Originally published in Saint Pauls (Virtue and Co.) vol.2 #11 (Aug 1868).
I.
"Faites vos jeux, Messieurs." The invitation, familiar to most of us, in the dry, metallic voice of the croupier, was uttered for the hundredth time that night in the crowded gambling-room at Homburg.
A pretty woman of forty, dressed in the height and depth of the last Paris fashion,—an excellent counterfeit of a Parisian altogether, even to her very accent,—leant forward from the second rank of spectators in which she stood, and threw, with her tightly-gloved little-hand, a napoleon on the table. The number on to which it rolled was as yet uncovered. The next minute, however, a young man with long flaxen moustaches, on the opposite side of the table, stretched an arm over the heads of an old Russian Countess and a distinguished ornament of the demi-monde, who were seated before him, and placed a napoleon on this same number. This occurred three times: each time the luck was in favour of these two, and against nearly every other player at the table. Had they been professed gamblers they would not have insulted the goddess who smiled on them by removing the gold each time, and continuing to stake their pitiful twenty francs. But the lady had never seen a roulette-table before: it was her first visit to Homburg. This evening, being wet, she was induced to enter the hot, crowded rooms, and, for want of something to do, threw down her money,—that was all. The first time she won, she smiled and raked up the gold pieces carelessly. The second time she looked at the young man opposite, her companion in good luck. The third time she turned and whispered something into the ear of a tall and beautiful girl behind her. She was unlike an English girl, and, except in the matter of her clothes, unlike a French girl too; with a marvellous complexion, and a strange independence of manner; listless, with sad brown eyes, and a weary little mouth, that looked as if it were sick of waiting for an interest in life that would not come. She scarcely looked at the table, or heeded whether her companion lost or won. But twice, after that whisper, she glanced between an avenue of bonnets and bald heads at the young gambler opposite. And each time her eyes met his.
An old officer, a sort of military Friar Tuck, with a twinkling eye, tapped him on the shoulder.
"Potz-tausend! Lieber Waldstein! You gambling? Why, what would the gracious lady-mother say? You are the last man I ever expected to find at the tables!"
He laughed and coloured. "I have been here a month: my 'cure' is over, and I leave to-morrow. I have never staked a single thaler till to-night. Do you see that lady opposite?—the one in a white bonnet?"
"I should think so; and the handsome daughter. I have been asking who they were. Friends of yours? Have a care, Waldstein! The gracious lady-mother will not hear of your casting an eye on any one but Clara, and if she learns—"
"Nonsense! Why, I don't even know who the girl is! Never saw her till to-night; but I've scarcely taken my eyes off her since I came into the room. She is positively divine. Why are none of our German girls ever like that? What countrywoman is she, I wonder? You see the devil tempted me to come to the table, just by way of having an excuse for standing opposite her. I had one napoleon in my pocket, and now,—look here! I'll hand it all over to you if you'll find out for me who they are, General."
"And how about my poor Clara?" said the General, with a mock sigh, and a real chuckle. "It is too bad. What would the gracious —" But here some one came between them. The General moved on, and the rest of his sentence was lost. The lady opposite, meantime, emboldened by success, had left her winnings on the table several times running, and still her luck did not desert her. Waldstein, with whom it was now a point of honour to stake as much as his unknown companion in good fortune, found himself, at the end of ten minutes, with a large pile of gold before him. The demi-monde looked up with a bland smile, and moved her chair a little to make room for him and his money. Indeed, the attention of most people round the table was directed to the extraordinary run of luck which, with scarcely a check, had been attending these two persons now for nearly half-an-hour. People began to pile their money on whatever numbers the lady backed, for she always took the initiative. And then, on a sudden, the goddess turned away her face, and smiled on them no more. The lady bore her reverses lightly; her embroidered portemonnaie seemed inexhaustible: but when she saw the young man throw down his last napoleon, and put his hands into his pockets with an air which said plainly, "I have no more, and must e'en be content now to watch you," she drew back, and the great wave of beards and bonnets round the table closed over her.
A servant with cloaks stood at the garden-entrance of the Kur-Saal.
"It's quite an adventure," laughed the elder lady, as they walked home: "Such persistence on the young man's part! I wonder who he is?"
"I wish you wouldn't play again, mamma.. I don't like it, with all those people staring at one. I felt ashamed to see that man opposite putting down his money just wherever you did, and looking at you with a smile whenever you won. It was very impertinent, I think. I hate this place. I wish we were going away. Why do you stay here?"
"Because—never mind why, my precious child. We are only just come, and having taken our apartment for a month, here we must stay."
They entered one of the large, white, green-verandahed houses on the Untere Promenade. And they did not observe a figure which had followed them at a cautious distance, on the opposite side of the road, and which now stopped under the shadow of a tree. A few minutes later Rudolph von Waldstein was examining the strangers' list in the reading-room:—
Bei Herrn Strauss. Untere Promenade.
Frau Fürstin Galitzin m. Gesellschafterin u. Gefolge, a. Russland.
Herr Fuchs u. Gattin, a. Berlin.
Herr Graf von Furstenberg m. Gemahlin u. Fam, a. Siegen.
Zwei Fraülein Le Gros, a. Brüssel.
Mrs. Willington, nebst Fl. tochter u. Drscht., a. New York, America.
Herr General Poplaws-Culloche, a. Schottland.
Frau Generalin Poplaws-Culloche, Fam. u. Beg.
The young man was puzzled. Which of these names was most likely to fit the individuals who engrossed his thoughts at this moment? Could it be the Russian princess and her companion? The two Misses Le Gros from Brussels? The wife and daughter of that Scotch general with a wonderful name,—which he owed to the compositor? They were not Germans, he felt very sure; so that he put Fuchs and Furstenberg aside. Of the other lodgers there remained the lady and her daughter from New York. Which of all these was it? General von Hanecke, who had been looking through all the rooms for the young man, entered opportunely.
"Good; here you are. And now, where is your pile of napoleons? The ladies lodge 'bei Strauss'—"
"I know it."
"They are mother and daughter. They arrived the day before yesterday from Paris. Their name is —"
"Willington, aus New York, America," struck in Waldstein, promptly. "Just so. You see I have been beforehand with you."
"All guess-work," said the General, shaking his head contemptuously, and pointing to the Fremden-List. "At all events, you have not effected an introduction, and I am promised one on the Promenade to-morrow morning. What is more, I could present you, only I feel it would be treachery to that niece of mine,—the good Clara, whom you are to marry."
"Don't talk like that, General, even in joke. You know very well what I told my mother. I have the highest regard for Fraulein Clara, but-- In short, I suppose I'm not a marrying man. As to this, you are quite safe, as I leave Homburg to-morrow."
"The gracious lady-mother calls you back? My dear young friend, it is time you loosened the apron-strings a little."
"Loosened the apron-strings? What do you mean? You know I do just as I please. I hate this sort of life for long. I like nothing but the country; and so, fortunately, does my mother."
"You may say that,—hasn't left the Schloss for the last twenty years, I suppose, eh? Well, you will end by marrying Clara,—see if you don't. A good girl,—pity she's so plain,~—-with a good dowry. She's the very thing for you; and the gracious—"
"I tell you I'm not going to marry at all. But about this introduction. I should just like to speak to the girl, if you really will introduce me. I needn't go till the afternoon train."
Of course he didn't go; and it was thus that Margaret Willington and he became acquainted. Instead of going that day, he stayed on some weeks,—as long as Mrs. Willington did,—at Homburg; and Margaret now saw the place in quite different colours. When the end of the month drew near, she was nothing loth to linger on by the week, as her mother decided on doing. For Mrs. Willington felt more than hopeful now; she felt very certain that her primary object in coming to Homburg,—in coming to Europe at all, indeed,—was near its accomplishment. She had spared no pains in learning all that was to be learnt about Rudoph von Waldstein, and all her information had been satisfactory. Counts were as thick as blackberries; but this one was of very old family, possessing large estates on the borders of Switzerland and Germany,—a fine château, a princely fortune. He was young, good-looking, had been most strictly brought up by the mother whose only son he was, and was a model of every virtue under the sun. The combination might have seemed an impossible one to a cynic; but Mrs. Willington was not cynical. It is possible she would have submitted to have a few of the virtues docked off, provided the more substantial advantages which the young Graf possessed, had remained. Rank, wealth, fashion; these were the gods Mrs. Willington adored. She had a tolerable fortune, but she had been recklessly extravagant ever since her arrival, the preceding autumn, in Europe. A season in Paris had procured for her and her daughter many social triumphs: invitations from royalty, the homage paid to Miss Willington's beauty from a crowd of foreigners; princes and dukes, not to speak of lesser fry. But of solid, practical gain, there was none. It was very essential to Mrs. Willington's purse and purpose that her daughter should marry,—marry, that is to say, according to her views; and Margaret had not had a single "geod" proposal. She had, indeed, refused an old French banker, whom her mother had given her the option of marrying or not, as she felt inclined; but this was before Mrs. Willington had seen much of great Parisian society: her ideas expanded after that, and she felt that the banker was not to be regretted. No; a title, and an old title,—not a Brummagem one,—this was now essential to her happiness. And, like a ripe peach from the wall, without a single flaw to disqualify him for the honour of being devoured, so to speak, lo! Rudolph von Waldstein dropped into her ready grasp.
I feel that the description of such a mother, such antecedents, does not prepare one to sympathise much with the daughter; and, unfortunately, the attachment between mother and daughter was very strong. Mrs. Willington's influence over Margaret was unbounded. Had the latter been a less blindly-devoted and obedient daughter, she would have been a better and a happier woman. Her tender heart, her warm, clinging, pliable nature were very different from her mother's; but a number of the same foolish ideas, whose widespread branches, so to speak, overshadowed the mother's mind, had naturally shed their seed and taken root in the mind of the daughter too. The belief that the pursuit of pleasure is the main end of life had been religiously instilled into her, and vanity had been so sedulously ministered to, that it was impossible but that these should produce some fruits. That life of "unrest, which men miscall delight," afforded her little pleasure; yet she could hardly conceive of any other. Margaret had a capacity for loving strongly, and her mother was as yet the only thing she had had to love. If she now fell into wise hands, and were removed from that mother's influence, it was not too late for the evils of her early training to be counteracted. But like a delicate creeper, clasped with the growth of years around a trellis, if she was now to be transplanted, and ever to grow firmly against another wall, it was above all things necessary to unwind her tendrils from their original support.
Six weeks after Waldstein's introduction to Margaret, this is what he wrote to his mother:—
. . . .
. . . . "You wonder at my long silence, best of mothers? You reproach me tacitly with my short letters, 1 know. I have taken up my pen daily to write to you; but the truth is, I could not write upon indifferent matters, and it was impossible to me to enter fully upon the one subject which has been occupying all my thoughts. I can do so now, however, for my mind is definitively at rest. I have taken the most important step man can take in life; and as I am confident that this step is for my own happiness, I hope very earnestly that it may meet with your approval. I am well aware that you would have wished to see and to sanction the choice of any one whom I entertained the thought of making my wife; but as this was impossible, and as I felt very certain of your cordial approbation, when you see and know my darling Margaret, I thought it better to spare you any anxiety on the subject until my fate was happily fixed. I am, indeed, a lucky man to have secured a pearl of so great price, my mother. She is the sweetest, the most angelic of creatures; and, believe me, her beauty is the least of her attractions. She is American, and with her mother, Mrs. Willington, has only been in Europe a few months. Mr. Willington was a gentleman in business in New York, I understand, and left his widow a competence. My Margaret has no fortune; and if that be a drawback in your eyes, my dear mother, I am sure it is the only one you will be able to find. For myself, I consider my fortune enough for all my wants, and I have never desired that my wife should have money. A far more essential particular is, that she is a Protestant,—that faith in which you have brought me up, and which you hold so dear.
"Mrs. Willington leaves this for Paris in the course of a few days. I shall then come home for a short time, to see you and talk matters over, and make some necessary preparations for my Margaret's reception. The marriage will, I hope, take place in Paris in November. I am afraid it will be in vain to try and persuade you to leave home to attend it; but we shall at once come to you after the marriage, and settle down at Waldstein for the winter.
"Let me be assured at once, my dear and honoured mother, as to your sentiments on the point wherein all my happiness is vitally concerned. Believe me, it will be the object of my Margaret's life, as it has ever been of mine, to study your wishes in all things; and her earnest desire is that you should continue to exercise that authority in the household for which your virtues and your experience so eminently befit you.
"Dearest mother, I embrace you with dutiful and loving veneration.
"Rupolph von Waldstein."
The weakness of the man was, I think, very apparent in the above letter,—the weakness that shrinks from discussion or remonstrance beforehand, and takes refuge in a bold assertion of independence, when a decision is beyond recall. His word was now pledged; his rigidly-faithful, Calvinistic mother; however displeased she might be, would never ask him to go back from it. She would have worked, and might have worked successfully, to prevent his committing this deed; but, once done, the honour of a Waldstein,—nay, more than this, the truth and loyalty of a God-fearing man,—were at stake. She would fold her hands in grim silence, and pray inwardly for her son and this Moabitish woman who had enthralled him; she would utter no complaint, he well knew. Her reply was characteristic, and contained in these few words:—
"Marriage is a solemn thing, not lightly to be entered upon. I trust thou art not so entering upon it, my son. May the Lord prosper this, and whatever else thy hands find to do! Without his blessing, what is the beauty of the flesh?—the lust of the eyes? The excellent Clara von Hanecke, whom I desired for thee, is not comely; but she is a godly young woman, and her dowry would have been serviceable to thee. So that thy wife be spiritually minded, however, it is but of small account that she be poor in this world's goods. Yet will I not conceal that, for the sake of that vast marsh which needs reclaiming, it would be well if she had brought thee something, as Clara would have done. But the Lord has so willed it; and is not His word more than corn and oil? Therefore I say nought . . . . Since it is thy desire that I should pass the brief remainder of my days under thy roof, here will I remain. I have never been on a railroad; to undertake the journey to Paris were an impossibility. But I will wrestle with the Lord in prayer for thee, and prepare the green chamber, which has not been used since thy father's death. It is more commodious than the one thou hast hitherto slept in. The curtains, though faded, are serviceable yet . . . . I would that thy Margaret's father had not been in trade. One chief reason why thy father and I were so suitably and happily mated was that each of our families could trace a clear descent for four hundred years. Yet are we not all dust alike in the Lord's eyes? Therefore I say nought.
"My son, I press thee to my bosom.
"Elizabeth von Waldstein (née De Germat).
"Post scriptum.—Pastor Goldfuss has been with me. He sends thee his blessing. He fears the Americans are but a lax people in spiritual things. The Lord hath seen fit to prosper the farm; our cheeses have fetched rare prices in the markets this month. Also of the vineyard the prospects are good."
It could hardly be called a cordial letter,—not so much as a kind message to Margaret; but it was all that Rudolph could hope for, and he breathed a great sigh of relief when he got it. The worst, at least, was over. He did not read the old Gräfin's letter to Mrs. Willington; but he told her and Margaret that his mother was ready to open her arms to his bride, and was already preparing a room for her reception.
Two days afterwards Mrs. Willington left Homburg for Paris, to prepare the corbeille de mariage, which now occupied all her thoughts; and the happy lover parted from her and her daughter at Strasburg, whence his road lay across the Black Forest to a certain solitary district, where the castle of Waldstein dominates the country round.
II.
"I have had the green hangings turned, and the chamber is fit for a princess," said Madame Mère,—thus her son styled her sometimes,—severely.
"But, mother—" said the young Graf with some hesitation, "Margaret will require another room,—a sitting-room, you see. All women in the present day have a boudoir, and—"
"Is not the saloon good enough for her, pray? It has been good enough for me these five-and-thirty years. She will always find me there, when I am not at my devotions. What can she want of a private sitting-room?"
"Why, you see—to begin with, there—there will be her mother—Yes," he continued more rapidly, but taking care not to look the Gräfin in the face,—" yes, Mrs. Willington is coming, you know,—for a time, at least,—and I wish every attention to be paid to her comfort. I—I desire—I think it best that she should have the tapestried room that looks south, and then the one between it and ours Margaret can have as a boudoir, when she and her mother want to be together."
This was doing the thing firmly, and he gave himself great credit for his pluck. The Gräfin Waldstein folded her hands meekly; had her son boxed her on the ear she could not have looked more long-suffering, more mildly-reproachful.
"So, then—Madame Willington—is coming—to live here?"
"I didn't say to live,—not exactly to live, mother. I don't know how long she'll stay. But, of course, being alone in the world, it is natural Margaret should wish her mother to be with her a good deal,—just at first, at all events."
The Gräfin said no more, for she was not a lady who was accustomed to waste her words, and she saw that this thing was to be. It was a great aggravation to her trials, the prospect of this intrusion of the stranger-woman's mother, who would of course try and dispute the Gräfin's authority over her daughter. She had hated the thought of this marriage from the first, but at least she had looked to have a chance of moulding her young daughter-in-law according to her own pattern. And, lo! already a formidable obstacle arose. She said no more, but heaved a sigh, which was almost a groan in its intensity. Then she drew out her spectacles, and opened a volume of "Méditations" at the place indicated by a marker, and appeared to forget her son's presence, and all other mundane matters, in the book before her.
The Gräfin von Waldstein was of a very old German Swiss family, nurtured in the severest school of Calvinism, which is not the religion of those parts. She was looked upon with great reverence by all right-minded persons, being an admirable woman, whether morally or theologically regarded, who had done her duty strictly,—very strictly,—to her son, her servants, the pastor she had brought here, and the poor of her persuasion,—they were but few,—ever since the late Graf's death, eighteen years ago. She was autocratic and narrow-minded,—as who would not be whose ideas were circumscribed to one small circle, where his power was absolute? She regarded her Zwinglian and Moravian neighbours with righteous intolerance. The absence of the demonstratively religious life, of all fervid dogmatism, of that slang in familiar intercourse which has been styled "le patois de Canaan," were so many offences in the eyes of Madame Mère. She would have better suffered their differences had they been more objective, for one may do battle to any hard, definite body of religious opinions, and belabour them soundly; but the tendency to avoid discussion, to set aside all outward signs of devotion, to use Faith solely as a spring of life and strength in the performance of duty,—this was miserable, unsatisfactary work. The Gräfin had very little intercourse with her neighbours in consequence. Her habits had become German in the course of all those years, but her faith was the faith of her youth, unmitigated—nay, harder and firmer than ever. She was not an unkind or a stupid old woman; she possessed considerable clearness of perception, as may have been already gathered, and that mysterious power of "management" against which most men struggle vainly. She did, and liked doing, a vast number of charitable things; but it was in her own way, with a pious tyranny, which was sometimes galling to the recipients of her bounty. She was white-haired, and rather infirm now; but had none of those ineffable charms of voice and expression which make old age sometimes the rival of childhood in attractiveness. She was generally dressed in a coarse black staff, with a thick white cap, not very much unlike a night-cap,—if I may be permitted to say so,--tied under her chin; a book under her arm, and a large heavy bunch of keys hanging at her side. Let it not be supposed that because she was a Gräfin she was not a most vigilant housewife, devoting what time she had to spare from the study of eternal punishments in store for the unregenerate, to the mending of linen, the auditing of farm-accounts, the preserving of fruits, and the careful entry of market returns. The little town of Waldstadt, over against the Schloss, at the foot of the hill,—which was one great vineyard,—had its weekly market, and so had two other towns a few miles distant, one of these being on Swiss territory; so for the products of the Waldstein estate there was always a plentiful demand.
It had been a great disappointment to Madame Mère,—as may have been already gathered,—that her son, for the first and only time in his life, had stubbornly resisted her in the matter of that marriage upon which she had set her heart. Tho Fräulein von Haneoke was one of the ladies-in-waiting to the Queen of Würtemburg. She was an orphan, and possessed a pretty little fortune. She was of curiously old descent, and her rigid education in the Calvinistic faith pointed her out in a special manner as a fitting person to be the daughter-in-law of the Gräfin Waldstein, if not the wife of that lady's only son. Unfortunately, the "hochwohlgeborne Fräulein" was not personally attractive in the young Graf's eyes. He told his mother he was willing to do anything she wished, even to the selling of half his estate,—the value of which, by-the-bye, had been greatly over-estimated by Mrs. Willington,—and devoting it to pious and charitable objects; but this thing he could not do. He knew all Clara's good qualities, and he recognised all the advantages of an alliance which the General, her uncle, did not hesitate to say his niece was quite ready to contract. The young lady had made up her mind it would be a suitable marriage. She liked Rudolph; she esteemed him. She was one of those sensible, amiable women, who can take a dispassionate, bird's-eye view of such matters; and who, in the event of what is called a "disappointment," have far too well-regulated minds to become ill or give up the world. It was well for her that it was so. It was now two years since this scheme had first been bruited by Madame Mère, and as nothing had come of it, Clara von Hanecke still continued "hofdame"' to her royal mistress, and went cheerfully through the monotonous routine of a petty court life. Nevertheless, the Gräfin had not yet abandoned her hopes when the news of her son's engagement shivered them to the dust.
I must say-a word about Schloss Waldstein. The country about it is not beautiful, but it would be accounted pretty, I think, by a stranger, unless perhaps he comes to it from the Swiss side. If so, he has done with rocky peak and snowy fastness, with roaring avalanches and mighty river-falls, before he gets here; and must attune himself to a lower key. Soft undulating hills, clad sometimes with the vine, sometimes with thick pine-woods; valleys where flocks and herds feed in rich pastures to the continuous tinkling of little bells; quaint, timbered churches, with many-beamed cottages about them,—no longer the Swiss toys that are so suggestive of the Opéra Commique; here and there a ruined tower; here and there a narrow wooden bridge, that looks, with all its lateral supports thrust wide into the stream, like a monster stretching his many legs very far apart;—this, and the sudden inestimable relief from all tourists, is what he will find who wanders up to the little-known region I write of. It has nothing remarkable to attract the traveller, and near at hand is scenery with a world-wide repute; no wonder, then, that those who turn their steps this way are few indeed. A "duller" district, in the estimation of mundanely-disposed persons, it would be hard to find.
And to this district Mrs. Willington, with the vaguest views of country life in general and of a Swiss or German château in particular, was now coming. I believe she had visions of a continuous round of guests; a sort of Decameron; a throng of finely-dressed folk wandering about stately gardens, with the addition of much fiddling and feasting; and I know she ordered a great variety of clothes, which, when added to Margaret's trousseau, she was quite unable at the moment to pay for.
"I've spent an awful quantity of money," she said to her daughter just before the marriage; "and if it wasn't that I'm going to live at Rudolph's expense for some months to come, I don't know what I should do. Dear, delightful Paris is such a seductive place! There's no other place worth living in,—only one ought to be made of money. What a bracelet that was we saw in the Rue de la Paix! I told Rudolph it was the very thing for you. Do you think he means to give it you, my darling?"
"No, mamma; he told me he couldn't afford it; but that if I had really set my heart on it, he would get it,—even if it put him to inconvenience. Of course, I told him not."
"That was weak, my pet. I should have had it. It could make no real difference to him, you know. The old lady hoards money, I am told, in the most frightful way. Of course, we must introduce a change into all that. Rudolph is very dear, and nice, but he wants his ideas being a little enlarged."
"I suppose he does," said Margaret, dolefully. "He made such a fuss about my going to the Bois on Sunday. He thought I ought to go to the Oratoire again, I believe. And, mamma, I am so fond of him, that I don't think, really, I should care how often I went, if it was to please him. Only, as you say, I suppose it is better that his ideas should be enlarged. But what a noble, generous, devoted nature his is! I never saw anyone half as lovable. How lucky I am, mamma!"
"Yes, dear, very. Marriage is such a lottery. Now we must be off to Monsieur Worth's, or your things won't be ready for next week."
Early in November they were married, with a pomp which Waldstein would willingly have avoided, but which nothing would induce his mother-in-law to forego. And immediately after the ceremony, contrary to all English conventionalities, the young Count and Countess set off for their home, accompanied by Mrs. Willington.
The day they reached Schloss Waldstein had been one of constant rain, and perhaps it was as well that they arrived long after dark; though the laurel arch, with "Wilkommen" in gilt letters thereon, was consequently invisible to those for whose honour and benefit it was meant, and the peasants who had constructed it were much disappointed in consequence. But the little town looked inexpressibly dreary, with rain pouring out of the water-pipes in all directions, and uniting in one black torrent over the steep, ill-paved street; and the brown, bare vineyards beyond, seen through the soaking November gloom, were hardly more reassuring. Therefore, as far as Margaret, who was unfortunately impressionable in such things, was concerned,—not to speak of her mother,—it was as well that Waldstadt and the surrounding country were not revealed under their least favourable aspect, but that the veil of darkness covered them. The peasants and town's folk might do what they liked, of course, but Madame Mère was not going to erect triumphal arches, dispense good cheer, or otherwise expend in wasteful folly to do honour to her son's marriage the money that could more profitably be employed in pious and charitable works. So the courtyard of the Schloss was as dark as pitch,—dark and wet; and Madame Mère sat in the old. yellow drawing-room, where, after some demur, she lit a couple of candles, in addition to her ordinary lamp with its green shade. That was the only outward and visible sign of welcome that awaited the bridegroom and his bride.
Margaret had been lying asleep on her husband's arm for the last half-hour. She only woke as the steps of the carriage were let down, and came in a little nervous, but her beautiful face all a-glow with pleasure, and threw herself into Madame Mère's arms. The latter kissed her very kindly, and improved the occasion with a murmured prayer and exhortation; then she turned to Mrs. Willington, who was warming her hands at the stove, and examining with amazement the cap, the garments, the general aspect of Rudolph's mother.
"This is Mrs. Willington, liebe Mutter," said Waldstein.
"You are welcome to our home, madame," said the old lady, and held out a homely, unringed hand. Mrs. Willington put the tips of her Jouvin's glove, with its four buttons and the cascade of lockets falling over it, into the horny receptacle the Gräfin proffered, and smiled a galvanised smile. Then the latter, in her turn, passed her eyes with curious scrutiny over this new-comer, and sighed.
They were shown to their bed-rooms, while supper was being prepared.
"Good heavens! no fire in one's room such a night as this!" cried Mrs. Willington. Then she looked for a bell; but there was none,—none throughout the Schloss, as she soon learnt. Her remarkably penetrating voice soon brought some one to her assistance, however,—her maid was superintending the right allotment of sundry huge trunks to the several rooms,—and then Madame Mère was informed that Mrs. Willington demanded fire. Margaret did not demand it, though, to say the truth, she was shivering in her room; but, then, she had a Rudolph, and her mother had not; and this Rudolph, without screaming for servants, and without a word from his wife, went and lit the stove himself.
"It is a wretched room," exclaimed Mrs. Willington, looking round. "What a bed! It's like a chest of drawers! And such a washing-stand! And as to the-toilet-glass,—good heavens! half the quick—silver is gone. No carpet, too,—ugh! How I hate those horrid stoves! And I don't see any place to hang up my gowns; and,—Cécile, go and ask for some candles. I can't dress with that one horrid light,—it's really too bad!"
Then Madame Mère was informed that Mrs. Willington demanded candles,—wax candles; and, raising her eyes to heaven, she unlocked the store-closet, and took out a pair with her own hands.
There was plenty of food for supper, and, of its kind it was not bad; but to appetites accustomed to a French cuisine, heavy German dishes are a trial; and Mrs. Willington, especially, did not bear the trial well. Margaret ate what was brought to her, and tried to think it nice; for Rudolph, she knew, would be vexed if she appeared to think otherwise; but she felt as though she were almost guilty of a disloyalty to her mother all the time, who was entering a silent, but expressive pantomimic protest against one dish after another. Madame Mère made as though she saw it not; but she did see it. No movement or look of either mother or daughter escaped her. She had begun the meal with a thanksgiving, and by invoking a blessing, at considerable length, upon what they were about to eat; if Mrs. Willington was impious enough to disregard this, she, Madame Mère, was doubly bound to show that the invocation had been answered, and she accordingly partook of almost everything at the table. She spoke but little. Rudolph talked, and exerted himself to make conversation general; but it was a hopeless work,—like a game of battledore in which every player but one lets the shuttlecock fall to the ground. Margaret did, indeed, make a feeble attempt to second him, and laughed whenever she saw an opportunity; but she felt very tired, and rather awe-stricken with Madame Mère's long prayers, and was secretly longing to be in her own room with Rudolph, where she would be at her ease. But this was not to be,—not unless she fainted outright,—for a good hour yet. No trifling excuse would have availed to spare her the long evening psalms, with two chapters from the Bible, and an exhortation, which followed the removal of supper. Mrs. Willington might yawn as audibly as she chose; she might look at her watch, and even go the length of taking off her bracelets. Madame Mère was inexorable as Fate. She would not have spared them a denunciation,—not skipped a single sentence of the wrathful homily, if their lives had depended on it.
The next morning the two ladies did not come down to breakfast, and thereby missed the morning edition of what had caused them such protracted suffering the night before. Rudolph appeared, of course, and he brought his wife's excuses. She was tired, and not yet accustomed to such early hours. Madame Mère shook her head, and murmured a supplication that the benighted young woman might be brought to see the culpability of sloth and self-indulgence. Then Rudolph took up his wife's breakfast to her with his own hands.
"I have seen poor mamma," said Margaret plaintively, "and she is very unhappy at having no garde-robe. She says all her beautiful gowns cannot possibly remain packed up always. Mine, too, will be quite spoilt, I'm afraid. What is to be done? Do see about it, dear."
He remembered two fine roomy old oak cupboards. It was true that some shelves had been put into them, and they had been devoted to apples; but these might be taken out, and it would be better than nothing in the present exigency. Only, what would his mother say? Perhaps it were wise to have the thing done, if possible, without her knowing it? It was not to be. She came, and caught him with an old servant baling out the apples on the floor.
"What dost thou with the apples, Rudolph?"
He tried to put a bold face on it, but stammered a little when he came to the purpose for which the cupboards were wanted. The vain adornments of women! If there was one subject upon which his mother could be more severe than any other it was this. Did he not know how she would quote Saint Paul, and visit the Corinthians upon his unhappy wife? However, he had to get it out, and he did so with some attempt at pleasantry. The old lady stood aghast.
"And, pray, what are we to do with the apples?" she said at last.
"Eat them, liebe Mutter; there is nothing else for it," he replied, with a shocking effort to laugh.
The worst of it was, that his well-meant crusade to rescue these sacred places of his mother's, and hand them over to the strangers, was not rewarded with the gratitude it deserved. Mrs. Willington declared that her gowns smelt so abominably of apples, that they made her sick for weeks afterwards. The subject made him sick, I know; what with the old Gräfin, upon one hand, with her Jeremiads, and Mrs. Willington with her complaints, on the other, he suffered many things because of those apples, and used to declare,—for he was driven to small jests,—that if the famous tree in the garden of Eden was really an apple-tree, he had been unfairly dealt by, for the knowledge he had of that fruit was all of evil, and none of good.
To continue the programme of this first day,—which will serve as a sample of many succeeding weeks,—Rudolph led his wife out, as soon as she was dressed, into the quaint old garden overhanging the vineyard, on the south side of the Schloss. It was a soberly fine autumn morning; the splendours of the year, its blue and gold, its emeralds and many-coloured jewels, were departed; but there was the first hint of silver frost in the air, and the tender opal of the sky, and the soft lustre of pale smoke and sunshine over the little town of Waldstadt in the valley yonder. The garden, which was in terraces, was separated from the vineyard by a low parapet wall. The angles of this wall, which were turret-shaped, held circular benches, where, of summer evenings, it was pleasant to sit and look over the great slope of vineyard, and beyond the steep, winding road, and across the valley to the fir-clad hills, so darkly green and cool. On such a morning as this, however, "sub Jove frigido," exercise was better than repose, and the young couple walked for an hour upon this lowest terrace of the garden. Margaret felt very happy; it was pleasant to walk thus, with his strong arm around her, and his handsome face bent over hers, in this quaint garden under the clear autumn sky. Away from her mother, she could forget all minor troubles; with Mrs. Willington present, they stood between Margaret and contentment.
"This is better than the noise of Paris, after all, Herzchen, is it not?" he said.
"'Tis with you, Rudolph; not alone."
"It seems as if, in great cities, in great crowds, two hearts can never hear each other beat in perfect unison, for the din and turmoil round them."
It was a little bit of German sentimentality, and Margaret was not sentimental; but she liked it in Rudolph's mouth, and could understand it on this occasion. She looked up with a lovely smile.
"Nothing can prevent our hearing each other here, can it? But you're going to do everything I ask, ain't you, Rudolph? Not for me, dear,—for, indeed, I feel as if I want nothing now with you,—but for poor mamma, who is making such sacrifices on my account in coming here. I couldn't be happy, you know, if she were miserable."
"I hope she will not be miserable. Why should she? My mother, I am sure, wishes—will try to do everything to make her happy. Our manner of life is very different to what Mrs. Willington is used to. We are very quiet, simple folk here, and she will have to accustom herself to the absence of society; but with you and me, Herzchen, she oughtn't to be dull, and won't be, I hope."
Margaret probably knew better; but she said nothing, and tried to dismiss the subject from her thoughts. This was not difficult at the moment, for she felt perfectly happy while alone with her husband. But some half-hour later they were joined by Mrs. Willington.
"My dear Rudolph, when are you going to begin refurnishing the château? The state it is in is perfectly disgraceful. Margaret cannot possibly receive her friends in such a salon, with tarnished mirrors and threadbare sofas. And as to our bed-rooms, I do hope you will write off to-day, and get a tapissier from Strasburg, or somewhere, to come and make them decent. I have been thinking about it, and I have decided on having rose colour and white for my room. What do you say for yours, my darling?"
Margaret murmured that perhaps blue would be pretty. Rudolph walked along in silence, his eyes upon the ground, his wife's hand, which he held in his, still resting on his arm.
"Of course you mean te alter this garden," continued Mrs. Willington, presently. "This arrangement is so dreadfully old-fashioned. A jardin Anglais is the thing here. Whose is that big white house on the distant hill? That looks like a rich neighbour,—and the only one, I suppose."
"It belongs to a rich manufacturer, whose mills you see in the valley below. He is a very worthy man, but we don't associate. The distinction of classes is still kept up in this country. It is very absurd, I think, but so it is."
Mrs. Willington, whose husband had been in the wholesale oil-cloth line in New York,—which did not prevent her having aristocratic proclivities, now that she was allied to one of the oldest families in South Germany,—was not so opposed to class distinctions.
"Well, one must draw the line somewhere, I suppose. But what do you do for neighbours? Have you absolutely no society?"
"None, except the village pastor, and one or two old ladies, friends of my mother's, who visit her occasionally."
"Good heavens!"—Mrs. Willington clasped her hands,—"and you call this existence? How can you have lived all these years in such a state of things? But you have surely had friends staying with you?"
"Occasionally a man or two from Switzerland. I was at college there, and have cousins at Geneva, moreover. Sometimes one of them comes for the chasse in the winter. No one else, except General von Hanecke, who lives not very far off, and sometimes rides over."
"Ah, my dear Rudolph! we must alter all that for you. We shall have to import our society from Paris, I see."
Again he was silent; and, turning to her daughter, she went on,—
"The dear marquise and her daughter promised to come to you, you know; and so did Monsieur de Boisjelin, and several more."
A bell here rang opportunely, summoning them, so Rudolph said, to dinner.
"Dinner at one! Good heavens! Rudolph, you don't mean to say that you keep such barbarous hours?"
"Call the meals by whatever name you like, my dear Mrs. Willington,—they are really the same. This is your luncheon, and our eight o'clock supper your dinner. Moreover, we have the tea and coffee of civilised life at half-past five. But my mother is old-fashioned, and does not like change, so we always keep to the old names and hours of our meals."
"Ah! people at that time of life are peculiar. Still,—how old is she? Wonderfully active."
"Yes; I am thankful to say she is, for her years. She is sixty-eight, and has a capital head for business still,—indeed, she has the enjoyment of all her faculties."
The expression of Mrs. Willington's face spoke volumes, if Rudolph could have seen it; but she said nothing, and they all entered the dining-room.
After dinner, a high and very spidery-looking vehicle, of the mail-phaeton tribe, was brought to the door by a stalwart groom " bearded like the pard," and dressed in what was meant to be the true English style. Of course, Rudolph wished to drive his wife out; but it was a fine afternoon, and what was Mrs. Willington to do? Was she to be left to a tête-à-tête with the Gräfin? Rudolph thought that this was not likely to tend to the softening of either lady's sentiments; and he wished to avoid it, if possible. But what was to be done? Of course Margaret must sit beside him, and the only other place was at the back, alongside of the bearded groom. He put it to Mrs. Willington, and she hesitated. It was derogatory, no doubt; but was not anything better than being left alone in that horrid dull old house, with that dreadful puritanical old woman? She had a chance of seeing some one, at all events; and she could address an observation occasionally over the hood to the young people in front. She elected, and wisely, no doubt, to endure the indignity; and though they saw no one in their drive but a few peasants and one commis-voyageur, standing at the inn-door, as they rattled down the little street of Waldstadt,—Rudolph, like most foreigners, being a perfect Jehu in the fury of his driving,—yet "it was a change," as she said, "and anything is better than being alone." They passed a Roman Catholic church, and met a couple of priests,—I had forgotten them,—a little farther on; when Rudolph explained to Margaret that the district here was not entirely Protestant, and that all religions were tolerated. She was glad to hear this: she began to have a fear that if the Gräfin's will were omnipotent there would not be such liberality on this point.
In the evening the Pasteur called to pay his respects to the young Graf's bride. He was a spare, mild-eyed man of fifty, simple-minded, ignorant of the world's ways, and "thinking no evil" of any one; shambling, tedious, voluble. He was bidden to stay supper, and sat next to Mrs. Willington, to whom he addressed himself several times, but in vain. When he asked some question about the American Church, it was Margaret, across the table, who replied. When he expressed a hope that the elder lady had not suffered from the journey,—in the eyes of the good Pasteur, who had not been twenty miles from Waldstadt in as many years, Paris was at the world's end,—Mrs. Willington only shook her head, and yawned; it was Rudolph who came to the rescue, with some statistical account of the French railroads, and the increased traffic to Strasburg, with a good deal about "kilos," which seemed to interest both gentlemen, and was incomprehensible to the ladies. The Pasteur's own talk was chiefly small and local, and directed principally to Madame Mère. She knitted her grey worsted stocking, even at the supper table, and discussed the temporal and spiritual needs of those amongst the Waldstadt poor who belonged to the small number of the "elect," with forcible sense and rigorous justice. But to Mrs. Willington, and indeed, it must be confessed, to Margaret, too, all this was inexpressibly wearisome. The evening ended with a lengthy exhortation from the Pasteur, and prayers in which blessings were invoked in many long-winded phrases upon the bridegroom and his bride. At the time, Margaret got such a pain in her knees that she fervently wished the blessings shortened: she remembered them, years afterwards, in penitence and tears.
"That old woman will be the death of me!" said Mrs. Willington to her daughter, as she went to bed. "This sort of thing never can go on. You must very soon put a stop to it, my darling, if you don't wish to have my death at your door. I feel already ten years older than I did when I came here."