Chapter III: Part 3

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, so I do! But then I have promised my sister to stand by her in her hard fight between the filial obedience she would so gladly show to you, and the aversion she feels for the count.”

“Aversion,” muttered my father; “absurd!”

“And keeping my word, I say to her in your presence. Do not yield! You are my own sister. Placed in circumstances similar to mine, your life would be as wretched as is mine,” continued Elizabeth, still speaking with that terrible calmness.

While papa cried: “Wretched! What an extraordinary expression to use!”

And she: “Did I know one stronger, I would adopt it! Nothing is too strong to express the humiliation of knowing the being one looks up to--or rather one should look up to--to be a nonentity; or the hypocrisy of seeming to defer to him one knows to be one’s inferior.”

“Pride! pride!” sighed mamma. Her work had fallen on to her lap, she was white as death; and my heart felt how she was suffering, as Elizabeth, merely acknowledging her interruption by a scornful curl of the lips, continued icily:

“The moral death it is, and how one despises one’s self for it--but only with penitent humiliation to crawl again under the sacred yoke--that, of course, is understood. Who would make a public scandal of their matrimonial troubles; who seek escape from them; who attempt to drown themselves? Such, I have heard, is done by the vulgar horde who are without religion, or are the poor-spirited descendants of some worthy shoemaker or candlestick-maker, without courage or endurance. We, of the upper ten, are religious, strong to endure, have the blood of heroes in our veins! We know no deserters from our posts! Therefore, Paula, weigh well before you undertake the post. It is a vilely loathsome one.”

She turned to our parents:

“Dear father and mother, when you say to your child ‘Accept So-and-so, he will give you a good position, splendid castles, a great establishment, well-appointed carriages,’ and the like, you are doubtless doing what is right in your own eyes. But do not say to her, ‘Do it because it will bring you happiness.’ That you have no right to say. Believe me, it is presumptuous.”

Only those who heard these words could form any idea of the effect, uttered as they were by Elizabeth, without raising her voice or accompanying them by the slightest gesture. Low and deliberately they dropped like heart’s blood from some deep wound; and as I hearkened to them, there arose in me the burning wish that there were anything on this earth, anything, however great and well-nigh impossible, that I might be privileged to do for my sister.

Mamma was petrified. Papa had sunk his arms upon his knees, and was looking down at his clenched fingers. His forehead was deeply furrowed, and for the first time the thought struck me how old he looked.

Bernhard broke the silence:

“My dear parents, I entreat you if things are thus--it would be my opinion--you understand what I mean----”

Oh, it was a blessing to us all, the warm-hearted manner in which he spoke!

Papa raising his head, thanked the dear fellow with an approving nod, then looking at mamma inquiringly: “What do you think?”

She, trying to answer, could not; could only sigh:

“O God! O God!”

“What do you think, Caroline?” repeated papa. “Are you not also----”

“I do not know,” said she painfully. “It is very difficult.”

“There is nothing difficult in it; it is all quite simple,” broke in Bernhard. “You have only to tell the count our daughter is fully sensible of the honor, etc., etc.; but she cannot yet make up her mind to marry; she does not want to leave us--and the thing is done!”

There ensued a long, painful silence. Papa brought it to an end by saying:

“Yes. If she really does want to stay with us----”

And mamma put in hesitatingly: “Paula is certainly still very young!”

“Much too young!” cried I. This solution had never occurred to me. “Oh, my darling parents!” I would have rushed to them, but mamma made a sign to Elizabeth, and my sister, rising, went and stood before her.

“You have given us much pain to-day, Elizabeth,” said papa. He held out his hand to her. She did not offer to kiss it. What must have been her feelings at that moment! Our dearest father had given her his hand in reconciliation, and Elizabeth had not kissed it.

* * * * *

At that moment the count was announced; and with him my brother-in-law, to fetch his wife for the usual drive. Both gentlemen seemed to be in a high state of annoyance at some blunder of their harness-maker; in each case their ideas had failed to be carried out.

Bernhard sympathized ironically in their grievances, but they took his malicious comments in sober earnest.

As Elizabeth and her husband left the room, running after them, I threw my arms vehemently round my sister, and thanked her, caring nothing for the disapproving looks of my brother-in-law.

“What is all this frantic excitement about?” he asked.

Bernhard, who, too, following my example, had left the room, answered:

“Ah, my dear fellow! If you only knew the vagaries of this small person!” and he winked at me. “Only think, this person refuses to have anything to say to Count Taxen. Count Taxen! the wittiest, noblest, and handsomest of men, and--she will have nothing to say to him!”

My brother-in-law, who evidently took it as a bad joke, answered: “Ah, well, it is a good thing that you are here to bring her to reason.” He turned toward the door, Elizabeth with him. We looked after her, walking so calmly by his side--my poor, poor sister.

“I have often shuddered to think what must come to light if ever the secrets of that prison house were unfolded,” said Bernhard.

“I, too, have often dreaded that she was unhappy,” I replied, unable longer to restrain my tears. “My only wonder was that she never complained.”

“No need to wonder at that!” he cried. “It is not suitable for general conversation. If circumstances force it from a true woman, she may speak of it once, but never again. Take example from her;” and he affectionately patted my cheek. “Our friend in the drawing room is getting his _congé_. Are you content, pussy?”

I was about to thank him for his goodness; but with an impatient movement he drew back, as he said:

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t come the sentimental!”

My parents said no more to me about the count; and it may be readily imagined that I never mentioned him to them. A few evenings before the soirée at which I made the resolve to write my Memoirs, his mother was present, and made a point of showing me the greatest kindness. This noble heartedness made me feel so small and ashamed that I had to exercise the greatest self-control to prevent myself from earnestly praying the countess to think kindly of me and forgive me. It would have been a fearful want of tact had I done so.

As she moved away, mischievous Pierre Coucy said, with a titter, “She is more _la crème_ to-night than ever--but sour.”

“No wonder,” rejoined his brother, with a side glance at me.

Then to Elizabeth: “Have you heard our paragon son is off on a cruise--to Bohemia?”

“No, no,” put in Pierre; “in an air balloon to recover his equilibrium.”

I was confused at their sallies. But Elizabeth, with her majestic calm, said: “You are romancing, now the secret is out! I have long suspected your silent proclivities.”

“You are wrong, countess! More than a writer of romance, I am a prophet!”

“Highly necessary, in order to see through a sphinx like our friend Count Taxen.”

So they went on cutting bad jests, until I felt quite sorry for the count, who looked upon the Coucys as his friends. They must have imparted their surmise to others besides ourselves, for when Baron Schwarzburg came up to me that evening, I read it on his brow, and it laughed in his eyes, as he heartily wished the count a pleasant journey.

* * * * *

Things are very strange at home now, and not altogether pleasant. Even my Duphot, for the first time in my life, bears a grudge against me--in her gentle way, be it understood, and quite as much to her sorrow as to mine.

My beloved father is out of sorts, and although he often says, “Do whatever you like,” the words over which I used to exult now make me sad. I always dread lest I should hear in them, “Our wishes, of course, are of no account to you.”

Mamma, too, seems depressed, and spends more time in church than ever.

She must be praying there for Elizabeth; for she has laid it upon me in my daily prayers to commend my poor sister to God, that he may turn her heart, and awaken in it a befitting and dutiful love to her husband. And I pray accordingly, though I must confess I doubt whether the Divine Power will see fit to be influenced in such a cause. The true love which can arouse that burning devotion in us, akin only to sacred adoration, is given us by our Heavenly Father, if to be given at all, from the very beginning. The miserable supplementary love, gathered together for us by joint prayers, what can that avail?

_May 25th._--Reading through these pages yesterday, I asked myself if these really are memoirs that I am writing? Memoirs treat of interesting people, and I am only writing about myself; they treat of interesting times, and I only occupy myself with the present, which, for the matter of that, is very interesting.

“A momentous period in the political world!” I heard an old gentleman say the other day.

My whole understanding for politics, however, is confined to a decided interest in all that concerns the governorship of our province. Opportunities of discussing it, ever so welcome to me, are not wanting, papa having interests at stake in it. His object is to prevent the inhabitants of one of the districts, against better judgment, from cutting down the trees and tilling the land of one of the forests belonging to him. Until quite lately he was forever complaining of the laxity of the local authorities. Suddenly, his invectives have ceased. I had long wanted to know why, but had not ventured to inquire into the subject on account of his not standing well with the authorities. At length to-day, taking courage, I said:

“How are things going about the district forest, papa? Is it going to be under tillage?”

“No, it is not.”

“Then you have carried your point. That is capital.”

“Father has carried his point, because he has put it, at last, into the hands of the right man,” interposed Bernhard, continuing, unabashed by papa’s meaning look--“of the man of right, who this time has proved the truth of his axiom, Right must conquer.”

Mamma and Mme. Duphot in vain endeavored to turn the subject; Bernhard, sticking to his point, would not yield until he had forced from dear papa the acknowledgment that Baron Schwarzburg was a man of great talent, and a very fine fellow.

That afternoon it was settled that in a week we should leave town for Trostburg. Elizabeth was to come on a long visit to us, and without her husband, who has just bought a new place in the Marmaros, and is about to build a hunting castle there.

My sister is quite another person since her husband’s departure; so much more animated, lively to audacity, and so loving and affectionate to papa and mamma.

She coaxes and pets me as if I were a baby.

“If only you had a real baby!” I said to her once.

“Silence!” she cried. “It is my one source of thankfulness that Heaven has not given me one! I should have hated it as I do----”

She did not finish her sentence; but I understood her too well, and felt a rush of deepest pity for her.

When I see her breathing thus freely again in her liberty, it always makes me think of a certain lovely mountain ash tree in the forest. A terrific storm beating over it had bowed down the young tree, until its crest had caught in the branches of a puny misshapen fir tree, much smaller than it, and the poor ash could not free itself. Its slender stem was bent like a bow; its tender branches, accustomed only to the free space of heaven above them wherein to stir and expand at their own sweet will, hung to earth withered and disconsolate, pining in the straggling clutches of the tyrant. Fortunately my father and I happened to pass that way. He had the worthless fir tree cut down; and oh, joy! the mountain ash was freed; its elastic stem quickly righted itself, its branches swayed blissfully in the breeze, each individual leaflet uplifted itself with joyous flutter, and its graceful summit seemed to bow in greeting to its companions, and to the blue sky above it, which, answering, shed the gladdening rays of sunlight full upon it.

The mountain ash is forever freed from its oppressor. My poor sister must return to her imprisonment when summer is over. But she does not allow this thought to trouble her happiness; she is too noble-spirited. She says, Enjoy your blessings while you have them; it is only the pampered children of fortune who do not give thanks for happiness, because it is fleeting. A Crœsus has no easy minute, for he has no security but that he may outlive his riches. The beggar does not enjoy the crust you give him any the less through fear of to-morrow’s hunger.

The more I am with her, the more do I admire her and sorrow for her; and the more I compare our lots, the more grateful am I for mine. How merciful God has been to me! The blessed freedom only granted for a brief space to my sister, is mine forever to enjoy, and in addition to it the great, silent bliss of being privileged to think to my heart’s content of him who is so unspeakably dear to me. Though separated from him, I will walk as if in his sight in all I do, or leave undone, asking myself, “Would he approve it?” he the right man, the man of right!

There must be something unusual in contemplation. There are mysterious conferences in the small drawing room; long discussions in papa’s study. Confusion reigns in every nook and corner. Mamma has sent round notes of excuse, and is not holding the remaining receptions this season; and Baron Schwarzburg, who seemed to have received no intimation of the change in her arrangements, was greatly astonished the other evening on finding us alone. I noticed papa and Bernhard exchange a hurried glance as he was announced, and that they looked with some concern at mamma. Her manner to him was cold, but not half as cold as that of my Duphot. She has conceived the most inexplicable antipathy to the baron, and has confided to me more than once, with symptoms of extremest aversion, that she looks upon him as an _esprit fort_. He stayed an hour. The happiness I experienced in seeing and hearing him was sadly marred by thinking every instant, “Now he will take his leave, and I shall see and hear him no more, perhaps, for years--perhaps, who knows? forever!”

It was an unspeakable surprise to me to hear papa say to him, as they shook hands: “You must look in again and see us before you leave.” I could not help it--I rushed to papa and impulsively kissed his hand. Looking at me severely, he muttered:

“What is the matter? You seem to be growing foolish.”

_May 30th._--I must write down what has happened--if I can, if my trembling hand will let me, if my thoughts do not chase each other too swiftly. I have kept so calm all the evening, have been able to speak of the most indifferent things with such composure--why then should I feel so painfully agitated now? I certainly did think that my family quietly overlooked the answers _à tort et à travers_ I gave them at first. Could I have been mistaken? They all looked so wise, and the wildest imaginings were flying through my brain. But that was afterward; what first took place was as follows:

This afternoon I was sitting alone in the great drawing room, awaiting the return of mamma and Mme. Duphot from church; when the door suddenly opened, and, without being announced, Baron Schwarzburg came in, saying:

“I came to say good-by, countess. I start to-morrow.”

And I, in my bewilderment, could say nothing but:

“My mamma is not at home.”

“I know,” he replied.

“She will soon be back,” I said. Upon which he bowed silently.

I had risen at his entry, and now did not know whether I might ask him to be seated. To leave him standing was too uncourteous. This threw me into a dilemma, and the first few delicious moments of our being alone together were truly uncomfortable.

He walked to the window, and for a while appeared to be absorbed in what was passing below. Then he turned again toward me. He was holding his hat in one hand, his gloves in the other, beating them on the brim of his hat.

For the sake of saying something, I remarked:

“The dust is blowing up very unpleasantly to-day.”

The dearest smile played about his lips as he answered:

“Oh, no. It has been raining hard.”

Another pause ensued, this time a long one; until the baron brought it to a close by saying:

“You are aware that I am very glad to be going to Bosnia?”

I replied:

“Yes, I know; and I know the reason. You have a great work before you there.”

“For the small scope of my office,” he hastened to make reply. “It is just the inferiority of the office I hold which gives a certain importance to the work in hand. At any rate, it must take a long time to settle; and I shall not think of coming home until it is completed.”

“But you will have leave from time to time?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“And you will come and see us?”

“Oh, of course.”

“That will give pleasure to many--to me especially.”

These very natural words of mine seemed to produce a remarkable impression upon him.

With warmth and agitation, he repeated:

“You, especially? you, especially?”

He seemed about to add something, took a step toward me, then recalling himself, preserved silence, merely throwing his gloves impetuously into his hat, which he had placed upon the window-sill. Then I, regaining courage, said: “Do take a seat, Baron Schwarzburg.”

He accepted my invitation, and we sat down on the two easychairs by the flower table, facing each other, near the French window leading on to the balcony.

“How heavy and oppressive the air is in town, now!” he exclaimed.

And I agreed that it would be ever so much pleasanter in the country, and in Bosnia, too.

“Oh, infinitely. And will you be as glad to go into the country as I to go to Bosnia?”

I said yes. And then he wanted a description of my life at Trostburg, and I gave him a detailed account of the way I spent each day. He thanked me warmly. It would be so delightful to know where his thoughts could seek me at every hour of the day; in the woods, in the garden, in my own room, or in the library absorbed in some interesting book. “And be sure that my thoughts will often follow you,” he added.

“I shall count upon that,” was my reply.

“And will you be thinking of me?” He looked into my eyes as he asked it.

With as firm a look, I answered:

“Always.”

Then he seized my hand, and held it nervously, almost as though I were some priceless treasure.

“No, that you must not do! Even to one’s best friend--and that I am to you--one does not give up all one’s thoughts. He will consider himself happy indeed if you occasionally grant him a kindly remembrance.”

This modest requirement disconcerted and displeased me, and I had the courage to tell him so. He must know perfectly well, I thought to myself, how very dear he is to me--and if I can make so bold as to assume that he likes me, he surely might be satisfied of my love for him. And so I told him that, for my part, I should always have him in my thoughts, and that to do so would be my greatest happiness. My dear parents had now quite yielded to my wish that I should never marry. So that danger was over--once for all. I should go on living with them, loving and tending them as long as their dear lives lasted; and when I had them no longer on earth, would honor their memories, carry on their good works, and lead the life of an old maid, honored, happy, and perhaps of some use in my generation.

He listened patiently, then responded:

“Very good. You have made me fully acquainted with it all: first, of your rules day by day; now your plans for the future. Very good, we will keep to it. You a willing and contented old maid; I,” he shrugged his shoulders, “of necessity, an old bachelor.”

“Of necessity?”

“Yes!” he cried. “Where should I find a wife willing to share the hard life which I, at least temporarily, have to offer her?”

“Oh, on that account? A hard life is no obstacle!”

“And what is?”

“The wishes of one’s parents.”

“Ah, there we come back to the same thing. The parents’ wishes spring from the feeling that the children they have brought up in luxury must not make a bad match; it would only lead to unhappiness and misery. It would lower them in their own eyes, and they would lose caste.”

Waxing hotter and hotter as he went on, in his warmth he said many things which were utterly illogical. He derided the prejudices of society, and yet constrained himself with painful self-mastery to declare that custom had sanctified these prejudices, and that they who belonged to the circles where they held good, did right to honor them.

“Then you do not act up to your convictions?” I said.

“I? Good Heavens! Do not speak of what I do. I, as everyone will tell you, am a fool. I am far from acting up to those convictions, because I do not, in truth, hold them; and on that account I am a very fool. But not fool enough, countess, not fool enough to persuade the one I love”--and here he pressed my hand with such force that I had the greatest difficulty to prevent an exclamation--“to follow my example, and be my companion on my lonely way.”

He clenched his teeth. His eyes looked wild; his accustomed self-control had quite forsaken him. He looked so fearfully agitated that he would have terrified me had I not loved him so well; but because I loved him so well I felt, oh, so sorry for him, and I said:

“I know somebody who would have no need of persuasion; who would only be too glad to go with you, if she dared!”

Instead of calming him, my words only seemed to excite him the more.

“Happy for that foolish girl that she does not dare! Happy for her. She little knows what she would be taking upon herself; little as I knew, nor the name that would be given me, and that I first heard myself christened in scorn and derision, ‘Idealist!’ Be one! Struggle against the mighty element; waste your strength in useless warfare! Wrench yourself free from all the fresh, joyous pursuits of your equals, your associates--once your brethren, now your adversaries, whose interest you oppose, whose convictions you belie, and--to whom you yet cling with every fiber of your heart!”

He was silent. And I did not venture to break the silence. Still ever louder, more distinct, there arose within me: Foolish girl! Yes, twice foolish; to have thought it enough to follow him at a distance. With him is your place. All my other duties suddenly seemed to me unimportant in comparison. My dread of my beloved father, childish. I believe that it was then that in a very low, yet decided, voice, I said:

“Were it not better, in such a fight, to have a companion at one’s side?”

“A companion?”

“One equally minded with one’s self; but who, hitherto, has not so plainly stated her views, because she could not trust herself, did not so clearly see----”

I came to a standstill; I did not dare to look up at him. But I felt that his eyes were resting upon me as he asked gently, and with a ring of deep affection in his voice:

“Has it really only just become clear to her?”

“Yes, she knows that she, like you, is an idealist.”

“Miracle of miracles!” he said, in oh, so playful a voice, and with such repressed rapture. “Am I really to meet with so rare a being as an idealist in your circle? Nowadays? Impossible!”

“Convince yourself.”

“Shall I? Dare I? Would the idealist you speak of be able to endure to cast her lot with one so obscure, so unknown as I?”

“Of course. And I only wish, with all my heart that you may remain obscure and unknown, that I may the better prove to you----”

I got no further; for, rejoicing, he interrupted me:

“You! You! You then are willing to be that faithful, devoted companion? And to me is to be granted that rare fortune--highest of all earthly joys--to find in the wife of my soul the sharer of my views, the confidante of all, even my boldest aims; my counselor in doubt, sweetest consoler in sorrow, closest sympathizer in success? You will be to me all that? All--despite everybody?”

“It will not need to be despite everybody,” I made answer, confused by the passionate delight with which he pressed me to him. “I will entreat my dear father----”

“Your father!” he cried. And springing back, he struck his forehead like one possessed.

And I, to my great amazement, looking up, saw my father and Bernhard standing there.

“Well!” said papa; “kept your word?”

“Do not ask me. Do not ask me!” cried Schwarzburg, beside himself.

With a loud laugh, Bernhard cried:

“What, have you not succeeded in persuading her against Baron Schwarzburg? I am jolly glad!”

“I am not,” responded papa. “It is as I expected. But then, I am no idealist; I know mankind.”

Bernhard blurted out, “If he had really been such a Don Quixote as to----”

“Be still!” said my father authoritatively.

But he continued: “I would have cut him dead.”

Here a footman announced that mamma awaited the gentlemen in the small drawing room. They obeyed the summons at once; papa sending me up to my own room. Here I still am. They seem to have quite forgotten me; or else they will have no more to say to me. No one seems to trouble about me. Oh, if I had not you, my faithful Diary, in which to confide my every thought, I should indeed be greatly, greatly to be pitied.

EPILOGUE.

If you have followed me thus far, kind readers, my thanks are due to you for your constancy. We must now bid farewell to each other. Not only have the Memoirs I so presumptuously undertook to write degenerated into a diary, but even that diary must now give place to a correspondence, the nature of which will forever remain the secret of two individuals.

If you care to know how this came about, grant me your indulgence yet a little longer.

They left me an unconscionable time to myself that day. It had grown dark, and a deathlike stillness reigned around. Even the most indefatigable songster among my birds had ceased singing, and, all crouched up, was asleep on his perch. How I envied the pretty little creature’s peace of mind.

At last I heard the sound of footsteps approaching my door, the tiny step of my Duphot.

“Ah, _ma chère_!” she said, mournful and reproachful, as she came in and bade me go with her to my parents. So wild a beating of the heart I do not suppose anyone has ever experienced as that with which I obeyed her behest; it was too agonizing, too dreadful.

Besides papa and mamma, I found my brother and sister and Baron Schwarzburg. He stood up as I came in; I, too, remained standing. Papa began:

“Paula, your mother and I, not desiring to incur a second time the reproach that the happiness of one of our children----”

“Or what she considers to be happiness,” broke in mamma.

“Is of less importance to us,” continued papa, “than it should be to parents who love their children, had therefore given our permission to Baron Schwarzburg to speak to you before he left. It has resulted----”

“Differently from what we anticipated,” interpolated mamma.

“And, as I hear, you are agreed in the idea----”

“Or in imagining,” suggested mamma.

“That you are made for each other,” said papa.

To which I said “Yes.”

“Yes,” repeated the Baron Schwarzburg, deeply moved.

“Well then, if two people are really made for each other--a thing which very rarely happens--there is but one thing to be done. But it remains to be proved; and proof requires time. Endurance is the proof; so you must wait.”

“We will wait,” said Schwarzburg.

“Three years,” said papa.

My head turned. I could not realize my happiness. So it was not, as I had with fear and trembling so fully expected to hear: “Do it if you will. But give up all hope of our consent!”

“Only three years?” I asked.

“Not a day less,” said mamma.

And I: “Why, that is nothing! We would wait _ten_ years if you required it, dearest father and mother. We are happy beyond everything, and have no other wish than----”

“Speak for yourself!” put in Bernhard.

Baron Schwarzburg was looking decidedly alarmed, and I asked him: “Do you think so? To wait--wait for each other--what could be more heavenly?”

“The shorter, the more heavenly,” he returned.

Elizabeth, coming up to me, had taken me in her arms. “See, what a wise, sensible child it is! Three years’ probation are too little for her; she prefers ten. Ah, she knows death is easy, but marriage is a venture!”

“Do not jest, countess,” interposed Schwarzburg. “I consent to three years--not a day less, but not a day more.” His voice faltered, but a strong, unswerving determination gleamed in his eyes.

“So it is settled, and so it shall remain. A few hours ago,” he continued, turning to me, “I had counted the happiness that has come to me as utterly unattainable; but now I have known it; it is mine, and I hold it fast, as fast as I am wont to hold the things most precious to me; and you are the most precious thing of all to me, Paula, and, I well know, the most sure.” He took my hand, “In three years; but then; for life.”

“From now; for life.” I could say no more.

He took leave of us all. How sweet and natural Elizabeth was with him! Oh, dear sister mine, can I ever thank you enough?

Only when the door had closed upon him, did the consciousness of our parting fall with leaden weight upon my heart. He had gone, and we had scarce--nay, we had not even said good-by to each other. An unspeakable sense of yearning came over me; I fought with the tears which choked me. No one said a word.

Suddenly Bernhard said laughingly: “Why, he has actually gone without his hat!”

All at once it flashed across me where it had been left; and I ran to the great drawing room to fetch it. To the drawing room they came, papa and the baron--and how it happened I have not the least conception, but the next instant I was in the arms of my betrothed, pressed close to his heart, and he was showering kisses upon me--hot, passionate kisses.

Papa was standing by us; no longer the stern papa of the last few weeks, but the tender, loving one of old, and of all time to come.

I had only to look into his dear face to straightway regain my former boundless confidence in him; and in the strength of this confidence to say:

“May I write to him, papa?”

“And I to her?” asked Schwarzburg.

Papa hesitated.

“Why? what for? See----” he broke off, sighed, looked at us both with strong emotion, then with all the loving intonation of old came the dear, priceless formula:

“Well, do whatever you like.”

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Pg 33: ‘and goodess only’ replaced by ‘and goodness only’.
Pg 42: ‘so, extendng’ replaced by ‘so, extending’.
Pg 64: ‘know off the’ replaced by ‘know of the’.
Pg 142: ‘la crême’ replaced by ‘la crème’.