Morning accompanied as far as Chicago the special trains containing those of the European guests whose official duties required their immediate departure, but very many, including the Baron Von Eulaw and his party, remained at Coronado.
With a good deal of effort, the episode of the baron’s conduct, and the circumstances of the rescue of his wife and himself, were kept out of the press reports, yet the affair was, nevertheless, one of those open secrets with which many people enliven conversation.
Mrs. Thornton was, for once, disinclined to suffer her admiration for a title to induce her to overlook the homicidal freak of her son-in-law, and she urged Ellen in vain to formally separate her life from that of her husband. Possibly her appreciation of the fact that Morning was now more renowed than any European potentate, and outranked any king on earth, and her comprehension of the further fact that he was still deeply in love with her daughter, may have influenced her counsel.
Moved by some impulse, which perhaps she could not have explained to herself, she took occasion when thanking Morning for saving her daughter’s life, to confide to him the history of how Ellen’s marriage had been brought about, to which she added the story of her married life, and concluded by pressing upon him for perusal, a package of her daughter’s letters. These Morning carried with him to Chicago, and their reading induced him, after parting with his distinguished guests, to hasten his return to Coronado, where he was advised that the Von Eulaw party would remain for some weeks.
On a delicious afternoon the baroness, with Mrs. Thornton and Miss Winters, sat in the gallery overhanging the old music hall on the sea. Although a new and costlier edifice had been built, with improved acoustics and elaborate design, the little gem at the corner of the hotel, long washed by the waves and threatened by the breakers, seemed still a favorite resort for concert and afternoon recitals, and thither came many who sought for a restful hour under the eloquent discourse of the old white-haired professor’s violin.
“It is a pity for the world,” said Miss Winters, during a pause in the performance, “that so few are able to look into the soul of Tolstoi’s labors. In one of his chapters he expresses the epitome of all musical sensations in half a dozen lines.”
“I hope you are not referring to the ‘Kreutzer Sonata,’ Miss Winters,” broke in Mrs. Thornton.
Miss Winters smiled rather than spoke reply. But the baroness took greater liberty and rejoined rather saucily, “The regular thing, dear mother, is to ask for some palliative to remove the taste from your mouth after the mention of the much-abused ‘Kreutzer Sonata.’”
Mrs. Thornton replied with a look of high disdain and much fluttering of ribbons.
“I am not punctilious, but I could not sit and listen to a defense of that man.”