heaven with God and His angels, where she hears always music like thine, and where she waits for thee and me. Do not weep, my father ; she sees u.<. and it will give her pain !" Heinrich bends to kiss the child's upturned face, and, forcing a smile, says cheerily, "No more tears, then, in> in Kinilclim! Why should I repine when the good God has given me an angel like thee in exchange for my poor darling?'' * What a horrible fate is mine! to know heaven for a brief space and tlit-n to be cast forth forever ! f The Forget-me-not. K* 106 SOUCI. Still, in spite of this reassurance, as they saunter slowly towards the cottage his bow trembles lingeringly over the refrain of that wailing melody through which his soul at times breaks its dumb bonds and speaks. CHAPTER III. SHRIMPS AND OYSTERS. "Shrimps and oysters are the lower order of the inhabitants, -and these, it is pretended, have reason to complain of the aristocracy above them." FRAU HABLEMANN and her son are in earnest consultation, that is to say, Heinrich, in a great arm-chair, head bent on hand in an attitude of listless dejection, endures silently the flood of expostulation, adjuration, and authoritative counsel with which the usually taciturn old woman threatens to over- whelm him. " I tell thee," she finishes, " it is a chance we may never have again to do our duty to the child, a chance sent by the good God Himself, and thou wouldst thwart it ! Beautiful as an angel, she is growing up here as ignorant as a a chamois ! And thou knowest, Heinrich, that she is all that we have left of a sorry bargain, and we should do our best for her." "Don't forget the. money, mother," he breaks in, bitterly; " don't forget those rix-thalers for which my child was " " Heinrich !" bursts forth the enraged Frau, " durst thou dare to cast the money in my face ? The money which would have given us a comfortable home in some better place than this miserable, idol-worshipping Italian village ! The money ! Gott in, Himmel! the money, half of which was spent, all at once, on that wretched old black fiddle there !" " Wretched black fiddle !" Heinrich's eyes blaze as they have not done for many, many years. " A genuine Amati! and thou dost call it a Ach! lieber Gott !" He covers his face with his hand. VIOLA. 107 " Who knows ?" continues the old Frau, ignoring this un- wonted flash of indignation ; " some day the child way make a good marriage ; she is so lovely. Stranger things have hap- pened. Let her once get her foot out of this stupid valley and learn something more than her dumb beasts and birds can teach her, and she may be able to do great things for herself and us." The woman's keen eye glistens, and she pats ten- derly the creases out of the little skirt she is folding. She is putting Liebchen's scant wardrobe in order, for she has already decided that the Countess's invitation to spend a fort- night with her little daughter at their villa on Lago Maggiore is to be accepted. Heinrich has rebelled, it is true; his in- stincts warn him against transplanting his hardy little field- flower to a conservatory for ever so brief a season, and he has made a violent effort to assert his authority. In the mean time, the stronger will is gradually prevailing, ahd when his mother sighs forth, " The child has a dull life of it here. She is so eager to go. It is natural ; we are not fit companions for her, poor little one ! :> he starts up. " Eager to go, is she ? why didst thou not say that she wished to go? and it is only a fortnight! I have lived through many a lonely fortnight. Yes, mother, thou art right, we are not Jit companions for her!" And with those last bitter words, how bitter he and she know, he lifts his comforter tenderly from its faded velvet-lined cradle and car- ries it off with him, leaving his mother grimly triumphant. Three days have passed since the accident to the Countess's equipage, which was discovered to be more serious than was at first supposed, and the great lady and the little great lady and the governess are still domiciled under Frau Hilblemaun's humble roof. They have been three days of intolerable enmti to the great lady, who has improved the shining hours in the sha'diest corner of the homely fitting-room with a French novel which she providentially found in her dressing-case. The governess, with a laudable desire for information, has walked over the entire village ; peeped into the cottages ; patted the Murillo-faced babies with the end of her parasol, and criticised the dim, pre-Raphaelite Madonna which forms the altar-piece of the little chapel. To the small Maddalena these three days have proved delight- ful. She has visited with Liebchen all her favorite haunts ; 108 SOUCI. she has plucked all the roses in the garden, and devoured a peck or two of strawberries and cherries. She has spread her silken skirts over the back of a donkey, and explored the nooks which Liebchen loves on the hill-sides. She has fed the German lassie's snow-white rabbits, and coveted the prettiest, in a side-long whisper ; and, when it is bestowed upon her, she has protested vehemently, and accepted it. She has stroked with dainty fingers the lustrous back of a ring-dove that Liebchen has trained to answer her call, sit on her shoul- der, and peck at food from her hand. The little great lady stroked it, and looked ready to cry for vexation ; why has she not been offered the ring-dove instead of the horrid little rabbit ? Liebchen's quick tact comes to the rescue ; the dove is pressed upon her guest's acceptance. The pout melts into a smile ; the tear dries in the brown eyes ; all is serene once more. The peasant-maiden wonders whether she dare offer this fairy-like being, who seems so royally condescending and is so petulantly exacting, her string of coral beads, her pet goat, her little plaster cast of St. John, in short, any and all of her few possessions, so completely is she fascinated by the sweetly-modulated voice, the carefully-worded phrases, the well-trained movements and smiles and glances of the little aristocrat. In her generous enthusiasm she would have laid her choicest treasures at the daintily-shod feet without demur, and without demur would they assuredly have been accepted. In all her short life never has Maddalena met with so gentle, so unselfish, and so devoted a slave as the lovely child who mistakes her grace of manner for grace of mind and believes that fervent expressions spring spontaneously from a warm heart. When, at last, the travelling-carriage is pronounced ready for service, the sudden and violent affection which the little Italian professes for her humble friend proclaims it-self loudly, and she stoutly asserts her determination to spend the rest of her life in the Vogogna cottage unless Liebchen consents to accompany her. That her friend trembles and shrinks from the latter proposition, dreading lest the wilful creature shall carry her point in it as in all else, in no wise deters her from persisting in this decision. The Con tessa after the first mo- ment of perplexed wonder thinks the affair very simple: her pet craves a new plaything, a human toy ! Dio grazie ! VIOLA. 109 this is, at least, a gentle-mannered, presentable child } she will arrange it all with the hideous old German woman. In a fortnight her darling will have wearied of her caprice, and the little peasant can be sent home With her most winning graciousness she extends her invi- tation tojjiebchen, and it is shyly but? firmly declined. The child has but one thought: she cannot leave her father. A scene of dire confusion ensues. Tears and sobbings ; stampings and fierce rebellion ; the discussion between Hein- rich and his mother ; more tears, more talk, and victory ! It has been a morning full of pain to the gentle Liebchen ; her heart has ached for Maddalena, for her father, for herself. Pale and sad she awaits the conclusion of the struggle ; paler and sadder she is lifted by the red-jacketed postilion into her seat in the grand carriage. In an agony of grief for the first time in her life she leans over the side to embrace her father once more ; her father, whose sorrowful face wears a wintry smile as he whispers in her ear, " Come back soon, ini'in Liebchen /" Then, as the tears burst forth, her head seems to whirl wildly, she hears the postilion's "Presto ! an- date!" her grandmother's cheery " Gliick auf!" she sees as through a mist her father's waving hand, and feels the swift motion of the carriage which is bearing her away; then Maddalena's arms about her neck and her kisses on her cheek, and the silvery voice of the Contessa entreating her not to distress her by the sight of tears. Before they halt at Migiandone, where they rest overnight, Liebchen has begun the alphabet of social education. She has learned that she must not rise from her seat and curtsy whenever she is addressed ; that Liebchen is not a name, and that henceforth she will answer to that chosen for her by the Contessa (" She is a shy, modest little thing, and reminds me of my favorite flower," the Contessa had said, smilingly: "I shall call her Viola .'") ; that as she is to be Maddalena's com- panion and playfellow, she must imitate that young lady's man- ners and accent ; that she must not look shy or feel ill at ease, and th;it she is to be very happy if she will only choose to be so. The thrifty little German opens her blue eyes widely when the great lady desires the coachman to stop his horses :md directs that the neat parcel containing her simple wardrobe shall be bestowed upon a family of vagrants taking their after- 10 no sovci. noon siesta on the roadside. Her surprise is still greater when, before starting from Migiandone the next morning, she is re- quested to bedeck herself in the dainty suit which transforms her from top to toe into a beautiful counterpart of the little signorina. Then, for the first time, she learns the perilous truth that beauty is power. The Countess- lavishes,* caresses upon her, as though the linsey woolsey gulf between them had been suddenly bridged by silk and lace ; Maddalena glances at her with a slight pout of envy ; the hotel chambermaid assures her she is an angel ; the servants below break into mur- murs of admiration when she appears; and the English gov- erness kisses her gravely, pitying her in her heart. Already the intoxicating odor of delicious incense greets her on every side ; already the tender bloom of innocence is being polished off the fair young fruit. ******* That night, Heinrich Hablemann is wandering alone along the road upon which he had watched his Liebchen disappear from view. He is venting his pent-up grief through the plaintive notes of his violin, and losing himself, as usual, among the clouds of heaven, when he is suddenly brought back to earth by the sight of a prostrate figure stretched across his path. Stooping towards it, he is able to make out by the brilliant starlight the face and form of a youth who appears to be almost in extremis through starvation and fatigue. His clothing, travel-stained and ragged, barely covers him ; the soles of his shoes are worn off, and his feet cut and bleeding ; his face is haggard, wild, and blanched by the dreadful pangs of hunger. Encouraging him by kindly words, Heinrich with some dif- ficulty arouses him, and, raising him to his feet, supports the tottering footsteps as he leads him towards the cottage. Fortunately, he finds a light still glimmering from the win- dow of the Frau's bedroom, and being for all practical purposes helpless as a child himself, Heinrich deposits the shadowy form of poor Tonio in a comfortable arm-chair, and ascends quickly to his mother's room. Opening the door abruptly, he causes her to rise from her seat with an ejaculation of alarm, drop- ping from her lap a pile of letters, yellow with age, which she has been poring over. "Ach Gott in Iltmmcl!" she exclaims, her face turning VIOLA. in to the hue of parchment, " what dost thou mean by coming like that upon me and frightening me out of my senses?" And she hastily gathers together the letters, and, binding them about with a black string, locks them securely away. Jlcinrich humbly desires her to attend to the pressing neces- sities of the wayfarer within their gates, which she, nothing loath, being at heart kindly disposed, proceeds forthwith to do. That night the exhausted lad occupies the sofa-bed in the pantry next the kitchen, and for many nights thereafter, during which the good Frau nurses and tends him faithfully. CHAPTER IV. THE LILY OP THE VALLEY. " Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude bands have touched it ? Have you marked but the fall of the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it ?" IN the white-winged villa on Lago Maggiore a fortnight had swiftly lost itself in a month, which, speeding by, found itself in turn swallowed up by the swift-coursing year, and still the little village-maiden was detained by the young Madda- lena's imperious will. Two pilgrimages had Heinrich made on foot, and in abso- lute defiance of the ruling spirit of his house, to rest his eyes upon the flower-like face he worshipped, and each time he had returned with lightened heart, assured of his darling's welfare and entire contentment. For Viola was undeniably happy. It is true that she was sometimes troubled by misgivings in regard to the dreariness of her father's life, and would grow self-reproachful thereupon ; but the patient, gentle soul would always reassure her with unselfish mendacity, and seem so re- joiced at her good fortune that she could not but grow glad again. Of the sincerity of Maddalena's devotion to herself she had soon become disillusionized : the small heiress had dis- 112 SOUCL played even more frantic grief and passion at the prospect of losing the purchase of a pair of Shetland ponies, belonging to an English family in the neighborhood, than at parting from herself. She soon discovered that her caprices were as short- lived as they were violent. Perhaps this fact was a trifle painful to Liebchen, as the discovery of the sawdust stuffing of their idols always must be to the young ; but, if so, she found ample consolation in the steady, undemonstrative affec- tion of the English governess, who opened her empty, maiden heart to the beautiful child and took her firmly into it. To- wards the Contessa, Viola felt a sort of adoring affection, and this woman, whose beauty was already on the wane, accepted the implied flattery of every word and look and action of the little peasant-girl, as eagerly and hungrily as a bee sucks honey from a wild flower, finding it not less sweet than that lying in the heart of an exotic. Her only child had never offered the admiration, the re- spectful homage, the tender reverence, which Viola laid unre- mittingly at her feet with as little of the meanness .of obse- quiousness as she would have felt in expressing her naive delight in any beautiful thing. The refined loveliness of this woman fascinated her ; to her eyes, accustomed to the swart faces of the Vogogna peasantry, their coarse features and un- gainly movements, the Contessa, with her languid grace, her delicate hands and feet, and the creamy pallor of her high- bred face, seemed almost like a spirit from another world. The child loved to look at her, to win a smile from her, to minister to her indefatigably during the slight nervous ail- ments to which she was subject. Although Miss Crawford had gained the stronger hold upon her affections, it was the mu- sical voice of the Contessa whose praise gave her the greater pleasure ; it was she for whom the bouquet of violets was daily gathered, and whom Viola unconsciously and instinct- ively imitated in voice, in gesture, and in manner. Almost immediately after their arrival at the villa, the gov- erness had requested and obtained permission to include Viola in the instruction which she had found sad up-hill work with Maddalena. The result was equally advantageous to both girls. The avidity with which her companion seized the op- portunity of acquiring knowledge piqued and stimulated the thoughtless, self-iudulgent signorina. She struggled to emu- VIOLA. 113 late Viola's patience and industry, and they soon marched side by side through the intricate mazes of her once-detested studies. The Contessa was delighted : her daughter had not inherited her beauty, therefore she must not be a dunce. That break- down in the Anzasca valley had certainly been a providential interposition ; this modest, charming little village-girl must be induced to remain with them, at whatever sacrifice, until Maddalena's education should be completed. Thus a year rolled by, followed by another, and still an- other, and Viola has not once re-crossed the threshold of the cottage in Vogogna. When the season arrived for closing the Lake villa and going southwards towards Florence or Rome, she had always suggested her return to her humble home, but was not inconsolable when her proposal met with prompt refusal. And so she breathed the breath of cities, and increased in stature and loveliness, whilst her mind expanded, throwing out vigorous shoots in every direction, which flowered luxuri- antly under such beneficent influences ; whilst her heart, her pure child-heart, slumbered dreamlessly. CHAPTER V. HOME AGAIN. .... "With her blue eyes upturned, As if life were one long and sweet surprise." UPON the peaceful horizon of Viola's life a cloud has at last arisen. At first no bigger than a man's hand, it gradu- ally spread itself over the bright sky of her present joyous existence. Occurrences of trifling import sometimes take the color out of life with terrible suddenness. There are letters from Paris, from relatives of Maddalena's dead father, urging the Countess to bring her only child to the metropolis, where she could be fim'sttcd properly in tho 10* 114 SOVCI. languages and formed in the graces of the Parisian leau- monde ; letters, arbitrary and peremptory, from the dowager- Countess, who has already fixed upon a suitable parti for her sixteen-year-old granddaughter ; letters of insidious temptation from gay friends of other days to the still attractive woman who had voluntarily exiled herself from society after her hus- band's death. These are openly discussed : Maddalena, straightway becom- ing intoxicated with the prospect held out to her, can talk of nothing else. Miss Crawford begins sadly to pack her boxes preparatory to returning to England. The villa is advertised to let ; each room is dismantled of its pretty ornaments, pic- tures, statuary; the lawn in front of the house is covered with huge packing-cases ; the flower-beds are ruthlessly trodden down by hurrying, strange feet ; and Viola looks on with dry eyes but a bursting heart. She feels as if she has just awakened from a dream ; the past three years seem unreal and vaguely indistinct to her. She lets out the hem of her striped petticoat and the seams of the bodice braided by her grand- mother's kind fingers, and, putting off her dainty silk and muslin, appears before them all the simple village-peasant. Beautiful as she is, the Countess's smile is a sad one as her eyes rest upon her, but she dares not remonstrate ; in her heart she acknowledges the good taste, if not the pride, which has prompted the girl to reassume her former position of her own accord. Maddalena is far too much engrossed by her own prepara- tions and anticipations to spare a thought to the approaching separation ; but when Miss Crawford sits down exhausted upon her last box, packed, corded, and ticketed, her heart overflows at sight of Viola transformed once more to Liebchen, but, ah, with what a difference ! and she clasps her in her arms, sobbing with an abandon which she would have sorely depre- cated in the most impressionable of her pupils. And now the sweetness of the girl's character comes uppermost. For- getting her own pain, she seeks to cheer the good woman who has been her truest friend. " Do not weep, dear Miss Crawford," she whispers in Eng- lish, as she caresses her tenderly. " You are going home to your beloved England, to your sisters and their little children; think how glad they will be to see you once more ! You, who VIOLA. 115 are so kind and generous to them ; they will never be able to make you sufficiently welcome." " But you, Viola, you, my child !" sobs the poor woman. " Well ! am I not going to my father, and my grand- mother, too ? They love me dearly ; and I was very happy with them " " You were happy ; ah, yes ; but shall you be ? I have had some sorrowful hours lately, Viola, fearing lest I may have aided in unfitting you for your sphere in life. I have thought and cried and prayed over it, my dear, and I cannot regret what I have done. God gave you intelligence and rare facility for learning ; I cannot feel that I have done wrong in teaching you how to use those heaven-born gifts; and yet " Viola is standing now beside her, with one hand resting on the frame of the open window. Before her stretches, in placid, smiling beauty, the blue lake she has learned to love so well, but her eyes, clear, blue, tranquil as itself, are raised and fixed upon the mountain whose top is bathed in the purple and golden glory of the setting sun. As Miss Crawford looks at her the words die upon her lips, for on the girl's face has fallen a reflection of the radiance, without making: its beauty unearthly, whilst she whispers softly these words :)" ' If thou seekest this or that, and wouldst be here or there, to enjoy thine own will and pleasure, thou shalt never be quiet or free from care, and in everything somewhat will be wanting, . and in every place there will be some that will cross thee.'/ But we know, do we not, dear Miss Crawford, that we may carry our own happiness with us, to the great city yon- der, over to your English home, or into the quiet valley, shut in by the blue hills, where I shall be to-morrow ?" '' Thank heaven ! yes," murmurs the governess, taking in every detail of the lovely picture before her, that she may hang it in the gallery of her memory for future consolation. " My dear, you have lifted a weight from my heart. I shall never forget your words ; they shall comfort me when I am far away from you." And the tears come again. " Not my words, dear," says Viola, leaving the window and kneeling down close to her. " Here is where I get many things that help me," she continues, drawing from her pocket a small, well-worn copy of " The Life of Thomas k Kempis," which Miss Crawford had given, her a year before. 116 souci. " Ah, Viola, that reminds me ; I have packed a little box full of books for you, all my old favorite authors, you know, and my Shakspeare ; there it is ;" pointing to a good-sized box in one corner of the room. " You will have it taken away with your luggage, my dear." The girl does not speak ; she is overcome by this greatest proof of her friend's devoted affection. Her books! Give away her favorite books ! the sole Lares and Penates of her desolate abiding-places! Viola can only kiss her silently through her own fast-falling tears. " You will find some French books among them," continues the governess, a little ashamed of her temporary weakness and exceedingly uncharacteristic exposure of it. " I should like you to read these diligently ; your knowledge of French and English may be most useful to you some day. You are well educated, my dear, that is to say, well grounded ; your real education is yet to come. Every one of the books in that box will help you to it. Many of them we have already read to- gether ; these will bear several readings ; the rest we have often talked about. Read carefully and thoughtfully ; a page well digested is more nutritious than a volume swallowed whole. I always think of Rumford's proposal to feed an army at a much cheaper rate by simply compelling each man to masticate his food properly. Skimming carelessly over libraries never makes any good brain-blood." And so she talks on rapidly and with- out a pause, giving Viola time to recover herself, gently stroking the sunny hair from the bowed head in her lap. u There is another thing, my dear, that I wished to speak to you about. It is obviously your duty to return now to your father and your grandmother, but the day may come when you will be obliged to provide for yourself, and in that case you must leave the village which would offer you no field. On this card I have written an address that will always find me in England or out of it. I need not tell you to write me, I am sure you know how much I shall prize your letters, or to apply to me without reservation for advice or assistance of any kind." Viola promises everything, and they talk softly far into the night about many things. VIOLA. H7 CHAPTER VI. " THIS IS MEIN LIEBCHEN, ANTONIO." "A face tender and wise; God, what power to bless in the pure eyes, With a look straight out On us weak, strewn all about." ANOTHER sunset. The vesper-bell is ringing out its "Stir- siim corda" to the toilers in the fields and hamlet of Vogogna. The fair valley has smiled up in the face of the June sun all day. Under his fervent kisses the purple violets and the many- tinted convolvuli had hung their shy heads, and the coy lily of the valley had hidden itself behind its long, cool leaves. But now they are stretching forth their tender throats and holding up thirsting lips to the refreshing dew, which renews their life and draws forth the sweetness of their inmost hearts, wherewith to load with fragrance the evening air. Along the sun-scorched Simplon, lying like a broad white ribbon between the green and yellow meadows, a carriage is swiftly advancing. As it draws within sight of the village it stops ; a solitary figure descends ; the horses' heads are turned towards Migiandone. Viola has chosen to return on foot to her humble home. Joyfully she walks along the bit of turf fringing the road- side, with face uplifted, seeming to breathe into her very soul the tranquil beauty on all sides of her. She carries her straw hat by its ribbons in her hand. The soft breeze ruffles the bronzed gold of the unruly locks about her temples and cools the flush the day's warmth had brought into her cheek. Presently she stoops to plunge her face down into a cluster of sweet-smelling blossoms, which recall some childish remi- niscence too potently to be passed by without a caress. " How beautiful it is ! How dear ! ' God must be glad one loves His world so much,' " she says, unconsciously repeat- 118 SOUCL ing the words of a favorite poet ; and turning into a meadow, she sits down on a stile to rest for a moment and enjoy more thoroughly the scene which has not gladdened her eyes for so many years. "There is the little chapel; how gray it looks, all covered up with silver lichens ! And there is the inn, and the very same white horses drinking at the trough ! Our cottage I cannot see ; the trees have grown so tall about it. How disappointed grandmother will be to see me come up the road on foot ! Poor grandmother ! Am I not to go always on foot for the rest of my life? Ah, how perfect are the colors in the sky ! Like the Countess's opals, only so much more beautiful ! And the hills ! they never looked so blue to me before." Then she stoops smiling to pluck a spray of wild honeysuckle which runs along the fence, and fastens it in the lacing of her bodice. As she raises her head she per- ceives two figures approaching her. One of them is an elderly- looking man with long hair and a pale, wrinkled face, the other a tall and well-formed youth, with a dark, handsome face lit up by glowing, large brown eyes. His arm lies caressingly across the older man's shoulders, and he is talking to him with a roguish smile on his lips. Almost simultaneously their glances fall upon the young girl, who has started to her feet and stands in trembling uncertainty for one moment, then, springing down the stile, runs forward, crying in German, " My father ! My own dear father !" The young man, withdrawn to a little distance, watches with pleasure the frank tenderness of this meeting, and when Heiririch at last turns towards him, with his mild blue eyes wet with joyous tears, to say, " This is mein LiebcJien, Antonio ; my ewe-lamb come back to me again," he is startled by the exquisite loveliness of the face which, rosy and tearful, raises itself from the old man's breast to smile upon him. Never in his life had his heart been stirred as it was during that one moment in the meadow of Vogogna ; never had it thrilled with such a strange, sweet pain ! Until his dying hour this moment shall stand apart from every other, framed in opal-tinted clouds, more of heaven than of earth defining its pure outlines, associated forever with the peaceful twilight, the fragrance of wild honeysuckle, and the faint, silvery tones of the vesper-bell. As they walk slowly homeward, Heinrich discourses in his VIOLA. 119 childlike fashion upon the pleasure and comfort he has found during these lonely years in the society of this young man, who, with a shy but quiet dignity, strives to stem the tide of his eloquent eulogium. " You have wondered that I have been so patient, Liebchen, in your absence ; now you know why I have been able to live without you. Old as I am, and and stupid, Antonio finds time to walk and talk with me ; and so I have not even asked you to leave your grand friends, knowing that one day you would find your way back to me of your own free will." " Ah, yes," Viola murmurs, pressing the arm in which she has linked her own, while she glances gratefully at Tonto, who walks on the other side of her father, " you knew that I would come back ; that however grand and kind my friends were, this valley is my home." Then, speaking Italian out of con- sideration for their companion, she continues, " I am so happy, so happy to be at home again !" A moment later, she ex- claims, " But your violin, my father ! Is it possible that I see you without it, and in the evening, too ? ' The old man smiles. " You will see me often without it, Liebchen. Antonio thinks it is better that I should not play all the time ; indeed, he uses my instrument almost as much as I do." " Uses your violin I Ah, you have indeed, then, won his heart," she laughs, looking around her father at Tonio. " He would never allow any other hand than his own to touch it even ! Do you love it as much as he does; no, that would be impossible, but as much as I do?" " I have grown very fond of it," he answers, simply. " Signore Hablemann has taught me all I know " " Ah, we have had grand lessons !" cries the old man, his withered face lighting up with enthusiasm. " I have been happy as in the dear past days when my pupils were but, no matter. We have studied Baillot and Spohr together, and he has come to love those grand old fugues nearly as well as I do." He stops, breathless. Viola looks surprised ; she does not remember having ever seen her father excited to such a degree, even on this one absorbing topic. " And your favorite Viotti, my father, have you grown un- faithful to him ?" she asks, smiling as she would at a child. "No, no, no: we study him, do we not, Antonio? And 120 SOUCI. Kreutzer, too. Ah, we have delicious hours when the day is over and we carry out our violins into the hills !" " I see,' 1 says Viola, somewhat sadly, " I see you have not missed me at all." A little jealous pang shoots through her. Before he can reply, they have reached the gate of the cot- tage-garden, and an exclamation of wonder bursts from the young girl as she lifts her eyes. " How small it has grown ! Can this be the cottage I re- member? And the garden, what a tiny strip! Surely the fences have crept closer to each other !" She is laughing, but a little forcedly, Tonio thinks. The old Frau, grown stouter and more grim, fills up the narrow door-way ; and when, after greeting her affectionately, Viola enters the pitifully-small sitting-room, with its cumbrous furniture and its low ceiling and stuffy atmosphere, she almost gasps for breath. The four persons gathered within that lim- ited space seem to overflow its dimensions, and a strange sensa- tion of suffocation attacks her. She flings wide the latticed window, and, leaning out, draws a long breath of relief. Tonio. instinctively divining her feeling, goes outside immediately ; presently she hears his voice bidding them good-night in the garden just below. She leans out a little farther, smiling her response ; as she does so, the spray of honeysuckle falls from her bodice at the young man's feet. Apparently he does not perceive it, for he turns away, and, a moment later, she hears him whistling as he walks swiftly down the road. Long after the lattice has been closed for the night, and Viola is dreaming that she is still sitting at Miss Crawford's feet, Tonio returns, and, groping his way through the shadows, reaches the window which had framed the fairest vision his eyes had ever rested upon. That night, before he slept, he gazed long and with renewed tenderness upon the picture of his mother. When he closed the medallion at last, a faded bit of wild honeysuckle lay between the lid and the beautiful face within. VIOLA. 121 CHAPTER VII. WHAT IS LOVE? " ARCHER. What is love ? " CHERRY. Love is, I know not what. It comes, I know not how : goes, I know not where. " ARCHER. What are the signs and tokens of that passion ? "CHERRY. A smiling look, a stammering tongue, words improbable, designs impossible, and actions impracticable." Beaux' Stratagem. AFTER a time the narrowness of the rooms and the lowness of the ceilings in her old home cease to afflict Viola with that sense of oppression which at first had wellnigh overcome her. During the past three years her soul has grown wings, winp> strong enough to bear her far beyond the cramped con- ditions of her present surroundings. Mentally and physically her organization is too vigorously sound to allow her to pine or fret because of the roughness of her worsted stockings or the blank bareness of her bedroom walls. Without even an inward murmur, she resumes her daily avocations, assisting her grandmother, as of old, in her house- hold cares, taking up her lace-making and embroidery, visiting once more the old and helpless villagers, gathering into her clean, girl's heart all the brown-faced, dark-eyed, soil-grubbing babies who have increased and multiplied since her departure. Under the ignorance, the wanton, lazy immorality, the un- godly uncleanliness of these peasants, the girl's pure eyes dis- cover undreamt-of capabilities, dormant intelligences, a pathos inexpressible. Through the garlic-reeking atmosphere the faint perfume from the violets in her bodice pierces subtly, and before the calm wonder of the clear blue eyes the embryo lazzaroui slink away abashed. There are eyes and eyes. To some not unkindly organs either the sight of destitution is repellent. Their poor must r 11 122 SOUCI. be clean-washed, and picturesquely patched and covered ; there must be no revolting exhibition of vice or suffering. Many people are benevolently inclined, but inclined towards decency, even if threadbare. Like Coriolanus, they cover their faces from the sight of the wounds they dare not probe. To them rags and vermin and ill smells are simply intolerable. They recoil instinctively from painful .and vulgar truth, as they shudder and turn aside from one of Hogarth's masterpieces. They feel that his awful, tragic delineations exist in real life, but they do not want to look upon them. The unrefinement and coarseness of his subjects disgust them. Their gaze pierces not beneath the repulsive surface to that terrible intensity of thought and feeling underlying their vulgarity, in which one may find innumerable texts. Beneath the crust of superstitious ignorance which had formed upon the souls of those about her, Viola perceives a childlike simplicity, a careless amiability, from which her in- finite tact and patience bring forth good work. She is warmly welcomed in all the cottages, and finds unwearying delight in her self-appointed missionary labor. Gradually she stirs up the men and women out of their supine indolence, and washes the faces, spiritual and corporal, of their children. Perhaps she is not altogether orthodox in her religious in- struction, love and mercy being the chief attributes of the Deity she worships ; but no doubt they are all-sufficing. She distributes no good little books or tracts among these untaught heathen, nor does she quote from the learned igno- rance of so-called wiseacres for their edification. She sings to them as much as she talks, and her voice is fresh and true and acceptable to their understanding. Nor does she fail to tell them, in sweet, low tones, helpful, cheering stories from the life of the pure Galilean. She does not madden them by hurling denunciation or anathema at their heads, neither does she scoff at their harmless superstitions. With gentle tact she raises each soul above the tinsel and paste jewels of the bambino to the living Child, grown crucified Man, with His mother at His feet. And Viola is zealous also in ministrations no less welcome, in nourishing broths and refreshing fruits and drinks ; in flowers for a sick-room and linen for a new-born babe. For she has all a true woman's universality of sym- pathy, her helpfulness, her beguiling winsomeness. VIOLA. 123 Yet Viola is not devoid of feminine weaknesses, nor of the instinctive hungering of her sex after the poetic, the imagina- tive, or the aesthetic. Almost all women are innate artists, and crave naturally the refinements and graces of life. Even the delicate tints and sheeny surfaces of their outward adorn- ment possess a certain fascination for them, and they take a pleasure in the braiding and arrangement of their hair not incompatible with the spirit of Christianity. With all her simplicity of nature and spirituality of mind, this little field-flower shares the heritage of her sisters of the garden and the conservatory, and claims kin with Browning's pomegranate, . . . . " Which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within, blood-tinctured of a veined humanity." To Tonio she seems a little more and a little less than this : he thiuks her an angel. ******* Can we wonder that Souci's pale and sorrowful face alas ! already fading, through the lapse of years grows dim and almost forgotten beside this radiant vision ? And so it comes to pass that whilst the woman, away off in the great turbulent city, wrestles with all her puny strength to conquer the giant Knowledge, the man for whom she toils to fit herself presses to his lips the violet which his scythe always spares, and which he hides in the bosom from whence his heart is slip- ping slowly surely day by day. 124 SOUCL CHAPTER VIII. "LOVE'S SWEET BAIT FROM FEARFUL HOOKS." " It is an old, old story, Yet bideth ever new, And he to whom it chanceth, It breaks his heart in two." HEINE. " Sie ist vollkommen und sie fehlet Darin allein dass sie mieh liebt." .... GOETHE. " LlEBCHEN !" "Ja icohl!" " He is waiting, mein Kindchen. Antonio has been waiting for you nigh a quarter of an hour." " So I Then bid him wait another quarter !" laughs Viola, giving the waving tendrils of her sunny hair one more touch beneath her wide straw hat, and taking a last gratified survey of herself in the little cracked mirror which sadly distorts her peach-blossom face. Then brimming over with fun and mis- chief, her joyous heart dimpling her cheeks with smiles and her high spirits dancing in the blue eyes, she runs down the stairs, and greets Tonio with a charming little air of coquetry which has but lately added itself to her attractions. He advances to meet her with a proud, fond look which has something of the timid uncertainty that always accom- panies true and tender feeling. A man who loves with his whole soul, handles his passion before its object as gently as he would a gorgeous-hued butterfly, which he scarcely dares breathe upon, knowing that a rough movement, the least ungentle touch, would wound it to the death. " Were you very impatient, Tonio?" Viola asks, demurely, as they wa;k down the little garden together. " I am always impatient when I am waiting for you, made- moiselle. It would not be true to say that I was not," he replies, opening the gate for her to pass through. VIOLA. 125 Their conversation is generally a polyglot mixture of French, Italian, and German. Touio, although he readily acquired his mother-tongue, relapses unconsciously into the more accustomed French, and Viola, speaking each with equal facility, follows his lead, although occasionally to his mysti- fication she breaks forth in German. To-day is a holiday, a sweet, hay-scented, bee-droning sum- mer day, and Tonio's employer the largest land-owner and farmer in the valley has given him permission to enjoy it as seems best to him. It seems very much best to him to spend it in a shady nook far up the mountain-side with Viola. This adventurous young lady has undertaken the arduous task of educating her rustic admirer, and after much tribu- lation has succeeded in teaching him the rudiments of the French and Italian languages. To-day she carries a well- thumbed book under her arm, from which he has derived much valuable instruction, while from the open page of his young teacher's guileless face and pure heart he has learned to read more eagerly still. A year has passed since Viola smiled Tonio's heart away at their first meeting in the meadow, and although she has seen him daily, accompanying her father and himself in all their twilight rambles, it was not until a few weeks ago that she suspected the nature of his feeling for her. How or when the fact at length revealed itself to her consciousness she scarcely knew. There had been no word or action to mark the. sudden enlightenment. Never had the respectful defer- ence, the -shy tenderness of his manner varied since the first word he had addressed to her. A woman is gifted with a power of divination in these matters which suggests sorcery. Viola knew certainly that the great treasure of a man's earnest love lay humbly at her feet. Her first sensation after this discovery had been one of amusement, followed swiftly by a feeling which he would have deprecated even more had he known of it of pity. Later, as the sweetness of this unswerving devotion appealed to her more widely, there entered into her the evil genius of a woman's nature, the desire to test to its utmost limit that de- votion by the instinctive wiles and artless coquetries which lie dormant in every feminine heart. It is needless to say that the sudden development of unsuspected witcheries charmed the 126 SOUCI. unfortunate youth into a more abject idolatry, and that Viola found in this dangerous amusement a gentle stimulus which filled her cup of contentment to the brim. "Did you bring Telemaque in your pocket?" she asks, lazily leaning back against the moss-covered trunk" of a great tree and letting her French grammar slip from her hand and hide itself among the high grass at her feet. " We have had two good hours of study, and you have done pretty well. Now you shall have your reward : I will read to you." Then as Tonio joyfully composes himself to listen, with his eyes fixed upon the face where the shadow of the flickering green leaves overhead falls tantalizingly, Viola takes up the thread of Telemaque's interesting adventures, and in her clear young voice impresses them forever and forever on the memory of the man beside her. Another hour flies by, and Viola closes the book with a little half-stifled yawn. " It is too warm," she says, " and the dragon-flies make me giddy, and the buzz, buzz, buzz of these energetic gnats sends me to sleep. Tonio," pointing her finger at him suddenly, " you have been asleep !" She knows per- fectly that his wide-open eyes have never left her face, but she is a woman, and she longs to hear his indignant denial of the accusation. " Asleep! Ah, Viola, you know that I keep all the sleep I can get for the hours when I cannot catch even a glimpse of you !" " And then ?" she asks, with an upward glance of the blue eyes. " During those hours are you very miserable ?" " Not always. Sometimes I dream of you," he answers, smiling. " Bah ! Tonio. Do you know I believe you are becoming sentimental ? You do not know what that means, now ; do you?" He shakes his head. Quickly she turns the pages of Telemaque. " It means that you will lose your appetite and grow very thin and pale ; that you will let your hair grow long on your shoulders and never brush it ; that you will wander about all night sighing to the moon ; that you will grow very tiresome and stupid," she concludes, laughing a little, but with a slight VIOLA. 127 earnestness underlying her mirth. In the uttermost depths of her heart she is growing a trifle just a trifle weary of this unfluctuating, never-varying worship, of which she is the ungrateful object. " If he would only grow a little impatient sometimes," she is saying to herself, " or by any chance bring another expression into his eyes than that half-frightened, loving one ; if he would only contradict me flatly now and then, or refuse to obey me blindly in everything, he would not be so amiable, and I should not like him so well, but he would be more in- teresting." These thoughts pass through her mind as she searches through her book eagerly, whilst he strips the leaves from a twig he has cut from a sapling near him, digest- ing meanwhile her last words. Presently he looks up. " What is the cure for this complaint, Viola, in case I should be afflicted with it ? You have a cure for all the cot- tagers' various ailments, perhaps you would have a remedy for mine." One of her wishes is granted. In his eyes there is no longer the half-frightened, loving look : there is a little glint of wickedness which delights her. " Ah, no," she says, with an arch look ; " I am afraid you would have to suffer without relief. Rheumatism and lum- bago I have studied from infancy, but sentiment is something beyond my experience." "Then I promise you I shall not fall a victim to it," he an- swers, promptly, flinging away his twig and cutting another. " I am not very thin or pale yet, and I am sure I have not lost my appetite. I am afraid my hair is rather untidy." He tries vainly to smooth it by running his fingers through the luxuriant dark waves which do not disguise the well-formed head. " As for sighing at the moon, oh, Viola, do you think even you could make me so silly ?" " I don't know," she says, with a mvtine look ; " other men do it. I have read it in books ; why should not you ?" " Because," Tonio is speaking gravely now, " because I should not think I was doing my love any honor by making it ridiculous." "And why not?" she answers, maliciously, but coloring a lovely rose-tint over cheek and throat. " It is a proof of feel- ing. Listen to this : ' II interrupting this catalogue of virtues with a laugh. " You know this by heart !' And she looks at him with undisguised astonish- ment. * "He had become emaciated; his hollow eyes were filled with con- suming fire ; seeing him so pale, so despondent, so changed, one could not realize that it was Telemachus. His beauty, his joyous spirit, his noble bearing, had fled from him " f " Cruel Love, to torment mortals, decrees that they shall seldom love those who love them." J"What attracts me to her is, her silence, her modesty, her re- serve, her assiduous industry, her fondness for needle-work, for em- broidery " VIOLA. 129 "Yes, I know it by heart," he says. "I have read it so often, Viola; it is so like " At this instant they are startled by a sudden sharp report which rings out through the silent forest and is reverberated by the surrounding mountains. Tonio springs to his feet, exclaiming, " It is higher up the mountain ! That was no rifle-shot, it was a pistol ; it may be a signal of distress ! Wait here for me ; I shall not be gone long !" Before she can reply, he has bounded up the steep bridle-path and disappeared. Wondering somewhat, but scarcely disturbed by the not unusual occurrence of a chamois hunter lost in the forest, the young girl takes up her book once more, and, with the color deepening again in her cheek, seeks the episode of which Antiope is the heroine. For, as I have said, Viola was that most delicious compound whereof the poet sings, that suggestion of . . . . " Sweet-brier and early May, Of fresh, cool, pure air of opening day; Like the gay lark sprung from the glittering dew; An angel, yet a very woman too !" CHAPTER IX. MEPHISTO'S MISSTEP. " Then comes the change, the check, the fall !" . ..." On pain of death let no man name Death to me ; it is a word infinitely terrible!" " I SAY, Gaston ! Lend a hand here ! This looks bad, very bad ! I am afraid master has done for himself this time 1 So gently, now. Ah, God help us ! he is dead!" A genuine groan bursts from the lips of Lyster Rawdon's man-servant as, with the aid of his companion, he drags his young master's limbs free from those of a fine English hunter, who lies a huddled heap of snorting agony close by. F* 130 SOUCL Raising the apparently lifeless head upon his knee, Jenkins gazes mournfully at the pallid features which are fast assuming the rigidity of death. The face, upturned to the sky, young, beautiful, with something heroic in the classic lines of the head which the close-cropped auburn hair discovers, with the clear- cut, beardless lips, laughter-prone, full-curved lips, and the ample gold-fringed eyelids, which look so strangely white in contrast with the sun-kissed paleness of the rest of the face, is that of a young god, stricken unto death in the fulness and joyousness of life, perishing with the goblet at his lips, with the vine- clusters, unwithered in a single leaf, crowning his temples still. Surely, Jenkins thinks, a pitiful sight ; a sight which de- prives him momentarily of his wonted good sense and energy. Gaston, the Swiss guide, however, retains possession of such mental faculties as nature has bestowed upon him, and pro- duces a brandy-flask. Finding this remedy of no avail, he restores it to his pocket, and, casting himself face downward upon the earth, listens intently for the sound of running water. Presently he disappears like a flash, to return in a few moments with his Tyrolean hat brimful of cold water, which he dashes at intervals into the ghastly face upon which Jenkins's eyes are gloomily fixed. " All the springs in the Alps wouldn't be of any use here," he says, despondingly. " Are you so dumb that you can't see when a man's dead ?" And the imperturbable Briton almost chokes as he stifles a sob in his throat. Gaston eyes him contemptuously. Kneeling down beside the insensible form, he tears open the waistcoat and thrusts his hand under the delicate cambric. " Mais sacristi ! que tu es sot ! va ! his heart beats ! Loosen his neck-tie and stop blubbering! We'll soon bring him round!" he exclaims, wrathfully. But no sign of returning animation rewards their exer- tions ; the pallid face, the rigid limbs, the scarce-fluttering heart alter not one shade of their awful meaning. The two men look at each other hopelessly. The shadows are length- ening visibly about them ; something must be done before the twilight overtakes them. Jenkins pulls himself together and assumes command. " You must take one of the mules, Gaston, and gallop to the VIOLA. 131 nearest town, or village, or castle, it don't matter which, and demand assistance. You speak the language better than I," he modestly adds, his acquaintance with any other than his native tongue being extremely limited; ''besides, I cannot leave master. For heaven's sake, get off! lose no more time!" The Swiss is about to throw himself upon the better-looking of the two patient animals who are enjoying their unaccustomed rot and placidly cropping the herbage about them at a little distance, when Jenkins calls out, " Leave the brandy, will you !" And, taking a small revolver from his inside pocket, he adds, pointing to the prostrate horse, " Put a bullet through that poor creature's brain before you go, for the Lord's sake ! I can't stand seeing him suffer any longer ! It's a regular smash-up for him, isn't it?" " Yes : his case is hopeless, pauvre diuble /" replies Gaston, sorrowfully. And, taking the weapon, he strides over to the agonized brute. One shot, and the convulsed limbs relax, the beautiful head falls lifeless on the earth. " I fancy we could get a glimpse of the Val d' Anzasca from here," his master had said a moment before the accident, and had turned his horse abruptly off the safe, beaten track of the 8implon Pass to plunge down a precipitous bridle-path which offered the stimulant of danger in contrast to the monotonous jog-trot of the road. It was then that Mephisto had made that unfortunate misstep which cost him and his owner dear. Before the echoes of that merciful shot have died away, Gaston is in the saddle, galloping his sure-footed, mountain-bred animal fearlessly down the rugged steep past the brook whence he had fetched the water and where the notes of a violin had been wafted towards him from the valley below. At a turn in the path he encounters Tonio mounting rapidly. Without slackening his pace, Gaston, with frantic gesticulation , calls out, " Higher up ! help wanted ! man killed !'' and dashes on, on past the leafy nook where Viola sits absorbed in Tele- maque's confession, terrifying her by his wild looks and break- neck descent, on, until he draws rein at last, in front of the primitive inn where the peasantry of Vogogna are enjoying their evening meal al fresco. Tben ensues a mad confusion of tongues, followed by a rapid donning of jackets, and, with an improvised litter, half a dozen men have started to the 132 SOUCI. scene of the accident, headed by Gaston, who has hastily refreshed himself by a flask of red wine thoughtfully pressed upon him by the landlord. " Of course they will bring his Eccellenza to the Corona," lie splutters, brandishing a toasting-fork with which he had been preparing the polenta for his customers. " I will have a room prepared immediately. Maria ! Luigi ! what are you standing staring about? Go within and make ready for his Eccellenza !" And losing his head completely at the pros- pective vision of English gold, which the death of an English noble in his house would shower upon him, he yields un- limited credit on the score of vin ordinaire to the excited villagers outside. To the little man's indignant astonishment the gentle voice of Heinrich Hablemann is now heard, mildly assuring him that the body of the unfortunate stranger shall be brought to his cottage, being nearer the high-road, and the hartsfrau understanding better what should be done than all the village put together. ; 'And you know well, my friend," he adds, calmly regarding the incensed host of the Corona, " what with rats and other vermin, you have not a room in your house fit for a man to live in, much less to die in." Then amid shouts of laughter Heinrich turns away, with his violin tucked under his arm, his serenity absolutely unruffled by the storm of vituperative abuse, interlarded with fierce Italian expletives, which bursts forth from the irate inn-keeper, who dances about in his paper cap and greasy apron in impotent fury, vowing vengeance upon this cracked fiddler who dares to intercept his English custom. The villagers, with one accord, side with Heinrich. They know how decided a contrast exists between the immaculately- neat German cottage and the filthy little inn ; and then it is a conceded fact in the village that no one understands laying out a body as beautifully as the old Frau, who enjoys perform- ing the office for even the humblest of the inhabitants. Yes; she certainly deserves to try her hand on this English milord. Heinrich, having forewarned his mother of the expected arrival, saunters slowly in the direction whence the litter- bearers are already returning with their sad burden. As they draw nearer, he is surprised to see Antonio at the head of the cortege, and his Liebchen walking, with pale cheek and down- VIOLA. 133 oast eye, beside him. Over the face of the injured man is spread a white silk handkerchief in whose corners are em- broidered bouquets of violets. Heinrich recognizes it as one given to Viola by the Contessa, .which she sometimes wears about her neck on holidays. At the sound of many feet tramping up the garden-walk Frau Hablemann comes out and issues her orders in the most guttural Italian, rendered emphatic by her energetic move- ments and imperative will. The sitting-room has been speedily transformed into a comfortable bedroom; therein the helpless burden is soon carried, and the cottage immediately cleared of all intruders. Viola, about to escape to her own little bed- room, is arrested by the sharp voice of her grandmother : " Liebchen ! Liebchen ! Where is she? Fetch me another pillow, and be quick !" The girl flies to do her bidding, but, reappearing with the desired article, hesitates on the threshold, timid, trembling, awed by the sight before her. There lie the broad-chested form, the long, lithe limbs, the statuesque head with its death- like face. She dares not approach it. " Come in !" cries the old lady. " What ails you, child ? You are as white as though you had seen your dappelg&nger!" " I I cannot bear to look at a dead person, grandmother !" she ventures, imploringly. " Then don't look at him," returns the practical Frau. ' Who says he is dead? He's no more dead than I am ! Here ! don't be a goose ; hold this basin, so, or," as she observes the irrepressible shudder that passes over the girl, " bathe his head with that vinegar, and Heinrich shall assist me." The air is heavy with the disagreeable odor of burnt feathers, which had been of no avail (and small wonder: who would return to a life so perfumed ?), and as Viola takes the sponge in her reluctant hand she turns faint and giddy at the touch of that face. Heinrich has vanished. Observing that his duty consisted in holding the pewter basin into which the bright young blood was to gush forth from the rigid arm at the application of the good Frau's lancet, ho has fled incontinently, motion- ing Jenkins to take his place. Jenkins, like the rest of the world, thinks him mad. 12 134 SOUCL " So /" sighs the Frau, with intense satisfaction, as, after a minute, the closed eyelids tremble, then slowly open, disclosing the bluest of eyes beneath. " Ach, Hebe Gottl he will live !" And she restores to its case the merciful instrument which has rarely failed in its mission during the last thirty years, used indiscriminately for man and beast. Jenkins, restraining a natural desire to fall on the old woman's neck and express his gratitude by an honest John- Bullish hug, produces the brandy-flask, his faith in that restorative reviving, and at a sign of approval from the doc- tress, who is binding up the arm, pours a few drops between his master's lips. " Liebchen, see to that bouillon in the kitchen. I must have it in fifteen minutes ; and send your father here, that we may get this poor boy to bed and find out what bones are broken." Heinrich returns reluctantly, and impedes, to the best of his ability, the diligent search for broken bones ; the old lady making her investigations tediously thorough, her patient thinks. The injury inflicted by that unlucky misstep of poor Mephisto's, when he sent his master head-foremost upon the rocks and stumbled down upon him, is found to be concussion of the brain and a score of bruises and scratches, but no other internal or external damage. As soon as the patient has been fed and made comfortable for the night, the household Hablemann composes itself to slumber, Jenkins and the Swiss guide having been dis- patched to the Corona. The good Frau, hideous in a broad- frilled cap and bed-gown, nods throughout the night in an arm-chair close by the bedside of her charge. VIOLA. 135 CHAPTER X. " VIOLA, I HAVE BEEN THINKING." " Death ! What do'st ? Oh, hold thy hand !" BEFORE the night-light has fizzed its life away in its cup of oil, or the embers on the hearth have grown cold, the bruised body of the unfortunate stranger tosses restlessly on its couch, and the blue eyes have become wild in the delirium of fever, which the Frau's most potent tisanes are powerless to control. A physician, promptly summoned from Domo d'Ossola by the perturbed Jenkins, the following day, shakes his head gravely, forbids the removal of the sufferer, and, with in- numerable shruggings and brow-liftings, expressive of dire anxiety of mind, suggests the propriety of notifying the friends of his Excellency of his danger. From obeying this last injunction Jenkins wisely forbears. The sole living relative Lyster Rawdon possesses is his uncle, Lord Harrowdale, who during the latter years of his allotted threescore-and-ten has been a confirmed victim to gout, unable for weeks to move out of his wheel-chair, and throughout those weeks a terror to his household and his neighborhood. A childless widower, with a large estate at his disposal, he natu- rally leans somewhat affectionately towards the only son of a favorite sister (brothers he had none). The boy's parents had been obliging enough to die, and leave the education and management of their son exclusively in the hands of his uncle. With the exception of himself, Lord Harrowdale had loved nothing better in all those seventy years than the bright-faced boy who had grown into such a promising man. Could he have seen him now, with parched lips and mad-straining eyes, gasping under that lowly roof, out of reach of the luxuries and comforts, the medical skill and professional nursing with which science provides alleviation for such ills as are the heri- tage of flesh, there would have been an immense amount of 136 SOUCI. impious questioning of Providence, a great deal of profane wrath expended upon the irascible old man's servants, and upon those subdued acquaintances who visited him cautiously, keeping a vigilant eye upon the knotted stick in his right hand, and holding themselves at a discreet distance, whilst they avoided contumacious discourse, none of which would have benefited in the slightest degree the youth upon whom his hopes were centred. With the stoical resignation of a philosopher whose " hups and downs" have been of sufficient variety to warrant a certain amount of blaseism, Jenkins resolves to convey no tidings of the accident to his lordship, at least until something of a more definite nature can be communicated ; he shudders to think what that may be. In the mean time he establishes himself as comfortably as possible at the Corona; pays and dismisses Gaston ; writes to the bankers to forward his master's correspondence, and shares the vigils of- the old hau&frau, awaiting patiently the issue of the struggle, which shall be decided only after a hard fight over every inch of ground youth and a good constitution offers. Days and nights pass away, and still the fever rages, coursing madly through the veins which had throbbed so lately with the purple of life's youthful exuberance, scorching with its fierce breath the fair beauty and laying waste with riotous prodigality the reserve force upon which the young man prided himself. Daily Jenkins's face grows more lugubrious, the doctor's head-shakings wax more ominous, and the Frau has ceased to make application to her herb-cupboard, in despair of finding an antidote to this poison-fever which thwarts her so persist- ently. Days pass, and through the gloom gathering about the sick man's pillow no ray of hope now pierces : the fever has at last spent itself, and the patient is sinking rapidly. The rustle of the Death- Angel's wings arouses them all to a self-reproachful panic. They bemoan the inexperience of the medical man; the impossibility of procuring other advice; the length of time which must elapse before friends can be sum- .moned upon whom the dying man would fain once more rest his languid eyes ere he goes hence. Jenkins feels the respon- sibility burdensome upon his shoulders ; he is convinced that VIOLA. 137 he can never meet Lord Harrowdale with the grievous tidings of his boy's death, and importunes the Frau ceaselessly on the subject of beef-tea and brandy wherewith to stave off the dread Destroyer. Viola sits stitching in her little bedroom, when she is not busy in the kitchen, oppressed and saddened by the awful shadow blotting out the sunshine all about her, wondering always at the strange fate that had brought this poor man away from country, friends, and kindred to die where no familiar face or voice or touch might soothe his parting moments. Hcinrich goes stealthily into the room on tiptoe and gazes sadly upon the wasted form, the transparent face and hands, and steals quietly out again, out along the valley, sending back on the soft spring air the saddest and sweetest of requiems. During all this trying time Antonio had been most useful and kind. At Viola's faintest suggestion he would scour the country for miles to procure such comforts or necessaries as were wanted for the sufferer. He invented shades for the windows of the sick-room, that the garish rays of the sun should not torture his bloodshot eyes ; he carried water daily in a pail from a mountain-stream, cold and pellucid as ice ; he sat and watched many a night in the little kitchen, ready at a moment's notice to ride over to Domo d'Ossola for the doctor, or to take Jenkins's post beside his master when fatigue had overcome his stoutest resolution. At last the day came when the physician announced that his patient could not survive twenty-four hours. It had been a close, sultry June day, but towards evening a fresh, sweet breeze had sprung up, and the cottage doors and windows had been set wide open to catch all they could of its refreshment. The twenty-four hours have passed, and Tonio, sitting alone in the little porch below, is beginning to doubt the infallibility of medical judgment, when he is startled by the sound of Viola's light, swift footsteps along the passage towards the kitchen. " She is coming to tell me all is over !" is his first thought ; then, as she comes out to him, with a bright, glad look on her face.on which the starlight falls, he knows before she speaks that hope has dawned again in the hearts of those weary watchers by the sick man's bed. " Tonio," she says, speaking eagerly but in a whisper, " he 12* 138 SOUCI. will not die after all ! .1 came to tell you ! I could not go to bed with that dreadful thought hanging over me that horrible, ghastly Death would steal into our home to-night, and a moment ago I crept to the door and grandmother motioned' me away; but she nodded her head at me and smiled, smiled, Tonio, and pointed at him, and he was sleeping sweetly ! Oh, Tonio ! he will live now ! Listen ! that is a cock crowing : it must be nearly morning." " Yes, the doctor has made a mistake this time; the twenty- four hours are past, and it is possible he may live. But you, Viola, you have been up all night ; you should go and sleep now." "I could not," she answers, decidedly; and seating herself on the rustic bench opposite to him, she pulls down a cluster of clematis from the vine which clambers all over the porch and the front of the cottage, and buries her face in its dewy fragrance. " I am not the least sleepy ; I am only glad, so glad !" " Yet you do not know this stranger," muses Tonio. "Ah, Viola ! I would be willing to suffer as much as he has done to make you glad that my life was spared f" " Foolish boy !" she says, softly, and pulls down another cluster, at which she sniffs daintily. " Viola," he says, suddenly, coming over to her and speak- ing earnestly, " I have been thinking " " Have you, really ?" she asks, with faint mockery in her tone. " I have been thinking," he repeats, quietly, " of leaving Vogogna of going away somewhere to some great city where " He is interrupted by a faint cry : the girl has turned towards him ; in her face are mingled grief and reproach. " What have we done to you ? Why do you wish to leave us?^ Oh, Tonio! Tonio!" And then the hands drop the bruised blossoms and in the blue eyes the tears are glistening. This unexpected sight completely unnerves Tonio ; he throws himself on his knees beside her, crying, wildly, " Are these tears for me ? Viola, is it possible that my going can cause you pain ? Ah, Dieu ! what happiness you give me, my beloved !" " Hush," she says, gently; half frightened by this irrepress- VIOLA. 139 ible emotion, " hush ; you must never think again of going away of leaving Vogogna ! Why, where would you go ? and what would I do without you ? No one to talk to me ! no offe to walk with ! Ah, Tonio ! you know well I cannot spare you. It was foolish to cry, but I have been sad all day, and now You did not mean it ?'' And she smiles down at him with the tears yet upon her cheek, while Tonio, casting aside the last vestige of restraint, cries, in a stifled voice, " Viola, do not ask me to stay unless you love me ; yes, .love me better than all the earth holds, as I love you ; more than life, a thousand times ! so dearly that I would give this worthless life of mine joyfully to save you pain. Viola, can you ever love me like this?" He does not touch her ; his clasped hands are wrung together so that the veins stand out upon them in dark lines ; his eyes, strained and anxious, are fixed upon her face. " Don't ! You frighten me !" she whispers, shrinking a little from him. Instantly he is on his feet, cut to the quick by that involun- tary movement of hers, which, to his sensitive perceptions, is too eloquent to be misunderstood. " Forgive me, Viola ; I have been sitting here alone so long that I am I shall never frighten you again !" " And you will not go away?" she ventures, timidly. " No ; not if it would give you pain," he replies, unhesi- tatingly. " Dear Tonio !" Her hand reaches up to his : apparently he does not perceive it, and she draws it back again and plucks nervously at the flowers on her lap. " Are you vexed with me?" she asks, breaking the silence, which has grown oppressive, and longing to be reconciled. " I could not be vexed with you ; but, Viola see there, in the east, the first gleam of the rising sun ! I must begone. Adieu ! adieu !" And, without one glance towards her, he springs down the steps and is through the gate before she has recovered from her surprise at this abrupt change of manner and sudden departure. " How impetuous he is !" she says to herself. " Going off like that, before I could tell him that I am really fond of him ! I cannot think what has changed him so of late ; he was always so gentle and calm, and now he is sometimes quite rough and 140 SOUCL disagreeable. Poor Tonio ! he thinks I do not care for him ! I shall tell him the very next time I see him that I do love him dearly ! Ah, how sweet the flowers are at day-dawn ! I cannot bear to leave them ; and yet I should go within and help grandmother " Lingering just a moment or two longer to inhale the fra- grance of the starry white blossoms, with her arm stretched along the back of the seat and her exquisite face lying up- turned upon it, with the drooping green tendrils framing her in, and the golden arrows of sunrise shot forth from the east falling all about her, Viola drops asleep, making a fair com- panion picture to that vision of sleeping youth and beauty which tempted Selene from her chariot of fire to visit the grotto of Mount Latmus. CHAPTER XI. THE VIOLET -BROIDERED KERCHIEF. .... "Moreover in this tyme of the yere called the sprynge-tyme, provoked by the naturall beautie and joyous aspecte of the flourysh- ynge habyte of this temporale worlde, the nature of them in whom is any sparke of gentyll courage requireth to solace and bankette with mutuall resorte, communicating together their fantasyes and sundry devices." .... LYSTER RAWDON lies weakly contemplating for the twen- tieth time the interieur after Gerard Dow, afforded by his present quarters, whitewashed walls, staring, spotlessly clean, contrasting vividly with red-tiled floor and bright-green lattice glaring hotly under the fierce June sun. The invalid's weary eyes travel slowly from the corner-cupboard, behind whose glass doors stands that choice array, dear to the German heart, of blue-and-white crockery, to the old-fashioned harpsichord whose keys are as yellow with age as the piled-up sheets of music lying upon it. " Musical, too, these people," he thinks, languidly. " I wonder who plays on that odd-looking instrument? came out of the ark, I imagine ! Perhaps the old man with the violin discourses thereon ! Would to heaven he would come in and jingle out a tune now: the everlasting VIOLA. 141 click of those knitting-needles would give Simeon Stylites himself delirium tremens ! I can't stand it much longer!" And here an audible groan brings the cap-frills and the wart- embellished nose of the old Frau into view, while a guttural voice asks if anything is wanted. " Nein, nein /" is the impatient reply, as the young man feebly waves her aside, closing his eyes with an involuntary shudder. " Ach Gott /" grunts the old woman, resuming her seat and her knitting. Waking suddenly from a momentary slumber which ensues, Rawdon's eyes open upon the picture hanging over the pre- posterously high chimney-piece. It is a dingy copy of Gior- gione's "Monk at the Clavichord," and had been one of Hein- rich's unpardonable extravagances of former days. In the young friar's face burns the very soul of music as his fingers linger with loving tenderness upon the keys. One can almost fancy what the strains must be which could bring such rapt ecstasy into the glorious eyes. " Rather a good face, that," Lyster muses ; " and a curious effect of light falling on the inspired eyes. Wants cleaning very badly, but shouldn't wonder if it were valuable. Aston- ishing how one meets with good pictures where one least expects them. If these people would part with it pshaw ! what would they not part with for a sufficient figure in their beloved guldens ? I shall offer them a fabulous price for that souvenir of my cursed luck, and so remunerate them for their trouble, for I have given them a precious lot of trouble, I'm sure, during this blessed fortnight ! Two weeks ? Nearer three, I fancy, and long and tiresome have they been as so many years ! Three whole weeks wasted in this abominable village, leagues away from comfort, luxury, a friend, or even a newspaper!" Then he falls to wondering where that rascal of a Jenkins can be, and whether poor Mephisto is worse lodged than himself, and equally bored, and anathematizes his ill luck, or his obstinacy, which has entailed upon him such grievous martyrdom ; and then he wishes the shadow of the vine-leaves about the window would not flicker on the white wall opposite in such maddening fiisliion, and that somebody would strangle that loud-ticking Dutch clock in the corner, and that / 142 SOUCI. So he sinks again into slumber, and dreams that he is back at college modestly receiving the prize of the " University Eight," whilst the band strikes up an Italian barcarolle, and sweet Clare Delauaere, looking her prettiest in the Cambridge blue, waves her handkerchief and throws kisses towards him from 'the dis- tance. Then the scene shifts, and he hears the chapel-bell, and hurries into gown and out into the solemn quadrangle of Christ's, startling the spectacled bed-makers and the " dim-eyed vergers" whom he meets by his mad haste. Then a huge blue-bottle blunders in through the bowed lattice and, settling upon the dreamer's nose, awakens him with a start, and the harmless insect is consigned to the nethermost shades of Hades by the invalid, who is too weak to do battle with him after the ordinary fashion. Once more this ungrateful Rawdon, who has but just emerged from the portals of a deadly peril, begins to chafe and fume at his enforced inaction : the monotonous sounds about him, the felt presence of the old crone at his bed-head, grow insupportable. The longing to murder somebody, or something, begins to stir in his blood. He will get up and go out spite of anybody, he will get out of this stuffy little room and away from that hideous old woman if he dies for it. It is so warm and sunny outside ! He can hear the buzzing of the bees as they gather their store of honey within reach of his hand ; he can smell the sweet breath of the mignonette, and see the green fields in the distance, and the cool, shady-wooded hill-side. " Yes, I shall go out there, cost what it may. I will send the old woman for some slop or other, and make my escape through the window before Halloo, Jenkins ! Any letters?" Fortunately for his sanity, there is a goodly budget, which somewhat exhausts the young man in the perusal, so that after the last one has been refolded and replaced in its envelope the lids begin to droop again over the weak eyes. Jenkins, stand- ing at a little distance awaiting further orders, after cautiously closing the door upon the retreating form of Frau Hiiblemaun, now advances. " Beg pardon, sir," he begins; and, fumbling in his pocket, draws forth a small parcel neatly done up in note-paper, which he hands to his master. " Well ?" cries Rawdon, impatiently turning it over between VIOLA. 143 his emaciated fingers. " Where did this come from ? What the deuce is it?" " That, please, sir, is the kerchief, sir !" mysteriously lower- ing his voice. " The kerchief? What do you mean ? What kerchief?" " The one which somebody took from your pocket, sir, the evening of the accident, and spread over your face, my back being turned for an instant, or nobody should have took such a liberty. I fancied you set much store by it, sir, and so secured it from the touch of these people about here." " Ah, thanks. You may go now, Jenkins. No ; nothing more before night : look in about ten." As soon as his servant has departed, Lyster Rawdon opens the little parcel and draws therefrom a white silk handkerchief embroidered with violets, which to his knowledge he has never before laid eyes upon. " In the name of the prophet, did this thing drop from the clouds upon my face, or is it some trick of Jenkins's ? A feminine belonging it assuredly is, but who among this clumsy-limbed, linsey-petticoated peasantry could possess an article of dress as dainty and poetical as this?" Thus he muses and wonders, as he passes the gleaming silk through his fingers and lays it in cool folds on his cheek, and lastly falls asleep with it under his pillow, weakly clutched in his thin hand. 144 SOUCI. CHAPTER XII. "A YELLOW PRIMROSE WAS TO HIM." " Like the swell of some sweet tune Morning rises into noon May glides onward into June." " Look at the woman here with the new soul Like my own Psyche's, fresh upon her lips Alit, the visionary butterfly, Waiting my word to enter and make bright, Or nutter off and leave all blank, as first." BROWNING. HE is certainly very wretched and limp and loosely hinged as he crawls forth for the first time after his illness, supported on one side by Jenkins and on the other by Heinrich, with Frau Hablemann bringing up the rear, laden with rugs and cushions. As they gain the shady nook at which he has gazed with such longing impatience during so many days, Lyster Rawdon sinks down quite exhausted by this first effort, and closes his eyes upon the vision of trees and plants and fences whirling about in a mad, fantastic dance which defies the laws of natural philosophy and threatens a relapse into delirium. The fresh air revives him almost immediately, and, as the old Frau hastens back to the cottage for restoratives, the in- valid's eyes unclose, and Jenkins is emphatically instructed to waylay her and prevent any further ministrations at her hands. " I am so tired of that wart, Jenkins, and so weary of those frightful gutturals. Couldn't manage to bring my dinner out here yourself, could you ? I fancy I could do better out of that hot little room," plaintively concludes his master, as he settles himself comfortably on his rugs and sniifs gratefully the sweet-scented air. " Yes, sir, by all means ; I shall serve it myself, sir, I see a harbor within reach. Anything further, sir ?" "Nothing; stay, where is my book? Ah, thanks, you can fly, Jenkins ! I see the cap-frills looming in the distance ! VIOLA. U5 She is not to come near me to-day ; remember !" As his ser- vant moves off to intercept the worthy Frau, who struggles under an extensive collection of tisanes and cordials, Rawdon, stretching himself languidly in the foliage-tempered sunshine, murmurs, " I wonder why such objects as that old crone are permitted to cumber the earth ? I never could understand how a great painter could choose to perpetuate them on can- vas. Curious taste 1 ! spending hours of genius in handing down to posterity a wrinkle or a wart ! How Holbein would have gloated over this hideous old Frau !" And he opens a volume of the light French literature which composes his studies at this epoch, and tries to read. Clearly, Lyster Rawdon is a philosopher of the aesthetic school : who is not while the wine of life still froths within him ? He is not ungrateful ; but his gratitude shall assume the form of munificent compensation. He is simply epicurean, and as selfish as men well-born, well-looking, and rich are edu- cated to be, and invariably are in the heyday of their youth. It does not occur to him that in blotting out of existence that immense majority unfavored by nature he would anni- hilate a vast proportion of the good done in the world, of usefulness and energy and industry, those homely virtues without which beauty would infallibly starve and suffer and become food for worms. Nor does he pause to consider how the steady nerve and unflinching endurance of the old German woman had served him in good stead during his tedious ill- ness, when the transparent-cheeked, taper-fingered houri of his worldly paradise would have faltered and failed. \\ c would not, in good sooth, banish from our gardens the tulip or the rose, but we would fain see some straggling beams of sunshine penetrate those obscure corners and out-of-the-way placet where lie hidden the plain sister-flowers whose power to men is no less surely manifest; the dun-colored, drooping- headed plants that carry gentle healing under their shy leaves and balm for many a smart in their scentless calyces. We cannot all be Juliets, nor is life one interminable moon- lit balcony scene, where youth and health and beauty glow perennially under a southern-starred sky ; where the language is lovers' rapturous hyperbole and the very atmosphere laden with ecstasy. In this witches' cauldron we call life there are " toil and a 13 146 SOUCL trouble," bane and rue, gall-bitter sighs and tears, Eve's curse and the sweat of Adam's brow, sin and sin's fruit, pain, stirred into one seething, bubbling ferment by the Hecate Circum- stance. Way, then, for the comforters, the healers, the plain ones of the earth ! Lyster Rawdon tries to read, in vain. He cannot fix his attention on those black lines, he can only lie still with half- closed eyes and semi-torpid mind, enjoying the sweet air blow- ing revivingly over him fresh from the hills. He wonders how he could possibly have endured existence in that contracted space within the cottage walls, and how he can ever bring him- self to re-enter it. How terribly prosaic, how lornee life must be in this valley, shut in by those everlasting mountains from even a sight of the great world beyond ! Ah, it is suffocating even to think of it ! And so he drowses away the hours until noon, reading a little, thinking a little, and growl- ing a great deal, in an indolent, self-pitying way ; regretting ceaselessly his pig-headedness in trying to compass these Alpine passes otherwise than mule-mounted ; bemoaning rancorously poor Mephisto's untimely end ; wondering if Clare Delarnere is flirting as hard as usual at Homburg, and what she will say when she sees this gaunt spectre of his former self; fighting languidly the while the energetic bees, who, mistaking him for some giant honey-laden flower, bestow upon him their unwel- come attentions. Thus the heavy-footed hours creep slowly on, weighted by troublous regrets and conjectures, which would surely have reduced Rawdon's weakness to a condition of lachrymose im- becility in time, had not a Devs ex machina intervened. As the raid-day bell rings out its cheerful summons to the workers in the fields, Rawdon sees advancing towards him a slight, well-carried figure, habited in the coarse but picturesque garb of the peasantry, and surmounted by a face which might have looked out of the canvas of a Duccio or a Fra Angelico. Upon her uncovered head the sun pours down his meridian rays without mercy, bringing out with startling effect the deli- cate tints of her complexion and the deep azure of her eyes. On her arm hangs a comfortable-looking basket covered with a snow-white napkin, from which protrude the neck of a bottle and the legs of a pullet, with a green glimmer of juvenile salad between them. VIOLA. 147 " Luncheon and more gutturals ; but, in the name of all the gods ! where did this beauty come from ?" Slightly modi- fying his degagee attitude, Lyster raises his glengarry with an expression of mixed awe and delight, rather comic, upou his youthful features. "Buon giorno, signorina!" he ventures, with his sweetest smile. There is no reply, save the faintest possible inclination of the graceful head. " Gutturals !" thinks Rawdon. " Guten Morgen, Frdulcin /" " Good-morning, sir !" returns Viola, demurely, in English, beginning to unpack her basket and spread its contents tempt- ingly before the invalid. "Ah ! you speak my language /" exclaims the Briton. " Yes, I do speak English. Not very well, but well enough," she answers, simply. " And how well is well enough ?" pursues Rawdon, whose ennui has fled, and is succeeded by an animation of manner and show of interest which would not perhaps be considered good form in his set at home. " You mean that you can make yourself understood ?" " No," she smiles ; " I am afraid I did mean well enough for a language which is not beautiful ; at least," she adds, apologetically, " it does seem hard and cold to me." A gleam of amusement flashes from Rawdon 's blue eyes : he is almost piqued. This girl, born and bred in the valley whose boundary-line reaches almost to the clouds, has opin- ions ; she thinks, reasons, judges, and is not afraid to assert her conclusions ! She is frank, too : she will not flatter ; yet she is not bold or rude. How firmly she spoke, and with what a delicious blush ! He watches her curiously, as with dainty movements she spreads a white cloth on a smooth bit of turf and arranges his meal with dexterous grace. When all is ready even the bottle uncorked and his glass filled Viola is about to withdraw, but Rawdon, guessing her in- tention, bursts forth, " And so you do not like English or English people?" " Pardon, sir. I did say that I do not prefer the language ; I do like the people." " Really ? Then you have known some of my compatriots?" Already a faint tinge of sarcasm in his voice, as the thought intrudes, " I wonder whether if one were to explore the crater 148 SOUCL of Vesuvius one might discover an aboriginal who had not been interviewed by John Bull?" We cannot blame him for a twinge of impatience, can we ? The ubiquity of John Bull and of his foster-children of the West is a universal grievance. Cast your eyes up into the blue ether, he is there in a balloon ; dive beneath the waves of the sea, he is there teaching aquatic housekeeping, and proving beyond a doubt that even there mighf a trouble- some little English offshoot take root and flourish. One may plunge into the wilds of Africa and watch him lion-hunting, or dig down into the bowels of the earth and find him gold- mining, silver-mining, lead-mining, coal-mining. One pitches one's tent on the topmost peak of the Himalayas, and as surely as one issues forth in search of goat's milk or wild hooey, one is accosted in the too familiar vernacular. He pervades the face of the earth ; swarms over the desert, on the prairie, in the hamlet ; wherever that resolute, curious, sport-loving, supremacy-asserting foot can find space to locate itself, it has left its irrefutable and not pigmy track : in ice and snow, in loam and lava, in the memory of landlords and the hearts of beer-purveyors. Perhaps we may add, without flattery, in the respect and esteem of all the nations, for, with all his pomposity, John Bull is an honest and an upright John Bull, and we love him I Thus " I have met one of your compatriots," murmurs the lily of the valley between the Alpine heights. " But you are German ?" asks llawdon, bringing himself to a sitting posture, and beginning to carve the fowl. " Yes, I am German." " And think our language harsher, colder, than yours ?" " Oh, yes ; German is not like English ; it is full of deep heart-tones, though it is not so soft and liquid as Italian, or even French," she admits, reluctantly. Her companion looks surprised. " Do you know all these languages ?" he says. " Let me see, German, Italian, French, English, and how many more?" He has laid down the carving-knife to count them on his fingers, and Viola, observing how tremulous are his hands, comes forward, and, with a few swift cuts, dissects the little chicken, and answers, with heightened color, " None, sir." VIOLA. 149 " Did all these tongues come to you spontaneously all at once as to the unlucky wretches at the Tower of Babel ?" " No," laughs Viola, and he wonders were ever pearls whiter than those which flash upon him for an instant, "oh, no ; German is my native language, and we came to Vogogna when I was quite a baby, so I was obliged to speak Italian ; but French and English were taught me by Mees Crawford, Maddalena's governess, and " she hesitates a moment, then adds desperately, as though to forestall any possible ques- tion from this inquisitive Englishman, " she taught me also to read and write to play on the harpsichord and to sketch and everything !" " What a rara avis Maddalena's governess must be !" com- ments Ilawdon, stretching towards his companion a pepper- and-salt-plaid arm, whose thin white hand holds the solitary plate with a delicate slice of fowl upon it. " And so she taught you everything ! what a little cyclopaedia you must be!" "Pardon, sir," motioning back the outstretched arm; "I have dined ; and there is but one plate." And she draws from her pocket some embroidery, and bends her head over it. At this Ilawdon lays down knife and fork, with an expression of dogged obstinacy on his face. " In that case," he says, coldly, " I have no appetite. We will replace these good things in the basket, signorina," beginning operations by emptying a plate of weissbrod a delicacy manufactured solely by Frau Hilblemaun into the carefully-prepared Ger- nian salad. Viola, looking absolutely terrified, springs towards him, cry- ing, whilst she seizes the gray arm, "Ah, but that will be unkind, sir ! Grandmother will never forgive me if I do carry your dinner back to her ! See ! here is the good soup : that will strengthen you ; and here are berries which I gath- ered at sunrise this morning." And she diplomatically un- covers the tureen and draws aside some dewy vine-leaves to allow the tempting aroma of the soup and the freshness of the berries to plead their own cause. " You gathered these at sunrise for me ?" cries the young inaii. with the ready egotism of his sex and years. "Then you must share them with me. Come, let it be a picnic tcte-u-lete ; I don't like to feed alone." 13* 150 souci. So they compromise matters. Viola eats strawberries from the tips of her slender, sun-browned fingers off a vine-leaf plate, whilst llawdon goes in for the substantiate with the keen enjoyment of a convalescent. As he leisurely dines he takes note of the wonderfully pure oval of his companion's face, of the length of the dark eyelashes so frequently defined upon the flushing cheek, and of the rare shapeliness of the foot and ankle which even the coarse stocking and clumsy shoe cannot disguise. Conversation does not languish ; Rawdon's curiosity is mo- mentarily increasing, and Viola's proud shyness is wearing off. Only once has he heard that little low ripple of a laugh ; but she has smiled often, and she talks ten words for every berry she eats. The invalid's languor has disappeared. He has done full justice to each dish, lingering absurdly long over this repast, which has never been equalled in his experience, and never will be again perhaps. His blue eyes are alight with some- thing of their old joyousness ; this valley is not such a dreary hole, after all. He has extracted from Viola the entire his- tory of her sojourn with the Contessa ; her naive recital touch- ing him sometimes to suppressed amusement, sometimes to indignation, which he does not hesitate to flash forth with boyish impetuosity. For, spite of his twenty-two years, Lyster llawdon is at heart a boy, rash, daring, hot-headed, with all a boy's genuine loathing of double-dealing and intolerance of injustice. Behind his coat-of-mail of well-bred nonchalance he has kept sacred his old enthusiasms, and a freshness of feeling which has resisted even the battering effects of a couple of seasons. I fancy the boy survives longer in the Englishman than in men of any other nationality. There is a flicker of genuine boyish mischief in the eye of many a potent, grave, and rev- erend signior, and a ring in his hearty laugh, which would not be out of place in the Eton play-ground. I doubt not there are sapient heads in both Houses which would not wag repre- hensively over the recital of a school-boy prank, and men who would not scorn a game at foot-ball, and whose blood would tingle yet in the cricket-field, were it not for that inflexible " tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur m illfs." Lyster llawdon will always keep a great deal of the boy VIOLA. 151 about him ; spite of the enormous social advantages to which he was born, he is morally and mentally wholesome and sound. " It seems to me to have been a monstrousjy selfish piece of business for that noble dame to have taken this girl out of her humble sphere for just such length of time as suited her convenience or caprice, to cast her back again among these boors after utterly unfitting her to herd with them !" Thus he fumes, inwardly, as he observes the sad droop of Viola's lips at the conclusion of her retrospective narration. There will never come a time, Viola thinks, when she can glance back without regret upon those three years of happiness, those years spent in a very Canaan overflowing with the milk arid honey of the world's choicest allurements of cultivation and the refinements of life, the elegancies of art and culture. Alas, she has learned to appreciate to the fullest extent all these things, and to shrink from anything that jars against the sensitive perceptions which innate in her, peasant as she is, might have rested unawakened within her. Ah, how many are there who, in default of opportunity, live out their clod-life to the end, and with wings over-weighted by igno- rance, doubt, despair, unable to soar above the level of their surroundings, " die with all their music in them" ! Through the dense foliage of the tree against which Raw- don leans, with hands clasped at the back of his handsome head, the sunshine trembles, mottling them all over with patches of brightness, making more vividly green the velvet turf, and deepening the gold in the long, trailing braids of Viola's hair, hanging down over the rusty black bodice like bronze serpents. Rawdon contemplates her with rising wrath. " And what is the end of the fairy-tale, signorina ?" he asks. " Since your return to this ' Happy Valley' have you heard nothing from the fairy-godmother?" Viola looks lovelier than ever, he thinks, as the graceful head droops lower over her work, while the faint flush in her cheek deepens; but she answers frankly, in a low, sad voice, " I have only heard twice from Maddalena, once immediately after her arrival in Paris, and the second letter told me of her mother's death in Rome, last winter." The last words are almost inaudible, and two tears roll down the girl's face and drop on the palm-leaf she is working. Rawdon leans eagerly forward with a quick flash in his 152 SOUCT. blue eyes, he has never seen a woman cry before, and says, earnestly, " I say, don't do that ; she is not worth those tears, at least, I mean she could not have had much heart to forget you so easily ! By Jove ! I sha'n't forget you all my life, and I've only known you" pulling out his watch " three hours and twenty-two minutes ! And after all the fuss they made about you, too ! Pah ! it's too disgusting !" Viola cannot resist smiling through her tears at this vehe- ment speech. " What about the English governess ? I'll lay a wager she did not turn her back on you," Lyster asks, recovering his customary placidity with an effort. " Ah, sir, I have from Mees Crawford a letter every week ! She is in Paris now, with an English family who reside there. I. do not think I would live long without these dear letters, they are so much to me, books, pictures, music, and the big, living world!" she says, with a sort of pant at the end of her sentence, like an animal that has escaped stifling. " Liebchen ! Liebchen !" calls, at this instant, a voice from the cottage. "Must you go?" asks Rawdon, with more entreaty in his eyes than in his words, as she hastily collects the debris of his dinner and restores the various dishes to the basket. " Must you go Liebchen ?" laughing and coloring. " What a curious name is yours, Fraulein !" "I have another name," she says, quietly: "it is Viola; it was given me by the dear Contessa." " Viola, Violet. The Contessa was a lady of delicate dis- cernment. I do not dislike her as much as I did, signorina." " No? You would have loved her if you had seen her, a face as pure and pale as a lily, a voice like a silver bell, eyes dark and soft as " " Liebchen, warum Jcommst du nicht f (from the distance.) " Good-by," the girl says, with her pretty accent, and a shy little glance as she turns away. " Shall I send the valet of monsieur to him ?" " Thanks, no. I shall do very well with my book until I say, are you to bring me my breakfast, Fraulein?" " Do you not breakfast within-doors, sir?" " I shall not do so in future. The fresh air I find VIOLA. ir.o Hang it all ! do breakfast with me out here, that's a dear girl ! I am so tired of bed !" " I shall see." she replies, smiling ; and, nodding gcod- humorcdly, she runs down the path and disappears. " I am at a loss to account for the Contcssa's disinterested benevolence," is the thought which puzzles Kawdon, as he takes from an inside pocket of his coat a white silk handker- chief, and with a smile reads the hieroglyphics in each corner, which now spell out to him a name. " Violet, Viola !'' he repeats once more, as though he liked the association of the flower with the girl. " Bah ! what's all this to me ?" And he replaces the kerchief and turns the pages of Balzac's " Vie Parisienne." AVhether the salon philosopher is really stale, flat, and un- profitable I know not, but Eawdon finds his subtle sophistries tainted with musk and millefleurs, after the fresh sweetness of the Alpine violet ; and his moral deformities stripped and stark horrible, after the frank and modest simplicity of tliis peasant-maiden. The book slips to the ground unheeded, and, with the tact of a Frenchman who discovers that he has ceased to charm, Balzac buries himself out of sight among the tall grass at the root of the old tree, content to bide his time. " Pity that child ever saw the other side of the Alps," ruminates wise twenty-two, stretching himself lazily on his cushions and lighting a cigarette. " She will never be con- tented in this valley as long as she lives, never ! Some day she will become so convinced of her own discontent that she will creep out somehow into the ' big, living world/ as she calls it, to join that pitiful chorus in the ' Song of the Shirt,' perhaps; to take that sensitive face and delicate frame into the noisy, bustling city, where she will inevitably be trampled to death. It will be the old story, honest industry and inno- cence pitted against starvation, despair, and charcoal-fumes. A man caa carve out his own life pretty well if he chooses, average brains and sound wind and limb granted, but a woman " Here Rawdon interrupts his soliloquy to aim a pebble at a bright-eyed lizard, which is regarding him complacently. " Poor little woman !" he resumes, as the startled animal glides swiftly away untouched. " I suppose when the kuowl- G* 154 SOUCL edge comes to her that she is something more than a clam, it mast be rather difficult to get back into the shell which is too cramped in its dimensions to hold her comfortably. But why was the knowledge permitted to break upon her? Ah, there's the rub ! It is one of those mysteriously inscrutable orderings of Providence which are so deucedly difficult to comprehend, this awakening of a woman's mind and soul merely to bid them go to sleep again ! Pshaw !" And then, waxing wroth at himself for being moved out of his habitual calm, Lyster flings away the end of his cigarette impatiently, and, strug- gling to his feet, takes Jenkins's arm, and drags his long limbs wearily along the path leading to the cottage, wondering, and chafing at the wonder, how long he shall feel like such a great, helpless, overgrown baby, and be condemned to sleep in that stifling little cupboard of a room. An obtrusive verse he had seen somewhere haunted him before he slept that night. The lines were these : "A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more." CHAPTER XIII. " LOVE'S WORDS ARE WRIT ON ROSE-LEAVES, BUT WITH TEARS." .... "I called him Crichton, for he seemed All perfect, finished to the finger-nail. *#-**-* *- And well his words became him : was he not A full-celled honey-comb of eloquence stored from all flowers?" " I SHALL not keep you long, Viola ; but speak to you I must, if only for a few minutes. Are you unwilling to spare me even these out of the long day?" pleads Tonio, with grave reproach in tone and glance, as he raises the latch of the garden-gate for her, one afternoon, a fortnight later. The girl gives him a quick look of surprise as she joins him VIOLA. 155 on the road, and her color deepens a little, but she answers, lightly, "What can you mean, Tonio? Of course you can speak to me as often and as long as you please. I need not tell you that." "And yet," he replies, sadly, " I have not spoken a word to you since Sunday, three whole days ago." "Whose fault is that?" she asks, gently., "You have avoided the cottage as if you did not care to see us ever ngain ; but perhaps it was because Pepita Razzi lives on the opposite side of the village," she adds, maliciously. Tonio scorns to take notice of this innuendo. He walk>s silently beside her for a moment or two, and then says, " Am I never to have any more lessons, Vio ? I have made great progress since our last day on the hill-side" (that cursed day which brought this English stranger among them). " I study at night ; I should be glad to know whether I have improved " The wistful tones touch the girl's heart. " Should you, Tonio ? Well, we shall have to-morrow evening. I, too, am anxious to know what you have done." " Are you? Ah, Vio, do you really take any more interest in me, a great, lumbering, ignorant boor beside that refined and educated gentleman who lingers here God knows long after he is able to travel !" " Tonio !" Only that one word, but such a cutting glance of indignant scorn from the violet eyes ! But Tonio's blood is rushing madly back upon his heart ; he goes on, blind with pain : " It is quite true ! Over a week ago he could walk miles without fatigue; he may be a gentleman a nobleman, perhaps and I, a boor, but I would not do as he is doing for all that ! I tell you, Viola, he is doing a thing which I would die before I would do ! A thing so contemptible that you could never dream of it !" Viola looks at him with startled eyes and parted lips, the color flown from her cheek. " What, what is it ? Tonio, what do you mean ?" she gasps. " I will tell you what I mean," he answers, resolutely, though his face is white with pain and his eyes bear in them an ex- pression she has never seen before. " I shall tell you, nobody else will, but first, are you going to meet him now?" " I am taking these books to him ; yes," she answers, with 156 SOUCL downcast face ; " he is sitting by the waterfall reading, now, and I promised to bring these to him as soon as grandmother could spare me." " And she your grandmother was willing that you should go? Ah, my God !" " Certainly she was willing. Tonio, what ails you ? Is it a sin for me to take these books to him, and for him to read to me while I work ?" " Ah, he reads to you, does he? and you like it?" " Like it !" she clasps her hands over the top of the books with a glow of delight in her face. "You should hear him read, Tonio, and you could not ask that question ! Everything old things I almost knew by heart, sound different when he reads them ! See," she opens one of the volumes at a marked page, " this is where he left off yesterday ; it is so beautiful ! so beautiful read aloud!" Tonio takes the book in his hands. " Corinne, par Mme. de Stael," he reads on the back. " Viola, perhaps I might be able to read this to you as well as that stranger ; it is in my native tongue, which the English always mutilate " " Mutilate !" exclaims his companion, indignantly. " Ah, Tonio, that is not like you ! His voice is like music, like the Contessa's, and his accent " " Well ?" inquires Tonio, coldly, as she hesitates. " I do not care whether his accent is perfectly correct or not," she rejoins, impatiently ; " I only know I like French as lie speaks it better than any I have ever heard !" And, taking off her broad-brimmed hat, she fans herself vigorously with it. Tonio's brown cheek flushes a deep crimson at this womanly conclusion of the argument. He bites his lip hard, and, after a moment, says gently, " The other book is English, no doubt?" " Yes ; it is ' The Vicar of Wakefield ;' he is going to begin it to-day." Slowly they walk on side by side yet so far apart until they reach the spot where that last bright afternoon had been spent, and Tonio, at sight of it, falters in his pride. " Viola," he says, almost in a whisper, " give me a few minutes longer here ; I have to tell you what I meant a moment ago : let this stranger wait for you, and take your old place here for just this once, I entreat you !" One upward glance Viola casts towards the spot whence the VIOLA. 157 sound of water tumbling over the rocks can be faintly heard, and where the blue-eyed, golden-haired Englishman awaits her coming, then she seats herself in the same mossy hollow of a tree-trunk that she had occupied five weeks ago. What subtle change has passed over her since that day, when she had found such pleasure in the study of Antiope ? There is a new light and a strange shadow in the face; trembling joy and tender pain blent together into a sweet womanliness. To the great, loving eyes of Tonio this fact is perceptible ; it determines him to .speak. " You must not keep me long !' : she urges, as he throws himself full-length at her feet: " it would be rude and unkind in me to disappoint him." " No, I shall not keep you long. Viola, will you unbraid your hair?" an old, unuttered longing suddenly breaking forth in speech at this moment of mingled joy and bitterness. " Are you mad, Tonio ?" " Perhaps so, just a little harmlessly insane ; I sha'n't bite you, or strangle you, but I want to see your hair about your shoulders just once this last time^forever !" " Don't speak so sadly. Why do you say forever f I am not intending to sell my bonnie locks, as the other girls here do." She is laughing, but Tonio does not smile. " I will never ask you to do this again ; but, Viola, unbraid your hair for me, will you not?" His voice is so tender, his eyes are so melancholy, Viola, half smiling, half pouting, obeys. Swiftly unplaiting the thick masses of bronze hair, she shakes it about her shoulders in rippling waves. " Are you content ?" she asks, smiling out of the shadowy veil. " Not yet," he says, in low, tremulous tones, gazing at her with great, wistful eyes. "Not yet. Content? ha! ha!" Such a forced, unnatural laugh. " I must plait it up now," Viola says, gathering up a thick handful after a moment or two. " Wait, Viola !" Drawing a clasp-knife from his pocket, Tonio holds it towards her. " Take this," he says, " and cut me off a long, thick tress of it. You said you would not sell it ; but you will sell it to me, for I shall pay a heavy price for it. Here, cut it long and thick !" Viola takr.s the knife, and, holding it in her hand, looks 14 ]58 , SOVCL wonderingly at her companion. "What do you want with it? What will you do with a tress of uiy hair?" she asks. "No matter; give it to me. Viola, do you hesitate? I, who would lay down my life for you, ask this of you !" In another moment the wavy tress, shorn close to the head, thick and long, lies coiled over the quick-beating heart, of whose anguish she little dreams. Was it the perversity of fate that brought Lyster Rawdon down from his nook by the waterfall in time to be a spectator through the overhanging foliage of this touching bit of senti- ment ? " The deuce !" is his characteristic exclamation, as the beautiful vision of Viola tendering her love-token to her rustic swain breaks upon his astonished gaze. Then the bright blonde head is withdrawn with a comic grimace of vexa- tion on the flushed face. A few strides carry him back to his cosy retreat, where he composes himself once more to read. Alas ! Octave Feuillet has become even more tiresome than M. Balzac. After the first mechanical perusal of a paragraph, the unfortunate volume is flung violently against a tree-trunk and suffers dislocation in all its members. " Wretched little coquette ! deceitful young hypocrite !" apostrophizing the waterfall. " With such mock humility, such timid modesty ! Violet ! Pah ! A violet made by the hands of a French modiste from a bit of rag ! Lyster Rawdon, you were very near making a fool of yourself; but you are safe, perfectly safe now !" In the mean time Tonio is deepening the shadow in Viola's heart and dimming the joyous light in her sweet face, by the few necessary words he has resolved to speak. What they cost him she never knew ; perhaps he suffers more than she, bitter as this hour is to her. " Did you think that I could stand looking on silently whilst this man stole from me everything on earth that is precious to me, for his amusement, for the pastime of an hour, as he would pluck a flower by the roadside and wear it in his button-hole until another fresher flower caught his eye and this one would be cast into the dust at his feet ?" he has said, at last ; and she, shrinking and shivering under the cruel words, has held up a hand as if to ward them off, crying, " Oh, Tonio, he is good and noble! Whatever you say, I VIOLA. 159 shall always believe that. I know you are right he is too far above me for any hope of ruine to reach him ; but he is not evil-minded, he would not try to make me love him, as you say, to mock me. No, he would not do that." Her voice is low but very firm as she says these words, the more positively, perhaps, because in her inmost heart she does not believe them to be true. For does she not love him ? Has not her whole soul gone out towards him since the very first day she sat in the sunshine drinking in the musical tones of his voice, believing, even then, that the world held not such another? And then had he not lingered, as Tonio had said, long after his convalescence was fully established, making one pretence after another excuse for tarrying in their humble cot- tage ? Was it, could it be, only pastime to him, and heaven itself to her? Viola covers her convulsed face with her hands to shut out from Tonio the sight of her bitter shame. This gesture overflows with tender pity the loving heart beside her. His own grief is forgotten. His disappointment sinks into insignificance before her pain. " Viola," he says, in stifled tones, " perhaps perhaps he loves you ! He could not help but love you, beautiful as an angel as you are ! Do not grieve ; sometimes these English love and marry women beneath them in station. Who knows? You are well educated, there can be no one in the world like you !" " Hush ! hush !" cries Viola, in an agony of distress. " If I thought that," continues Tonio, earned out of him- self by the devotion of his love, " I would go away gladly this night. I could go out into the world and fill my life with other things, for I would leave you happy and safe. Viola. As it is, I must just stay, tortured !" " Why tortured, Tonio ?" she asks, wearily, turning her pale, sad face towards him. For a moment he remains silent, gloomily absorbed in his thoughts and heedless of her question ; then he bursts forth, "You shall not always look down upon me, Viola; I am not a fool ! I shall one day stand side by side with your Eng- lish friend !" " I have never looked down upon you," she says, softly, ignoring the bitterness of his last words ; " but I have been selfi.sh and blind. I see now what you have suffered; I see it in your face and in my heart !" 160 SOUCT. The twilight has fallen when Tonio and his companion de- scend from the nook on the hill-side, which they shall never- more occupy with light hearts together, and stand hand clasped in hand, pained eyes gazing into pained eyes, the agony of love's hopelessness in his, the abnegation of love's fair promise in hers, bidding each other for the first time a sad and constrained good-night. CHAPTER XIV. "OH, WHAT A DREAR, DARK CLOSE TO MY POOR DAY!" "0 crueller than was ever told in tale Or sung in song ! vainly-lavished love ! cruel, there was nothing wild or strange, Or seeming shameful, for what shame in love So love be true ?" HEINRICH, leaning on the gate, peering out into the dusk with unwonted anxiety in his wistful face, descries the figure of his Liebchen emerging from the gloom with slow, heavy step, contrasting so markedly with her usual elasticity of gait that even his obtuse perceptions are touched into sudden apprehension. " Thou art late, mem Kindchen" he says, gently reproach- ful, as she forces a wan little smile of greeting. " And thou art alone ?" " Yes, dear father, I am alone," she replies, in a low voice. " And the Herr " " I know not," she interposes, harshly ; and, casting a nerv- ous glance towards the porch, where a dark figure is just visible in the gloom, she adds, sharply, " Who is that ?" Heinrich can feel her arm tremble in his. " It is thy grandmother, child. Liebchen, what ails thee to-night?" Stooping he tries to read her trouble in the white, quivering face. " Nothing ! Ah, father, I cannot talk with you to-night ! I am weary, so weary ; I what is that ?" (The gate-latch VIOLA. 161 is lifted, and Jenkins passes them on his way to his master for orders.) " Good-night, dear, I he is there ; he may come out ! Oh, don't keep me ! Good-night !" And pressing her lips to the wrinkled hand resting lovingly on her shoulder, Viola speeds up the garden-path like a startled fawn, never resting until she gains her tiny white bedroom, wherein she fastens herself, alone with her sore grief. With a heavy sigh of dire foreboding, Heinrich passes out into the roadway, with his violin under his arm, and, seeking the solitude he loves, pours into the great, listening ear of night the hopes and doubts and troublous misgivings of his soul. His placid nature has been stirred to its depths to-day; the serenity of its surface shivered into ripples of emotion such as rarely agitate its calm. There are only three chords in this abnormal nature which can yield electric response when touched. These are his passion for music, his love for his lost wife, and Viola. The wily Frau knows well how to play upon all three. That afternoon, having sought Liebchen vainly below, he had mounted to his mother's room, complaining that he had seen but little of the child of late, and inquiring her whereabouts. On being told that she had gone to the nook by the waterfall with books for the English stranger, he had been about to start in quest of her, when the Frau, seizing him fiercely by the arm, peremptorily forbade him to stir in that direction. Heinrich venturing a feeble resistance, the indomitable old lady had promptly locked the door and put the key in her pocket. " There ! Now jump out of the window and break those spindle-legs of yours !" she had burst forth, wrathfully. " Will you never be anything but a fool ? You would go and lose another chance of having yourself provided for in your old age !" The cap-frills had come within an inch of his long nose, and her voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper, as she con- tinued : " He is as mad as a March hare about her ! Can't you see that? No of course you never see anything ; and these English are to be depended upon when a beautiful girl and a well-brought-up girl, like our Liebchen turns their silly ln-ads. You just mind your fiddle-strings, and don't go med- dling and marring, and before this time next year perhaps we shall be back in the dear old Fatherland !" 14* 1G2 SOUCI. A light had broken over Heinrich's pinched, pale face at this blessed hope: " Ach, Gott in Himmel ! Shall I then once more look upon my beautiful Rhine ? Shall I kneel at last at the grave of my loved one, at last at last ?" he had rapturously exclaimed, while great tears rolled down the sunken cheeks and dropped on the black surface of the instru- ment to which he had so often whispered his sad longings. As the old man tenderly wiped off the bright drops, he fan- cied that the delicate strings vibrated in sympathy with his joy. ******* " You may put up my traps and make all necessary arrange- ments; we shall leave this place to-morrow morning," is the order the delighted Jenkins receives on this eventful evening, and which, with cheerful alacrity, he obeys. Lyster Rawdon, after a long and fatiguing ramble, returns to the cottage, and, seeking his room, throws himself dressed upon the bed in utter weariness. He looks very young almost boyish as he lies there with the moon shining full on his thin, delicate face, with the clustering rings of bright hair pushed off the temples and a deep flush of weakness burning on either cheek. He is thinking of Viola, and of the scene of which he had unwittingly been a witness that day on the hill-side. Try as he will to change the current of his thoughts, her innocent face and wistful eyes intrude themselves with most irritating pertinacity. In vain he seeks to convince himself that the pain he suffers is the offspring of wounded pride, of having seen himself worsted by a simple peasant-lad, his firm belief in the purity and guilelessness of woman betrayed by a little village-girl. In vain he lashes himself into auger and heaps reproaches and contemptuous epithets upon poor Viola : his heart only yearns towards her with a stronger, deeper yearn- ing. " Oh, beautiful little love !" he softly murmurs, as he tosses his fevered head restlessly upon the pillow : " how in- nocent and frank she seemed always ! Before her true, clear gaze my life appeared to me a blurred and shameful record ; before her true refinement her spirituality of thought and feeling how coarse looked the polish of society, the veneer with which we cover our selfishness and vileness ! How con- temptible does our world seem beside her great universe of Nature ! How small and pitiful our aims and our ambitions VIOLA. 163 beside the grand, glowing aspirations of which she dreams in her lowly valley ! And I am to leave her here this pure pearl who would adorn a palace. I am to leave her to this young clod this inappreciative, ignorant boor to plod on by his side until By Heaven ! no ! it cannot be ! She could not love or look up to such a man as this ! And if oh, delicious thought ! if she could be won to love and look up to such a man as " Here Lyster finds his hot pillow unendurable, and, springing up, he seeks coolness at the open lattice, stretching out his arms to the dewy night, moon- flooded tranquil. What a contrast to his perturbed spirit his throbbing disquietude ! Standing thus, idly plucking the leaves from a vine clam- bering about his window, Lyster recalls his uncle's farewell words to him as he left him at the Harrowdale Station nearly a year ago: " Good-by, my dear boy; enjoy yourself thor- oughly ; travel wherever the whim carries you. I have in- creased your allowance amply. Take a good twelvemonth of idleness, and then come back to old England and take your chance of a seat in the House and your choice of a bride, a bride who shall be nameless at present, my boy, but whom I shall take care nobody else shall win during your absence. Your future, Lyster, is all I have to look forward to, you know." And then the cold, aristocratic face had softened for a moment, while Lord Harrowdale wrung his nephew's hand, as the train moved off, carrying with it the one human object the old man loved above and beyond all else save his pride of caste, and his ancient name. With a fierce impatience Ilawdon recalls these parting words ; then feels inclined to laugh aloud at the absurdity of his uncle's fancying he would permit any one to choose a wife for him ; and as the placid features of the English maiden destined to be his consort rise before him, he chafes sorely at the contrast between her commonplace inanity and the changeful, na'ive sweetness of Viola's winsome face. And then he wonders why fate has brought him here, why he, who has so much to live for, and such vast capabilities for enjoyment, should have been brought in contact with this unit amid the countless millions upon earth ; and whether this fact is to take the savor out of every good thing in life for him here- after. Is it chance or God who has done this thing ? who 164 SOUCI. has made him realize suddenly what an empty, hollow mock- ery life is at its best, its best, as he knows it ? Instinctively he raises his moody face and drinks into his soul something of the calm loveliness of the golden night. In the distance can be heard the sad, sweet strains of the " Ver- gissmeinnicht" borne towards the village . . . . " Upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night j At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled. Heinrich is coming home. CHAPTER XV. " LE SEUL VRAI LANGAGE AU MONDE EST UN BAISER." " Men let themselves slide onwards by degrees Into the depths of madness : one bold spring Back from the verge had saved them ; but it seems There dwells rare joy within it." THE earth seems to have put on a new glory this morning, Viola thinks, as though it would offer a stronger contrast in its garish brilliancy to the dull, inward listlessness with which she had opened her eyes upon it. The white walls of her little bedroom seem to stifle her ; the sun pours down his fiercest rays through the narrow case- ment ; her head is throbbing painfully. Creeping down the stairs, she noiselessly unlatches the door and steals out into the pure, fresh morning, unconsciously directing her steps towards the great tree under which the young Englishman had partaken of his first meal in the open air. How vividly that day comes back to her as she sits in the very same spot, watching the same sun flecking with golden patches the greensward ; breathing the same scent of the wild VIOLA. 1G5 honeysuckle drooping from the branches overhead ; listening to the same drowsy murmur of the bees, and the same cool sound of running water from the brook close by ! Nothing is changed, yet all is changed. The trail of the serpent can be traced in this Eden. Viola shall never again look upon it save as Eve may have gazed across the flaming sword, with hopeless longing and through bitter, blinding tears. A strange lassitude possesses her to-day. She leans back against a tree, and, taking off her hat, thrusts the waving hair from her hot temples. Her thoughts revert self-reproachfully to her in-door morning duties, but she has neither energy nor inclination to stir out of this shady spot into the hot sunshine. She contemplates herself pityingly ; her life seems to have suddenly grown stark and rugged arid void of ornament, that beautiful green young life wherein had lain all the fresh- ness and sweetness of the spring. Tears overflow the blue eyes, and Viola feels a certain satisfaction in seeing them drop one by one upon her loosely-folded hands, a satisfaction which is perhaps shared by Lyster Rawdon, who has approached un- perceived, and is moved to hope that these tears flow from, regret at his departure. For a moment or two he watches her with fast-beating heart, then, making a little rustle among the brushwood that he may not startle her, he draws nearer. " Do not go !" he entreats, as she springs to her feet, ready for flight at sight of him. " Give me a few minutes in which to say good-by ; will you not ?" " Good-by ?" she stammers, the bright color which had dyed her cheek for an instant fading slowly. " Yes, signorina, good-by. I go at mid-day. Had you not heard of it ?" (A little stiffly.) " No; I had not heard of it," she answers, quietly. " Your father knew it last night ; but I fancy he thought it of too little importance to mention to you," he concludes, bitterly. Viola is silent. She stands leaning slightly against the tree, her face down-bent, her cheek yet wet Avith tears. She cannot trust her voice to utter the polite rejoinder which is due. The young man, chafing inwardly at her silence, can yet scarcely restrain himself from taking her in his arms and kiss- 166 SOUCI. ing those tantalizing tears away. He finds relief in a sudden assumption of anger. "Is it, then, nothing to you that I am going?" he cries out, at last. " Are you a waxen image, that you stand there so cold and still ? Have these weeks, which have been the happiest of my life, held no pleasure for you, that now that they are gone forever you show no regret?" " Oh, sir ! " With one hand she covers her eyes, stretching the other out towards him in eloquent appeal. " Then you do care, after all !" he cries, seizing and cover- ing with kisses the delicate fingers. "Ah, Viola, tell me that you too suffer in this parting !" And he draws down the hand from her eyes in which his own seek eagerly a response. " Pray let me go !" she pants, turning her face this way and that in the effort to e"vade that searching glance. " Pray, pray let me go !" "I cannot!" he says, holding her hands in firm, gentle grasp. " How can you ask me ? I must know the truth ! Viola, you are dearer to me than anything on earth, sweeter, more beautiful, more pure ! How, then, can I leave you with- out being sure that you are not indifferent to me ?" These are far from being the farewell words he had in- tended to speak. Rashly, impetuously, the sentences follow one another, poured forth in the liberal abandonment of a first genuine passion, weighed not in the just balance of judgment nor chilled by the icy breath of worldly prudence. He had sought this interview calmly, fortifying himself against the betrayal of any emotion by every argument with which it had been possible to arm himself. Honor, pride, generosity, all forbade any expression of his feeling. Mar- shalling them around him, leaning upon them for support, he finds them the puniest flower-stalks opposed to the force of the temptation which assails him. And Viola, forgetful of her humiliation the night before, oblivious of everything save the delicious consciousness which stirs into ecstasy every fibre of her being, drinks into her heart through her rosy ears the pleading music of the voice she loves, and yields him her shy response. What of Tonio's warning now ? Oh, unjust slanderer ! Oh, wicked libel ! How needlessly had he caused her to suffer ! VIOLA. 167 " Viola," Lyster says, after an hour spent in extorting as many timid, wistful glances and faltering words as he could draw from his companion, " I must give you something that will remind you of me, something you can wear about your neck, and then you will be obliged to think of me twice, at least, every day !'' As he speaks he rapidly detaches from his watch-chain a simple locket of Roman gold, on one side of which are the raised letters A. E. I., on the other his crest and motto. " Do you know what those letters mean ?" he asks, as she takes the locket in her hand as reverently as though it were a relic of sacred antiquity. " Yes," she answers, blushing ; " I know ; the Contessa wore a bracelet with the same inscription on it." " Will you wear this always, Viola? Will you let me find it on your neck when we meet again?" His madness has assumed the last stage of recklessness now. " Oh, sir, perhaps that may never be !" she says, sadly. " I think I had better not take it ; grandmother might not be pleased, and and it is not at all certain that I shall ever see you again." Her voice is very low and tremulous now, but she keeps the tears resolutely back. " Nothing is certain," he replies, gravely. " I may not live a week or you, but as surely as we live, Viola, we shall meet again ! I do not need any reminder of you, yet I have one. See !" he adds, more lightly, and draws from his pocket the handkerchief. " May I keep this ?" ' My kerchief!" exclaims Viola, with a puzzled look. "Yes, your kerchief; embroidered all over with you; breathing your fragrance to me ; white and soft and delicate as you. May I keep it, Viola?" " Ah, yes ! If I could only give you something more " " worthy 1 " she is about to say, when Rawdon interrupts her, passionately, " You can ! You can give me one thing more, for which I would give all that I possess on earth ! Will you give it me, sweet Violet?" He has advanced a step closer to her : his voice has sunk to a whisper ; she feels his heart beat fast against her hand, his breath upon her cheek. One instant they stand thus : motionless, mute. The leaves of the trees cease their rustlin the twitterin of the birds 168 SOUCI. overhead is stilled ; a strange hush seems to have fallen upon the world. Then, as the face of a flower is drawn upwards to the sun, Viola's lifts itself to Eawdon's, her true eyes raise to his their liquid tenderness ; and bending his head, he sets his seal forever upon the trembling, childlike lips so trustingly upturned to his own. A moment later Viola is alone, alone, with nothing but the locket in her hand to convince her that she has not been dreaming ; that this last blissful hour has not been conjured up by fancy ; that, alas ! it has indeed been the last hour, and he has gone! CHAPTER XVI. RENUNCIATION. " The swan's song is dying away, Leaves and blossoms have faded in night j How dark and drear is the day ! Even the stars no longer are bright !" HEINE. THE days immediately following Lyster Rawdon's departure are the happiest in all Viola's serenely happy life. It is her first taste of the divine elixir men call love, and it sends the blood coursing though her young veins with a new impetus, and infuses a new gladness throughout her being. Into the delicate check comes a warmer flush, and the violet eyes hold in their depths a dewy lustre unknown to them before. Snatches of song and low, bubbling laughter overflow her lips as she speeds light-footed from one favorite haunt to an- other, each pervaded still so it seems by the presence of the one who fills her thoughts. Beautiful as the world had always been to her, it is now a Paradise ; the inexhaustible harmony of Nature resounds about her; her eyes seem to have opened to a fuller compre- hension, her heart to have unfolded to deeper sympathies. Under cover of the dusky twilight she whispers to her father the secret of her new-born joy ; and he, tenderly stroking the VIOLA. 1G9 golden head upon his breast, returns shy murmurs of endear- ment only ; asking never a question, nor striving with clumsy curiosity to tear apart the petals of the delicate flower whose calyx has but just opened to the sun. For Heinrich's heart has grown heavy within him as he listens, not with the loving egotism which dreads to see an- other usurp his place in his child's affections, but with an indefinable presentiment which seems to chill back the loving words he fain would utter. He seeks refuge, therefore, in the mute caresses which seem all-sufficing to Viola's supreme con- tent, and improvises new melodies that, spite of his efforts, she laughingly declares are sad as requiems and not suitable for the occasion. The days speed by : hot, languid summer is drowsing lazily in the cool, vigorous arms of autumn, and Viola, kneeling nightly at her open lattice, sending her thoughts out prayer- winged, as is her wont, thanks God for the great blessing which has come into her life ; which has awakened new powers and capabilities within her; which has changed her humble and prosaic existence into a poem of wondrous beauty, lifting her out of this narrow valley up among the clouds crowning the blue hills. Much of the gladness of youth depends upon the indistinct- ness of the boundary-line marking its horizon, the illimit- able outlook of hope furnishing endless food for speculation. It is only when this line becomes sharply defined, through time or calamity, when it cramps the outstretching of one's dreams, binding them down to the dull level of a monotonous reality, that one dares not lift one's eyes beyond the barren present. Perhaps the very intangibility of Viola's love-dream, the vagueness of her hopes and expectations, have lent a trance- like charm to her new experience, which causes her to recoil with as much surprise as pain from the shock which Lyster llawdon's first letter from England brings her. With dilated, tearless eyes, and cheeks whence the color has been htricken by pained dismay, the poor girl draws from the somewhat incoherent but impassioned pages that love such as hers holds but a secondary value out in the great world towards which she had looked so eagerly ; that another than himself holds the power to separate her lover from her forever, H 15 170 SOVCL as utterly as if one of them were dead ; that, in short, her dream is over, and it is full time that she should awake. It is true, Lyster Rawdon dwells but lightly upon Lord Harrowdale's violent opposition to his choice of a wife ; that he treats with airy indifference the fact that his adherence to such choice entails upon him the trifling desagrements of his uncle's wrath in the present, and disinheritance in the future : Viola's loving eyes can read between the lines the disappoint- ment and indignation which he strives to hide. He admits that he has been ostracized from Harrowdale Court ; that he is in London, where he has already obtained the promise of an appointment in a government office, " which my dear old irascible uncle calls ' hiring myself out as an understrapper at a little less than the wages of his valet !' " Then follow assurances of tenderest affection (youthful passion needs but the breath of opposition to fan it into strong, enduring flame), pages of sweet hyperbole, ending in an earnest entreaty for a speedy response. Then Viola discovers that her cross is shaped after the usual model of renunciation and self-sacrifice. Grim and rugged it stands between her and all possible future joy, casting its drear shadow over the face of the world; turning the blue dawn of her young day into thick darkness, through which even the stars have lost somewhat of their twinkling glory. The poor girl gropes sadly through the shadows which en- velop her, believing the light of the sun is put out forever, as we all do when we discern the great emblem of sacrifice standing in our life's path and we are shrouded in swift, sud- den darkness. Courage ! The sun will shine again, little Viola, for us all. Did it not burnish the earth even after the tree built cruciform darkened the day on Calvary ? VIOLA. 171 CHAPTER XVII. " WHAT ! GONE WITHOUT A WORD ?" "What! Gone without a word? Ay, so true love should do ; it cannot speak, For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it." SHAKSPEARE. THE Frau's knitting-needles click with a vengeful energy this morning as she sits with perturbed spirit watching Viola busy at some household duty. The change in the girl's whole appearance does not escape the keen old eyes. The sweet face pale as the white narcissus, the languid movements of the slender figure, the droop of the bright head, these ominous signs, coupled with the failure of the young Englishman to "declare himself" before his departure, fill her soul with a wrathful mystification which dares not vent itself. She had appealed to Heinrich with her usual success : he could not bring himself to betray his darling's confidence, nor his approval of the course she had taken. She had appealed to Tonio, only to discover that he, too, was half mad with anxiety and repressed indignation, an indignation too hot for words, which drove him up into the lonely hills, at those hours when he had been used to wander so happily with Viola, where, alone with Nature and her mysterious sym- pathies, he struggled with the bitter grief the fulfilment of his prophecy had cost him. Out of his love for this girl had grown such delicate tact, such tender reticence, that he felt it impossible to purchase comfort for himself at the expense of appearing to extort from her a confidence. And yet it seemed equally impossible to bear the anguish to which doubt had given birth in his soul. He felt that he could not go on living with that sorrowful pale face, which he dared not openly observe, haunting him cease- lessly. They seldom spoke together ; for Viola had, almost 172 SOUCL instinctively, avoided him of late ; at first from a slight feeling of resentment at his mistaken judgment of Lyster Rawdon's character; afterwards with an involuntary shrinking from the pained pity of his furtive watching eyes (there are wounds to which the probing eye of love is torture). The knowledge that he loved her made all intercourse between them at this time impossible. Their friendship was ended. As well try to plant the delicate crocus of spring in the arid soil about a volcano, as seek to build up a platonic affection upon the treacherous calm of passion held in temporary check. Never again could these two look to each other for that companionship which had once amply sufficed them. Nevermore would they ramble side by side through the early budding spring from one delicious haunt to another, moss-carpeted, vocal with bird-notes, all veiled and dim with blossom. Nevermore should they steal out of the colorless commonplace into an ideal world of their own, a world in which they drank from the fount of knowledge with eager lips ; in which Tonio sat meekly at the feet of his gentle instructress, laughing, blundering, scolded and praised by turns, turning life into an idyl of golden sunlight and cool shadow and poetic vagaries. ******* "Tonio has gone away! He took a place in the diligence last night, which started at sunrise this morning !'' The Frau makes this startling announcement at breakfast, a day or two later, with that stolid absence of surprise or emotion charac- teristic of her. Heinrich receives the intelligence with a heavy sigh ; Viola, with a sudden flicker of color in the white cheek and a sadder droop of the head. The old woman glances sharply from one to the other and shrewdly concludes that this is no news to them. "You know, then, that he is gone? and why, perhaps?" she demands. Viola is silent ; her eyes are downcast. " I do," Heinrich hastens to reply. " He was with me nearly all last night " " Well? And why did he go? Did his employer turn him off or what?" ^ " Razzi was sorry enough to see him go, and offered to double his wages if he would stay " returns her son under cover of his hand, by which he strives to shut out her curious gaze. VIOLA. 173 "Then, what took him away?" she reiterates, doggedly. " The tWnjpnce" Hcinrich replies, softly, and, seizing his hat, makes his escape into the garden, while the thwarted Frau gathers together the untouched dishes, muttering, " A good job : he's gone anyhow ; perhaps the other will come back now. So /" And then she bids Viola go outside in the sun and get some color into her face, which command the girl hastens to obey. "Didst thou hear him playing the ' Vergissmeinnichf under- thy window last night, mein Liebchen?" whispers Hein- rich, as she seats herself on the bench beside him in the shadiest and most remote corner of the garden. " He bade me tell thee it was his farewell ! Ah, my little heart, Tonio loves thee well !" " Where did he go, my father?" she hurriedly asks, hoping to turn the current of the old man's thoughts. " Thou hast seen the medallion which he wears about his neck ?" Ah, yes." " There is an address engraved within the lid, of the jewel- ler who mounted the portrait of his mother. Stay here it is I have it somewhere " He draws from his pocket as curious a medley of useless rubbish as any school-boy would delight in : first a bit of rosin, followed by a ball of twine for tying up rose-bushes, a couple of speckled pebbles, some bits of quartz, a snuff-box (empty), some withered grasses, a knife (bladeless), a microscope, and, lastly, a crumpled piece of paper on which is inscribed, in Tonio's handwriting, "Carlo Guocchi, Strada Ealbi, Geneva." Viola reads these words with languid interest, while Heinrich, restoring his treasures to his pocket, draws his bow tenderly across the strings of his violin. " How strange," she murmurs, " that this link with his mother's past has never attracted his attention before now! Will he write, dost thou think, to say whether this jeweller still lives?" " Yes, he promised to write ; but, oh, Liebchen, we shall miss him sorely, he was a noble lad, and he would have given his life for " But Viola has slipped away, and Heinrich is left to bewail the loss of his young friend in the hearing only of the humming-birds and the butterflies. 15* 174 SOUCL CHAPTER XVIII. BESTING UNDER THE SHADOW OP THE GOURD. "Why sit and dream in spring's sweet labor-time Unreal dreams, whose sadness makes them sweet, And, since we mar and break our life's full prime, Deem that we rest contented at God's feet? Why cry to heaven for lost and broken hours, For faith and hope that faded long ago, When still within our hearts new fruitful powers Are budding now ?" THE end of the week brings the promised letter, which, being written in Italian, Heinrich finds much difficulty in de- ciphering. Hatless, and with the open letter in his hand, he sallies forth in search of Liebchen. It is some time before he finds her, for she is not in any of her familiar nooks, and he is about giving up in despair, when he catches a glimpse of her walking slowly and dejectedly along the road leading from Porno d'Ossola. She had gone herself to the post-office to seek the letter which she longed, yet dreaded, to receive, the last of those angry, bitterly-reproachful epistles with which Lyster Rawdon sought to shake her resolution, by pointing out the grave error of her ways in regard to himself. She had wept sorely over this letter, and her sweet face still bears traces of tears, when Heinrich approaches, joyfully ex- hibiting Tonio's letter, and begging to have it speedily read to him, too eager to observe her agitation. The reception of a letter is a solemn event in this village between the Alps. When the Domo d'Ossola post-bag contains anything for Vogogna, which is rarely the case, the inhabitants of that hamlet having few interests or acquaintances beyond their valley, the driver of the diligence takes charge of the letters and distributes them in person to their owners with an air of grave mystery and importance. VIOLA. 175 Viola takes Tonic's first letter from her father's hand without a word, there are so many tormenting thoughts besieging her at this moment, but before she has read many lines she has forgotten her own trouble in genuine gladness at the joyful prospect which has opened before her friend. " DEAR HEINRICH," his letter, which is dated " Genoa," be- gins, " wish me joy ! My head is in such a whirl I hardly know what to tell you about first. So many unexpected things have happened ! But I will begin at my arrival here. We reached Genoa at night, and I put up at a little hotel near the station, . to which I was directed by a fellow-passenger. The next morning I spent fitting myself out at the tailor's, hatter's, etc., and then I sought the Strada Balbi, where I soon found the jeweller's shop with ' Carlo Guocchi' on a sign over the door. Upon inquiry, I found that Signore Guocchi had retired from business and resided at his villa on the outskirts of the town. I soon fuund the villa, and, seeing an old gentleman saunter- ing in the grounds, I spoke to him, and was kindly invited to enter the house. " You can imagine my delight, dear friend, when as soon as his eyes rested upon the medallion he grasped me cordially by the hand, and assured me that he perfectly remembered setting the beautiful portrait, and the minute directions which the young officer had given him in regard to it. The picture had been painted in Genoa, where my mother resided at the time, and he believed the artist, who was a very promising one then, still lived there. The old gentleman said that I resem- bled my mother remarkably, and that the moment he had seen me I had recalled a well-remembered face. " Oh, Heinrich, dear old friend ! how can I write calmly of what followed ? "^Signore Guocchi accompanied me to the atelier of the artist, and, after waiting an hour, which seemed like a dozen to my impatience, a man of about middle age came in, and I was presented to him as the son of il Capitano Benotti! (I who had never had any other other name than ' Tonio !') The artist looked with great interest at the picture, which had been one of his first efforts, he said, and told me many particulars about my parents, whom he had known well, lie was sur- prised to hear that my father was dead ; for, although he had 176 souci. heard of his having been taken prisoner during an engage- ment with the French, he' had understood that he was a prime mover in the republican insurrection at Milan only six years ago. Seeing that I was much excited by this doubt thrown upon the assertion of old Niccolo (the corporal, you remember, who carried me to France), he mentioned the name of a gentleman, a Genoese, who was an intimate friend of my father's, and wrote me a note of introduction to him, believing that he could give me correct information on this point. I could not delay a moment ; my impatience to ascer- tain whether I had indeed a living parent increased almost to madness. After bidding the artist and Signore Guocchi a hasty good-morning, I ran, rather than walked, to the address indicated, taking but a moment now and then to interrogate those whom I passed on the way. At last I arrived ! Oh, Heinrich, my heart aches with joy ! / have a living father ! 11 He is leading a retired life in his villa at Sorrento, and is still lame from the wound received sixteen years ago ; the wound which caused him to be made a prisoner, and me to lose my father for so many years ! " Tell your Liebchen ! She will rejoice as the angels in heaven do, that I have found something to make life possible. " Always, dear Heinrich, your grateful " TONIO." Across this he had written, " You will greet the good Frau for me, and farmer Razzi, and you will remember your promise to write me of her who is dearer to .me than life/' " Thou must do the writing, Liebchen ; my fingers have grown too stiff to guide a pen. He will not mind who writes, so that he hears news of thee," Heinrich had said, as she folded up the letter and returned it. " Yes, I will write," she had answered, absently, her thoughts reverting for a cruel second to that other letter to which she could not respond. Then they talked together over the wonderful change in Tonio's life, the delight of his father in discovering his noble- looking, true-hearted son, the crime'of the little corporal in kidnapping the child ; and gradually the sweet face of Viola had resumed its habitual serenity ; the lips had smiled occa- sionally at some quaint speech of her father's, and she had VIOLA. 177 forgotten for a brief while the gnawing pain, which was lulled momentarily by her unselfish sympathy. Like Jonah, she rested gratefully under the shadow of the gourd which had sprung up miraculously in her hour of sorest trial. But, alas, " It is better for me to die than to live !" was the exceeding bitter cry which rent the heart of the son of Amittai when he sought in vain on the morrow that refresh- ing shade, and lo ! " it had perished in a night." CHAPTER XIX. " FADETH SWEETE FLOWER, AND BEAUTY PALES AWAY !" "The world hath not another Of such a finished, chastened purity." IN spite of her pre-eminent beauty and her superior attain- ments, Viola is dearly loved in the village, where by her sweet temper and genial kindness she escapes even the inevitable detraction of the less favored of her sex. The episode of the young Englishman's accident, conse- quent illness, and protracted stay had not been observed with- out comment ; while in the fervid imagination of every youth and maiden in Vogogna arose divers conjectures in regard to the possible termination of the romantic incident. Perhaps among the older and graver of the villagers among those who knew life to be what it is there were head-shakings and ominous whisperings and mutterings as they looked on at the. pretty pastime which might have a tragic ending. But when that ending came when the gay young lover rode away and the beautiful face had grown sorrowful and the sweet ringing laugh was stilled they were filled with resentment, these dark-browed peasant-girls, while they clung more closely to their respective swains, seeing how lightly those so far above them made their vows and forgot them. Viola shrank from the silent sympathy she read in their homely faces, and held herself for a time aloof as well from the oppressive gayety of H* 178 SOUCI. her young companions as from the kindly greetings of their sad-eyed elders. And so the slow months crept on, not altogether unhappily, for Viola was too healthful morally to allow a selfish sorrow to monopolize her thoughts and feelings ; but lagging some- what, she thought, and making unusual pauses between the seasons. Her walks and talks with her father were resumed as if they had never been interrupted ; her household duties were per- formed as dexterously and as cheerfully as though no shadow had ever dimmed the brightness of her eyes or faded the color of her cheek. Only Heinrich's apparently unobservant glance noted the lack of elasticity in the step, the listless languor which, in spite of every effort, sometimes overcame her, and his heart sank within him. She was always ready, however, to go out with him, to listen and smile, if not quite with the old joy- ousness, at his odd and childlike sayings ; eager to penetrate by his aid into the occult mysteries of plants and learn the deep heart^secrets of flowers ; ready to admire and rapturously ap- plaud every new composition in which he poured out his love for all beautiful things through the voice of his instrument ; glad to sit in a quiet dream of sad delight as the old favorite airs trembled forth weighted with their sweet and bitter asso- ciations. But when their walk grew longer than usual, Heinrich playing always as he walked, and forgetting time and distance, Viola would timidly remind him that they were far from home. Then he, with a remorseful pang, would take note of the exhausted look in her sweet, pale face, while a hand of ice seemed to clutch his heart as he marked the rapid breathing, the strangely-uncertain step, and the futile effort she would make to laugh at his sudden panic. " Thou art fretting, mein Liebchen" he said one night, as they walked home slowly under the starlight.^ " No, not about that" he added, quickly, at a gesture of dissent from her. " Thou art too brave and strong to regret having done the right thing there, the only thing," there w.as a sudden vibrating passion in his utterance, " that thou couhht do with- out bringing sharp, bitter pain, humiliation, self-reproach upon thyself for all future time. Ah, these distinctions of class !" he continued, raising his pale face skyward and sending his gaze beyond the black line of the mountains: " do they exist VIOLA. 170 in the life to come, I wonder? or shall we then then in the glorious hereafter have the desire of our hearts fulfilled ? thou and I, my Liebchen, who have been so sorely bereft here, thou and I, my beloved !" he cried, stretching his arms upward with a yearning tenderness in the worn face ; " my wife, my lily -bud ! There shall be none to part us there, in the sight of the great God we shall be equal, in His awful presence we are all alike insignificant " He checked himself suddenly. Viola drew nearer to him with tender pity. He had uncov- ered his head, and big tears were rolling slowly down the hol- low cheeks. They walked along in silence for a few moments, then Heinrich replaced his hat, and, drawing the bow across his violin, played softly and with exquisite delicacy of touch the wild, sad refrain of the " Yerglssmeinnicht" " Thou art like a caged bird here," he said, at last, looking down upon her over his instrument, " pining to death in this dull and quiet valley, where thou hast not even a companion of thine own age, but must trudge silently along beside thy stupid old father- " Her hand was laid gently upon his lips. " Ah, do not speak like that !" she entreated ; " thou art more to'me than any other, and indeed I am not fretting, and have I not Nina?" At this her father smiled sadly, and passed his arm caress- ingly about her shoulders. " She is so good, and so grateful for even a kind word," Viola continued. " I don't think anybody ever spoke gently to her before, certainly not the old man she calls uncle : he is very cruel to her. Dost thou know," here she lowered her voice to a whisper, " that he often strikes her, that poor little humpbacked girl ! and that when she came to him first she 7/vx us straight as I am! Ah, I can never believe that man is her own uncle ! surely no one could be so inhuman to one's own blood !" She was startled by a harsh laugh breaking from Heinrich. "No?" he said, with the nearest approach to a sneer she had ever heard from those gentle lips. " No ? Thou knowest nothing of life, my little heart ! There is no depth of cruelty more black, more pitiless, than that practised on one's <>\\n blood sometimes ; there are passions which have stronger root 180 SOUCL in human hearts than any tie of consanguinity, pride, or the love of money " Again, with an effort, at self-restraint, he stopped suddenly, and, resuming his usual serenity, asked. " And she learns quickly ? thou hast taught her to read. I hear?" " Yes : to read, and different kinds of needle-work. She is so patient and persevering ! She can embroider now, and make lace nearly as fine as that grandmother made when she was a girl. This I taught her to save her from the mushroom-gathering, and her uncle is quite willing, because she sells her work in place of the mushrooms. I never shall forget how she was moaning when I first discovered her stooping over her work in the chill evening after bending over her spinning-whe^l all day ! Oh, it was such pleasure to see the bright, glad look come into her poor, dull face when I spoke to her ! It was like seeing a dark, heavy cloud roll away from before the sun, making the gray, sad world look merry and green again. Yes, Nina has been a great blessing and joy to me !" " And came to thee when thou most needed her," mur- mured the old man ; " as thou didst come to me, mein Lieb- chcn, in the dark hour when my heart was nigh breaking." " So God helps us to bear the pain He sends,"- she returned, softly. " No one need despair, or believe that life is left empty : there is sure to be another interest and another love ready to fill the void ; no one's life need be an arid waste " "Like mine!" interrupted Heinrich, with a quick igh. as he unlatched the gate to allow her to pass into the little garden. Viola's good-night kiss had a deeper tenderness, as the trembling hand was laid upon her head in silent blessing, when they separated a moment later. VIOLA. 181 CHAPTER XX. AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. ". . . . And is not love in vain Torture enough without a living tomb ?" " My resolution's placed, and I have nothing Of woman in me ; now from head to foot I'm marble constant." .... " HAVE you waited long, picciola f asks Viola, as she enters the cottage sitting-room one summer afternoon, where Nina shrunken into her smallest possible compass sits, scarcely daring to breathe in the presence of the stern-eyed, silent Frau, who, bolt upright in her great arm-chair, is knitting with an indefatigable Penelopic industry, the day's work seara- intr by some strange fatality to become unravelled during the ninht, for the gray leg always appears to hang from those four energetic needles at precisely the same point of incompletion. So N-ina thinks as she watches the busy fingers, which have a sort of terrifying fascination for her, dropping her eyes to the ground whenever the silver-rimmed spectacles turn towards her. " Not very long, Viola," she cries, in reply to her friend's greeting, coming towards her with a glad alacrity, which bring* a loving smile to Viola's lips, as she passes one arm about the deformed shoulders and asks, " Where shall we go, Nina?" " Where? Why, they have been dancing on the green for half an hour !" cries the child. " And I fear, oh, I very much fear that Pepita Ruzzi will be crowned queen of the fi'xtn in your stead." ' ; And what then, picciola f I am sure I shall be glad. I have been crowned too often . already, and Pepita is the prettiest girl in the village," returns Viola, listlessly, as they pass through the garden-gate into the roadway. 16 182 soucr. " Ah, Viola, that is not quite true. Pepita is like a big, full-blown sunflower, and you are you are like a " " Like a withered sunflower !" smiles Viola. "No, no; you are like the inside of the great sea-shell uncle has, or like a wild white rose, so pale and delicate and sweet. Oh, I cannot bear to have Pepita crowned to-day !" And she hastens her steps anxiously. "Nina, carissima, I do not feel like dancing to-night; it tires me so that I cannot sleep. Let us go to the nook by the waterfall, and I shall tell you a story that I read yesterday. Such a pretty story, Nina !" The child turns and looks steadily up into Viola's clear eyes. " Are you doing this for me because I do not dance and you know that I love your stories, or are you doing it because that man I hate, that Signore Barbesi, is waiting to dance with you ?" " It is because he is there ; yes, Nina, and because I do not ever wish to see him again, and because it tires me to dance, as I said." Viola walks rapidly, while a faint flush dyes for a moment the transparent cheek. " Then he may wait, and scowl at everybody because you do not come, as long as he pleases. You are right to hate him : ^ he is a wicked man ! Ah !" she shivers, " his eyes make me creep all over !" " We will not talk about him," says Viola, gently ; " we will try to forget that he ever came to Vogogna, if we can." And they take the path leading away from the music of the violin and up towards the music of the waterfall. " If we can" Viola had said. Alas, was she ever per- mitted to forget this man's existence since the first unlucky day when, passing along the road in the diligence, he had caught sight of the fairest face his eyes had ever been dazzled by, and with the bold confidence of a low-class Lothario had descended from his perch and followed the terrified girl to her home ? Something in her modest demeanor and in the erect carriage of her head had warned even his coarse instincts that it would have been dangerous to address her ; but acquaintance is soon formed in these primitive hamlets, his experience had taught him, and so he had put up at the inn and bided his time. Prom the landlord of the Corona he had soon learned all that he cared to know of the household Hablemann, viz.. VIOLA. 183 that the father of this beautiful girl was an imbecile who could be twisted around the thumb of a child; that the grandmother was an avaricious old wretch, who was probably a miser, and who would sell her soul or her granddaughter for gold ; that Viola was a haughty, overbearing miss, who held her head above her neighbors because she had been taught to read and write and despise her betters. Thus the little man had paid off a long-standing score. Choosing a favorable moment, during the absence of Hein- rich and his daughter, Signore Barbesi had called at the cottage, and with much adroitness succeeded in gaining the ear of the Frau. His plausible manners, his gorgeously-decorated person, his craftily-exhibited credentials (which, fortunately, he had with him, being the travelling partner of a well-known jewelry establishment in Milan), all had their effect in breaking up the ice of the old woman's suspicious reserve, and before the visit ended he_ had obtained her permission to return and use his best endeavors to make a favorable impression upon her grand- daughter. For the old German woman was growing des- perate ; her age was beginning to make itself felt at last ; her eyes were growing dim, her hearing less acute, and her step more faltering. She looked at the dreamy, helpless Heinrich and the unprotected girl who would soon be obliged to work for them all, and her heart had grown bitter within her. The wealthy young Englishman, for whom she had schemed so cleverly and upon whom she had built such gigantic hopes, had as cleverly extricated himself from the trap which had been set for him. There was little chance of any more rich men tumbling down precipice" or dropping into fevers at her door, and the girl was fading strangely fast. This Milanese was rich and well established in business; he meant to marry Viola if he could succeed in gaining her consent. The old Frau meant that he should, whether he gained it or not. So long had this woman bent the wills of those about her to her own, so long had she held the reins of absolute authority in her family, that she had begun to believe that the acquiescence of any member of it in her projects was only a question of time and patience. To Viola this proposal of marriage had at first appeared something so far removed beyond the range of possibility that she had given it no second thought after her distinct and firm 184 SOUCI. refusal. Then had commenced a series of persecutions which, to her sensitive and highly-strung organization, were galling and irritating as myriad gnat-stings. After his first rebuff, Signore Barbesi had returned to Milan, from whence he aimed deadly shafts of rose-colored, musk- scented missives, sometimes accompanied by small velvet cases containing trinkets of an insidious attractiveness, all of which were politely declined and given into the Frau's charge to return ; which she promptly did, accurately divining in her astute old head that nothing could so vigorously fan the flame of this man's passion as such unusual coyness in its object. At intervals of a few weeks he would reappear in Vogogna, richly attired in black velvet coat and waistcoat relieved by fanciful- neckerchiefs (in which figured in coral the several limbs of female beauty), and dazzlingly ornamented by finger- rings and shirt-studs of real diamonds. The Vogognese looked upon him with admiring awe ; his arrival being the signal for a dance on the green and for an extraordinary liberality on the part of the host of the Corona to all whom it might concern. At first Viola had been fairly driven to join these dances by her grandmother's not-to-be-disputed authority ; but later when the very presence of this man had become obnoxious even her gentle spirit had rebelled. She had positively refused to dance with him ; to receive any more letters from him ; to encourage by a look the attentions which he forced upon her. Then her greatest trial began. Hourly was she overwhelmed by the bitterest reproaches from her grandmother, who, with a sneer at her father's useless life, would touchingly allude to her own declining strength ; to their swiftly-decreasing means, and the petty sum they two were enabled to earn by their joint industry ; asking her, in tremulous tones, where they were to look for support for their helpless old age ; where she was to hope for any better, more advantageous offer than this ; which would provide not only a safe home for her, but also a comfortable one for the old grandmother who had spent her aged years in her service ! This man was willing nay, glad to take her penniless, and burdened with as many conditions as they chose to exact. He would not trifle for an hour and then shake the dust off his feet in beating a hasty retreat after her affection c had been won ! No ; he was honest and VIOLA. 185 honorable and most generous ; he meant marriage ; none of the selfish fooling of men above her in station, who thought it conferred honor on a pea.sant-girl to make of her a plaything for a holiday. At this last taunt Viola would shiver and shrink, and, bowing her gentle head, would creep out into one of her many cells in the great heart of Nature, and pour forth in tears the woe which this unjust aspersion of her love had begotten. ******* " Which shall it be, Nina ? Shall I tell you the story, or read Tonio's last letter to you once more?" Viola asks, as she draws the cripple gently down on the softest patch of moss the nook affords. "Oh, read the letter !" exclaims the girl, her long, thin face, with its lines of care, growing eager. " A story is only a story after all, but this is real, and as beautiful as any fairy- tale ! Ah, was it not lovely how he met his father again after all those long, long years? What happiness it must be to have a father of one's own ! or a MOTHER ! Oh, Viola, think of it ! a MOTHER !" The toil-hardened little hands clasp each other ecstatically at the thought. " Poor little Nina ! your mother is with mine, in heaven !" Viola says, with a deep sigh. " You must let me take her place, dear, and come to me with all your troubles : if I cannot prevent them I can at least love you the better for them." And she kisses her, with a smile. Before. Viola's pitying eyes had falten upon her this child's life had been little better than that of a ground-mole. She worked mechanically, suffered dumbly, while the eyes of her soul were fast-sealed in a blind and terrible ignorance. How Viola felt her own trouble shrink into insignificance as she contemplated this wretched little life ! What balm for her own pain did she find in ministering to the sadder needs of this child ! What comfort did she bring into her own lonely life by gathering this helpless one into her heart ! Thus, drawn together by invisible bonds in the great kin- ship of suffering, the maimed heart and the crippled body make each the other's burden tolerable. " But I must read you Tonio's letter !" begins Viola, with an effort recovering her cheerfulness. " See, here it is ; such a short letter, but with so much in it, Nina !" 1C* 186 SOUCL " Yes, yes ! please go on !" implores the child, with her solemn eyes raised as expectantly as though she had not heard it read a dozen times before. " MY DEAR HEINRICH" (Viola always signed her father's name to her letters, but, as the old man naively observed, they were none the less welcome to Tonio because she had written them), " We are still in Sardinia, my father and I, aiding Garibaldi to form a corps which is authorized by the govern- ment, and is to be called the ' Hunters of the Alps' ( Cacci- atori delle Alpi), with which we hope soon to see some active service in the war just breaking out with Austria. " What a good man he is, this Garibaldi ! I hear from my father (who is on his staff, and his constant companion) daily accounts of his noble fortitude, his simple benevolence, and his heroic efforts to uproot the abuses of a tyrannical government. He penetrates into the convents, into the found- ling-hospitals, into the prisons ; everywhere his eagle eye pierces the cloud of injustice, ignorance, superstition, in which the poor people languish. Everywhere he would shed the clear light of reason, of mercy, above^all, of freedom ! No wonder that he is worshipped by men, women, and children, who look upon him as a demi-god ! No wonder that he would not exchange his red shirt for the crown of a king ! " I am glad, dear Heinrich, that you approved of my refusal of the commission offered me in my father's regiment until I had fitted myself for the position. We are drilled several times a day now,and shall soon, I hope, be considered fit for work." Here the letter breaks off abruptly ; below are scrawled in pencil the following lines, dated a day later: " A small force, in which, thank Heaven ! I am included, has just been ordered to cross with Garibaldi into Northern Lombardy, where several Austrian detachments have already taken up their position. My father, of course, accompanies the general. The rest of the corps remains in Sardinia. I shall not have time to post this, as we are to march in a few minutes." Then comes another postscript in pencil, dated two days later : "We have had an engagement with the enemy, and have VIOLA. 187 beaten them back. Once more on the march : shall post this at the next town. The men are quite wild with excitement and joy. Farewell ! farewell !" As Viola replaces the letter, written nearly a year ago, in her pocket, her face is very sad, and her eyes have a strange, absent look, which Nfna interprets with keen sympathy. She knows well that during all these months no other letter had reached Vogogna, and that the war had continued unabated. Two months ago the news of the taking of Palermo and Mes- sina had been wafted into the Anzasoa Valley: this had been in April, and it is now the last of June. What may have been the result of those victories to the majority of the en- thusiastic, undisciplined young soldiers, and what had been the fate of the brave, noble lad who had penned that last cheery letter, Viola could only conjecture. Nina slips her hand into that of her friend and lays her cheek upon it caressingly. " Read me another letter, Viola," she whispers, hoping to divert thereby her companion's sad thoughts. " Read me the one which tells how he sailed from Genoa for Sorrento, and saw his father coming along the coast in a boat to meet him. Ah, 1 think that is the loveliest letter of all, where he recog- nizes Tonio from his resemblance to his beautiful, dead mother! Oh, Viola, how happy they must have been !" " Yes, they were very happy," acquiesces Viola ; " but I have none of his letters with me except his last one, and this I know by heart," she adds, with a heavy sigh. " How wicked that little corporal was !" begins Nina, making another effort after a pause, during which Viola strokes absently her smooth brown hair. " To steal the boy and hide him in Paris for the sake of the money his father had confided to his care !" " Perhaps it was as much terror as wickedness which in- duced him to desert after his captain's disaster," returns Viola, always more inclined to shade out the dark lines of a black deed than to intensify them. " It may have been a cowardly panic. You see, he did not treat the child unkindly, and although he was poor, at last, he never sold the portrait, whose setting would have given him a small fortune, Tonio says." Her voice is suddenly checked by the sound of approach- 188 SOUCL ing footsteps crunching the brushwood under-foot. A moment after, the dark olive face and glittering eyes of Signore Bar- besi can be distinguished between the foliage. His white teeth gleam in a forced smile as he exclaims, gallantly, " It is here, then, that the queen of the festa is hiding her- self and breaking the hearts of those who hoped to see her at the dance below? Ah, signorina, how can you be so cruel ?" Viola has risen to her feet ; her delicate face, from which every shade of color has vanished, looks cut from marble, in its cold purity. Drawing the hunchback's arm through hers, she says, quietly, " I did not care to dance, signore, and I came here to be alone with Nina." She is about to turn away to leave the nook, when, with an agile spring, he places himself directly in front of the only exit, while a heavy scowl chases the smile from his thick, sen- sual lips, and he mutters, with a menacing glance, " Take care, signorina ! love may turn to hate, if it is tried too far ; even the worm will turn ! Beware how you trifle any longer with me !" Viola feels Nina's arm tremble within hers as these words are hissed through the clenched teeth of the infuriated man beside her ; bending her head quickly, she whispers, " Fear nothing, carisnma ; this man is a coward !" Then straight- ening her slight figure, grown, oh, so frail and willowy of late! she raises her calm blue eyes to his, and says, coldly, " I have never trifled with you, signore ; my answer was plain and decided from the first ; I have never deceived you. Per- mit us to pass." " Never deceived me !" cries the Milanese, ignoring the latter part of the sentence. " But what of the old woman, the grandmother ? she has not deceived me, has she ? For six months she has begged me to be patient ; she has prom- ised that I should gain your hand at last ; she has " " She has done nothing with my consent," interrupts Viola, cut to the heart by her grandmother's duplicity. " It has been all unknown to me, and I am not responsible for the promises of others." "And what may the signorina be waiting for?" asks Bar- besi, with a sneer. " Does she expect a fairy prince to stumble into this out-of-the-way valley in search of her charms ? You VIOLA. 189 know the proverb, 'A cacfer va eld troppo alto sale ;'* take care that you do not live to repent !" Viola's head droops ; she offers no reply ; scarcely have the words touched her. Her silence gives him courage. " I am tired of this fooling !" he says, roughly ; " I will stand it no longer !" She raises her graceful head instantly, and, holding it erect like a lily on its stalk, she answers, proudly, "You are right, signore. I, too, am weary of it. Stand aside, if you please, and allow us to pass." But the man's anger has reached its culminating-point : these two helpless creatures are at his mercy in this lonely spot ; every savage instinct of his nature rebels at that ex- ercise of courteous self-control demanded by their weakness. "You shall not pass, per Dio!" he cries, growing scarlet with rage. " I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing why you detest me ! Why do you avoid me as if I were a wild beast? Per Bacco ! I !" Here he draws himself up and ex- pands his embroidered shirt-bosom, while the diamond cross- bones under the malachite skull of his scarf-pin flash out their just indignation. " Let me tell you, signorina," puffs forth this Apollo of the counter, who suspects that his claim to manly beauty is being derided, " there are hundreds of girls in my native city who would envy you the honor I offer you, handsome girls, rich girls, but, ah," his voice sinking once more to a wheedling persuasiveness and the white teeth be- ginning to show again, " what would you have ? I have fallen in love with you. I ask nothing with you. I have even promised to set up the old people for life, and still you will not smile upon me, you " " Would you have me sell myself," she breaks in here, with a sudden flash in the sweet eyes, " that my grandmother and my father might have a better home ? Would you be content to know that your wife married you for the silk gowns you could give her, or the trinkets she would not accept? Ah, signore, a marriage without love would be as hard for you to bear as for me ! Be patient a little while, and you will find another who will gladly accept your hand. For me all that i.s over. I shall never marry." Viola's voice has grown * Pride goes before a fall. 190 SOVCI. very low and sad at these last words, but the proud dignity of her manner has not abated one whit. Never has she looked so lovely, the Milanese thinks, never has he so longed to carry her away with him, as at this moment. " I cannot give you up !" he exclaims, passionately, the dark face flushing purple, the black eyes glowing like coals of fire. " For six months I have thought of you alone ! dreamed of you ! determined to make you my wife ! and by all the saints in heaven I swear I shall accomplish it !" " Let us pass, signore !" Clear, firm, cold as ice are Viola's tones now ; her face has turned once more to stone. " No !' ' he cries, advancing a step nearer to her and seizing her arm with a grasp of steel. " No ! by Santa Maria ! Not until you promise to be mine ! Come, my pretty one, we have had enough coyness; we are weary of it!' 1 His other arm encircles the slight waist ; the passion-distorted face bends itself towards hers, grown white as a lily, when, swift as a lightning-flash, a short, sharp-pointed knife gleams an in- stant in Nina's uplifted hand, then buries itself to the handle through the upper part of the man's arm. Bravo, little Nina ! your mushroom-cutter has done faithful work in its time, but never braver than it has done to-day ! Half blinded by the blood which spurts up into his livid face, half stunned by the suddenness of the attack, Barbesi reels backward a few paces, and Nina, throwing her intrepid arm about the almost-fainting Viola, drags her down tke path thus freed, never stopping to take breath until they have reached safely the open highway. Here they encounter two or three stragglers from the dance, whom Nina sends to the aid of the wounded man without pausing to give the explanation of the injury which they, awe- stricken, demand. It is not until they have gained the cottage-porch that Viola's horror and dismay have given place to gratitude and admiration of the child who had saved her from the pollution which had threatened her. " Nina, what can I say to thee, carissima ? Thou hast saved me from a bitter shame ! I shall never forget it, Nina, never !" And she covers with kisses the long, brown face, down which big tears are now rolling:. VIOLA. 191 " I could not help it !" she cries, while the poor deformed shoulders are shaken with deep sobs. " Oh, Viola, I coW not see him touch you, he looked as if he had gone mad, and you you seemed as if you were dying, so pale, so pale !" " And I feared that you were terrified, you brave little girl 1" whispers Viola, tenderly. " So I was frightened !" returns the child', shuddering. " When he hissed through his teeth and smiled so horribly ! Oh, yes, I was afraid of him, until he took you by the arm ; then I hated him, and all at once my hand fell upon my knife, and I would have killed him if I could ! Oh, it was wicked, Viola ! The saints will never forgive me !" And she sobs again. " Nina, you hurt me ! Do not cry ! I would rather have died than have had that man touch me ! Nina, do you hear ? I owe you more than my life !" Then, with soft caresses, she soothes the excited child until Heinrich returns, when Viola, after telling him the story, confides her friend to his charge to be taken home. Heinrich makes no observation upon the heroic act of the little girl, but he plays his sweetest airs for her as they saunter slowly through the twilight, and when he leaves her at the door of her uncle's abode he stoops, and, kissing her gently on both cheeks, lays his long, thin hand upon her head as if in silent blessing. Excepting Viola's, these are the only kisses which have ever fallen upon that toil-worn face. Nina looks at herself anxiously in the bit of broken mirror fastened against her bedroom wall, as though she expects to find her homeliness suddenly transfigured through the influence of those unwonted caresses. 192 SOUCL CHAPTER XXI. "THERE is NO BLOOD UPON THESE HANDS OF MINE." "There is no blood upon these hands of mine: Why do they feel so like a murderer's ?" LORD LYTTOX. " Improve the people ! Well, I saw a peasant broken on the wheel yesterday, for stabbing an abbot a young man of one of our best families who had kindly improved the condition of the brute's sister !" THREE days later all Vogogna is in consternation, aided and abetted by that delicious undercurrent of pleasurable excite- ment with which the discovery of a real crime in our imme- diate vicinity inspires the heart of man. The Milanese, who, in consequence of approaching death, has acquired the dignity of " his Eccellenza" lies withering under a fever, caused by his wound, in his bedroom at the Corona. There is but one opinion among the excited villagers, gath- ered in open-mouthed conclave about the inn precincts, that the fever which had set in immediately was the result of poison adhering to the knife which had done the deadly deed. For who could tell a toadstool from a mushroom in the gray of early morning or the dusk of evening, when alone Nina was permitted to leave her spinning-wheel? and everybody kne"w what a rank poison lurked in the toadstool. Yes, there is no hope ; should his Eccellenza not die of the wound, he will undoubtedly perish from the poison, which has got into his blood ! Has he not been raving for the last three nights, and has he not (in a lucid interval, let us hope) received ex- treme unction at the hands of their own little priest ? How can he live after that ? And when he dies what will become of the murderess ? How they roll out this word in their soft vowels ! how they gloat over the fact that at last kind fortune has sent them a tidbit of horrible scandal to dilate upon whilst they consume endless flasks of sour red wine in its discussion I VIOLA. 193 The ends of justice should not be defeated because the creature is almost a child and a cripple. Has not her uncle, in anticipation of the end, shut her up in her attic on a scanty diet? She is not popular, the silent, wan-faced hunchback, in her native village. Many of her uncle's peccadilloe^have been laid to her charge ; and she had sometimes been called witch, and stoned, as she passed humbly the door-swarmed cottages of her kind. I fear, had justice called a jury from among those Vogognese, Nina would assuredly have fallen a victim, in case of this man's death, to the old Jewish law which exacted "a life for a life." The gentle " quality of mercy" is not always found in the bosoms of the honest tillers of the soil. ***** * * In her little room, barred against all intruders. Viola has taken refuge, like an animal at bay. She has fled there, half wild, wholly bewildered, from a conflict which has raged since noon between her grandmother and herself. She has sunk exhausted, but not conquered, upon the floor, trying to stifle her sobs in the pillow of her bed, as she prays for strength to resist the persecution which is becoming intolerable, now that l the sympathy of everybody is enlisted for the "unfortunate signore." That morning had been spent by the Frau at the bedside of the Milanese ; the little priest had come to her with a mes- sage from the supposed-dying man, a request that she would come to him at once. Although a heretic, the Frau would be Christian enough, the holy man hoped, to grant the prayer, of one who had been shriven of his sins and would soon receive the last consolations of the Church. The old German woman's shrewd eyes, however, soon discovered that the signore was not in urticulo mortis, and, indeed, was sufficiently alive to wax vindictive whenever his speech reverted to the unfortunate hunchback, whom he menaced with all the terrors of the law. It was only when the Frau insinuated that Liebchen would resent the punishment of her little friend that Barbesi showed signs of rdcntiriir. alt In nigh it apparently cost him a pang to relinquish the idea of having her imprisoned for the assault, which had been as inopportune as violent. They had talked long, and without undue reticence on either i 17 194 SOVCI. side, and when the Frau bade him farewell in her Teutonic- Italian, they had exchanged a glance of intelligence which needed no interpretation by speech. Carefully folded away in her pocket lay a paper, signed by the Milanese, settling a certain sum of money upon Viola under certain plainly-ex- pressed conditions. Walking slowly home under the August sun, which op- pressed the unwieldy old body more than she was conscious of, so absorbed was she in her thoughts, the Frau had conjured ,up a pathetic picture of a fine-looking youth stretched upon perhaps a dying bed, entreating only the inexpressible joy of being united to the loved object for whose sake he is now suffering ! Such magnanimity, such generosity, must melt a heart of stone ! The Frau had wiped her hot face and struggled on ; at last she had reached the cottage, and Liebchen, white and trembling, had come forth to meet her, asking, anxiously, " Is it true, what they say, that he is dying? Ach, lieber Gott ! can this terrible thing come upon me after all that I have suffered ?" Her grandmother had thought it best to hobble in and take possession of her great-chair in an ominous silence ; then she had slowly wiped her face again and untied the strings of her bonnet. Viola, standing patiently before her, had been impressed by this gloomy silence, and almost dreaded to see the old woman open her tight-pressed lips. " I never thought, Liebchen, to see you live to have mur- der on your soul. Yes, murder; for although your hand did not strike the blow, it was through your wicked obstinacy and cruelty that it was struck." "Is he dying?" Viola had asked then, in a hard, changed voice. The Frau's eyes had sought the floor. " He is," she had said. " And he is dying as much of a broken heart as of the cruel wound that wicked girl gave him. He lies there, pale and weak as a child. So handsome too. Achja! he is a fine man, ein schoner mnnn ! You would pity him, could you see him now, Liebchen." Only a low, gasping sigh had answered this. " And what, think you, has this noble man done ? Feeling VIOLA. 195 himself to be dying, he has made a will see, I have it" (drawing the folded paper from her pocket and immediately replacing it) " in which he has left everything he possesses to y u -" . " And you consented to this ? You would have me accept this?" had cried Viola, in wild excitement. " But yes ; I have consented to it, and so will you. As his wife are you not entitled to it?" " I am not his wife ! What do you mean ? Oh, what have you done ?" she had wailed forth. ' ; I have promised a dying man that you would not oppose a request made upon his death-bed. Should he live through- out the night the priest will unite you to him to-morrow morning, and his last hours will be happy !" Without a quaver in the thick guttural voice the Frau had pronounced these words, which had fallen upon Viola's ears like the knell of departing hope. One frantic effort the girl had made to resist the implac- able will which had never before been disputed during her lifetime by human being. u You have promised what cannot be ! Do you think I would buy all the wealth of the world by such a contemptible act as this ? Oh, have pity ! have pity !" " Pity ! Have you any pity for him ? Have you any for the girl you profess to care so much for, and who, should you refuse his last request, will be delivered up to the law, and rightly too ! When she is rotting in prison, for the poor are apt to be forgotten when they are once behind bars, when he is dead and buried, and we your father and I are wander- ing over the earth homeless beggars (for your lady-hands can never support us), what then shall be your pity and your remorse ?" At this moment Heinrich had entered noiselessly, and was surveying with uncomprehending eyes the sad scene. In- stantly Viola turned towards him her white, tearless face. " Father/ thou wilt save thy Liebchen ! Oh, pray her to have mercy upon me !" Startled into a quicker perception than usual, the old man had taken in the situation, and had murmured, while he gently stroked Viola's hair with his tremulous fingers, " It is very sad that ho should die, so young and strong as he looked ; 196 SOUCL but you were right, mem Liebchen, not to promise to marry him, you were right !" "ffeinrich /" Only this one word from the Frau, but in it such a volume of repressed wrath and contempt. 4 " Well, well !" had sighed her son, " it is all the same now ; he is dying, they say, and it is no use to scold her any more." Then Viola had lifted her streaming eyes upwards, clasping her thin hands together, and crying out in her anguish, " my love ! my love ! Come to me ! Save me, save me !" as she stumbled blindly up the staircase to her little bedroom. CHAPTER XXII. ON THE WING. " The night is very dark and very lonely : And as dark, and all as lonely, is my heart: And the sorrow that is in it night knows only : For the dawn breaks, and my heart breaks. Far apart From my old self seems my new self. And my mother And my sister are in heaven, so they say : And the dear one, dearer yet than any other, Is far, far away." OWEN MEREDITH. DUSK has fallen, when a slender figure, dressed simply in a dark stuff gown and a plain bonnet, over which is drawn closely a thick double veil, steps into the little station-office, and, offer- ing a piece of gold, demands two places in the diligence which is to start at four o'clock the next morning. Without hesita- tion the tickets are handed to her, and a moment later she is flying along the road, keeping well in the shadow of the trees, until the hut on the outskirts of the village is reached. A pebble thrown against the wooden shutter for glass there is none is answered by the appearance at the aperture of a thin, woe-bcgone, brown face, into which flashes an in- stantaneous gleam of joy. "Viola, is it you?" she whispers, half fearfully, her face VIOLA. 197 growing troubled again as the change in her friend's costume strikes her. " Is it you or a spirit?" she falters. " It is I, Nina. Are you alone ? Don't speak loud !" " Yes. He has brought me my supper, and locked me up again and gone out. Oh, Viola, is the man dead yet?" her voice growing strangely hollow, and an expression of wild fear distorting the poor face. " No, Nina, he is not dead ; and if he were, you should not suffer for it! Now. listen. Can you break open the door of your garret? Try." The girl shakes her head mournfully. " I have tried often ; it has an iron bolt ; I cannot stir it !" " Is there a bed in the room?" asks Viola. " Yes; a bundle of straw and a sheet and coverlet." " Good ! Tear the sheet in halves and knot them firmly together. Do the same with the coverlet." " It is done !" cries Nina, a moment later, having seized the idea with joyful eagerness. " Now pass one end through that beam over your head so. Now throw both ends out of the window to me," directs her rescuer, glancing anxiously up and down the road, every sense on the alert, fearing lest some passer-by might thwart her merciful undertaking. " Quickly now, clamber down !" she urges, trying with all her might the strength of their improvised rope. " There is no danger ; the distance is nothing. Gently ; not so fast. Ah, here you are !" And she clasps the emaci- ated child, who has been wellnigh starved during these past three days, in her arms with tender pity. Away they speed, dragging with them the knotted sheet, which they safely inter under the decaying leaves in a hollow tree-trunk lest the child's flight should be discovered betimes, scarcely daring to breathe until they reach the cottage, where a light burning dimly in the Frau's chamber warns them that she is still awake. Softly they creep up the staircase, past that dreaded door, and reach Viola's own little bedroom in safety. " Ah, Viola," whispers the hunchback, gazing at her with rapt adoration, " you are like an angel ! Your face is bright like the angel with the lily, in the picture over the altar." " Hush, Nina !" She closes her lips with a kiss. " I am a very hungry angel just now. See ; here is a great dish of 17* 198 SOUCL polenta and milk my dear father brought to me at supper- time. I could not eat it then, but I think we might manage it together." And she puts the spoon in Nina's hand, and watches her with glistening eyes as she hungrily devours a portion of it. " Go on, eat it all !" she entreats, as the child sets down the dish, ashamed of her voracity. " Do eat it all, Nina ; you need nourishment so sadly, and I have something else in this basket, which I had intended to carry to Pepita's poor old grandmother this morning. Look ! here is a can of soup and some German porridge. You must have some of this ; it is good." The girls eat their supper by the faint glimmer of a taper, while, in whispers, Viola details her plans to Nina's wondering delight. Afterwards they cautiously open and unpack a port- manteau which has always stood in one corner of the little room, and in which is carefully laid away, amid sprigs of lav- ender and sweet marjoram, every relic of the dear by-gone days of her life in the villa of the Contessa. Here are neatly- made dresses of all fabrics, from soft wool to rich silk, co- quetries in millinery, neck -ties, ribbons, kid gloves and delicate boots, fine stockings and dainty laces, the thousand trifles which mark the distinction of class ; the poetical useless things which render the prosaic necessity of our outward covering a pleasure as well as an art. With lingering touch Viola refolds and replaces all, save the most useful articles, in their respective compartments, re- calling vividly many an association connected with each and all of them ; associations which she dares not dwell upon just now. This pretty blue silk had been made for Maddalena's birth- day fete ; that sweet white-sprigged muslin she had worn at a child's party in Florence ; this little fanciful hat had been sent from Paris to Maddalena, and, suiting ill her Irune com- plexion, had been bestowed upon Viola. Here in its case lies the little watch the Contessa gave her, and the turquoise ring which the spoiled heiress had embalmed with her tears at parting. " We cannot take them all," she whispers to the wonder- stricken Nina, who touches the dainty silks with the tips of her brown fingers, as though she would convince herself they VIOLA. 199 are tangible realities. " Here is a suit small enough for you, caris&ima ; put it on as quickly as you can ; and here is a modest little hat which will be the very thing for you, and a veil on it too, for we must not be recognized, Nina." While the hunchback is rapidly investing herself with the borrowed plumes, Viola fills a travelling-bag with such articles as might be most useful, making up a small bundle of all that cannot be crammed into the bag. From a tortoise-shell box she takes a few trinkets of some value, and several gold pieces, which had been given to her by her kind friends. These she makes into a parcel and places in her bosom, only one of them she first raises to her lips and kisses it before she hides it away. It is the ugliest and least valuable of all, a brooch of immense proportions, composed of cairngorm-pebbles, set in silver, presented to her on her birthday by Miss Crawford. Viola has confided her plans to Nina, and has been sur- prised by the quick intelligence with which she comprehends and aids her. A letter from Miss Crawford, received a week previous, de- cided the direction of their flight. She was in Paris, having just arrived there in the family of an English lady, who had thought best to bring her daughters abroad to acquire a cor- rect accent in the various tongues of which they had a super- ficial knowledge. The governess had not found her sisters as grateful for the privilege of her society as Viola had predicted, or as they had appeared to be when half her salary was an- nually divided between them, and she had soon been forced to seek another situation. Carefully Viola copies the address of the hotel in Paris, where she is sure of finding one familiar face to cheer and ad- vise her on her future course ; this she secures in the inside pocket of her travelling-bag with her purse, in which glisten a couple of golden sovereigns, placed there, unknown to her, by the kind hand which would soon clasp hers. And then the girls lie down, dressed as they are, upon the tiny bed, to await the dawn of that morning which shall bring them liberty. Darkness still veils the face of day, when Viola, rising softly, removes her shoes and steals like a shadow across the passage to the door of Heinrich's room. It is partly ajar, and as she draws near the bed, upon which he has thrown himself 200 SOUCI. without undressing, his attitude of weary grief touches her heart. One thin arm is lying across the pale, withered face ; the other is stretched over his violin, against which his cheek is resting. As she gazes upon him, the fingers of his right hand twitch nervously, as though fingering his bow, and the lips murmur anxiously, fearfully, " Liebchen ! Liebchen !" Stooping over him, she kisses lightly the fair hair streaming over the pillow, the worn coat-sleeve, not daring to do more, and slips under the strings of his instrument the little letter in which she has bidden him farewell. " Good-by, dear father ; most precious thou hast ever been to me, and ever shalt be in my heart," she had written. " Do not grieve when thou shalt awake and find thy Liebchen has gone, to escape from a fate worse than death. Thou wilt be glad, my beloved, to know that I am safe ; that I have been able to get away before they break my heart. Thou wilt miss me, but thou wilt not regret my going, for thou hast never had a selfish thought ! "TFear nothing for me, dear father, Nina accompanies me. I have money ; I go to Paris to Miss Crawford. She will help me to gain a livelihood, and when I can do so, I shall come for you, and take you away with me. "Fear nothing from anyone! Thou shalt never be cast out upon the world. Grandmother has money, and I shall send you more. Courage, my father ! " I would fain hear our love-song once more, dear father, before I go ; but I shall hear it again, trust me, I shall hear it soon again. " May all the angels guard thee, my beloved ! prays thy " LIEBCHEN." One more look, through fast-dropping tears, at the calm, still face, faintly defined by the glimmering starlight, and then Viola creeps back, and, awakening the sleeping Nina, they prepare for their flight. When the post-horn rings out its merry reveille to the echoes half an hour "later, the old Frau, slumbering under a mountain of eider-down, little dreams that her trapped bird is already on the wing. BOOK IV. LAURELS. CHAPTER I. "ARE WE so SOON FORGOT?" Rip Van Winkle. "Ah, what shall I be at fifty, Should Nature keep me alive, If I find the world so bitter When I am but twenty-five?" LTSTER RAWDON, somewhat bronzed and weather-beaten, looking older and graver than when we saw him last, is saun- tering idly along the Rue de Rivoli arm-in-arm with a chum of earlier days, Noyes Jamieson. Bored equally by the seduc- tions of fair, beguiling Lutetia as by the hardships and perils of Western America or the hair-breadth 'scapes of Eastern jungles, feeling that there is a lack of savor in life generally, Lyster has reached that limit of ennui when a man either makes a mighty effort to throw off the inertia of which he is growing ashamed or goes out and hangs himself. Satan (in the form of cherub-faced Jamieson, whom he En- countered accidentally at breakfast), with the ready suggest- iveness ascribed to that potentate under given conditions, presents an alternative. " Have you seen her, Rawdon ?" he lisps, in the dainty drawl pfculiar to him. " Can't say, dear boy ; I have seen so many people. Who is she?" Not the faintest accent of interest or curiosity in his voice. Jamieson glances at him a little indignantly. " Oh, come, now, you don't pretend to say that you did not hear those fellows raving about her at the club a moment ago ? That i* 201 202 SOUCI. sang-froid you have picked up, Lyster, is amazing good form in such a young one, I admit, but you must have grown stone deaf in your wanderings, not to have heard those wranglers !" " Ah ! Was it the Circe with the throat of a million thrushes, the singer they called ' Le Rossignol' ? " " Precisely ; the new ' prima' who has sung the Vienna world mad, and who is now about to electrify the Parisians. You are in luck, dear old boy ; you have returned to civili- zation in time to assist at her debut. She sings for the first time here on Friday." Lyster makes no reply. It is doubtful whether he hears a word of his friend's congratulation. His face has resumed its moody expression : his thoughts have strayed far from the brilliant melange of sights and sounds and scents which make up that p'lt-pourri of sensation Paris. He is, perhaps, riding uncomfortably, camel-mounted, across the desert, or watching the sun set on the ruins of the Parthenon, wondering anew at the myriad tints into which each glowing color subdivides it- self in these gorgeous-skied regions, when Jamieson's tra.ina.nte voice breaks into his revery with just a touch of annoyance in its silvery cadence. "What are you mooning about, Lyster? There is Lady Gordon- Villiers bowing and smiling at you, and you look as glum as an Egyptian mummy. Really, you are too bad. This sort of thing may go down in the East, but one must be a Roman in Rome, dear boy " " Was it the singer?" inquires Rawdon, abstractedly, raising his hat as a dashing equipage shoots past. Then, as Jamieson laughingly shakes his head, he adds, a little apologetically, '' You forget, my dear fellow, that I have been knocking about the antipodes for a couple of years. I only returned yesterday. Why, I haven't got the dust out of my eyes or the roar of the sea out of my ears yet." " Well, get your eyes and ears in good working order, Lys- ter, as soon as possible, for there is a treat in store for them. You must hear Souci !" pursues Jamieson, returning to the all-absorbing topic. " Souci? A lugubrious name !" Rawdon makes an effort to appear interested. " Is she handsome ?" " No ; too white, too cold ; but she moves like an empress. She reminds me of a picture of Zenobia we have down at LA URELS. 203 Broadacres ; do you remember it? Just such a stag-like way of carrying her head." " Ah, yes ; I see her before me. You need not describe her, Jamie. Half a foot above the medium height ; swarthy ; coarse black hair iu abundance; piercing black eyes; high cheek-bones ; hands and feet to match. A cross between the Amazon and the Zingara in style, conversation, and exac- tions !" Rawdon stops, with a shudder. " Astounding !" bursts forth Jamieson. " You have drawn her trait pour trait ! You must have met her somewhere at the antipodes !" " Thank Heaven, no ! Women are insupportable when they are not pmall-boned, soft-skinned, low-voiced. We are not living in the age of Titans, when length of limb measured out beauty by the yard. I feel relieved, Jamie; I half fancied from your rhapsodies that you were epris." " Too old for that. Rawdon," returns the veteran of a dozen seasons, a slight flush deepening in the smooth, whisker- li -- cheek, curved and tinted like a girl's; "but the men are all half mad about her. She's all that she's painted, I assure you." " Then that must be a good deal ; they generally are. What are the 'on dits about her?" Rawdon continues, stifling a yawn. " What is she, saint, martyr, or Uonrief" " Neither," replies Jamieson, curtly. " Where she came from, who she is, are mysteries ; but she is a lady by birth, cultivation, or the grace of God !" "And has genuine talent? You have heard her?" asks Kawdon, becoming slightly amused at this still surviving ardor in his senior by ten years. " Yes ; in Vienna. The ovation she received there was no mean triumph in that city of music-lovers. Talent ! that sounds a tame word applied to a gift which lifts you out of yourself and sets you down on the threshold of another world !" Then, half ashamed of his enthusiasm, he adds, in his laziest drawl, "They say she belongs to an illustrious Italian family, and was abducted from her convent by the man who is bringing her out on the stage. Others declare her to be a Castilian ; that she was picked up by a band of strolling players in the streets of Seville and brought to Paris when ijuitc a child ; afterwards rescued by this musical con- 204 SOUCL noisseur, Monsieur Delacroix. Others again believe her to be a Russian (she is of that Norse type). She has been divorced from one or two husbands ; has murdered a couple of her lovers ; has had several duels fought about her ; has the royal blood of more than one nation in her veins ; is despised at court; and has given the name to a new coiffure. Heaven only knows all that has been said about her ! Here we are at the very doors of the Lyrique, and," drawing forth his watch, " at the very hour of rehearsal ! Come, Lyster, I am privileged, and attend these things daily. Come and judge for yourself." With dexterous force he draws his friend within *the entrance, and a moment later they await the tardy movements of an antiquated box-opener, while Rawdon asks, " What is it she has chosen for her debut ?" " Faust." " Ye gods ! defend me from a raw-boned Marguerite ! Why don't she play in Bouffe, and do the Grande Duchesse, or something worthy of her majestic stride and stag-like bear- ing and superabundant inches ?" " Don't know, I'm sure. Something of that sort would suit her excellently well !" returns Jamieson, gnawing savagely the golden moustache which does not hide his perfect mouth. " But, you see, she has her own opinions of the fitness of things." They have been friends from boyhood, these two, notwith- standing the difference in their ages, and up to the time of Rawdon's trip to the Continent there had never been the shadow of reserve between them. After his return to England, how- ever, Noyes Jamieson had been made aware of a very per- ceptible change in his friend. The frank, joyous, impetuous youth (hot-headed and utterly irrational he had often called him) had grown quiet, moody, and cynical. The sanguine trustfulness and vehement energy which had sometimes landed them both in bogs of confusion, had given place to a lethargic indifference, tinged with that mistrustful bitterness towards the other sex which has an eloquence of its own. That Noyes suspected the root of Lyster's trouble was evi- dent in the fact that he scrupulously respected the unusual reserve behind which his friend shielded himself, and even when he quitted England suddenly, setting sail for the other side of the globe, Jamie wrung his hand silently when he went LA URELS. 205 down to see him off at Southampton, without remonstrance or even the slightest expression of curiosity. Only, the bright brown eyes had held the sympathetic softness of a woman's tenderness within them as they watched him pass over the gunwale, and a few minutes later saw the brave ship steam away. And now they have met again, and the change which Noyes had silently deplored has become still more marked. That Lethe of foreign travel which is supposed to restore the minds diseased of those who seek oblivion for their griefs, has failed to renew the boyish sparkle in the violet eyes or to erase the lines about the mouth and between the brows, making the tired face appear older to-day than his companion's. Le Cheri (as Jamieson is sobriqueted in Parisian circles because of his pretty face, his winning ways, and his exqui- sitely dorlotte appearance) wonders vaguely how any man can cast away all those good things the gods provide for such ex- ceptionally-favored mortals as his friend, and himself, for the sake of one solitary woman, who, ten to one, is unworthy of the sacrifice. Then he thanks Heaven or his Epicurean philosophy that never a night's rest or a good dinner has he lost for the wiliest Delilah of them all. " You have brought me here under false pretences !" Raw- don says, a little wearily, as through the gloom they perceive that the drop-curtain is down, and that, a man is putting out the foot-lights. Jamieson cannot suppress an exclamation of disappointment. :< Let us go behind the scenes and make inquiry," he says. " Surely she is not ill ! or the debut postponed !" At the accent of anxiety in his voice Lyster smiles grimly, and they make their way through the dark passage leading to the stage. Here a dingy-looking lady, upon whom some fifty hard-working winters have daubed their mark (she had a few moments before been personating a coquettish soubrette), ap- proaches them, and informs them that owing to a slight indis- position of the tenor the rehearsal has been cut short, but that there will be a " dress" one on Thursday at two o'clock, " if (('.< nii-nxi'mrsi would care to assist at it." " Bah !" interrupts " 1c C/n'ri." turning on his heel, regard- less of the insinuating leer with which the ancient vestal accentuate her invitation. ' Conic. I/VM.T. I have wa>ie-I enough of your time here!" He has taken but a few >tej.s ' 18 206 SOUCI. when he is suddenly arrested by an exclamation from his friend. " By Jove ! "' Rawdon had advanced half a dozen paces, and now stands just within the wings, with the stage before him diuily lighted by a trap-door in the flics. Through this aperture there streams one golden bar of sunlight, crossing transversely the dusky stage and falling directly upon the head and face of a woman standing at the extreme opposite end of it. She is conversing in low tones with the manager, a little man with raven hair and whiskers (of that purplish tinge which is ad- vertised to rejuvenate), a ne plus -ultra of French elegance in the theatrical line, with the suave, slightly-sentimental manner inseparable from his avocation. He is listening eagerly, def- erentially, as all must listen to that haughty-looking woman, Lyster thinks. Perhaps she is not above the average height of her sex, but the erect, nobly-developed figure and the proud pose of the head convey the impression of a commanding presence. In these degenerate days of whalebone and buckram, of bustle and pannier, there is a rare suggestiveness of the antique in the grand and beautiful contours, veiled, not hidden, by the close-fitting black gown, whose scant skirt boasts no other style than that sublime simplicity beloved by sculptors of sparse draperies. This woman is a true artist : she would no more fetter her limbs and impede her circulation by one or the other of the vagaries of fashion or disfigure her statuesque head by the abominations of bad taste in vogue than the Venus of the Capitol would adopt the modern chignon, or the Farnese Hercules induct himself into the dress-coat of civilization. " Yet, she is not beautiful," Lyster concludes, inwardly, after a critical survey. " Striking yes ; but too still and cold, as Jamie said, for beauty ; too neutral-tinted ; the pale yellow twists of her hair scarcely relieve sufficiently that sallow skin ; the features are too large, and the chin too square ; the eyes are simply glorious !" Outwardly he asks, more eagerly than he has asked anything for many months, " You know her, Jamie?" " I have that pleasure," he replies, delighted at the un- usual animation manifested by his friend. " Shall I present you, dear boy ?" LA URELS. 207 " Thanks ; not here." And Lystcr draws back into the shadow of the wings as the regal-stopping woman sweeps to- wards them, and, bestowing an inclination of the head and the brightest of smiles upon Jamieson, passes swiftly down the dim passage into a dressing-room beyond. " Snubbed, by Jove !" mutters Jamie, flushing with vexation. " She must have seen you, Lyster !" " Yes," returns the other, smiling, " there is something overwhelming about me, I confess ; women always fly at my approach, poor little dears ! But, Jamie, how her proud, cold face seemed to break up all over into ripples when she smiled at you, you ungrateful dog !" " She generally stops to speak to me, and gets me to her in her carriage ; we are great chums, la belle Souci and I," drawls Noyes, as they quit the theatre by the private entrance, before which stands a neat coupe. " That is her turn-out ; tidy, isn't it ? Shall we wait for her ?" An almost pleading tone in his voice decides Rawdon to indulge his friend's longing for the accustomed privilege of closing the carriage-door upon this last infatuation. " I must run over to my banker's," he says, consulting his watch. " We will meet later. I perceive this is but the first chapter of a three-volume novel whose dreary length shall be read to me at intervals throughout the next six months. Ah, Jamie, Jamie, why can you not learn to keep your head cool ?" With a mournful sigh, Rawdon turns away, just as the help- ictiui whose fate he deplores advances, with a beaming gladness in his eyes, to meet the lady, who, bonneted and veiled, now appears, followed by an elderly attendant. Who is he your friend ?" are her first words, as he takes with empressemtnt the hand she frankly offers. " English that goes without saying from the top of his head to the sole of his foot. What does he call himself?" " His name is Rawdon, Lyster Rawdon, a very old friend of mine. I was going to take the liberty of bringing him to your reception on Monday next ; may I ?" " I don't know" she hesitates : " he looks rather morose; I don't like gloomy people. The reason I endure you is that you have so much sunshine about you. No; I imagine I should dislike this sunburnt friend of yours!" And she steps into her coupt as though the subject were dismissed forever. 208 SOUCI. " But," persists Jamie, closing the door upon the austere- looking abigail and leaning through the window, " he is niy friend, sunburn and all. We have known each other since infancy. Say I may bring him !" No woman under sixty had ever been able to resist Jamie's eyes and voice when they assumed that plaintive tone of entreaty. "On your own head be it, thenl" laughs Souci. "If he proves a bore, I shall never forgive you, voila tout!" " No fear of that," returns Jamieson ; " he is the most charming man I know. Been all over the world, you know, and that sort of thing. No end of adventures to relate " t( - Ah, I know the species," interrupts Souci : t; a lion who is always expected to roar, and who never does. I have deter- mined not to make my salon a menagerie ! However, I have said you might bring him, and if he makes himself obnoxious (ant pire pour vous, mon ami!" And then she pulls the check- string and desires the coachman to drive to the Rue d'Antin, leaving Noyes extremely doubtful whether he has done wisely to crave admission for this friend towards whom the lady af- fected so much indifference. She had evidently observed him closely during her conversation with the stage-manager, and Jamie is perfectly aware of the peril which lies in poor Mrs. Malaprop's unconscious truism, " It is better to begin with a little aversion." With a perturbed spirit he strolls over to the florist's to offer up his daily oblation at the shrine of the woman who does not scruple to tell him that she endures him for his sunny temper and bright eyes. LAURELS. 209 CHAPTER II. "HATH SHE HER FAULTS?" " Hath she her faults ? I would you had them too. They are the fruity must of soundest wine; Or say, they are regenerating fire, Such as hath turned the dense, black element Into a crystal pathway for the sun !" " JEANNE, tell him to stop in the Rue Vivienne : I must have a new toilette for Monday night. I have taken quite a fancy to that ' melancholy Jaques.' What shall it be, mon amie ?" " Ah ! mam'selle has such good taste, so original ; I could not suggest. Mam'selle will wear white, as usual ?" " Undoubtedly ! it is too warm for black, and I never touch colors. But white offers a wide field, Jeanne ; it must be something odd and severe ; something rich and creamy, fall- ing in thick folds, with cameos, stone cameos, eh ?" Her companion's smile of admiring acquiescence would have been equally appreciative if she had decided upon serge and . pearls ; for in matters of dress the good woman was ignorant as one of the month-old calves on the little farm where Souci had learned to value her strong, true heart and the kindness which had succored Tonio and herself in their dire distress. If she has not entirely faded from recollection, the reader will recognize in the rugged, homely features, which soften with sincere affection as she turns towards Souci, the wife of the cheery old farmer who had rescued her from death on the highway years ago. With all her faults, and their name is legion, the sentiment of gratitude is not wanting in Souci's nature. The first use she had made of her instruction in penmanship had been to send voluminous epistles to each and all of the few friends who had been merciful to her in her sad childhood. The first boon she had ever solicited from Monsieur Delacroix had been the 18* 210 SOUCI. removal of the good farmer's widow (he had departed this life a year or two previous) to Paris and giving her the position of housekeeper in his establishment. This Eaoul had readily granted, and, having become impressed with the incorruptible honesty and conscientiousness of her character, had constituted her Souci's sole attendant, after she had quitted school, during his unavoidable engagements. Thus did the bread which this good creature had cast upon the waters of charity return to her after many days. Nor had Souci forgotten her promise to Monsieur The'ophile, the little tailor, and his chirpy wife, Nanine. They have been sent for from Lyons to assist at her first appearance on the stage in Paris, and are enjoying their rare holiday at Mon- sieur Delacroix's expense, as only hard-working, jovial-hearted French ouvriers can. Had the girl been able to appropriate the principal boxes of the " Theatre Lyrique' 1 to the famille Margot and the entire establishment at No. 6 Rue des Acacias (of course excepting Mere Ursule and her grandson, for Souci could hate as in- tensely as she could love), she would assuredly have sung her very best for their delectation. And Tonio ? Alas ! into that chamber of her heart she dares not often glance. The grateful affection which seeks constant expression towards those others who had shown her kindness, rarely finds courage to peer into that secret cell where the image of Tonio is set up as on an altar. There, sometimes, she goes alone in the silent night-hours, with tears and trembling, to look upon her idol through a vista of retrospective joy and pain, through a halo of hope, which she still cherishes in her tenacious heart. Although Monsieur Delacroix's earnest efforts had proved unavailing, and no- trace had been obtained of her friend through all these years, Souci has never despaired of meeting him again. Had he not promised that this should be ? Her trust in him is no less infinite than her love. Tima^ cruel in obliterating, more cruel still sometimes in sparing, has wrought no change in the girl's one idolatrous devotion. It continues to be the spring and motive of every effort ; for it she resolves to make herself charming, to overcome her graceless sullen- ness of manner and her scragginess of outline. "From the moment the seed of hope had been cast into the fruitful soil LAURELS. 211 of her heart, she had determined to live, to fulfil the destiny she had dreamed of, and outwardly had become a different creature. And inwardly ? Do the primary elements of character ever really change ? They may be modified or exaggerated by suffering, by circumstances, by the influences of religion ; or suppressed by hypocrisy or the regulations of society ; but do they not remain radically the same, in blossom as in bud, in full flower as in blossom ? Yet this woman is incapable of small vices ; the heartless deceptions of ordinary women of the world are despicable to lier ; the little meannesses of envy, malice, and uncharitableness are repulsive to her. She can never be anything but fearless, daring, and intolerant of hypocrisy ; carrying into her plan of life a broad eclecticism which holds a curious power of sifting the worthy from the worthless, the true from the false. Witli her "I dare not" never is allowed to wait upon " I would," and the wilful imperiousness of her childhood has developed into a haughty impassibility which accepts the devotion of those about her calmly, as her due. One year ago, Mademoiselle Coulous had pronounced Souci a finished pupil, " having made miraculous progress during her four years' sojourn in our unrivalled establishment ; and having acquired from association with the various demoiselles de In lunitc aristocratic composing our select coterie, the grande air which pervades the atmosphere of our exclusive seminary." Signore Valdiui had also professed himself satisfied with the arduous cultivation of her voice, predicting that another year's careful study would create a stir in musical circles which Paris had not experienced for years. A handsome suite of rooms having been prepared for aer use in the Rue d'Antin, Souci had bent every energy of her nature to the fulfilment of her master's prophecy. With the devotion of a born artist, she threw herself heart and soul into the one absorbing pursuit; to it she sacrificed all others : giving ungrudgingly time, labor, patience indom- itable. But, when the year had drawn to a close, Raoul Delacroix found himself tormented by sore misgivings; a repugnance which seemed insurmountable having suddenly seized him at the thought of a professional career for this girl. She was 212 SOUCL happy and content as she was ; her rare gift was in itself an ituudi. le joy to her; his means were adequate to afford her every advantage, comfort, and luxury : wherefore should he thrust her, with her dangerous fascination and manifold at- tractions, into that mad vortex, the artist circle of dissolute Paris? Thus he argued with himself throughout many a restless night, revolving the question in his perplexed brain, unable for a time to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion. Had he not undertaken the education of this glorious creature for this very end ? Had she not fulfilled his most sanguine expecta- tions, and had this result not cost him much time, weary thought, and anxiety? What is the meaning of this cowardly shrinking from the prosecution of his plans, this desire to shirk the true music- lover's instinct to give the wide world the benefit of so inesti- mable a talent ? At last on the day when the negotiation with the Director of the Vienna Opera-House was to have been concluded he had spoken. With wide-dilated eyes of surprise and disap- pointment Souci had listened to his proposal that they should abandon the idea of a public appearance. Rapidly he had ex- plained his reasons, and expressed his entire willingness to pro- vide amply for her always ; her eyes had but grown more wild, her face blanched to a more deadly pallor. It was only when the words, " It is impossible ! I cannot give up my career !" had broken from the white lips, that Raoul Delacroix had ap- preciated to its full extent the passionate ambition which had taken possession of the girl ; that he recognized the motive power which had carried her triumphantly through those long years of patient study ; and that he had been forced to ac- knowledge to himself the bitter pain her resolute determination cost him. Few words had passed between them after that one low- spoken but vehement refusal ; the letter, ratifying the agreement with the Austrian manager, had been sent ; and Raoul had silently made a sacrifice to which each day brought renewed bitterness. A sacrifice ? Could anything be counted a sacri- fice which added now lustre to the shrine at which he had offered up the devotion of a lifetime ? Would not the world of art be infinitely the richer in the possession of the treasure LA UP ELS. 213 which he, and he alone, had rescued from the mire of the Paris streets? Would he, of all men, have been content to hide such genius as this Souci's dramatic ability being no less exceptional than her wonderful vocalization under that oppressive bushel, private life? Had this srifted creature not proved the force of the artist element wnhin her? had she not labored and struggled bravely ? cherished and prized the delicate organ through which she aspired to win the fame at which he had pointed ? How well he remembered with what ungirlish firmness she had resisted his kindly endeavor to provide for her an occasional holiday during her monotonous school-days, dreading for her the close confinement, the tread- mill routine, to which she was so unaccustomed ! " I have no time to waste," she would say, with a grave shake of the head. " You are kind, but I have a very difficult exercise to study, and Signore Valdini conies to-day." Nor could he forget the almost unnatural strength of will by which she had disciplined herself to obey to the letter the rigorous exactions and restric- tions of this master who held the wand of her future greatness. After he had convinced himself of the power and compass of her voice, and listened with fierce frowns of disapproval, stampings of his feet, and shoulder-shruggings, to the warbling of several favorite ditties, Valdini had laid down his rules, irksome and fretting many of them, and she had inviolably obeyed him. At first he had only permitted her to practise five minutes at a time several times a day, and she, who had carolled by the hour in the noisy streets, offered no resistance. After six months' rest she had been allowed some half-hours, separated by intervals of repose, each of them dedicated to the dullest and most mechanical exercises. She had never transgressed his commands, however, and the result had repaid them both. Should not Raoul Delacroix have been amply satisfied with his experiment? Alas, had the secret of her do- cility, her energy, and her perseverance been made plain to him, had he heard the vow she had consecrated with her tours, a- -he whispered it to the old violin in that desolate hour which had formed the turning-point of her life, even then I doubt whether his pain would have been intensified. No nitric arm of flesh could more thoroughly separate Souci from himself than this wide sea of restless ambition, of wild adulation, into which he had plunged her. 214 SOUCI. CHAPTER III. " SWEET WERE THE DAYS WHEN I WAS ALL UNKNOWN." .... "And now above them pours a wondrous voice, Such as Greek reapers heard in Sicily ; With wounding rapture in it like love's arrows !" GEORGE ELIOT. "Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Broke on the mountain and I cared not for it." TENNYSON. " IN the name of all the gods," ejaculates Noyes Jamieson, " what can have become of Rawdon ? I have not had a glimpse of the boy for days. He'll be late, of course; if he comes in after the curtain rises I hope he may be mobbed. Did anybody ever see such a crowd ? Ah, here he is !" " Good house for your divinity !" whispers Lyster, after he has surveyed the assemblage through his glass for some mo- ments in silence. " Sit down, and don't make a fuss, there's a good fellow !" is Jamie's slightly irritable reply. " I thought you were never coming, the overture begins in half a minute." He pulls out his watch nervously. Rawdon, with a glance at his eager face, a trifle rosier than usual from excitement, seeing how it is with him, good- naturedly abstains from further observation, and drops into a fauteuil in the opposite corner of the loge. A moment later the curtain rises. Mephistopheles is passable, the tenor delightful. Raw- don, who is not indifferent to music, hopes that if he is encored, his friend may exercise decent self-control and restrain any signs of disapprobation which his impatience for Margue- rite's appearance may prompt. The applause dies away, however, without disastrous conse- quences, and then there is a hush throughout the closely -packed LAURELS. 215 house. That indefinable murmur a commingling of whisper and .silk-rustle and fan-waving which sets the teeth of music- worshippers on edge is stilled, as the new prima donna comes forward with graceful ease but wildly-fluttering heart, and cheek white as the waxen pallor of the tuberose. She is greeted by a very moderate amount of enthusiasm ; the audience is inclined to be critical to-night. Then she sings. Musical connoisseurs, who had come determined to find fault, lean back in their chairs and close their eyes lest some awkward gesture or untoward movement on the part of the singer or her companion should mar the effect of such perfect harmony. Rival prime donne, in despairing envy, hide their faces, grown livid under the rouge, behind their fans or the curtains of their loges. The tenor, for the first time in his life, forgets himself, and stands rapt in a delicious ecstasy. In Jamie's cheek the color fluctuates ; his hands clutch spasmod- ically the velvet cushion beneath which rest his floral offer- ings, crushing the most superb of them unwittingly under-foot in his agitation. Raoul Delacroix, sitting far back in the shadow of his box, forgets his pain in the appreciation of the artist ; borne away on the wings of this exquisite melody out of the reach of .selfish regret, into the rarefied atmosphere of art-enthusiasm. How proud he is of her ! How his deep-set eyes glow, and his hand shakes, as he wipes the great drops of moisture off his wide, music-loving brow ! How his heart throbs when at lust there resounds throughout the house such rapturous applause as even the Parisian audiences seldom bestow ! But this is not the stereotyped " Marguerite" of the foot- lights and the green-room. It is an original impersonation, original in being the living, breathing conception of Gounod's love-dream, represented to-night for the first time in public. In her acting is that rhythmic harmony, that absence of self-consciousness and entire dramatic abandon which go hand in hand with her faultless vocalization. There is nothing to jar, nothing to offend eye or ear. From nape to ankle she is perfect in outline, in attitude, in movement. What her features lack in classic regularity they gain in force, in versa- tility of expression, in depth of passion. In every heart even the seared and withered ones the old, old story finds an 216 SOUCI. echo to-night. Every pulse quickens into sympathetic rapport with this marvellous portrayal of impassioned nature. With a proud composure almost too calm and still not to betray itself as a shield for tumultuous heart-beats Souci ac- knowledges the furore of applause which she has called forth, and which thrills her with a new, delicious sense of power. Her great gray eyes have caught from the spirit within the divine fire of genius ; the large, sensitive mouth curves into the most bewildering smiles ; the dilated nostrils quiver with suppressed excitement. Her hour of victory has come ! The hour for which she had fought and toiled and struggled ; of which she had dreamed in her sad childhood, in her strange, self-absorbed girlhood. The hour for which she had done brave battle with the various devils that possessed her, bind- ing herself down by the shackles of conventional propriety that galled her free Bohemian limbs like fetters. As the very breath of life to her had been the untrammelled, irresponsi- ble, often reckless, existence she had always known, but with firm hand she had grasped her errant yearnings and forced them into the narrow groove of a routine against which every strong, wild instinct of her nature rebelled, when the possible dawning of this glorious hour had been forecast to her. And now it is here ! Her name rings throughout the house ; a hoarse roar of bravas mingles with the din of clapped hands and of murmured delight. Her sovereignty is established ; the power that is in her commands an acknowl- edgment from the world, that world which a few years ago had held her in as utter contempt as the dust upon its highways. Through every fibre of her being she realizes the glorious con- viction that she has conquered ; that she has raised herself to the pinnacle of her aspirations ; that the past is past, and the future a gorgeous pageant stretching out before her. As in all great crises, thought crowds overwhelmingly upon her as she stands' with head erect, and parted lips, and eyes alit, drinking in the incense that she has won at last. Suddenly the uplifted eyes grow wonderfully soft, the mobile lips tremble, and Souci takes a step forward, as, whirling through the air from an upper tier of boxes, comes a simple wreath of the common marigold.* Observing the involuntary movement * The French name for the marigold is flottci. LA UK ELS. 217 of the prima donna, the tenor, with ready tact, but not with- out a slight elevation of eyebrow, rescues this homely offering from the flower-heaped stage and presents it. Without bestowing a glance upon the costly exotics which rain down upon her, Souci places the tiny wreath with in- finite grace upon her yellow crown of hair, and with a slight wave of the hand and a beaming smile, directed exclusively to M. Theophile, she retires amid renewed plaudits. A clever bit of acting many think it, taken in connection with the stories circulated of her obscure origin, sure to take with the populace, etc. Poor little Theophile loses his head completely. Having already dropped a couple of gorgeous-hued handkerchiefs over" the ledge of his box, he searches vainly in every pocket for a third, and eventually seizing Nanine's neatly-crimped cap, nearly carrying off with it her insecure chignon, he waves it frantically in a perfect delirium of delight. Noyes Jamieson sits down out of breath and discomfited. Souci has not vouchsafed him a thought; and of the floral offer- ings upon which he had expended much forethought and more money, but one had she deemed worthy of a glance, and that happened to be the very bouquet he had been grinding under his feet for half an hour, and with which he had just missed putting out the tenor's eye. It is close upon midnight when a surging, excited multitude pours forth into the silent, starlit street from the open doors of the " Lyrique," like a company of lunatics escaping from Bed- lam. They throng about the private exit, before which Souci's brougham awaits her. When at last she appears, escorted by M. Delacroix and Valdini, and looking worn and weary, the air is rent by frantic acclamations ; her horses are rapidly de- tached from the carriage, and a noisy mob is squabbling for the honor of acting in their stead. But the fire, the brilliancy, the verve of the past few hours have faded. Souci is tasting already the lees under the foam and sparkle of the draught -she has been so eagerly quaffing. " After all," she i.s saving to herself, as she sinks wearily back on the cushions, i: Tonio is not here to see it all. What are these people to me?" K 19 218 SOUCI. Arrived in the Rue d'Antin, they are scarcely surprised to find her with her head drooped upon her breast, cold and white s marble : she has fainted CHAPTER IV. " LIE STILL, YOUNG ADDER !" " Dissipation of mind and length of time are the remedies to which the greatest part of mankind trust in their afflictions. But the first of these works a temporary, the second a slow effect, and such are unworthy of a wise man." BOLIXGBROKE. "If the way be troublesome, and you are in misery, in many griev- ances, on the other side you have many pleasant sports, objects, sweet smells, delightsome tastes, music, meats, herbs, flowers, etc., to recreate your senses." BURTON. LYSTER RAWDON finds the night too oppressive for sleep upon returning to his hotel. Throwing wide the windows of his room, he steps out upon the balcony, and there consumes one cigar after another in the vain effort to tranquillize his nerves. It may be the marvellous voice which has produced so power- ful an effect upon its hearers, that so strangely thrills and stirs him, causing the hardly-acquired stoicism, which he be- lieves to be the best substitute for happiness, to crumble away, leaving emptiness behind. Who can trace these psychological perturbations, these soul-tremblings and flesh-shrinkings, just when we are con- gratulating ourselves upon our immunity from such weak- nesses ? Miserable puppets that we are ! We discover one day that we are making ourselves ridiculous; that invisible wires have been fastened to our heart-strings, which force us to dance upon the air, to caper nimbly hither and thither, to contort ourselves absurdly or pitiably. We decide at last that we have made fools of ourselves ; we make an heroic resolve, and with unflinching hand tear apart LAURELS. 219 wires from heart-strings, losing, perhaps, some of our best life-blood in the effort. No more wriggling, no more dangling, no more dancing on the delusive air ! We stand now self-respected, self-supported ; wrapped in that ghastly dignity which a certain Roman drew about him when he seated himself amid the ruins of the city lying a desolate waste before him. Then, alas, "just when we are safest," something sud- denly stirs us, a strain of music the perfume of a flower, and, lo ! the work is undone ; the wires are tugging at us as fiercely as before ! Who does not know this unguarded moment, when . ..." A sunset touch, a fancy from a flower-bell," can " rap and knock, and enter in our soul," to its undoing? To-night the past two years seem suddenly to have rolled themselves up as a scroll, leaving a clear background for the remembrance Lyster Rawdon has striven so zealously to crush out under those Juggernaut-wheels, which maim oftener than they kill, restless change and ceaseless excitement. Looking out moodily over the tranquil, sleeping city, one scene keeps repeating itself persistently before his mind's eye : a scene whose calm, domestic peacefulness forms a painful contrast to the unquiet wandering which had followed it. How well he remembers every detail of it, that last morning view of the home of his boyhood, Harrowdale Court ! How brightly the sun shone ! how vividly-green the lawn looked from the open windows of the cosy breakfast- room ! He remembers how curiously his uncle eyed him as he tapped his egg, and that a favorite pointer thrust his cold nose into his hand at the very moment when the question was asked which called a flush of boyish confusion to his cheek and caused him an unwonted stammering. " Who is she, Lyster ? There is something troubling you, my boy, and a woman is generally at the bottom of all trouble. Who is she?" How perfectly he recalls the effort it cost him to raise to those cold, scrutinizing eyes his own, while he answrml steadily, though with much inward trepidation, " You are right, uncle ; it is a woman, the woman I hope, and intend, to marry one day, please God !" 220 SOUCI. To this Lord Harrowdale had replied only by a low whistle, which may, or may not, have been addressed to the pointer, and Lyster had gone on nervously, " I know your views, uncle ; you have stated them to me too distinctly to be misunderstood. You look for me to make an ambitious marriage, to choose a bride with a pedigree as long as your own, to bring to the Court only a lady of rank, and an Englishwoman." " Precisely," was the laconic response, as his lordship care- fully dropped a morsel of anchovy-toast into the pointer's ex- pectant jaws. " You will, no doubt, feel justly vexed, then," Lyster had continued, chilled and somewhat irritated by the other's im- passibility ; " for this girl is neither a peeress nor an English- woman." There had been a pause of some moments after this, during which Lord Harrowdale had gently pushed the dog's head from his knee, and hard directed his eyeglass towards a pile of letters lying near his plate. " Ah," he had begun, at last, replacing his glass in its pocket and leaning back in his wheel-chair, " she is not a peeress or an Englishwoman. What is she?" " She is the daughter of a German musician a violinist. It was to her home I was carried after my accident ; it is to their kindness and hospitality I owe my Hie." "And you intend to cancel your obligation by sacrificing to them the life they saved?" had inquired his uncle, the faintest inflection of sarcasm in his clear tones. " I intend to devote to them the life they have made val- uable to me !" Rawdon remembers, with a curling lip, how proudly and firmly these words were spoken. And then, a faint hope borrowed from his uncle's silence, " There is no woman in England to equal this girl in beauty ; she is well educated refined " " Enough, sir !" Lord Harrowdale had interrupted, coldly. " I perceive you have caught the complaint, it is inevitable, and innocuous as measles, if judiciously treated. The symp- toms, however,. are not interesting; you will spare me their diagnosis, and, if you are wise, you will allow me to prescribe for them. Leave England travel avoid the Alps see the world, and come back cured!" Then he had motioned his LAURELS. 221 man, who had entered at that moment, to wheel his chair out upon the lawn, and so had ended the discussion. The opportune entrance of Popham had stemmed the tor- rent of*indignant rejection of this cold-blooded advice which had welled up in the young man's heart. How bitterly thank- lul he is to-night that that much humiliation at least had been spared him ! It is enough for him to remember with what fury in his soul he had dashed down the avenue that morn- ing, striding along under the grand old trees, shaking the dust off his feet as he quitted the Court before his uncle's very eyes. With what a vengeful Ishmaelitish feeling he had rushed up to town with but one definite purpose before him, to bind himself by every possible and impossible vow to the gentle maiden who had now become inestimably dear to him ! All of which had been patent to Lord Harrowdale's obser- vation knowing well his nephew's impetuous temperament as he watched him go forth in anger from his gates. " He is entirely dependent upon me," had mused his lordship, as he put up his glass to follow admiringly the easy swing of the well-knit frame, to catch the glint of the sunlight on the close- cropped chestnut hair. "The estate is unentailed, thank Heaven ! The affair is very simple." But the affair had proved less simple than he had anticipated. Two years have elapsed since that June morning, and his nephew the one being on earth whom he loves is still absent from England and Harrowdale Court. " Two years !" -Lyster Rawdon says to himself, as he refolds and replaces in his pocket-book a poor little dilapidated letter, which had cost Viola the bitterest tears she had ever shed. " Two whole years spent in trying to crush the life out of this viper to have it rise up and sting once more ! But it shall not be ! No, no ! lie still, young adder !" striking the breast- pocket where the letter rests ; " there are antidotes to be had, even for your poisonous venom !" But when morning pours its beams into the room, they fall upon the bowed head of a man who has fallen asleep in his chair, and awaken him from a dream whose infinite sweetness and hopelessness cause the sun's rays to blind him with sharp, unendurable pain. Involuntarily he draws down the shades, without glancing down into the bright, already-bustling street, 19* 222 SOUCL then, stretching his cramped limbs, he takes a turn or two in the darkened room. Finally he rings for his bath, and half an hour later is sauntering towards the Club, with a bitter smile distorting his handsome mouth as he mutters, a I shall get Jamie to take me to see that singer to-day ; I shall not wait until Monday !" CHAPTER V. "OUR WHOLE LIFE IS A GLUCUPICRON." " There is a soul of goodness in things evil !" C. LAMB. . . . . " Our whole life is a glucupicron, a bitter-sweet passion ; honey and gall mixed together} we are all miserable and discontent ; who can deny it? " We are sent as so many soldiers into this world to strive with it, the flesh, the devil; our life is a warfare." Anatomy of Melancholy. " I WOULD do anything in the world for you, Lyster, I need not tell you that, but this is simply out of the question. Mile. Basselin never receives in the forenoon ; she would not pardon an intrusion of this sort. You might as well ask me to walk into Eugenie's private apartments in the Tuileries ! Be patient, old fellow : Monday evening is not a century off." Thus Noyes Jamieson seeks to curb a sudden relapse into the unbridled impetuosity of former days, and to prevent his friend, in whose face is a strained and haggard look, out of keeping with his abrupt accession of rather forced gayety, from committing a faux pas in social tactics. Rawdon, who has tried in vain to breakfast, and succeeded only in swallowing a glass or two of claret, replies to this outburst, with a short laugh, " Then I shall go alone ! I only fancied that perhaps this lady clings to the conventional absurdities of society, and would prefer to hear my name lisped by a mutual acquaintance during the ceremony of presentation ; but you know best, dear boy ; and as you deem it unnecessary, I shall go and introduce myself! Ta!-ta !" and, with a wave of the hand towards hor- ror-stricken Jamie, standing stock-still with astonishment on LA URELS. 223 the pavement, Lyster hails a passing cab, and is rapidly whirled away towards the Rue d'Antin. It is a quarter to twelve, he ascertains by a glance at his watch, as the driver checks his horses in front of M. Delacroix's appartement. " She does not look like a woman who would be in bed at this hour," he thinks, as he springs to the ground and enters the porte-cochere. " Mademoiselle Basselin ?" he interrogates the concierge. " Au premier, monsieur." " Perhaps she may send Delacroix to kick me out," muses Rawdon, as he travels up the slippery stairs. " I rather wish she would ! That form of excitement would suit me to-day as well as any other !" And he clenches his hands till the veins swell on them and the muscles of his arms stand out, as though he would enjoy any encounter which should bring them once more into active service. He is in that frame of mind in which a man rushes into a fray, or casts down his last hundred on a losing die, or makes love to a woman towards whom he is more than indifferent, or buys oblivion with drink or opium. His head is aching ; his hands are burning, his eyes restless and bloodshot. As a servant carries his card into an inner room, he throws himself into a chair near the open door, through which the soft, sweet strains of Souci's voice reach him. There are no trills nor solfeggiare flights, but just that subdued sweetness which suits the sacred words she sings. The servant does not return, nor is the music hushed for a moment (it is a rule in her establishment that Mademoiselle is never to be interrupted whilst singing) ; therefore it chances that Rawdon begins to hope he has well timed his visit, for the perfect melody soothes him like a miraculous hand laid upon his hot brow. He leans his head back upon the cushioned chair and blesses the impulse which brought him here, while soft and clear fall the notes upon the overstrung nerves and the fevered brain. His eyes, wandering slowly over the room, find that it harmonizes with the music, and the measure of his content is full. Have we not all felt this, when, world-worn, impatient, weary, we have, through God's mercy, stumbled into some room pervaded by an artistic woman's soul ; some room which is neither a museum, a bric-a-brac shop, nor a collection of priceless gems crowded into one oppressive parure ? A room 224 SOUCL which impresses us as does a cathedral before the service begins. Cool, large, rather bare of upholstery than otherwise, with its four great open windows shaded, not darkened, by their striped Venetian awnings (air and light being indispensable to Souci), with here a rare old cabinet, and there a single piece of bronze, with a marble Ariadne lighting up one shadowy corner, and a couple of Tintorettos and a Titian making bright patches of pure color on the neutral-tinted walls. On all sides groups of simple home-flowers, mignonette, roses, heliotrope, to which all one's associations cling, with tiny fountains in their midst, whose cool splash into their marble basins cheers and refreshes them for flowers have an acute sensitive- ness, which is a sort of soul as much as does their widely- diffused spray. Over all, trembling like the harmonious spirit-language of this room, the low, thrilling voice, with its balm-breathing words, " Stabat Mater dolorosa, Juxta Crucem lacrimosa, Dum pendebat Filius ! . . . . Quis est homo, qui non fleret, Matrem Christi si videret In tanto supplicio ? Stabat Mater dolorosa dolorosa " Is it surprising that these conjoint influences descending upon Lyster's unquiet spirit like a benediction, nature re- venges herself, and he falls asleep ? The soft folds of Souci's white morning-dress fall as noise- lessly as snow-flakes as she glides across the Persian rug which forms a wide oasis on the inlaid floor, and Rawdon, partly conscious of the cessation of the music, buries his head a little deeper in the cushions and sleeps on. " He has fallen asleep to the sound of my lullaby," smiles the singer. " Well, I have had a poorer compliment than this ! He looks as if he had sought rest vainly for many nights. How haggard and lined his face is ! he is older than I thought ! And what a sweet, calm expression, like that of a tired child who has at last dropped asleep, over-wearied ! I liked him from the first, it is a good, frank face." Then, after taking a book from the bookcase in the corner, she seats herself near the window and begins to read. LA VRELS. 225 Nearly an hour passes, an hour with its somniferous influ- ences increasing with the intensifying warmth of the sun, and the drowsy murmur of the street below growing fainter, as people seek the shelter of their houses from the noonday heat. Souci has almost forgotten her unceremonious visitor, when suddenly the shrill voice of a street-vendor, who sells those little waferish shadows of cakes called "plaisirs," breaks the silence by calling out, directly under the window, in her high- pitched sing-song, " Voihl les ptaisirs, mesdames ! Voila les plaisirs ; vinyt-cinq centimes cinq sous /*' Lyster starts to his feet, scarlet with confusion, stammering forth incoherent apologies in English. " I am glad to see you, Monsieur Raw-don !" Souci says, quietly, advancing towards him with outstretched hand and a smile of welcome. " I am glad, also, that you came to-day ; this is much pleasanter than the crowd and bustle and chatter of my ' evenings,' where there is really no opportunity for making acquaintance." Then, motioning him to resume his chair, she seats herself nearer to him, while he, recovering his senses with an effort, says, in her own tongue, " I shall not apologize for this intrusion, mademoiselle, nor for (the magic power of your singing is answerable for the first sweet sleep I have had for weeks) since your gracious reception would render an apology almost an impertinence. My friend Jamieson has been my avant-courrier , I believe, and I never attend soire'es !" he ends, rather contemptuously. " No ? Yet you are young !" She smiles incredulously. "Am I? I had almost forgotten the fact. Yes, I believe I am counting by years : I am twenty-four." " By what else does one count ?" she asks, curiously, " by gray hairs or crows' feet ?" " Perhaps," he says, gloomily ; " or by the great strides which are taken unawares between the years ; or by the bitter experiences of which no calendar is kept we know how much, or how little, we have lived !" " Yofl speak strangely for a man who stands upon the threshold of life," Souci says, in her low, vibrating tones, and with a grave sadness in her face. " I have felt what you say, but then I well, I have lived more lives in my short one than most women or men, but you ? Monsieur," she leans K* 226 SOUCI. forward eagerly, " will you tell me frankly why you came to me to-day?" " I came to escape from my thoughts," Rawdon replies, almost involuntarily. " I thought that if it were possible to do so anywhere, above-ground, it would be here." "Why?" " Because you seemed to me to be different from other women ; because there is a certain restful harmony about you, your movements across the stage last night were as grateful to me as your singing ; because I hate rustle and bustle and the fripperies of society ; and," he adds, with a faint smile, " because I had a prophetic divination of this room." "You like it?" " Like it ! Ah !" he draws a long breath, "it is a fit temple for you. You look like peace incarnate !" his eyes wandering from the golden crown of hair over the white, still face and soft, shadowy eyes, noting the calm pose of the pure-robed figure, the quiet hands loosely folded on her lap. "Peace incarnate?" she echoes, with a wondering look; " how I must have changed ! Monsieur," anxiously, " you have not fallen in love with me?" " No, alas !" he answers, regretfully. " Have your tormenting thoughts pursued you here?" " I think not. They have given me a respite, brief, but welcome." His voice has grown bitter again. " Monsieur," Souci says, quite gravely, " have you mur- dered anybody ?" "No." " Or run away with anybody's wife ?" He shakes his head, smiling a little. "You are not married?" she asks, with a comic expression of horror. " I am not," he replies, gravely. The great gray eyes fasten upon his their magnetic power, and Souci's voice sinks to a whisper. " Then you love some- body?" she asserts, solemnly. " I have that curse upon me !" he answers, fiercely.* " Give me your hand again ! We are friends !" she ex- claims, pressing his hand cordially. " No other man would have dared to tell me this ; they are such hypocrites ! Now listen. I, too, love somebody ! Like yours, my love has LA VRELS. 227 more of bitter than of sweet in it, but I do not call it curse : it is the blessing of my life ; it keeps me from becom- ing like the women about me ; it is the sacred incense which burns night and day before me, and keeps the air pure which I am forced to breathe ! It may be more hopeless even than yours, yet I would not part with it for any other love the world contains." Rawdon looks at her surprised : is this the image of Peace, is this the incarnation of Repose he had rested his tired eyes upon a moment ago? this woman with the passion-gleaming eyes ; with the marble cheeks streaked with a red, fitful flush ; with the tranquil hands, clasping and unclasping themselves, pressed hard upon the heaving breast ? Peace ! She looks more like a Pythoness about to deliver her oracular inspirations ! " I can understand Goethe's Friederike's dying words," con- tinues Souci, after a pause : " ' She who has been beloved by Goethe can never belong to another !' Cannot you ?" " Alas, how few Friederikes exist on earth !" returns Rawdon, sadly. " They are as rare as the Goethes, I imagine." " Are they ? If that is true, the others are scarcely worth a strong man's love, much less his regret," ventures Souci, the color dying out of her cheek and the hands returning to their former position in her lap. " Certainly not," he replies. " And yet the regret is there. Mademoiselle, what would become of all the women in the world if we all waited to meet a Friederike?" he adds, lightly, the feeling that he has no right to bore Souci with his private troubles suddenly presenting itself. " Heaven knows !" she says, laughing a little. " You say they are rare faithful women." " Rare indeed !" he says, bitterly. Then, with another effort : " I am afraid we should be obliged to pitchfork the rest Into convents, as somebody says." This time Souci laughs outright, a low, ringing laugh, which has so many notes of Viola's in its ripple that llawdon's brow clouds instantly, and he holds up his hand, saying, with an accent of pain, " Do not laugh : you hurt me." She comprehends instantly ; after a moment of silence, she says, earnestly, " Some day, when we arc really good friends, you will tell me all about it ? Perhaps it would make you hap- 228 SOUCL pier to speak to some one of your trouble, some one "whom you had grown to like and trust," she concludes, with a timid hesitation new to her. " I shall tell you now !" exclaims Lyster, impetuously, suddenly feeling that morbid delight in inflicting unnecessary pain upon himself which excites our wonder at times, and suc- .cumbing utterly to the electric sympathy she embodies. " That is, if you care to hear a very stale story," he adds. " I am listening," she says, simply, drawing a little nearer. " It is a tale of rustic innocence," he begins, with a short, forced laugh, " of Arcadian simplicity outvying in worldly calculation the carefully-weighed maxims of the most hardened Mammon-worshipper in this gay city ! Human nature is the same, mademoiselle, in palace as in hovel ; a man's heart is equally worthless to peasant or peei'ess unless presented in a golden casket." And then he tells her of his summer-idling in the valley between the Alps, and of the flower-face which had grown into his heart, and which was but the fair mask of a sordid, petty nature, a nature 'as narrow as any of those who bartered themselves daily in the great Babylons of earth for filthy lucre, or its equivalent, a countess's coronet or the strawberry-leaves. And Souci listens with her eloquent face turned towards him, growing strangely tender and sad as the narration pro- ceeds ; whilst here and there a murmur of sympathy escapes her, a glance of keen interest, or a low, tremulous sigh. He is but a boy, after all, in spite of his grave face and his bitter experience, and he yields to the wonderful magnetic power of this woman, to whom he had never spoken before to- day, and bares his heart before her as he could not have done to his life-long friend. Who can account for these electric responses? who explain this magnetic rapport which exists be- tween two persons who meet for the first time ? " Then you are perfectly convinced that she never loved you, that all the heart she had to give was bestowed upon the peasant-lad you speak of?" asks Souci, when he has concluded with the words, " They are probably married by this time, and living happily as slugs under cabbage-leaves ! Mademoi- selle, my romance is finished ; I wish you joy !" " It seems to me so strange ! I cannot believe it !" she con- tinues, in her sweet, low tones, with a great pity filling her LA URELS. 229 eyes as she looks up at him. " There must have been some deception some treachery " " There was," he interrupts, harshly ; " have I not told you how I was duped ?" " Ah, no ; not by her ! I cannot believe it ! Perhaps the grandmother or the lover himself she may never have re- ceived those letters !" " Mademoiselle, you are too charitable for the age we live in ! I have one letter, in which this simple village maiden unconditionally rejects the poor prospect of a future which must depend upon my own exertions. No ! Lyster Rawdon a rich Englishman, and Lyster Rawdon a struggling clerk in a threadbare coat, are two separate individuals !" Rising uncere- moniously, he takes one or two strides across the room and stops before the pyramid of plants in the window. The scent of the mignonette is making him giddy with its bitter-sweet suggestions, and he is about to turn away impatiently, when Souci comes swiftly to his^side. . ' What can be done?" she says, raising to his her wistful eyes. " I feel sure this girl is not faithless. Can I not do anything to help you ?" He looks at her wonderingly. " Strange !" he says. " I have been told that you are a heartless coquette, a snarer of hearts for pastime, a sort of beautiful vampire, who lures men to their destruction and feeds upon their heart's best blood ! And you come to me with a womanly sympathy and offer to help me ! Is this one of your wiles?" Her eyes have sunk under his feverish gaze. " I am so sorry for you and her !" she says, quietly. " It must be such intolerable pain to love one who is unworthy, or who loves another! Ah, mon Dieu! I could never endure that!" Before another spring-time had blossomed the lilacs in the Tuileries, these words recurred to Lyster Rawdon and to Souci with the force of a verified prediction. " What can it matter to you, mademoiselle ?" Rawdon goes on. ' What can it matter to any one that one more lite has been stricken by a woman's falseness, that another man has been betrayed by ' a lie that eats, and drinks, and walks' ? There are many such amorig us !" "It does matter to me very much!" she replies, eagerly. ' May I not write to this Alpine village'and make inquii 20 230 SOUCL Rawdon stares silently out of the window over the mignon- ette, whose insidious fragrance he has been snuffing up reck- lessly through his nostrils into his brain ; then he turns upon her fiercely : " Bah ! mademoiselle ! have I not told you that that story is finished?" Then, ashamed of his discourtesy, he adds, more quietly, " There is nothing to be done, the affair is over. Were she the only woman on God's earth, she would not exist so far as I am concerned." " Why, then, do you tell me that which stirs my heart to the core, if I may do nothing to help you, if it is all hope- less?" asks Souci, with a bewildered look. " Because," here Lyster's voice softens suddenly at the tempting of a demon, " because, mademoiselle, I hoped that you would do something for me ! My love is dead, you may help me to bury it. It is all that can help me now !" His blue, glittering eyes search her face. " Are you quite, quite sure it is dead ?" she asks, regret- fully. . " Dead ! Yes ! It died two years ago ! It is only the barest, emptiest skeleton which remains to inter ! When that is done, I shall be at peace !" he ends with a harsh laugh. "And you wish me to " begins Souci, still puzzled by this wild talk, and scarcely able to gather from it whether he is grieved or glad. " To make me fall in love with you !" supplements Rawdon, recklessly. " Yes ; will you do it ?" There is a full minute's pause, during which Kawdon looks out over the flowers again, awaiting with patience her reply, and during which a change, sudden, subtle, complete, trans- forms the true-hearted, sympathetic woman at his side into the wariest coquette, the wiliest siren who could be i'ound that day between the Mediterranean and the Frozen Sea. Souci's better nature had been so far aroused by this young man's sad story that her less noble instincts had slumbered quietly, until stirred into renewed activity by the daring pro- posal he had made : he would enter the lists armed cap-a-pie against her, in the wake of the confession he had just made to her ! So be it. Easy conquests are of every-day occurrence ; this promises to be difficult, it is a sore temptation. Lyster cannot see the eyes under their lowered lids, when LA URELS. 231 he turns at last from the window surprised at her long silence, but he can see the red streak marking once more the white cheek. " She is deliberating whether the game would be worth the candle," he sneers, inwardly. " Will you try, mademoiselle ? I do not say you wiil find me a docile subject, or that yon irill succeed" he adds, bluntly ; "but I should be glad to make a ibol of myself about you, if you will let me !" The insinuation of a doubt presses down the scale. Souci raises her eyes, lambent with the dare-devil light which has caught the fire of his own recklessness, and which promise acquiescence even before the lips, curved into their most be- wildering smile, have whispered, " I shall try to make you as unhappy as I can !" At this moment Signore Valdini is announced, and Rawdon. after one more hand-clasp, finds himself, with a strangely- dazed feeling, getting mechanically into his cab and driving off under the burning June sun. He meets Jamieson at dinner ; but that astute diplomatist finds it impossible to draw from his companion the faintest allusion to his determination to pay a visit out of rule. " He has been awfully snubbed, poor fellow, and is awfully cut up about it ! Well, I told him so ; he thinks, with that face of his, he can do anything !" And he presses the cham- pagne on his friend, hoping to raise his spirits. It is not required, however, for an unnatural exhilaration possesses him since that last long look into those baleful eyes. Night brings him sleep, but sleep again dream-laden, which is not rest. All the fair-haired vixens, whose wiles unseated the reason of their victims in days gone by, pass in review before him ; every gold-tressed sorceress history has prated about through- out the centuries flaunts her locks around his pillow : never did theflavus vertex weave itself in and out of a man's feverish fancies with subtler skill. From the stately Boadicea and the " yellow-haired Dido" down to the fair-locked Borgia and the guileful Stuart, they spread their sunny-meshed snares about him until the morning. Out of this mental phantasmagoria Souci glide?, luring him to her side with those magnetic eyes, drawing lorth his inner- most thoughts by the exquisite sympathy of voice and glance 232 . SOVCL and touch. Strange, that in this " dream of fair women" the innocent face he once deemed the fairest that ever the sun shone upon, has" no place. Only proud-stepping, imperious-willed, regal-crowned women smile their bedevilling smiles, and wave their white arms mad- deningly before him. The tender Alpine violet shrinks out of sight in such ungenial company. Thus does the first dose of the " antidote" work like poison in Rawdon's blood. And Souci ? I doubt if her calm slumbers are troubled or her " fell purpose" shaken by any " compunctious visitings of nature." The mobile lips smile triumphantly as she dreams of conquest. For although the mysteries of censer-swinging and of certain genuflections had been duly explained to her, as well as the necessity of confession (were these not as much parts of this young heathen's education as were syntax and the use of the globes?), at heart Souci is as utter a pagan as on that gray dawn when she escaped from Mere Ursule in the Rue des Acacias. The necessity to adore even then asserted itself in her nature, and she laid the awful symbol on her breast in an involuntary outcome of homage towards a Being of whose existence she was profoundly ignorant. That necessity still exists; but although the eyes of her understanding have been directed towards the effulgent light of Christianity, she prefers to set up her own idol and worship after her own fashion. The strongest feeling of which she is capable her love for Tonio is her religion. In remembrance of him all her good in- stincts are fostered and encouraged : for his sake her evil im- pulses are held in check. She is loyal to him in thought and deed ; keeping, as she said, her life clean and her heart pure as a fitting shrine for his image. Her religion is not that taught in the gospel preached by the apostles, yet I fear there are barren lives even in cloister, that bow before just such shrines as hers. But although Souci observes the Decalogue, and refrains from language profane or ungrammatical, although she is true to Tonio, and dispenses her charities with lavish hand, it does not follow that those strong-lived, noxious weeds which flour- ished during her childhood should be uprooted and no seed of them remain. Alas! no. The spirit which had crushed the LAURELS. 233 lumbering beetle under foot is rife within her still. She has lived to see her own prophecy realized, and has emerged from obscurity with the sufferings of her childhood unforgotten unforgiven ; with her hand, frail yet powerful, against every man's. " Why should they not suffer in their turn ?" she asks her- self, as she ensnares in her " strong toil of grace" all who approach her ; holding them at her feet with a wanton last of cruelty which stirs no pulse within her : a lust of cruelty more merciless than that which was wont to kindle into demoniac light the eyes of Roman dame as she gloated over the blood- stained arena where a tortured fellow-being awaited her signal for the coup de. grace. Never did delicate hand turn thumb downward with more woful significance, or less nerve-quiver, than does this remorseless Souci's. Since the typical siren of Troy had Deiphobus treacherously murdered, there has not lacked a strain of blood-thirstiness in the sorceresses of later ages. It is not written that Mary shed tears or failed to take another lover when Rizzio was done to death in Holyrood, even though her vengeance took mur- derous form. And in the great gallery of Fontainebleau, does not the blood of the slain Monaldeschi cry to Heaven against that other brilliant anomaly, that complex mystery who bewitched the world, that fascinating compound of wisdom and folly, of passion and ferocity, of cold selfishness and fiery self-sacrifice, the Norse witch, Christina of Sweden ? 20* BOOK V. VIOLA. CHAPTER I. IN THE RUE DU BAG. "Vous 6tes belle: ainsi done la moitie" Du genre humain sera votre ennemie!" VOLTAIRE. A MONTH has passed : it is the last week of July, and Paris is supposed to be deserted. All those who are able to purchase shade and jollity and cool breezes whilst the sun holds riotous sway in Leo, have fled to the various eaux, or spas, or campagnes provided by Nature for their refreshment. Souci is singing men mad in St. Peters- burg, from whence she will visit the various great cities of the Continent, her professional engagements treading closely upon one another's heels. Lyster Rawdon and Noyes Jamieson were not the only ones who thought the occasion opportune for a trip to Russia. Paris looks dull to-day ; the " feeble frivolities of the Rue de Rivoli" depress one in the noonday glare. Unfortunate pedestrians crawl at a snail's pace, close in the shadow of the houses, shielding their wilted faces as best they may with weakly-poised sun-umbrellas. Even the fiacre-drivers are somnolently indifferent to busi- ness, while -their drowsy steeds, with their poor noses confined in feed-bags, do not appear to have sufficient energy to whisk the flies off their agonized backs with their despondent, droop- ing tails. It is a day when one longs with a yearning sicklied o'er by hopelessness, for a breath fresh from the meadows or the hills ; a day when the stifling dust, mingled with the odor of roasted chestnuts or the all-pervading garlic, grows uneo- 234 VIOLA. 235 durable ; when the lilac-scent of spring-time and the sweet rose- breath of later days have been drowned out of memory by the evil odors which make even this Paradise unsavory during the dog-days. On the sixth floor of a house in the Rue du Bac two girls sit as close to the window as possible, gasping, while they work, industriously. One of them, a lean, sallow-faced hunchback, is trying her keen young eyesight in the broidering of a sumptuous robe de bapteme in which the scion of a noble house is to be admitted within the pale of the Church ; the other a girl whose face is so pure and sweet that, with the sunlight touching her golden hair into an aureole, it appears like unto that of a pictured saint is mending with rare skill a mantle of antique point, which on the portly shoulders of a marchioness had suffered demolition in a crowded rout at the Tuileries a few evenings before. Dainty work for fingers trembling with the weakness which comes from long fasting ! How strangely out of place it looks, this rich, exquisite wonder of toil, lying in a heap on the win- dow-seat of the bare attic-room ! How bitter is the irony sug- gested by its fabulous value amid the wretchedness and poverty of its surroundings ! The girls speak rarely ; they must not waste the daylight in idle talk ; there will be time enough for that when the sun has set, for work like this cannot be done by the light of tallow dips. Occasionally they crane their necks forward and draw in a longer breath of the sultry, tainted air, which half suffocates their mountain-fed lungs. Now and again they raise loving eyes to each other's pale faces and force a tender smile of encouragement, which is the most pathetic of failures. Stitch, stitch, stitch. At last the sun bids the world good-night and retires be- hind his gorgeous crimson curtains. The girls, with a weary sigh, fold up their work and put it carefully aside. Lighting a candle, Viola draws forth the little pine table, while Nina anxiously searches the cupboard for a remnant of their last poor meal. It seems to have grown smaller since mid-day, that tiny loaf; and surely there had been some butter left! " Yv'here is the butter, Viola?" 236 SOUCL " We have had no butter, dear, since yesterday." "Ah !" And they sit down to sup on dry bread gratefully, for they are in the great, magnificent city of Paris, where bread is so common and so scarce ! Immediately upon their arrival in Paris, four week ago, the girls had taken a carriage at the station, and had driven directly to the hotel where Viola confidently expected to find Miss Crawford. To their horror, they were informed that the English family had started two days previously for Switzerland, the heat proving intolerable in Paris. The governess, of course, had accompanied them. Had they left no address ? None. Per- haps mademoiselle would like to look at rooms ; being a friend of the famille Hartman, she should have them on very reasonable terms. Half choking with disappointment, Viola had assured the obliging proprietor that her means would not admit of such splendor as that of which she caught glimpses through the open door, and begged him to direct her to a quiet boarding- house where they could rest for the present. He had given them an address, and they had re-entered the carriage with heavy hearts, feeling sadly forlorn and desolate in the big, bustling city. The quiet boarding-house had proved too expensive for them, and, after much vexatious changing of quarters, they had at last rented this little attic room in the Rue du Bac. Indefatigable had been their efforts to obtain employment : they were unknown, without guarantee for honesty, and one of tfiem was beautiful. Alas ! wherefore should I recapitulate the disappointments, the discouragements, the treachery, which beset the work-seeker in a vast metropolis ? Do we not all know after what fashion Paris breaks its but- . terflies upon the wheel ? The slender sum of money and few trinkets had all disap- peared before the deft fingers of these poor girls could prove their ingenuity : nothing remained to be disposed of for bread and shelter save the cairngorm brooch and the locket of Roman gold ! At this desperate crisis their persevering assiduity bad at- tracted the attention of a member of a large mercantile firm VIOLA. 237 in a fashionable quarter. He had employed them, appraised their work, aud promised future supplies. Only three days ago had this ray of hope penetrated the darkness of their despair. "It is quite finished, the baptismal robe, is it not?" asks Viola, as they share their humble loaf to the last crumb. " Yes ; is it not lovely ?" cries Nina, unfolding the long skirt, and gazing rapturously at the lilies and rose-buds em- broidered upon its delicate cambric. " Twenty francs, he said, for this ! How much is that, Viola, in soldi ?" "Oh, a great deal, a fortune," replies Viola, smiling; " with the thirty I am to receive for sewing up this rent, we shall be wealthy !" Then, her face becoming suddenly grave, " How good God has been to us, Nina ! What would have become of us had it not been for this prospect of steady work? Do you thank Him in your prayers, piceiula ?" " No I have not yet," hesitates the hunchback. " I thought it was so cruel to disappoint you so many times so cruel I could not forgive Him !'' " Nina ! Never say such a thing as that again ! Ah, you have hurt me more than all the disappointments put together ! Oh, my little friend, never doubt His tender mercy ! I would indeed despair were I to lose my perfect trust in Him !" And, walking to the window, the thin, pale face turns upwards with a mute prayer for stronger faith upon its quivering lips. Nina's arms steal about the frail figure, as, with a half-sob, she whispers, "I shall never say it again, Viola, never; no matter how cruel He is to us, if it hurts you ! See, I will kneel down here now, and say anything you bid me say !" Sinking on her knees, she raises her folded hands and glistening eyes devoutly. A sad smile breaks through the tender gravity of Viola's face, as she looks down upon her little companion. " Your thanks must come straight from your own heart, Nina uiia. to be acceptable to Him," she says, while she gently caresses the waves of dark hair which hide the child's deformity. " Y. ;i must first love Him with all your heart, and then evt-ry thought towards Him will be a prayrr or a thanksgiving." There en- sues a silence alter these words, each girl busy with her thoughts, and the twilight shadows without growing deeper. At lat Viola arouses herself, aud, with an effort at cheerfulness, says, 238 SOUCI. " Come, put on your hat. poverina ; we are forgetting how late it is, and we have our work to carry home, you know." " Ah, yes," sighs the hunchback, wearily ; " we have our work to carry home, and I am so tired so tired. Must I thank Him for that, I wonder?" she murmurs to herself, as she seeks her hat in a dark corner of the cupboard. The distance is formidable, and they are both almost ex- hausted by the time they reach the Boulevard des Capucines. As they emerge from the establishment by which they are employed they feel somewhat cheered by the possession of the three golden coins which they have undeniably earned. Holding each other tightly by the hand, they are hurrying on their homeward way, when, passing under the eifulgent glare of a jeweller's window, their faces are distinctly revealed to the passers-by. At this moment their steps are abruptly arrested by a young man, who, impetuously approaching them, cries out, " Great Heaven! Is it possible ? at last ! and here !" Viola, who has shrunk back with a faint cry of alarm, now raises terrified eyes to his face and joyfully recognizes Tonio ! Tonio, alive and well ; his dark eyes flashing with happiness at this meeting ; his hands outstretched with trembling eager- ness. " Four long weeks have I been searching for you !'' he ex- claims, devouring her with his gaze, as though he fears she may even now vanish from his sight. " Four whole weeks ! aided by the police-force, which promised me success in half the time ! Where have you hidden yourself? And why have you moved so often ? Speak to me, Viola," he entreats, " that I may know you are not a spirit." Pale as a spirit and half bewildered by this sudden encounter, Viola experiences a strange hysterical desire to laugh and cry at the same time. Nina watches her anxiously : " We are in the Rue du Bac ; it is far from here, and Viola is very tired ; and see ! people are stopping to stare at her," cries the hunchback, angrily. It is true : the singular beauty of the young girl and her evident agitation have attracted quite a little group of sympa- thizing gallants in the vicinity of the jeweller's window. " Pardon me !" stammers Tonio. " I forgot everything but my joy in finding you again !" Then, drawing Viola's arm VIOLA. 239 through his, they walk a few paces, while she tries to control her trembling limbs and find strength to speak in her ordinary voice. " How did you know we were in Paris?" she asks, at last. His face changes. " I arrived in Vogogna the very day you left it !" he replies, in sad tones. " Ah, Viola, you will never know what a blow it was to me to hear that you had fled from your safe valley-home to this great, terrible city !" He pauses abruptly, as if the thought were too painful to him, and looks down uppn her with anxious tenderness. " My father !" whispers Viola, tremulously, her worn face, from which the flush of joy has faded, causing Tonio's heart to contract with sudden pain as he notes its transparent pallor and the heavy-circled eyes, and perceives the altered lines of the figure, the trembling of the slender arm resting upon his own. " He is well ?" continues Viola, her voice growing sharp from vague fear at his silence. " He does not fret about me?" Tonio, with infinite gentleness, takes in his the thin, un- gloved hand lying on his arm. " Your father is well, Viola ; I shall tell you all about him presently when we are quietly driving home." Here he hails a passing cab, and, placing the two girls therein, directs the driver to the Rue du Bac. '' Why are you in that dismal quarter?" he asks, as he seats himself opposite to them. " Because it is much less expensive, and we are not rich," returns Viola, smiling, as she leans gratefully back upon the unluxurious cushions of the fiacre. From her corner she contemplates Tonio with ever-increasing wonder and admira- tion, while he, with madly-beating heart, is obliged to exert all his self-control to prevent his throwing himself at her feet and breaking forth into all manner of incoherent exclamations of rapture a-nd pain and thankfulness. " How changed he is !" thinks Viola ; " how improved in every way ! I cannot realize that it is really Tonio !" " Your father has told me how you were driven from your home by that scoundrel Barbesi," begins the young man, as they roll swiftly towards the old city ; " who, by the w.-iy, was in no danger whatever, his illness was hall' feigned fin- tin- purpose of terrifying you and this little one;" with a kind glance at Nina; " he recovered immediately alter your flight." 240 SOUCL (Ah, Dio !" murmurs the hunchback, with a shudder, slipping her hand into Viola's with a sympathetic squeeze.) " Before he left Vogogna there was a terrible scene between him and the Frau, from which she has never rallied. No one knows what threats he used to frighten her into discovering your address in Paris, or what the miserable coward said or did during that interview. Heinrich was away in the hills with his violin, and only returned to find that she had taken to her bed, from which she assured him she would never rise again. She gave him her keys, and indicated the spot where her money was concealed, then turned her face to the wall, and has not spoken since." " Poor grandmother!" Viola's tears are falling fast. " Is she ill, Tonio ? does she suffer ? Oh, I must return to them ! Who is there to keep the house and to care for them ?" " Viola, you must not go back there !" Tonio says, firmly. " Your father dreads nothing more than that you should be again persecuted by this Barbesi, who keets'a watchful eye on Vogogna, fancying that you will return ! Heinrich was coming himself to Paris to find you and warn you to keep out of his reach, but he was willing to intrust me with his wishes which I am sure you will respect. Besides," he adds, more cheer- fully, " they are not alone ; that good Teresina is with them, and will not leave your grandmother as long as she is ill. Your father has been most kindly cared for by the neighbors, and he is never seen without his violin now !" Viola is silent ; her heart is aching at the picture of the solitary old man pouring out his sorrows in wild, sweet strains to the echoing hills. " Do not cry, Viola mia," whispers Tonio, un- able longer to bear the sight of her pale face wet with tears. " Do not cry ! You could do nothing for them, were you with them now, but add to his trouble. It will not be very long before he can come to you, for the Frau grows weaker day by day, she can scarcely be induced to take enough nourishment to sustain life, and she is very old, you know." They are in the Rue du Bac now, and, as Tonio assists them to descend at the entrance of a tall, gloomy-locking building, he arranges to call for them the next morning early to take them out to Versailles, where they can spend a long, restful Sunday in the open air under the great, shady trees of the palace-grounds. VIOLA. 241 " I shall thank God to-night, Viola !" gasps Nina, as they drag themselves breathlessly up the steep staircase. " I shall thank Him for the day under the green trees we are to have to-morrow ! Ah, Viola, He is taking pity on us at last !" And her companion, smiling through grateful tears, thanks Him too. CHAPTER H. A JOYFUL SURPRISE. " Then we talked oh, how we talked ! her voice so cadenced in the talking, Made another singing of the soul! A music without bars; While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming round where we were walking, Brought interposition worthy-sweet as skies about the stars. In her utmost lightness there is truth and often she speaks lightly ; And she has a grace in being gay, which even mournful souls approve; For the root of some grave, earnest thought is understruck so rightly, As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above!" MRS. BROWNING. THE day spent so delightfully out of the hot glare and dust and din of the city, in the shaded allies of the magnificent old park, is but the prelude to many another equally pleasant ex- cursion to the various charming environs of Paris. Tonio, pleading his loneliness in this strange place where lie knows nobody, urges Viola and her companion to give him every moment that can be spared from their daily toil ; ami ><> gently persistent is he, that they find themselves every even- ing out of Paris and dining together in some sweet, quiet spot within easy access by rail of the city. Perhaps these are the very happiest hours of Tonio's life, when, with Viola on his arm, he strolls slowly through the winding walks of Vincennes, along the terraces of St. Cloud, or by the silvery lake in the Bois de Boulogne, whilst she listens with lireuthless interest to the recital of his adventures during the past two years. Never had De.Mlemonu given more rapt and flattering attcn- L 21 242 SOUCI. tion to the Moor's narrations than does Viola to the description of Tonio's meeting with his father ; his enlistment in the army ; the battles he has seen ; the promotion he has won. And Gari- baldi, how she delights in hearing of him ! How her delicate face flushes when he tells her of the adoration of the men for their general ; of the devotion shown to him ; of the wild en- thusiasm of the peasantry, who shower upon him flowers, bless- ings, cheers mingled with irrepressible sobs of grateful joy, all along the line of march ! Then her cheek pales again, and her eyes fill with quick tears, as he speaks of the brigade of boys, who had fought like young tigers at Milazzo, and whose ranks had been so cruelly decimated ; of the monastery which had been hastily converted into a hospital, where these lads lay mutilated, dying and dead, but with the spirit of the South glowing within them to the last breath. One little fellow, in whom he had taken special interest, only twelve years of age, had been stricken down, and as Tonio passed through the hos- pital he had called out to him, cheerily, " Hola, Signore Benotti, nearly all of our brigade were wounded or killed ! Our colonel says that no one can say after this that the Sicilians never fight !" The child had sunk back exhausted after these words, and lay pallid and wan, his white uniform stained with blood and mire, with an ice-bladder on the stump of his right arm ! Then with swift, graphic touches he describes to her the night- assault of the fort of Altafiumara ; the crossing of the strait by starlight, under the very jaws of the Bourbon men-of-war, over the invisible bridge of 'boats, which had sprung from Garibaldi's ingenious brain ; of the two hundred and ten picked men who had passed over it, alighting in the midst of fourteen thousand of the enemy ! And often he speaks of his father's increasing affection for him ; of his lavish generosity ; of his delight at his late ap- pointment on his chief's staff. He tells her of the delightful hours which they had gleaned from amid their stirring camp- life, which had been devoted to study and mental culture of a high order. Those, Tonio whispers, were his happiest hours, for in them he strove to raise himself nearer to her. At this Viola turns away, blushing and frowning and smiling all together, but feeling- too glad and content to utter the reproof he deserves. With the tact born of unselfishness, Nina always refuses to VIOLA. 243 accept Tonio's disengaged arm, and occupies herself during their rambles in gathering wild flowers to carry back to their dreary little room, or in finishing some bit of embroidery which she is thankful to be able to do in the sweet-scented open air, with the green grass under her feet and the song of the birds in her ears. Thus a fortnight passes, a fortnight during which Viola's cheek has regained something of its delicate rose-tint and the oval of her face has 'recovered its pure curve; during which Nina has grown strong and cheerful once more, and Tonio, " glad to the brink of fear," has watched with awed, reverent eyes the girl, who, in her sweet, self-reliant womanliness and purity, appears to him but little lower than the angels. Could he help basking in the sunlight of his present happiness, even though he felt that it cast not one single ray of hope into his future ? Do human lips ever turn from the merciful nepenthe fate offers, even if it be but the alleviation of bitter pain for a day's span ? CHAPTER III. "NINA! NINA! WE SHALL NEVER SEE HIS FACE AGAIN!" " Une larme a son prix, c'est la sceur d'un soupir. Avec deux yeux bavards parfois j'ainae a jaser, Mais le seul vrai langage au monde est un baiser!" ALFRED DE MUSSET. BUT the day of parting comes apace. " I had taken these little rooms for a couple of months," Tonio is saying, as he walks up and down the platform of the station with Viola, awaiting the arrival of the train which is to bear him southward. " And since my orders have come so much sooner than I had expected, I have arranged with my landlady who is a good old soul that my sister and her friend shall occupy them until my return. You will not refuse mo this comfort, Viola; I cannot bear to think of you mounting that dreadful staircase in the dreary Rue du Bac !" " How good you are, Tonio ! How kind and thoughtful ! But " 244 SOUCL He holds up his hand, with a smile : " No buts, Viola; think of all I owe to you and Heinrich, my life to him, to you all that is worth living in me !" She is silent, the tears brimming in her eyes. Presently a moan breaks from her. " Ah, Tonio ! I cannot let you go ! What shall we do without you !" The instant the words have left her lips she realizes what she has done ! Fain would she recall them by whatever suffering to herself; but it is too late! It is as though a hand had suddenly closed upon the throbbing heart of the man on whose arm she leans ; the color forsakes his cheek, and all his strong frame is shaken with the effort to maintain his composure, to continue to exercise towards this girl over whom his soul yearns madly the calm affec- tion, the tranquil forbearance, which he had not permitted himself to transgress, even by a look, throughout these happy weeks. ' The very helplessness of her position, the innocent trust she had placed in him, had forbidden his taking advantage of the opportunity to press his love upon her. But now, at the moment of parting, with the doubt that he shall ever see her sweet face again (for has not every parting a foretaste of the bitterness of the final separation ?), with that irrepressible sob in his ear, and the clinging, tremulous arm pressed against his bursting heart, he would have been more, or less, than man, had he been able to restrain the anguish of his farewell. Broken words of tenderness entreaties for her remem- brance her prayers her love burst from his eager lips, glow from the dark eyes, pierce to the heart of the poor girl, who answers but by tears ! " Give me these, my beloved !" he whispers, at last, touch- ing a tiny bunch of her favorite flowers ; " their perfume will seem like part of you ; it will be with me through the long hours of this day " Quickly her trembling fingers detach the violets from her belt as the shriek of the approaching train is heard faintly in the distance. He places them reverently in an inside pocket of his coat, from whence their faint, delicious fragrance tortures him throughout his lonely journey. VIOLA. 245 A few moments later, Nina, sitting afar off, at the other end of the long platform, rejoices greatly when, as the engine rushes deafeuingly into the station and the waiting-room emp- ties itself into the rail way -carnages, she sees Tonio clasp to his heart for an instant the form of her friend before he springs into the last carriage of the already moving line. " Come away, Viola," she whispers, twining her arms about the statue-like being, who stands with tearless, dilated eyes gazing into the void left vacant by the swift-speeding train. " Come away ; the carriage is waiting, Viola ; come !" " Yes, I am coming," she replies, moving mechanically to- wards the fiacre, which, by Tonio's orders, conveys them di- rectly to his cheerful little appartenient d Tent) esol, on the Rue Neuve St. Augustin. Not one word does Viola speak, as they rattle through the gay, busy thoroughfares ; white and tearless she sits, holding the hunchback : s brown little hand in hers with painful force. Only after they reach the tiny sitting-room, where they find their few belongings already removed from the Rue du Bac, and Nina has exclaimed, " Ah, Viola, was there ever any one so kind and generous as Tonio !" she casts herself, face down- ward, on the little couch, with the bitter cry, " Nina, Nina, we shall never see his face again !" In vain her little friend strives to soothe and comfort her ; in vain she uses every argument suggested by her matter-of- fact reasoning, Viola cannot be convinced that this presenti- ment which possesses her is but the consequence of unusual nervous excitement and will disappear with the agitation and exhaustion of the morning. The day is far spent before she has recovered sufficiently her usual calm to receive a visit from the landlady to whose care Tonio had confided her and Nina. Madame Dubois is a vivacious little woman, with a round rosy face and a pair of shrewd, kindly-looking eyes, which appraise Viola's worth with their first keen glances and are satisfied therewith. " Monsieur your brother," she begins, after the preliminary curtsy, " bade me ascertain whether anything further would be required in these rooms for mademoiselle's use, and if so, I am to procure it. Monsieur sent in this piano yesterday, and the jardiniere, of plants, and these books and some IIIUMC. 21* 246 SOUCL Mademoiselle's luggage arrived this morning. I have had it placed in the bedroom." All this the voluble little creature pours forth with scarcely a pause for breath. Viola, mustering her self-possession, her innate delicacy preventing any exhibition of surprise, murmurs her thanks and the assurance that the rooms seem perfectly furnished and very comfortable. " At what hour will mademoiselle please to dine ?" chirps forth madame, delighted with the young lady's, charming man- ner. " Monsieur ordered dinner for to-day, and if mademoi- selle desires, I am to provide her meals for her daily. Monsieur thought it would be more agreeable." " Yes, yes," replies Viola, wishing the audience at an end. " It will be far better, if you will be so good." " Bon ! cest entendu ! And now I shall have dinner served at once, for mademoiselle has had no dejeuner a la fourchette, and la pauvre petite lossue looks famished," she adds, lower- ing her voice. This arouses Viola, who, taking Nina by the hand, says, gently, " I am very selfish and forgetful, carissima ; you are pale, and hungry too, I am sure !" Then they go into the little bedroom adjoining, to bathe their tear-stained faces and smooth their ruffled hair, and they both break down once more at the further proof of Tonio's tender thought which awaits them there. Side by side stand two new portmanteaus, bearing the names of the two girls upon their brass plates. While Viola turns away, overcome by this most loving thoughtfulness, Nina, drawing from her pocket a couple of keys Tonio had pressed into her hand without further explanation than " Keep them ; they are Viola's," proceeds to open the lids and discover the treasures within. Here they find, laid in order, complete trousseaux of tasteful, pretty garments, which could have been chosen and suggested only by a woman's knowledge of the intricacies of her sex's toilet. " And he said he had not a single friend in Paris !" ejaculates Nina, wiping the grateful tears from her eyes that she may see more clearly all these beautiful things. At this Viola is stirred into vindicating Tonio's veracity. " It is not necessary, Nina ; there are establishments in Paris, like the Maison Lyounaise, for iustance, wher the Contefcsa VIOLA. 247 had orders filled and sent to her without any advice or assist- ance from outside. They undertake these things and fulfil the largest orders to perfection. Tonio never could tell an untruth !" " Oh, I did not mean that, Viola !" cries Nina, remorseful ; " do not imagine I doubted his word !" Viola kisses her reassuringly, and soon after they sit down to their cosy little dinner, and the evening wears away in quiet talk. Long after Nina is soundly sleeping, Viola paces up and down the sitting-room in sore unrest. " Oh, my love, my love ! have I been disloyal to you, in thought, or word, or deed ! Has this poor boy's madness won from me one gleam of aught but pity ? Am I doing my love a wrong in accepting the kindness of another to whom I can make no return ? God, help me to see clearly the right, and to do it !" These moans break from her heart at intervals, until, ex- hausted by the emotions of the day, she lays her weary head upon her pillow and falls asleep, with one hand clasped tightly on her breast over a medallion of Roman gold. BOOK VI. SOUCI. CHAPTER I. " WHO IS THAT ?" " popular applause ! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet, seducing charms? * * * * . * * Praise from the shrivelled lips of toothless, bald Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean And craving poverty, and in the bow Respectful of the smutched artificer, Is oft too welcome and may much disturb The bias of thy purpose. How much more Poured forth by beauty, splendid and polite, In language soft as adoration breathes !" COWPER. IT Is the evening following the 7th of September, 1860, the day of the triumphant entry of Garibaldi with a handful of men into Naples, when the Liberator, named Dictator, had been welcomed with cries and tears of wild delight by over three hundred thousand people assembled about his quarters in the Palazzo d'Angri: the day when women had fainted from excess of joy, and strong men had sobbed at sight of their deliverer ! The air yet vibrates with that deafening roar of greeting, " Viva Galibardo ! Viva T Italia ! Una, nna, una, viva /" The fact that the cannons of all the fortresses are pointed at the rejoicing city, and that fourteen thousand Bourbon soldiers are under arms in their vicinity, chills in no degree the de- lirious excitement of the people, suddenly delivered from the tyrant's yoke. An open carriage, wending its way slowly through the streets thronged with monks, women, soldiers, citizens in carriages and on foot, carrying lighted torches, and shouting their evvive, is 248 SOUCI. 249 checked in its course by the passage of a triumphal car in the form of a ship, drawn by eight white oxen, gayly decorated with scarlet ribbons. Out of this huge structure arises from hundreds of human voices the Garibaldi Hymn, accompanied by various musical instruments. During nearly fifteen minutes the barouche, in which are seated a lady and two gentlemen, and the monstrous ship re- main locked by the pressure of the crowd, while high and clear, soaring above this not unmelodious chorus like the pure trill of a nightingale above the voices of lesser songsters rises the powerful soprano of the great prima-donna, leading the glorious Hymn ! The tumult grows wilder : the people burst into tears, and embrace each other like madmen. Souci's name mingles with the vivas, whilst once more the horses are dragged from her carriage and hundreds of eager hands struggle for a share in the honor of conveying her to the theatre whither she is bound. Standing erect, her noble figure antique in its grand outlines, her proud white face glowing with enthusiasm, her great eyes luminous with the contagion of their joy ; through her parted lips the stirring, martial-sounding strains lifting up every soul present upon their soaring solemnity ; verily it is not strange that this half-crazed people see in her the apotheosis of their liberty, and wellnigh worship her ! * * " * * * * * It has been a grand night at the San Carlo : a niliii.'.-s SJK <- tion. So greatly does this idea relieve her fears of his foruet- fulness, that a swift rush of tenderness overflows her heart and chokes the carolling voice into sudden silence. Tonio, 262 SOUCI. glancing up with his face eloquent with feeling, meets her eyes fixed upon him, in them all the concentrated longing of the lonely, waiting years ! Transfixed by an electric sympathy, they gaze mutely into each other's eyes : an invisible, irresistible force seems to draw Tonio to her feet. Reason, faith, loyalty, appear to shrivel up under the fire of those glowing eyes. His head grows strangely confused : is it the movement of the boat, or the dreamy hazi- ness of the atmosphere, overweighted by that faint, rich scent of orange-blossoms from the shore, which blinds him to every- thing on earth save that marble-white, passion-eloquent face, with its pathetic-drooping lips'and its tender, yearning gaze? In another moment he had cast himself down in an abject subjection to the child he had rescued from despair, whom he had held in his arms and hushed to sleep on his shoulder and starved himself to feed ; her name is trembling on his lips; a loving smile is breaking over her face: the joyous recognition is at hand which shall bind him heart and soul her own forever when wafted towards him on the air comes the subtle fragrance from a bunch of violets worn in her bosom. What magic lies in these little purple blossoms, that their delicate perfume should have power to dissolve the spell which had wellnigh betrayed him ? Gathering up the oars with a quick gasp, he recovers his self-control, and, bending courteously towards his companion, says, with an effort which makes his voice sound strangely harsh, " Is it to be Ischia or Procida, mademoiselle ? The day is fading, and we are losing time." SOUCI. 263 CHAPTER IV. BAFFLED AGAIN. .... "By this light of heaven, I know not how I lost him! .... If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love, Either in discourse of thought, or actual deed; Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, Delighted them in any other form ; Or that I do not yet, and ever did, And ever will, though he do shake me off, .... love him dearly, Comfort forswear me ! Unkindness may do much; And his unkindncss may defeat my life, But never taint my love." IF Souci's first impulse had been to shriek out wildly and beat her breast in an agony of disappointment and humiliation, at the moment when some unknown, fatal influence had inter- posed itself between Touio and herself, the habit of repression which she had forced herself to acquire during the last half- (lo/,( n years quelled that impotent outbreak before the second dip of the oars. That the impulse smouldered with even more devastating effect need not be matter of surprise. The shock caused by the abrupt and unaccountable altera- tion in Tonio's look and manner the sudden casting off" of the withes by which she had wellnigh bound him hud served to illumine as by a lightning-flash the innermost corners of her heart, and had filled her with a certain terror. She began to fear that this dominant feeling of her life had acquired a power of absorption which gave it a dangerous clutch upon her entire future existence. The grateful affec- tion of childhood ; the half-sentimental devotion of later ye:ir- : the imaginary bond which she had loved to believe existed between them during the years she struggled and strove to make herself worthy of him, all these seemed now to her but as the first, foolish, unintelligible babble of an infant's tongue 264 SOUCL beside the strong, solemn voice which whispered in her ear that now, and now only, had love come to her. It had been this sudden revelation which had awed and mastered her ; which had sent the blood back upon her heart with suffocating violence and helped her to maintain a decent composure of look and speech during their drive back to Naples from Pozzuoli ; this, which had driven her, trembling and nerve- less, to the quiet shelter of her own room, on her return to the hotel, and had shaken her with a tempest of sobs as she clung with frantic grief to poor, frightened Jeanne, whilst she reit- erated in pitiful gasps that most manifest untruth, " Nobody loves me, Jeanne ! Nobody ! Nobody !" Her engagement at the San Carlo has terminated. Another managerial voice is urging its claims from Milan ; but the prima-donna, grown deaf and blind to her pecuniary interests, unhesitatingly cancels her agreements without scruple. She elects to stay where she is. Why not ? Can any place be more delightful than this " City of Sirens" and its enchant- ing environs ? Is not the sky bluer, the air more intoxicating, the sea fuller of dancing lights, than in any Other spot on God's fair earth ? To Souci it seems indeed " un pezzo del cielo cadiito in terra " for does it not hold her heart's desire ? and is it not here that she and Tonio have met once more ? She sees him constantly now. In spite of himself he is drawn into walks and drives and entertainments, of which she takes advantage to exercise her manifold witcheries to subdue him. She has begun to believe that his pride stands in the way of a frank renewal of their old relations. She is no longer the miserable pauper, the unknown outcast, whom he had shielded with his own feeble arm. She is the world-renowned Queen of Song, the idol of Paris, the eagerly-sought ornament of aristocratic reunions. Men have gone mad about her ; more than one coronet has been offered her ; royal gifts deck her jewel-casket. She stands on the pinnacle of fame and fortune, while he is just beginning to carve his way upwards with the sword. So she feeds her hope and lingers, apparently indifferent to Raoul Delacroix's remonstrances, as she is to everything else save the object she has in view. A sort of feverish ex- SOUCL 265 altation possesses her at times, which has the effect of reckless- ness, and which brings the Souci of other days forcibly before Tonio's eyes and stirs him more deeply than he is willing to acknowledge. " You seem very fond of cameos, mademoiselle," he said to her one evening, as he returned her a rare antique, which she had unclasped from her arm at his request. " I am not a judge of such things, but I should imagine yours are very fine." " You are right ; these are very fine, unique indeed ; they cost a little fortune, I believe," she answered, carelessly. " A little fortune !" echoed Tonio, with brusque simplicity. " In that case, mademoiselle, one of your useless ornaments would perhaps clothe and feed a score or two of the widows and orphans we have made." His voice was grave and, Souci fancied, cold. " Ah, yes!" she cried, falling quickly into his mood. "It would ! it might ! it shall! I have some jewels ; to-morrow they shall pay the penalty of their beautiful iiselessness ; they shall be offered up on the altar of charity. Ah, monsieur, only show me how to do good with the wealth which pours in upon me, tell me how I may help these poor people, I pray you, and you shall have no reason to reproach me !" She spoke earnestly, eagerly ; her voice, vibrating with feel- ing, thrilled to the heart of the man beside her. " Reproach you, mademoiselle !" he replied, coldly. " I ask your pardon ; such was not my intention." Then, as she drew back quickly, stung by his manner, he added, more lightly, " What do you think of your vls-d-vis? Handsome, is she njit V Souci's eyes flashed ominously. " Brilliant !'' she cried, recovering herself instantly. " Ask her what she thinks her jewels are worth ! Perhaps you may exact another sacrifice ; her toilette would equip an army !" " It is very pretty," returned Tonio, quietly ; " something of the Louis XV. day, I fancy. She looks like a picture !" " Very little skirt and less corsage," went on Souci, wick- edly. " It reminds UK; of Talleyrand's answer to a lady who tried to extort a compliment from him on her ball d ' M'l'/tlllK . till' C'HIIIIII IICI f,l. f l-fllfoor girl had felt that her little companion, (lie eliild she had grown to love so fondly, was to be taken from her. M* 274 SOUCI. CHAPTER II. "ALL IS LOST EXCEPT A LITTLE LIFE!" . . . . " The wrecked heart lies cold, While heaviness collects the shattered spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife We feel benumbed and wish to be no more: But in the after-silence on the shore, When all is lost except a little life !" IT is the afternoon of a delicious, mellow, autumn day, and Paris is alive with the animated movement and gay bustle which proclaim it full to overflowing. The principal thoroughfares are thronged with equipages ; the shops have put on their festive array ; the restaurants and estaminets are crowded ; and even their concomitants, the cafes chantants, are doing a profitable, if unseasonable, business. A ceaseless rolling of wheels to and fro mingles with the calls of the flower-vendors selling their autumnal posies ; the confused murmur of vivacious voices, with the well-trained laughter of women breaking through it ; the frou-frou of their dresses and the clacking of their high-heeled chaussnres blend with the distant sound of music, perhaps a melancholy hurdy- gurdy, or a cracked imitation of Madame Therese. At a table in front of a cafe on the Boulevard des Italiens, Lyster Rawdon has seated himself. Lighting a cigar and calling for some sherry and seltzer, he leisurely consumes them, while he watches somewhat weariedly the ever-varying pano- rama before him. He has had a tiresome day, looking up and gathering to- gether the indispensable impedimenta and accumulated rub- bish of three years' wandering, preparatory to starting for England the following morning. He had written to Lord Harrowdale to announce his inten- tion of returning to his native land and taking up the career which had hitherto appeared so distasteful to him. His uncle HEINRICH. 275 had replied with cool courtesy, through which gleamed as little of personal gratification as was consistent with his lordship's customary manner: nevertheless, the fatted calf was killed at Harrowdale Court. Lystcr is thinking almost yearningly of his boyhood's home as he sits alone amid this motley, foreign crowd ; lost in his own thoughts in spite of the confusion of tongues and din of clinking glasses. A motley crowd it is, smoking, laughing, eating, drink- ing, gayly iiixunciniit, obtrusively polite: the white-aproned, ubiquitous gar<;on darting hither and thither, bearing trays of ices, lemonade, coffee, or cognac. At one table is seated a burly bourgeois "papa," with madame and three lank, black-eyed, and unwholesome-skinned daughters, over whose every glance and movement a rigorous surveillance is maintained by the heads of the family. With downcast eyes they meekly sip their enu sucree a la i/ mm il/e, perfectly aware of the fact that a couple of callow students at an adjoining table are devouring them over the rims of their absinthe glasses. Next to these are a young commis de magaxin and his bride. Bride she is from the spray of orange-blossom in her little; white bonnet to the tip of the fawn-colored boot which peeps lu-ncath the elaborately-goffered petticoats. The left hand, on which gleam the afltunce and the mar- riage-ring, steals under cover of the table to touch the fat finders spread out upon her husband's knee; he is smilingly r- "warding her with that delightful air of proprietorship which announces to the most obtuse individual that the lune de miel is not yet thirty-six hours old. Then comes a jovial-looking Briton, with Mrs. B. and one red-haired damsel, whose elbows appear to be in her own and everybody else's way. She stares about her unconcernedly, flashing a contemptuous glance at the three subdued French maidens opposite. Briton pere calls for his beloved " Bass" ; Mrs. B. thinks she will take a cup of coffee, that, at least, is sure to be fit to drink ; and mademoiselle declares in favor of lemonade, 'that is. ii'yon can i:et it made out of the mil tlilmj. and not bring me that na>ty. ;jav-y -lull' they -ive you here !" .he cries in i-xeciable French, glaring detiantly at the French trio, who, 276 SOUCL not comprehending such audacity in one of their tender years and sex, lif t awe-stricken eyes to the maternal parent who is bridling austerely, with a sidelong glance at the students afterwards. Here follows a popping of corks, the "pell-ell," as the gar^on calls it, and the limonade gazeme splutter into their respective glasses, while papa complacently draws forth a couple of francs, eying with thirsty satisfaction the one thing that can't be spoiled even in Paris. Miss of the auburn locks frowns gloomily as her share of the refreshment is placed be- fore her, and, hastening to touch it with her lips, instantly sets it down in unmitigated, and not .silent, disgust. " It's vile ! it always is ! I'll not drink it ! Pa, make them give you your money back ! Here ! garrong ! Apportez-moi la monnaie tout, de suite /" " Comment, mademoiselle?" " It is a swindle ! I will not drink it, I say ! I told you to make it of the fruit. Take it away " Here she gives the glass- an angry push, and upsets not only'it but also the cup of coffee, which pours a scalding stream across the table, causing papa to start up with a pair of dripping knees and a face scar- let with anger and mortification. An irrepressible titter greets the discomfited old gentleman as, with his now trembling daughter, he beats a hasty retreat, followed by madaine, who sadly impedes his movements by the vigorous application of her handkerchief to his saturated nether garments. Rawdon, aroused from the revery into which he had fallen, flings away the remainder of his cigar, glances at his watch, and rising, strolls off in the direction of his hotel. The tahlc-d'hote is being served, and as he dawdles over his coffee at the conclusion of the stereotyped number of courses, he wonders what he shall do with his evening his last evening in Paris. He has been in town only two days, having lingered in Koine awl Florence just long enough to take one farewell peep at his favorite galleries ; therefore he has no engagements. He is scarcely in the mood for paying visits and Jamie is still in Naples : quoifalre ? He decides to diess, saunter round to the Club, take a look at the papers, pick up some fellow who is as much bored as himself, and drop in at " Les Italiens," or one of the theatres. He has fulfilled the first part of his programme, and is cross- HE1XRIC1L 277 ing the Rue de la Paix, when his attention is attracted to a knot of people gathered together, evidently under some excite- ment, all of them speaking at once and none of them doing anything in particular. "He is dead, pauvre vt'eiix" Lyster hears them say. " Lift him ! Lay him down ! Don't dare to touch him until the sergent-de-viile sees him ! HB's drunk, poor devil! He isn't: he's dead ! Diuntre! he looks starved ! Miffi- diubles ! he moves !" These ejaculations arrest the young Englishman's steps, and approaching the object of their com- miseration he requests the crowd to stand back a little, while he raises the prostrate form of a man who appears to have i'.iinted from exhaustion. Something in the frail, shrunken figure and the long, fair hair falling about the shoulders sends a thrill through Lys- ter's heart as he supports him in his strong arms, imperatively ordering the group of curious people to disperse and give the ]">nr fellow a chance to breathe. They fall back incontinently at the appearance of a scrgent-de-vilte, and in doing so one of them picks up and restores to llawdon an old black violin which had apparently slipped from the fainting man's hold ; the bow still lies within the relaxed fingers of his right hand. "Is he dead, monsieur?" asks the sergent-de-ville, leaning over him with the impassive curiosity which comes of ex- perience. " I think not. Can you get me a cab ? I know this man ;" adding, as the officer appeal's to demur, " You will accompany him of course ; I simply wish to take him to lodgings instead of the hospital." ' Pardon, monsieur," returns the other, after dispatching a gamin for ajiacre : " monsieur is perhaps not aware of the rigidity of the rules. A dead man, even though he be a inimp. is a serious responsibility, this is a case for the morgue, 1 am afraid, rather than for lodgings " Vou are mistaken," llawdon replies, quietly; "this man is not dead. See, he is recovering. Stand back !" as the throng {.iv.-ii-s forward again. " Give him air: it is only a fainting-fit from fatigue." Then lowering his v>ii-e, and bending over the old man, lie says, gently, in the (ierman tonuue. " Do you think you will lr aide to walk a little way? Try! Lean on me only a li-w >tc-j, But the trembling limbs refuse to support him, and the eyes 24 278 SOUCI. close wearily as Heinrich sinks back with a feeble moan. Lys- ter tries in vain to arouse him : he has reached that stage of exhaustion when the mind succumbs to the inanition -of the body ; a strange numbness has dulled every sense ; the glazed eyes have lost all expression ; the chin has dropped upon his breast. There is no time to lose, Lyster thinks, as he assists in carrying the wasted form to the carriage. Entering it him- self, he supports Heinrich, who has relapsed once more into in- sensibility, while the sergent-de-ville mounts upon the box, and they start off to an address recommended by the latter as " a comfortable and quiet lodging overlooking the gardens of the Tuileries, highly desirable for an invalid." * #"# # * * # It was past midnight before the restoratives applied by the keen-witted wife of the concierge (who, at Kawdon's entreaty, and for a consideration, had installed herself as nurse until an- other could be procured) had produced any decided improve- ment in the old man's condition. The vital spark had flickered on the verge of extinction until Lyster llawdon had scarcely been able to control his impatient anxiety. A thousand mis- givings tormented him as he sat watching throughout the night for one gleam of intelligence in the vacant, half-closed eyes, listening for one conscious word from the white, drawn lips, which might dissipate his dread forebodings. " He is dying of starvation !" the doctor had succinctly stated, after he had examined the poor old man ; and Lyster's heart had sunk within him as he heard. Dying of starvation ! And Viola ! Unable longer to bear the suspense and forced inaction, he had passed into an adjoining room, and was pacing restlessly up and down, when the handle of the door was softly turned, and the wife of the concierge appeared, beckoning him : " He has taken a few more spoonfuls of the broth, monsieur, and seems revived a little. He is asking for something ; I cannot understand him : will monsieur come?" A moment later, Lyster Rawdon had the joy of seeing the worn face light up as the mild blue eyes rested upon him, while Heinrich stretched forth his hand towards him and a murmur of recognition escaped his lips. Then, as he hurried forward and grasped the thin hand extended to him, he heard HKI.MiK'H. 279 the old man articulate with difficulty, "Liilchen int-hi Lieb- cheit ! where is she, rnein Kiml .'" The dull, listless look which Lyster remembered as its habitual expression seemed to have been burned out of the worn face by the passion of a yearning anguish ; the eyes, grown brilliant, almost fierce, fast- ened themselves upon his with hungry tenacity : " Where is she, mein Kindchen ?" he cried. " I I do tiot know," stammered Rawdon, startled by the other's vehemence. " You must tell me where to send to her ; or shall I go myself and bring her to you ?" An expression of agony convulsed Heinrich's features ; the trembling hands lifted themselves to heaven in piteous appeal. " He does not know ! Ach Himmel! and I have sought her vainly so long so long ! Ach, mein Kindchen, Gott schiitze <>,/>:-cochre into the little apartment on the ground-floor be- hind the shop, where Madame De"siree conducts her small house- keeping. Fortunately, they find her at home, and, after a sub- dued greeting between the friends, madame ascends to the next 292 soucr. floor to announce the arrival of a relative of the old man who there lies dying. Viola has spoken no word. She feels strangely calm, and, as she removes her gloves and bonnet, smoothing the rippling hair back from her marble-white face, she has an odd feeling that she is not herself but somebody else. Presently, ma dame returns and beckons her from the door. " Ah, that is well," she says, in a low voice ; " he may perhaps recognize you without your bonnet. Come !" Viola, still feeling that she is somebody else, somebody who has been dead for a long, long time, follows her up- stairs. On the landing Lyster Kawdon is standing. He advances to meet her with severely-restrained eagerness. " Am I too late? Is my father still alive ?" she asks, in clear, low tones, without other greeting. Her eyes, unnaturally large and bright, search his face with an intensity of anguish which seems to have benumbed her to all other impressions. " He is still living, and conscious," replies Rawdon, inex- pressibly shocked by her appearance and manner, and making an almost superhuman effort to control his own emotion. " You will find him much changed; are you prepared for it? He has been very ill," he goes on, while his heart seems bursting with the mingling of love and pity for this stricken creature, who answers him so quietly, " Oh, yes ; I am quite prepared. May I go in ?" He cannot resist taking in his the cold hand which hangs limp and nerveless at her side ; then, holding it in a firm and gentle grasp, he leads her into the room and to the bedside, where, raised upon many pillows, Heinrich awaits her coming. The room is well lighted; the old man had always craved light, the glorious sunlight, the golden radiance of the moon, the brilliant starlight ; darkness and gloom had been as ab- horrent to him as they would be to a little child. As Viola approaches him he evinces no surprise, but into the tranquil face comes an indescribable tenderness. Kneeling beside the bed, she presses her lips again and again on the wrinkled hand, and then, drawing his arm gently about her neck, she*lays her head on the pillow near him and murmurs in his ear the pet names she had given him in childhood, the sweet, simple, inexpressibly tender love-language of the German tongue. Heinrich has not spoken. Once or twice he has passed his HEINRICH. 293 hand lovingly over the bowed head beside him, but the glad mnti'iit in his face, the inner light of -perfect peace, need neither gesture nor speech to express their fulness. Reluctant to intrude by word or movement upon the exqui- site sympathy which appears to exist between them, Lyster Manils a little apart, though full of apprehension in regard to Viola. Her seemingly abnormal condition, the unnatural com- posure of her manner, the strange, dream-like expression of her eyes, have pained him deeply. He watches her with keen anxiety until, presently, the cooing murmurs cease, and draw- ing nearer he sees that Heinrich has fallen asleep, with one arm twined about Viola's neck, the other stretched across his violin, lying close beside him. Never have Lyster's eyes rested on so touching a group, and as they wander from the peaceful, wrinkled face of the old man to Viola's pure-cut profile and transparent fairness, he perceives that her eyes have closed and that the lines of the slender figure have sud- denly relaxed. Approaching cautiously and bending over her, a spasm of fear seizes him as he finds that she has fainted. With infinite tenderness he raises her in his arms and carries her to a lounge at the opposite end of the room, where Ma- dauie Desiree having successfully parried her friend's excited curiosity and seen her safely off the premises is sitting quietly awaiting an occasion to offer her services. With assiduous zeal she endeavors to restore the young girl to consciousness, while Lyster lingers near, unable voluntarily to put even the length of the room between himself and the gentle face he has so long hungered to see. He can scarcely restrain the impulse to catch Viola in his arms in the excess of his joy when her eyes at length open, and, after one startled glance up at him, they slowly fill with glad tears as she recognizes him for the first time. " Thank God ! thank God !" are the only words which escape him ; and, kneeling beside her, he gathers into his the thin little hands, covering them with kisses. She is trembling violently, and the tears are coursing down the white cheeks, but her heart is throbbing wildly with almost unbearable joy. For the moment Heinrich is forgotten the sorrowful years, with their burden of pain, are forgotten in that ineffable delight of looking once again into each other's eyes, of clasping closely once more each other's hands. 25* 294 SOUCI. Suddenly Viola starts and half raises her head to listen, while from behind the curtains of the bed steals forth a strain of plaintive sweetness, and the notes of the " Vergissmein- nicht" played softly but with unerring hand, fill the whole room with vibrating melody. Madame Desiree moves quickly forward in alarm, but at a gesture from Rawdon, who has also started to his feet, she resumes her seat. Viola sinks back upon her cushion with a bewildered look and a faint moan, while Lyster bends down and whispers, " He will recover now ; he has grown stronger at the sight of you. Many days have passed since he was able to hold his violin. Listen !" Breathlessly they listen, while the mute passion in both their hearts seems suddenly to become vocal and to sound in their ears. CHAPTER VI. AN IMMORTAL SOUL IS PASSING NOW. " Tread softly bow the head^- In reverent silence bow; No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now." " THE right has 'triumphed at last !" Heinrich is saying in firm, clear tones, as his eyes, with a new light in them, rest calmly upon Viola, when she returns to the bedside. A subtle change has come over the dying mail during the past hour : the dreamy languor habitual to him seems to have dropped away, as though he had suddenly cast aside a travesty assumed to protect him from inquisitive and unsympathetic familiarity of which he stands no more in need. " I was sure that the day would come, if I could wait pa- tiently," he goes on, almost cheerfully, " when the great wrong which has been done thee would be righted and I should not be forced to leave thee, poor little heart ! utterly alone !" HEINRICH. 295 " Ah ! do not speak of leaving ine ! I cannot bear it !" cries Viola, her voice broken with sobs. " I have so longed for thee ! I have been so desolate ! I am alone, my father ; my poor little Nina has left me " -\Vhat! Dead?" " Yes, alas ! We were doing so well, and she seemed to have gained health and strength, when suddenly without even a day's warning she was taken, and I was left alone alone " " Poor little one !" murmurs Heinrich, caressing with his long slender hand the bright, braided hair : " poor little heart ! alone here, in Paris !'' " And my letters, they must have passed thee on the road !" continues Viola, with a sigh. " Ah ! how terrible it was, to go day after day to the post in vain !" She cannot repress a shudder at the remembrance of that dreary time. u And then I fell ill, I think from despair, and when I was able to leave my room I had not one sou to help me to get back to thee, my father ! never to leave thee again, come what may!" Heinrich smiles sadly ; but his voice preserves the firm and tender tone so new to it as he says, " Thou canst not keep me with thee, mem fferzchen, even were I willing to stay; but now that I have lived \o see thee again, and to know that soon tlrou wilt be with those who are able to make thy life so much happier than I could hope to do, I may rejoin my darling in heaven, if it so please God, with a glad heart!" It is doubtful whether these words convey any other signifi- cance to Viola's comprehension than the avowal of a willing- ness to leave her to struggle on in the painful road on which her feet are set. With a low, sharp cry she casts her arms about him, holding him in a fierce embrace, as though she de- fies Death itself to rob her of her only earthly friend. " Thou ftniKt not die ! thou wilt not go away and leave me !" she wails, passionately. " Oh, let me, then, go too, my God ! Take me with my father, I entreat Thee !" And her streaming eyes are raised in piteous prayer. " Calm thyself, mein Kindchen" whispers her father, much moved. " I am so happy so happy ! Wouldst thou dim the brightness of my joy by thy tears? See! here is the friend to whom I have confided my treasure ; here is one who 296 SOUCL will guard thee and love thee as tenderly more tenderly he could not as I could do, even were I able." Stretching out one hand towards Lyster, he continues : " I have told him all my story ; he has the letters, and the certificates of my marriage with thy mother, and of thy birth. He will see thee restored to thy rightful position, and then " Here the voice grows faint, and for a moment naught is heard save the subdued sob- bing of Viola, whose head is pillowed on the old man's breast. Lyster glancing anxiously at Heinrich, over whose face an ashy hue has spread, is about to administer some restorative, when he is stopped by a motion of the hand he has relinquished. Presently he resumes : " She was sorry before she died,, mein Liebchen ; thy grand- mother bade me say to thee that she was sorry, and perhaps thou wouldst forgive her. She was proud, thou seest, very proud ; and though we were in the wrong and perhaps deserved it, she could never bring herself to forgive those who would separate a man from his wife, until she lay dying Ah, it was a cruel, bitter vengeance they took ! and it broke my darling's heart : but I who alone was to blame was punished even more severely. I was allowed to live /" A weary sigh breaks from the pale lips, and the faded blue eyes have a far- off, misty look, as they glance back on the loneliness of those vanished years. " I alone was to blame !" he reiterates, after a moment. " She was so young scarcely more than a child and I (well, I had been Kapellmeister for years before they sent for me to come to the Castle), I must have been thirty- nine or forty, when I began to teach the young Baron the violin, and it was nearly two years after that (being always sent for to come to them when there was company there, to play on the grand organ or my own favorite instrument), it was nearly two years afterwards that my lily-bud the gracious little lady whom I had worshipped silently for years came to me, to my mother's little home in the village, and, weeping sorely, told me that they were about to marry her to an Aus- trian noble, whom she had seen only half a dozen times in her life ! Du lieber Gott ! I can see her piteous eyes yet ! I can hear her cry, as I heard her then, when my heart seemed to stop beating as my ears drank in her words ! ' Heinrich. thou lovest me !' and she stretched out her little hands to me. ' Thou lovest me ! I know it well, for all thou hast tried so hard to HEJXRJCIL 297- hide it. Save me from the fate to which they would condemn me ! save me, Heinrich ! thou art my only friend !' Ach ! poor angel !" The tremulous voice breaks, and for several minutes the feeble hands cover the old man's face from view. Presently he resumes : "I think I went mad then, mcin Liebclicn : every other consideration, every scruple or doubt, seemed to vanish the moment I knew that she, whom I had worshipped secretly almost her whole life, was willing to trust me infinitely ! It was wrong, wrong ! I can see it now ! We did not even try to reason with her. My mother had discovered my secret. Alas ! she did not attempt to dissuade her from any madness proposed by me. That same hour the following evening we took her away, my mother and I, and after travelling night and day for nearly a week I was so fearful of having her snatched away from me we halted in a quiet little village where I thought to hide my treasure. Here, after some weeks' delay. prescribed by law, we were married. . . . For three months we lived in Paradise ! My fragile, pale little lily bloomed into fuller loveliness : she had always been somewhat too silent and quiet in movement for so young a creature. In a few short weeks she became gay, and bright, and gleeful as a child. She had never had any playmates of her own age, being the only daughter, and her brother, who was several years older, having joined* the army. Her mother had been a widow many years. Life at the Castle was very dull and lonely for her ; she was growing old before she had fully blossomed ! my poor lily-bud ! I shall see thee again soon, lair and sweet, brightening the garden of our Lord !" There is the sparkle of youth in the pale-blue eyes as he raises them, clasping his hands together in ecstasy at the thought of that reunion. On the hollow cheek burns a fitful flu.