“I should only ask a few persons who will be sure to go to the concert and help along,” she continued, twirling lightly about to see if the voluminous folds of her black silk train fell properly. She wanted Lawrence to notice her, for she was looking uncommonly well. Black was becoming to her; and the delicate lavender gloves, and bunch of scarlet geranium-flowers half lost in lace just behind her left ear, gave precisely the touch of color that was needed. But he stood immovable, watching the horses, perhaps, or watching nothing.
Seeing him so abstracted, she looked at him a moment, remembering an old story she had read of Apollo apprenticed to a swine-herd. Here was one, she thought, who might have graced Olympus, yet who had been bound down to poverty, and labor, and disappointment. His pale and melancholy face showed that he might be mourning even now his ignominious captivity. Thank God, she could help him! He should not always be so sorrowful.
He moved slightly, without looking toward her, aware of her silence, though he had not noticed her speech. She checked, with an effort, the impulse to go to him with some affectionate inquiry, and went on with what she had been saying. “We need the editors, of course, and I can ask Dr. Porson to bring Mr. Sales. They say he is very clever, and will bring The Aurora up again. They will give us puffs, you know. If I send the doctor a note this afternoon, he will tell Mr. Sales this evening, and he can write a nice little report of the rehearsal before he comes to it, and have it out to-morrow morning.”
“Are you ready?” asked Lawrence, turning round from the window.
“All but this.” She gave him a little gold glove-buttoner; and held out her hand.
“By the way,” she said suddenly, “have you heard the story about Mr. Schöninger?”
Lawrence let slip the tiny button he had just caught, and stared at her in silence. Perhaps he remembered something that Jane, the priest’s housekeeper, had charged him not to tell.
“Such a romantic story!” she said, smiling at having won his attention. “I forgot to tell you. They say that he has a lawsuit going on in England about an immense property to which he is the rightful heir. It is from some very distant relative who left Germany for England a hundred years ago. He has no personal acquaintance with any of the family there now; but ten years ago, he learned that the heirs had died out leaving him nearest to the estate. He was then in Germany, and had a little property, on which he lived like a gentleman. He spent every dollar he had in the effort to obtain his rights, but did not succeed. Neither did he fail; but more money was needed. And that’s the reason why he came to this country and became a music-teacher, and why he lives so plainly, and works all the time. Lily Carthusen told me she heard that he sent money to England every quarter, and that all his earnings go into that lawsuit.”
“Lily Carthusen knows a great deal about other people’s business,” the young man remarked ungraciously. “She is one of the kind who peep into letters and listen at doors. I wouldn’t repeat any of her stories, Annette.”
“I only tell you, Lawrence,” she replied humbly.