The tears standing in my sister's eyes welled over on her cheeks; it would be the greatest comfort to her to let her daughter go abroad, the best possible thing for Emmie, and such a real help and kindness on my part. It seemed a relief to her to thank me; but I hate being thanked, and stopped her as soon as I could.
Emmie's look of delighted surprise when she heard the plan was worth seeing, her rapturous hug of gratitude not altogether disagreeable, provided it were not too frequently repeated; and Herbert grasped my hand more fervently than usual when I asked for his approval.
"Then, when can you be ready? Sir Percival Pylle said start this week, if possible; but I am willing to wait over Sunday for you, Emmie. Take as little luggage, as you can, and meet me at Charing Cross on Tuesday morning. Will that do?"
Yes, that would give time enough for preparations, Miriam said; so I was free to go home and see about my own, and as I put a piece of paper into Emmie's hand at parting, I added, "Mind you don't buy anything that will make you look remarkable—I am not going to travel about with a scare-crow; and if you dare to bring a heap of luggage to the station, I'll leave the half of it at Charing Cross, a single man of my age can't be going about the world in charge of a dozen band-boxes, even if he is foolish enough to be troubled with a niece." My mouth was stopped with kisses, and then she let me go.
Tuesday morning was clear and sunny. Herbert and Emmie were at the station before me, and it was not without a feeling of satisfaction that I surveyed my niece. Her traveling costume was simple and well-fitting, hat and ulster equally suitable, and her luggage, dear little girl, consisted of only one moderate-sized portmanteau and the bag she carried in her hand. We started in excellent spirits; and I was not ill-pleased to hear some favorable comments, made by more than one passenger on board the steamer, on my young relative's appearance, coupled with the remark that she was evidently traveling with her father, whom she much resembled.
We did not hurry too much on our way to Salzbrun. Everything was new to Emmie, and she enjoyed it all, looking upon each small contretemps that befell us as only a fresh subject for fun. There never was such a girl to find pleasure in trifles, which other folks would pass unnoticed, and her laugh was as clear and sunny as her fresh, bright face.
It was late when we reached our destination, a very fine hotel, full of very fine visitors, in what was supposed to be the best situation in Salzbrun. I saw Dr. Trinkwasser the next morning, and, when he had directed me as to the kind and amount of mineral waters I was to swallow, we fell quickly into the ordinary routine of the place. Emmie insisted on getting up in time to go with me to the spring from which I fetched my early morning draught, and then we took the prescribed constitutional, and watched the gay assemblage passing to and fro while we listened to the lively music of an excellent band.
"Indeed, uncle, half the fun of being here is in getting up in the morning and watching the water-drinkers," Emmie assured me. "Did you see the faces that fat old German lady made this morning when she got her second glassful? I do believe she must be related somehow to those horrid gutta-percha dolls the children have; no merely human cheeks seem capable of going, day by day, through such contortions without getting permanently fixed in one of them. Old nurse used to tell us, when we made grimaces, that if the wind were to change that very minute we should never be able to get our natural faces again. She did frighten me so; and now I try to keep one eye on Frau Schimpf's visage and one on the weathercock; then, in case anything happened, I should be able to explain it to the doctors, and bear witness against the false, inconstant winds."
If loquacity be a sign of health, there was no longer anything amiss with my niece, for her tongue was seldom still, but rattled away incessantly whatever came into her head, and at this time it was generally nonsense that was uppermost. This Frau Schimpf, over whom she was now making merry, had acquired a certain sacredness in many eyes, not from any merit of her own, but because she was living in the character of dame de compagnie with the most admired inmate of our hotel—an inmate rendered all the more interesting by the slight cloud of mystery that hung about her. No one could discover Madame B.'s nationality; she might be Russian, German, Hungarian, Pole—anything almost, except French or English; and then nobody knew whether or no Monsieur B. was in existence, and "Wife or widow?" was the unanswered inquiry made concerning her by every new arrival at the Schwartz Adler. Madam was tall, dignified, and graceful; her dress, invariably black (which settled the question of her widowhood in my mind), was made in the latest Parisian fashion, her white hands flashed with diamond rings, a faint pink tinged her cheeks, her brows were dark and well defined, her eyes dark and lustrous; but her greatest charm of all lay in her hair, it too was dark, raven-hued, and was arranged in piles and pyramids of curls and loops and bows, with all the ingenuity of the most artistic foreign coiffeur; a jetty fringe fell in soft waves across her forehead; and from behind one ear a long full, perfumed ringlet descended to her waist, or swayed gently on the breeze as she moved across the room. Madame B. was beautiful, distinguished, piquante; and this little Frau Schimpf, who sat beside her, was a short, stout dumpy woman unmistakably German, clad in an impossible and brilliant tartan, and given to loud speech and laughter, and the questionable habit of dipping into the salt before her the knife which in the intervals of cutting up her meat, occasionally found its way into her mouth. Frau Schimpf was willing to chatter to anyone. Madame B. talked only to her, and always in German, that detestable tongue, of which I knew not one single word.