A Woman's Will
Then he was silent, and she was silent, and the lights of Lucerne continued to draw nearer and nearer.
“I wonder if I shall really never see you again,” he said, after a long interval.
“I wonder.”
“It is very unlikely that we shall ever meet again.”
“Very.”
In spite of herself her voice sounded dry.
“Where is your bank address?”
“Deutsches-Filiale, Munich, while I am in this part of the world. But why? Were you thinking of writing me weekly?”
“Oh, no,” he said hastily, “but I might send you a carte-postale sometimes, if you liked.”
She felt obliged to laugh.
“Would you send a colored one, or just one of the regular dix-centime kind,” she inquired with interest.
Von Ibn contemplated her curiously.
“You have such a pretty mouth!” he murmured.
She laughed afresh.
“But with the stamp it is fifteen centimes anyway,” he continued.
“Stamp, what stamp? Oh, yes, the postal card,” she nodded; and then, “I never really expect to see you again, but I’m glad, very glad that I met you, because you have interested and amused me so much.”
“American men are so very stupid, are they not?” he said sympathetically.
“No, indeed,” she cried indignantly; “American men are charming, and they always rise and give their seats to women in the trams, which the men here never think of doing.”
“You need not speak to me so hotly,” said Von Ibn, “I always take a cab.”
The ending of his remark was sufficiently unexpected to cause a short break in the conversation; then Rosina went on:
“I saw a man do a very gallant thing once, he hurried to carry a poor old woman’s big bundle of washing for her because the tram stopped in the wrong place and she would have so far to take it. Wasn’t that royal in him?”
He did not appear impressed.
“Does that man take the broom and sweep a little for the street-cleaner when he meets her?” he asked, after a brief period for reflection.
“We do not have women street-cleaners in America.”
Then he yawned, with no attempt at disguise. She felt piqued at such an open display of ennui, and turned from him to the now brilliant shore past which they were gliding.
After a minute or two he took out his note-book and pencil.
“Deutsches-Filiale, Munich, you said, did you not?”
She nodded.
“Can you write my name?” he asked.
“If strict necessity should drive me to it.”
“Write it here, please.”
He held the book upon the rail and she obeyed the request. Afterwards he held the page to the light until he was apparently thoroughly assured of some doubtful point, and then put it back in his pocket.
“I shall send you a card Poste Restante at Zurich,” he announced, as the lights of Lucerne blazed up close beside them.
“Be sure that you spell my name right.”
“Yes,” he said, taking out his note-book again; “it is like this, n’est ce pas?” and he wrote, and then showed her the result.
“Yes, that’s it,” she assented.
He continued to regard his book with deep attention.
“It exasperates me to have my name spelled wrong,” she went on; “doesn’t it you?”
“Yes,” he said; “it is for that that I look in my book.”
She came close and looked at what she had written, – “Von Ebn.”
“Isn’t that right?” she asked in surprise.
“It is your English E, but not my letter.”
“How do you spell your name?”
“I-b-n.”
“Oh!”
She laughed, and he laughed with her.
“That was very stupid in me,” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” he replied, with one of his rare smiles; “but I would have said nothing, only that at the Poste Restante I shall lose all my letters from you.”
“All! what leads you to suppose that there would ever be any?”
He turned and looked steadily at her, his eyes widely earnest.
“What, not even a post card?”
Rosina forgave the yawn, or perhaps she had forgotten it.
“Do you really want to hear from me again?”
“Yes, really.”
“Shall you remember me after I am gone?”
“Natürlich.”
“For how long?”
At that he shrugged his shoulders. Down below they were making ready for the landing.
“Who can say?” he answered at last.
“At least, monsieur, you are frank.”
“I am always frank.”
“Is that always best?”
“I think so.”
People were beginning to move towards the staircase. Below, the man stood ready to fling the rope.
“Let us go to the other landing and walk back across the stone bridge,” he suggested.
“There is not time; it is quite seven o’clock now.”
“But I shall not again be with you, and there is something that I must say.”
“You must say it here, then.”
The rope was thrown and caught, and every one aboard received the violent jolt that attends some boat-landings. Rosina was thrown against her companion and he was thrown against the stair-rail.
“Can you hear if I speak now,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“You will see that I really interest myself in you.”
Just then some one in front trod on a dog, which yelped violently for three minutes; for a brief space speech was impossible, and then they were on the gang-plank, and he bent above her once more.
“I want to ask you something; will you do it if I ask you?”
“What is it?”
“Will you promise me to do it?”
They were now squeezing past the ticket kiosque.
“But what is it?”
“It is this – ”
A man behind stepped on Rosina’s skirt and nearly pulled her over backward; something ripped violently and she gave a low cry. The man said, “Mille pardons,” and Von Ibn looked ready to murder him.
“Are you undone?” he asked her solicitously.
“No, I’m only badly torn.”
“Do you want a pin?”
“Yes; have you one?”
“Malheureusement que non.”
“I think that I can hold it up,” she said bravely.
“It is unpardonable – a such man!”
He turned to scowl again at the offender. They were now in the Promenade.
“He couldn’t see in the dark, I suppose,” she murmured.
“But why was he come so near? If it was I who had torn from being too near, that would be quite different.”
“If you don’t take care it will be exactly the same thing.”
He laughed, and gave way three inches.
“You have not yet promise,” he said then.
“Promised what?”
“To do what I ask.”
“Tell me what it is; if I can do it I will.”
He took her arm to cross towards the hotel.
“You can do it if you will,” he said; “it is this – ”
The Schweizerhof shone before them, great and white and sparkling; every window was lighted, every table on the terrace was full. Rosina quickened her steps.
“Oh, I’m so late,” she cried, “and I have such a toilette to make!”
Von Ibn had his hand upon her arm still.
“It is this,” he said emphatically, “promise me that you will go to the Victoria Hotel at Zurich; yes?”
Later in her own room, as Ottillie dressed her hair, she closed her eyes and tried to reduce her thoughts to a rational basis. But she gave up in despair.
“From the ‘Souvenir’ to the Victoria,” she murmured; “oh, he is most certainly a genius!” then she sighed a little. “I’m sorry that we shall probably never meet again,” she added sadly.
Chapter Five
ROSINA fairly flung herself off of the train and into the arms of Molly, and then and there they kissed one another with the warmth born of a long interval apart.
“Well, my dear,” began the Irish girl, when they found themselves five minutes later being rolled away in one of the villainous Zurich cabs, “begin away back in the early days of our sad separation and tell me everything that has happened to you since.”
“Not much has happened,” Rosina replied. “I crossed in May and got some clothes in Paris, and then came Lucerne, and this is June. Before I came over nothing happened. How could things happen while I had to wear a crape veil?”
“To be sure!” said Molly wisely; “and yet they do sometimes, – I know it for a fact. And anyway the veil is off now, and you look so well that I should think perhaps – lately?”
“Oh, dear, no,” said Rosina, turning quickly scarlet; “don’t harbor such an idea for a second. Nothing of that sort will ever happen to me again. A burnt child dreads the fire, and I can assure you I’m cinders to the last atom. But never mind me, tell me about yourself. That is much more interesting.”
“‘About myself is it you’re inquiring’?” laughed the Irish girl; “’tis easy told. Last winter, like a fool, I engaged myself to a sweet young Russian colonel, and this spring he died – ”
“Oh, Molly!”
“Never mind, my dear, because I can assure you that I didn’t. Russians are so furiously made up that he couldn’t stand any of the other men that I was engaged to. My life was too broad a burden in consequence, and I was well satisfied at his funeral.”
“Is it his mother that you are travelling with?”
“His mother! No, dear, I can’t stand any of the family now.”
“Whose mother is she?”
“She isn’t anybody’s mother. That’s how she can be sixty-five and look forty-two by gaslight.”
“Does she look forty-two by gaslight? Oh, imagine looking forty-two by gaslight!”
“By men’s gaslight she looks forty-two. Any woman could just instinctively see through everything from her wig to her waist, and that’s why she has grown to hate me so.”
“Does she hate you?”
“Hate me! Well, wait until you see her look at me. It’s a sort of cross between a mud-turtle and a basilisk, and she’s forever telling my age and telling it wrong. And she lays for every man that comes near me.”
“Why, Molly, how awful!”
“I’m going slowly mad. You’ve no idea! she’s so jealous that life is not only a burden, it’s a weight that’s smashing me flatter every day. I’m getting a gray hair and a wrinkle, and all because of her. And she wrote Ivan – ”
“Who’s Ivan?”
“He’s one of the men that I’ve accepted lately; he’s her cousin. He’s a prince and she’s a princess; but oh, my soul and body, my head is uneasy enough with lying and I’ve ceased to care a bit about the crown.”
“Why, Molly, wouldn’t you like to be a princess?”
“Not after this trip. Do you know what straits she’s driven me to? actually I came near taking a Turk at Trieste.”
“Did you?”
“No, I didn’t. I thought it over and I decided I wasn’t built for the monopoly of a harem.”
Rosina burst out laughing.
“Molly,” she gasped, “imagine you confined to only one man, and he your lord and master!”
“I couldn’t possibly imagine it, and I make it a point to never go in for anything that I can’t imagine. But, my dear, I must tell you the great news. Being engaged is an old habit with me; but” (she put her hand to her throat and felt within her high stock) “you must know that I am now actually in love, for the first time in my life, too.”
“Oh, Molly, since when?”
“Three weeks. Wait till I fish up my locket and you shall see him. Handsome is nowhere! And our meeting was so romantic. I was lying on the bottom of a boat waiting to be paddled into the Blue Grotto, and at the last minute a stranger came, and they laid him down at my feet. When we got into the grotto, of course we stood up; and it was lucky we did, for we fell in love directly, and of course we couldn’t have fallen unless we were standing.”
“Oh, Molly, who is he? do show me the picture.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, but I think the clasp has hooked on to Captain Douglas’ locket, – you remember Captain Douglas! – I can’t pull it anyway. Never mind, I’ll show you to-night.”
“Is he English?”
“English, no; he’s Italian. Such eyes you never saw. They’re warmer than white porcelain tile stoves in early autumn. And he belongs to the Queen-mother’s regiment, and wears the most resplendent uniform and a gray cape that he just carelessly sweeps across his chest and up over the other shoulder – ah!”
Molly stopped to draw a deep breath and sigh.
“Where is he stationed?” her friend inquired.
“Rome; and he hasn’t a cent beyond his pay, so we can’t think of any future which makes him so blue.”
“Poor fellow! do you consider yourself engaged to him?”
“Of course I’m engaged to him. He came a whole day’s journey to propose. You don’t suppose I’d say ‘no’ to a chap who was awfully hard up, and then took a long, expensive trip just on my account! Besides, I’m most desperately in love with him, and he is the kind of man who couldn’t come to time any other way. He is a most awfully good sort – the sort that believe in everything. Why, he has such a high opinion of me that it’s almost depressing at times. I can’t live up to a high opinion; it’s all I can do to keep above a low one.”
“But how will it come out, Molly?”
“It won’t come out at all unless you tell it. No one else knows. He can’t say anything without compromising himself, and I’m not likely to let it out unless I some day pull up the wrong locket by accident.”
“But don’t it trouble you?”
“Trouble me! Why should it trouble me? It’s that old Russian woman who troubles me. I’d be idiotic to add to my miseries by thinking up any other torments while I’m around with her. Here we are at the Quai, – that’s the hotel yonder. And I’ve talked one continuous stream ever since we left the Gare and you’ve never said a word. Begin right off and tell me something about yourself. Who have you met since you came over in May? Of course you’ve met some one. Who?”
“An old French marquis,” Rosina told her thoughtfully.
“And no one else?”
“Oh, yes, of course there were loads of others. But this was such a dear old gentleman, when he kissed my hand – well, really, I almost felt like a princess.”
“But not like a marchioness?”
“Oh, dear no! I wouldn’t think of undertaking the gout before I’m thirty.”
“The Lord preserve me from dear old men!” Molly ejaculated with fervor. “Why, I had a baron propose to me last winter; he was actually so shaky that his valet was always in attendance to stand him up and sit him down. While he was pouring out his remnant of a heart I kept expecting to see the valet come running in to throw him at my knees. He was over eighty and awfully rich, but that servant of his was too careful and conscientious for me to dare risk it, – a man like that with devoted attention and plenty of rare beef might live ten years, you know, – so I told him ‘no,’ and the valet came in and stood him up and led him away.”
The cab coming to a standstill before the hotel just at this moment, the two young women were forced to interrupt their conversation, and undertake the arduous labor of preparing for déjeuner. Ottillie was just laying out the contents of the travelling toilet-case when her mistress came in to be dressed, and it was quite two hours later before any opportunity presented itself for renewing their talk. Then Molly came into the salon of the blue-and-white suite which the friends shared, and they curled up together on the divan, prepared to spend one of those infinitely delightful hours which are only known to two thoroughly congenial women who have had the rare luck of chancing to know one another well.
Molly began by winding her arm about her friend’s shoulders and kissing her warmly.
“’Tis like Paradise to be with you instead of that fussy old woman,” she said warmly; “now go on with what you were telling me in the carriage, – the marquis, you know.”
“There isn’t any more to tell you about him, he’s all over, but I’ll tell you about some one else, if you’ll be good.”
“I’ll be good. Who, and where, and which, and what is the other?”
“I haven’t any faith in you, I’m afraid you will tease me.”
“Did I ever tease you before?”
“I was married then and I didn’t mind. I feel differently now.”
“I promise not to tease you one bit. Where did you meet him?”
“In Lucerne.”
“What’s his name? I know a lot of people who are in Lucerne just now. Perhaps I know him.”
“I wish that you did know him.”
“Tell me his name.”
“It’s the composer, Herr von Ibn.”
Molly screamed with joy.
“Oh, my dear, what luck you do have! Did he play for you? Have you heard any of his things?”
“No, unfortunately. You see I only met him on Saturday, and as I came away this morning we had to rush every second as hard as we could in order to become acquainted at all.”
“What fun to know him! He’s going to be so tremendously famous, they say; did you know that?”
“So they told me there.”
“And he plays in such a wonderful manner, too. What a pity he didn’t play for you. Don’t you love a violin, anyhow?”
“I don’t know,” said Rosina thoughtfully; “I think that I like a flute best, but I always think whenever I see a man playing on a violin that the attitude ought to develop very affectionate tendencies in him.”
“What kind of a fellow was he to talk to? Was he agreeable?”
“Most of the American men didn’t like him, I believe,” said Rosina; then she added, “but most of the American men never like any foreigners, you know, unless it’s the Englishmen, perhaps.”
“But what did you think of him?”
“I thought he was very queer; and he got the better of me all the time.”
“That ought to have made you hate him.”
“That is what seems so odd to me. I’ve been thinking about him all the time that I was on the train this morning. Do you know, Molly, that man was positively rude to me over and over again, and yet, try as I might, I couldn’t stay angry with him.” She paused and knit her brows for a few seconds over some recollection, and then she turned suddenly and laid her face against the other’s shoulder. “Molly, dear,” she said softly, “he had a way of smiling, – if you could only see it! Well!”
“Well!”
“I could forgive anything to that smile, – honestly.”
Molly looked thoughtful.
“Saturday to Monday,” she murmured apropos of nothing.
Rosina lifted her head and gave her a glance.
“I wish that you might meet him,” she said gravely.
“I wish that he was here in Zurich,” her friend replied.
At that instant there sounded a tap on the door.
“Herein!” Rosina cried.
It was a waiter with a card upon a tray; Molly held out her hand for the bit of pasteboard, glanced at it, and gave a start and a cry.
“Is anything the matter?” Rosina asked, reaching for the card. Her friend gave it to her, and as her eyes fell upon the name she turned first white and then red.
“It can’t be that he is here in Zurich!” she exclaimed.
“This is his card, anyway.”
“Mercy on us!”
“Shall he come up here, – he had better, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” she gasped. “I’m too surprised to think! The idea of his coming here this afternoon! Why, I never thought of such a thing. He said good-bye forever last night. I – ”
“Show monsieur to the room,” Molly said to the man, cutting Rosina short in the full tide of her astonishment.
“Of course you must see him,” she said, as the door closed, “and, not being entirely devoid of curiosity, I can’t help feeling awfully glad to think that now I shall see him too.”
She quitted the divan as she spoke and went to the mirror over the mantelpiece. There was something in the action that suddenly recalled Rosina to her senses, and she sprang to her feet and disappeared into the sleeping-room beyond, returning in two or three minutes bearing evidence of Ottillie’s deft touch. She found Molly still before the mirror, and as her own reflection appeared over her friend’s shoulder the other nodded and laughed.
“You seem to have made a deep impression,” she said gayly.
“I can’t understand it all,” Rosina began; “he made such a fuss over his good-bye last night and – and – well, really, I never dreamed of his doing such a thing as to come here.”
“I’m heartily glad that he’s come, because now I shall meet him, and I’ve heard – ”
She was interrupted by a slight tap at the door, and before either could cry “Entrez!
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