|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 36
Laura tried on three gowns, to the very great surprise of her maid.
Usually her mistress told her in the morning what to lay out for
dinner. Here there were two fine-looking young men about, and yet she
was for selecting the simplest gown of the three. The little French
maid did not understand the reason, nor at that moment could her
mistress have readily explained. It was easy to dress for the critical
eyes of rich young men, officers, gentlemen with titles; all that was
required was a fresh Parisian model, some jewels, and a bundle of
orchids or expensive roses. But these two men belonged to a class she
knew little of; gentlemen adventurers, who had been in strange,
unfrequented places, who had helped to make history, who received
decorations, and never wore them, who remained to the world at large
obscure and unknown.
So, with that keen insight which is a part of a well-bred, intelligent
woman--and also rather inexplicable to the male understanding--she
chose the simplest gown. She was hazily conscious that they would
notice this dress, whereas the gleaming satin would have passed as a
matter of fact. Round her graceful throat she placed an Indian
turquoise necklace; nothing in her hair, nothing on her fingers. She
went down-stairs perfectly content.
As she came into the hall, she heard soft music. Some one was in the
music-room, which was just off the library. She stopped to listen.
Chopin, with light touch and tender feeling. Which of the two
wanderers was it? Quietly, she moved along to the door. Breitmann;
she rather expected to find him. Nearly all educated Germans played.
The music stopped for a moment, then resumed. Another melody followed,
a melody she had heard from one end of France to the other. She
frowned, not with displeasure, but with puzzlement. For what purpose
did a soldier of the German empire play the battle hymn of the French
republic? _The Marseillaise_? She entered the music-room, and the low
but vibrant chords ceased instantly. Breitmann had been playing these
melodies standing. He turned quickly.
"I beg your pardon," he said, but perfectly free from embarrassment.
"I am very fond of music myself. Please play whenever the mood comes
to you. _The Marseillaise_--"
"Ah!" he interrupted, laughing. "There was a bit of traitor in my
fingers just then. But music should have no country; it should be
universal."
"Perhaps, generally speaking; but every land should have an anthem of
its own. The greatest composition of Beethoven or Wagner will never
touch the heart as the ripple of a battle song."
And when Fitzgerald joined them they were seriously discussing Wagner
and his ill-treatment in Munich, and of the mad king of Bavaria.
As she had planned, both men noticed the simplicity of her dress.
"It is because she doesn't care," thought Breitmann.
"It is because she knows we don't care," thought Fitzgerald. And he
was nearer the truth than Breitmann.
The dinner was pleasant, and there was much talk of travel. The
admiral had touched nearly every port, Fitzgerald had been round three
times, and Breitmann four. The girl experienced a sense of elation as
she listened. She knew most of her father's stories, but to-night he
drew upon a half-forgotten store. Without embellishment, as if they
were ordinary, every-day affairs, they exchanged tales of adventure in
strange island wildernesses; and there were lion hunts and man hunts
and fierce battles on land and sea. Never had any story-book opened a
like world. She felt a longing for the Himalayas, the Indian jungles,
the low-lying islands of the South Pacific.
So far as the admiral was concerned, he was very well pleased with the
new secretary.
Fitzgerald was not asleep. He had an idea, and he smoked his yellow
African gourd pipe till this same idea shaped itself into the form of a
resolve. He laid the pipe on the mantel, turned over the logs--for the
nights were yet chill, and a fire was a comfort--and raised a window.
He would like to hear some of that tapping in the chimney. He was
fully dressed, excepting that he had exchanged shoes for slippers.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|