Chapter 9

He flourished his pasteboard sceptre in mock wrath above his head, dealt Mercury a resounding blow on the head, then marched on, followed by his immortal family and a jovial throng of leaf-crowned Bacchantes. Grover remained standing in the middle of the floor, hoping that, as the crowd dispersed, Miss Jones would naturally again seek him. But Miss Jones had apparently no such intention. She persistently remained invisible. At last, thinking that she had meant her allusion to the lower regions as a hint, he made his way to the head of the stairs and descended, not without difficulty, to the first floor. The dancing had commenced above and the multitude of scaly monsters who had haunted the deep, were lured by the airs of Strauss up into the abodes of the daylight. The submarine world was almost deserted (except by a huge lobster and a shark, who were drinking lemonade) when Grover entered upon his quest for the vanished water-nymph. He investigated two or three grottoes, with no result except to tear his cloak on an exposed nail and knock a hole in his helmet. He was just about to resort to a classical imprecation, when the necessity for it was suddenly dissipated. There stood the daughter of Rhine, wonderful to behold, in sweet converse with her chaperone, the black domino. The young man lost no time in making the ladies aware of his presence.

"I hope you are enjoying yourself, Frau Professorin," he said, as he offered his arm, as a matter of course, to the swan-maiden.

"Oh, yes, I thank you. It takes very little to amuse an old woman like me," she answered, pleasantly. "The music is good and the masks are very entertaining."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he queried politely, hoping from the bottom of his heart that she would say no.

"Don't you bother about me," was her amiable reply; "I will take care of myself. I only came to see you young people enjoy yourselves."

He had evidently been unjust to the Frau Professorin, he reflected. She was a very charming old lady. He conceived a sudden affection for her. In a very blissful mood he strolled away under the great festoons of depending sea-weeds, giving now and then a little casual pat to the hand which lightly rested on his arm. By some chance they found themselves in a deserted stalactite cave, where the gas-jets gleamed softly from within emerald cones of glass and spread a strange magic glamour under the pendent arches.

"Let us sit down," said Grover; and the swan-maiden, whose agitation probably forbade her to speak, silently accepted the invitation. "What a transformation love works in a woman," he reflected ecstatically; "who would recognize in this sweet, docile creature the rebellious and headstrong girl of three months ago? I have long wished to tell you," he continued aloud, seizing her hand and drawing her close up to him, "that my life would be barren as a desert without you. You have taught me by your sweet reserve, and your self-respecting coolness, first to esteem you highly, then to admire and at last to love you. Do not think even now that I take your consent for granted. I only hope that love, as strong and deep as mine, cannot fail to find some response. It is imperious, all-conquering; it fears no more resistance."

There was obviously no occasion for such impassioned rhetoric. The swan-maiden had not the faintest idea of offering resistance. She slipped with a soft and charming suppleness into his embrace and received his ecstatic kisses without a murmur of protest. It was not until he made a movement to tear off her mask (whose depending fringe was a great inconvenience) that she suddenly recovered her senses: with a startled cry she stayed his hand, cast a shy glance about her, jumped up and ran as fast as her feet could carry her. If she had been a real fairy, she could not have made a more rapid and unexpected exit. Grover was utterly dumbfounded. He thought of the old legends about knights who had been loved by mermaids whose kiss was death and their embrace eternal damnation. An uncanny feeling crept over him. But a cheerful second thought soon came to comfort him. He had heard from the best authorities that women were enigmatical and incalculable creatures who were most apt to do what was least expected of them. They had a perfect encyclopedia of eccentricities, if the novelists were to be trusted, and it was not to be expected that his brief acquaintance with the sex should have sufficed to master it. This was a profitable train of thought and one well worth pursuing. Therefore, instead of pursuing his nymph, he leaned back against the wall and pondered.

The nymph, in the meanwhile, after a hurried search below, ran to the dressing-room, where she flung herself weeping into the arms of the black domino.

"What in Heaven's name is the matter, child?" inquired the latter. "Was he rude to you?"

"Not at all," sobbed the nymph; "no-o-ot a-a-at all. Quite the co-o-on-tra-ry."

"What then are you crying for?" asked the domino sympathetically.

"He kissed me, mother; he kissed me," answered the nymph, weeping.

"You ought not to have allowed him to do that," said the Frau Professorin, with mild reproach.

"How could I help it, mother? He talked so beautifully to me. He proposed to me. And I forgot that I was Miss Jones. I was only myself--and--"

A second flood of tears made the rest unintelligible.

"Are you sure he proposed to you, child?" queried the mother, after a pause.

"Quite sure, mother."

"But then he must have known you. For why should he propose to Miss Jones, to whom he is already engaged?"

"That is what makes me so unhappy, mother, for now I shall never know whether I am engaged to him or not."

"Leave that to me, child. I'll find out."

V.

The next day Grover had an accident, which cost him upward of $200. He mixed something or other, which made a terrific racket and smashed no end of retorts and bottles. When he entered the laboratory again after having trimmed off the scorched fringe of his whiskers, he found a big card nailed over his place, with the following inscription: "Smoking and being in love in this laboratory is strictly forbidden." The prohibition in regard to smoking was in print; the rest was interpolated with a paint-brush. Grover looked around wrathfully upon the twenty or thirty backs which reared themselves against shelves of many-colored bottles; they bore all an expression of unconscious innocence.

The hour was approaching when he might without impropriety call upon his _fiancée_. His toilet, however, needed some attention, after his recent experiment with explosives; and he hastened to his rooms to make himself presentable. On the table he found a letter, addressed in the usual high-shouldered characters of American girls. It read as follows:

MY DEAR MR. GROVER: Our engagement for mutual convenience being no longer convenient, I grant your request and hereby break it. I would have done so when you first asked me, only I enjoyed your embarrassment, and had, moreover, a desire to punish you for the liberty you took with a lady whom you had not seen until that moment. I trust we shall remain good friends. If you desire a scene of some sort, in order to advertise our changed relations to the household, you may call upon me this afternoon at three. You will understand that I do this only to save explanations. A quarrel, you know, ends everything; is so intelligible and satisfactory; precludes questions and discourages curiosity. Accordingly, my dear sir, I will quarrel with you at 3:15 P.M., promptly, and remain,

Sincerely your friend, LOUISE JONES.

LEIPSIC, March 12, 187-.

Grover read this enigmatical epistle eleven times without deriving the slightest clue to its meaning. He read it aloud and he read it in silence, he analyzed, scrutinized and apostrophized it, but without avail. That feminine caprice could reach such alarming dimensions he had never dreamed. That she should want to break with him the morning after she had become really engaged to him could be accounted for by a variety of reasons. But that she should write him a cool and semi-humorous letter, showing no more agitation than one of Bret Harte's heroes who is about to be hanged--that certainly capped the climax of eccentric behavior. And that, after her passionate protests! But hold on! What did she say yesterday that was so passionate? Curiously enough, he could not remember a word of what she had said. It began slowly to dawn upon him that, during the memorable scene, he had himself done all the talking. She had not uttered a syllable. It was odd, but probably not without precedent. Well, if she wanted her quarrel, she should have it promptly on the hour, and with _éclat_.

At 3:15 o'clock he rang the Professor's door-bell, and was ushered into the drawing-room, where Miss Jones stood smiling sweetly upon him.

"I hope you didn't misunderstand my note," she said, seeing the troubled look in his eyes.

"Misunderstand it!" he ejaculated, with ill-suppressed indignation; "if I had arrived as far as misunderstanding it, I should have had respect for my intellect. I doubt if the seven sages could have interpreted it."

"It wasn't necessary that they should," said Miss Jones imperturbably.

"But suppose they had made love to you?" he began, argumentatively.

"The seven sages _never_ made love to me," remarked Miss Jones, perversely.

"But suppose you had kissed them?"

"I _never_ kissed them!"

Miss Jones repelled this insinuation with indignant emphasis.

"It is utterly useless to argue with you," he said, pacing the floor in agitation.

"Then I would not try."

"You are cruel, vain, and heartless."

"If those qualities were contagious, I should know where I got them."

"You mean yesterday, when you kissed me!"

"I must decline to listen to such language. You will have the kindness to remember Mr. Grover, that from this moment our acquaintance is at an end."

Miss Jones arose with flaming cheeks and eyes in which the unseen tears trembled; she made Mr. Grover a sweeping courtesy and moved with a good deal of superfluous stateliness toward the door. He returned her salute, though with much less dignity; then rushed forward to hold her back, but with an impatient gesture she shook off his grasp and hurried out.

"We met to quarrel in jest, and we did it in earnest," he reflected grimly, as he picked up his hat and opened the door. There was a sudden, agitated rustle of skirts in the hall, and he was just in time to see Röschen's back hair vanish into the dining-room.

VI.

Being engaged is said to be a very delightful thing. You fulfill a pleasant duty to society and one no less pleasant to yourself. In Germany particularly, the engaged state is one of great honor. You advertise the important event in the newspapers, above the marriages and births; you walk abroad with your _fiancée_ arm-in-arm (which is an inestimable privilege); you introduce her with much ceremony to your uncles and cousins and aunts; you receive congratulations--in short, you become a sort of public character, until some one else goes and follows your illustrious example. Then you become an old story and lapse into insignificance.

It was this ravishing vision of the engaged state, with its attendant festivities, which had excited Röschen's imagination. She had seen herself a hundred times on Grover's arm, making the round of her whole circle of acquaintance, and introducing him triumphantly to her pet enemies. He would, of course, at a hint from her, be gracious to those who had been kind to her, and politely snub those who had been disagreeable to her. There was a day of reckoning coming for those who had made sport of Röschen's verses, a day of glorious revenge. But the trouble now was, that, although Röschen looked upon herself as engaged, and respected herself accordingly, she did not have the courage to claim her _fiancé_. She was, as it were, anonymously engaged. The uncertainty of the thing tortured her. She was more than once tempted to sit down and write to Mr. Grover, telling him that it was she to whom he was engaged; but the thought that he might, in that case, divine her plot always deterred her. That he had quarrelled with Miss Jones hardly simplified the matter; for a lover's quarrel of that sort is never such a serious affair as the parties involved are apt to think. If only Miss Jones would have the inspiration to go to Berlin or to Stuttgart, or to Halifax, the road to Grover's affections would be comparatively plain sailing. But Miss Jones, in spite of the most pointed hints regarding the superior musical advantages of other cities, persisted in remaining where she was. She practiced with an odious regularity and indefatigable zeal, which knew neither weariness nor discouragement. She did not grow perceptibly thinner, nor did her complexion show the ravages of sorrow. It was unanimously resolved by the ladies of the household that she was a cold and heartless monster. If it hadn't been for the fact that she paid forty dollars a month (which was put aside for dowries), she would have been told to pack her trunk.

This phase of feeling lasted about three weeks. Then the unfailing charm of Miss Jones's affability began once more to assert itself. Röschen was seized with a sudden desire to kiss her; for she looked so irresistibly cool and lovely as she sat at the breakfast-table sipping her coffee, and propounding her neat little German sentences, which were always correct, though with a faint flavor of "Otto." Röschen felt positive that those calm, intelligent eyes of Miss Jones's read them all like a book; and instead of being indignant at such presumption, Röschen grew repentant. She yearned to fling herself at Miss Jones's feet and confess all her wickedness. She would wear white, with a single red rose in her bosom like _La Sonnambula_. When she thought of all the heroines of history and romance who had renounced the men they loved, she too felt that she could rise to a like heroism in renouncing the man she didn't love; for she did not, for one moment, deceive herself in regard to her sentiment for Grover. It was the engaged state she had been in love with; and he was merely a lay figure, convenient for the occasion--a puppet with whom she enacted the scenes appropriate to the engaged condition.

She was yet pondering the problem, but had not yet nerved herself for action, when one day she was startled at the sound of Grover's voice in the hall. He handed his card to the girl and inquired for the Frau Professorin. There was a council of war on the spot, and the Frau Professorin sent word that she was "not at home." Grover then asked permission to see "the young ladies." It was a very disappointing message; the plural number was especially disheartening. The sisters, however, were equal to the occasion. Minchen and Gretchen nobly declared that they were "out." Accordingly there was nothing to do, except for Röschen to receive the visitor. She donned her white muslin, stuck a Jacqueminot rose in her bosom, and entered the drawing-room with a quaking heart. The young man shook hands with her without the faintest trace of embarrassment, and begged her to have the kindness to present his "adieux" to the family, as he had concluded to continue his studies in Berlin.

"And you are going to leave Leipsic!" she exclaimed, in astonishment.

"Naturally," he replied: "I leave to-night."

Röschen's heart thumped as if it meant to work its way out through her ribs.

"Now or never!" it said, with an unmistakable plainness; "now or never!"

The Jacqueminot rose fell to the ground; Grover stooped to pick it up. Had he only said: "May I keep this as a souvenir of our friendship," or something of that sort, she would at once have summoned courage to make her confession. But, instead of that, he gravely handed her back the rose and remarked that he was under great obligation to her father and mother for their kindness to him during his stay in the city. She knew of no appropriate reply to this observation until his silence forced her to invent one. "You have given us no opportunity of late to be either kind or unkind to you," she said, with a blush, which made her feel hot all over.

"The circumstances are at fault, not I," he answered, and got up to take his leave.

"Pardon me," she said, grasping his hand with a desperate clutch; "I think I heard mother come in. I'll be back in one moment."

Several minutes elapsed, however, but neither Röschen nor the Frau Professorin appeared. Then a sudden sound of sobs was heard in the next room, and Grover, fearing that some one was in distress, hastily opened the door. There stood Miss Jones, grave and benign, stooping over the weeping Röschen, who was dramatically embracing her knees.

"Oh, it was I--it was I who made trouble between you," sobbed the girl, flinging back her head and gazing imploringly up into Miss Jones's face. "You are so good and noble, Louise, can you ever forgive me? Oh, I wish you would kill me, so that I never could do you any harm again."

"That won't be necessary, my dear," said Miss Jones, soothingly, stroking the penitent's hair and kissing her forehead; then, catching sight of Grover, she instantly recovered her dignity and disengaged herself from Röschen's embrace. The latter, with a wildly despairing glance at the young man, sprang up and rushed out of the room.

Miss Jones and Grover stood face to face. The reverberation of Röschen's excitement seemed to linger in the room, and they waited for it to pass away before speaking.

"I came to bid you good-bye," he said at last; it did not occur to him that he had not come for that purpose.

"I am happy to have a chance to--to--beg your pardon," replied Miss Jones, with a heroic determination to crucify her pride. "I was harsh and unjust to you. Röschen has told me all."

"I wish she would tell _me_ all. I am as much in the dark as ever."

"The girl to--to--whom you proposed in the grotto--was--was--not I," she faltered, grasping the door-knob for support, and gazing into the mirror with a vain hope to hide her blushes.

He drew a long sigh of relief. That intelligence simplified existence enormously. He had had a hopeless feeling, of late, that life was too complex an affair for him to grapple with. Now, as by a flash, order was restored in his chaotic universe. He stood gazing in rapture at Miss Jones's blushing face, which seemed angelic in its purity and its dignified maidenhood. That there dwelt a sweet young soul behind those blameless features he felt blissfully convinced.

"Miss Jones," he began, "if Miss Röschen has confessed to you, you know what I would have liked to say to you--that night in the grotto. Now, what would you have answered me?"

A little ray of mirth stole over the girl's face, and vanished again.

"I should have said--no," she remarked smilingly.

The orderly universe again tumbled into chaos. She was the veritable Sphinx, and he not the Oedipus to read her riddle.

"Then I will bid you good-bye," he managed to stammer, extending an unwilling hand and again withdrawing it.

"Good-bye, Mr. Grover," she said with heartless cheerfulness; "I hope it is not forever."

"I am afraid it is," he murmured sadly.

He took two steps toward the door, and laid his hand on the knob.

"Oh, by the way," ejaculated the girl, with a sudden alarm in her voice; "that question you would have asked me in the grotto--why don't you ask it now?"

"You said you would say no."

He had turned about in unutterable astonishment.

"I didn't say that," she retorted gravely.

"What did you say then?"

"That I should have said No _in the grotto_."

The scene which followed was of a strictly private and confidential character; I fear Miss Jones would take me to task if I divulged it.

THE STORY OF TWO LIVES.

BY JULIA SCHAYER.

_Swinton's Story-Teller, October 31, 1883._

The early darkness of a moonless winter night had fallen, nowhere more darkly and coldly than upon a certain small western town, whose houses were huddled together in the valley as if for mutual protection against the fierce winds sweeping through the trackless forests which surrounded it. Here and there the cheerful glow of lamp or fire shone from some uncurtained window, most brightly from the windows of the stores and saloons that occupied the centre of the town, whence issued also fitful sounds of talk and laughter. Otherwise the darkness was complete.

On the outskirts of the town, just at the foot of a steep hill, stood a cottage somewhat more pretentiously built than the others, and surrounded by something of a lawn, laid out with flower-beds and shrubbery, now almost buried in deep drifts of snow. From one window of this cottage, too, a most heartsome glow streamed out over the snow from a lamp placed, as could be seen, with loving intent upon the window-ledge, and out of the darkness there presently emerged the figure of a man, making his way up the foot-path toward the house, his feet ringing sharply against the hard-trodden snow.

Along one side of the house--planted without doubt to break the force of the northern gales--extended a grove of pines and firs, looking now, in the darkness, like the advance guard of a mighty host with banners slowly waving, and strange instruments giving forth weird, unearthly harmonies. As the man passed this spot he slackened his steps once or twice, and seemed to listen for some sound that had caught his ear, and again, when his foot was already on the lower step of the flight leading to the door, he stopped suddenly, his face turned toward the sombre wall of trees.

The light of the lamp illumined their slender trunks and lower boughs, leaving their tops wrapped in utter darkness. It also threw into strong relief the powerful figure of the man, and projected his shadow, huge, wavering and grotesque, across the intervening space. For an instant another shadow seemed to start forward from the mysterious recesses of the pines as if to meet this one, only to fall back and be gathered into the blackness beyond.

The man shrugged his broad shoulders, and, turning, entered the house. A fair, slender woman rose from her seat by the open fire, and went to him.

"Oh! Jamie," she said, "here you are, at last! I'm so glad! I was so afraid something had happened?"

The man threw off his heavy coat with a good-humored laugh.

"Were you afraid I might blow away?" he asked, straightening his large figure. "Why are you always imagining vain things, like a foolish little wifie? I'm big enough to take care of myself, eh, lassie?"

The little wife answered with a smile of loving admiration.

"Come," she said, "supper has been ready a long time, and Bab asleep this half-hour."

She took the lamp from the window and set it on the table, where it shone full on her husband's face. It was a fine, thoroughly English face, with high forehead, brilliant blue eyes, and thick curling hair and beard of a bright golden-brown. A handsome face, and a strong one, but for a womanish fulness of the ruddy lips, and a slight lack of firmness about the chin, which was concealed, however, by the luxuriant beard. It was a face which could, and habitually did, radiate amiability, good cheer, and intelligence, but which had a way of settling at times into stern and melancholy lines, curiously belying his assured carriage, and the sonorous ring of his ready laugh.

Very good to look at was James Dixon, and, as his townsmen unanimously admitted, in spite of his English birth, a good citizen, a shrewd politician, a generous neighbor, and, though at times a little reticent and abstracted, a companionable fellow altogether.