A Woman's Will. Warner Anne
stick to it if it makes you feel badly,” he said a little anxiously; “remember you have the whole wide ocean before you.”
“Yes,” said Rosina, “I – I was just thinking of that.”
“Are you apt to be seasick?”
“Sometimes I have to lie still a day or two.”
“In your chair?”
“In my berth.”
“Please throw it away at once; I don’t want you to be lying still in your berth a day or two on this voyage, you know.”
There was a very earnest note in his voice; she took the cigarette from between her lips and looked at it meditatively.
“Do throw it overboard immediately,” he begged.
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“But I entreat!”
Then she began to laugh.
“It isn’t the cigarette that I can’t manage, – it’s the throw!”
He sprang to his feet with one vast and comprehensive untuck.
“A thousand pardons! Give it to me.”
She held it out and he took it to the rail. The offshore breeze was growing into a wind that blew the stars out as fast as they appeared and caused the bosom of the ocean to appear unduly agitated.
“Let us walk about a bit,” he suggested, coming back, and noting a certain vagueness in her expression; “come, it’s the best thing for us both, – exercise, you know.”
She smiled faintly.
“I think so too; if you’ll just unswathe me, please.”
He extricated her, and they made the tour of the deck three times.
“Do you get off at Plymouth?” he asked, when they finally came to a standstill beside their own chairs again.
“No, at Cherbourg.”
“And then Paris?”
“Naturally.”
“And then?”
“Anywhere I want to.”
“I’m going to Hamburg and then to Berlin; with me it’s a case of business first and pleasure afterwards.”
“Berlin’s a nice place,” she said thoughtfully; “I’ve been there twice.”
“Wouldn’t you enjoy going there again?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe that I should. You see I went to Berlin both times with my husband, and my present state of mind is such that if I think Berlin will recall my husband to me, I’d rather remain permanently in Cherbourg.”
She stooped and gathered up her rugs preparatory to building a new nest.
“Did you travel much with your husband,” he asked, taking the nest materials from her and sorting them over his arm.
“Yes, I did.” She sat down in the chair. “I travelled a great deal with him; but I intend to travel a great deal more now that I’m without him.”
The man was busy with her cloak and pillows and rugs. They were quite a combination, and the combining was rather a dangerous occupation, the lateness of the hour considered. He lost his head just a little bit.
“You might some day have another,” he suggested in a tone low enough to be thrilling to the thrillable.
Rosina squared herself smilelessly, and the electric deck-light which faced her seat showed up her sobriety in unmistakable colors.
“Watch me!” she said briefly, and her enunciation was clear and very distinct.
He heard.
Chapter Two
THERE was at that particular date a man in Düsseldorf who was quite as set in his ideas as Rosina was in hers. He was lingering from day to day at the Hotel Heck, engaged for the most part in no more arduous pursuit than the awaiting of a telegram from his family. His family were at Evian, on the Lac de Génève, and if they decided to go from there to Paris, he wanted very much to visit Switzerland himself. But if, on the contrary, they merely ended in transferring their abode from Evian to Ouchy, as was very likely to prove to be the case, he had fully made up his mind to pass the early summer months in Leipsic. In Leipsic he had an interest – the one great interest of his existence. The family had but scant sympathy with the force of the Leipsic attraction; their ambitions were set in quite another direction, and all their hopes and plans and wishes were bent to the accomplishment of that one end. They desired most ardently that he should take unto himself a wife, because he was the last of his race, and there was a coronet hung up in the skies above his head. The natural effect of such anxiety upon the uncommon temperament of this particularly uncommon man was to decide him definitely to remain single forever, and because he had always proved himself of a strength of resolve and firmness of purpose quite unequalled in their experience, they felt justified in the gravest fears that in this case, as in all others, he would remain steadfast, keeping the word which he declared that he had solemnly pledged himself, and so become the last of a line whose castle had crowned the crag which it defended since the Goth was abroad in the land.
To be sure, he was not yet so old but that, when he casually glanced at a girl, the girl, her mother, and his mother all immediately held their breath. But he was old enough to have proved the futility of the hope by the casualty of the glance over and over again. And so his people were completely out of patience with him, and he and they found it accordingly more agreeable to take even their Switzerland in individual communion-cups. Therefore he remained in Düsseldorf, wandering in the Hofgarten, listening to the music in the Tonhalle, and occasionally quieting his impatience for the Lake of Lucerne, where his childhood had been passed, by writing a few pages to Leipsic, the scene of his studies and the spot where his one incentive to labor dwelt.
After three weeks of manifold hesitation the family at last concluded to let it be Paris, and thus Southeastern Europe was thrown open to the recalcitrant. It being now quite middle June, he took his way southward with a leisure born of the warm summer sun, and spent a month en route. The Storks of Strasbourg and the Bears of Berne both ate of his bread before the final definite checking of his trunks for Lucerne took place. But the cry at his heart for the Vierwaldstattersee and the Schweizerhof became of a strength beyond resisting, and so he turned his back upon the Jungfrau and his face towards the Rigi, and slept beneath the mist-wreaths of Mount Pilatus that very night.
It was the next morning that Rosina, walking on the Quai with an American man (not the one on the “Kronprinz,” however), first observed an especially tall and striking-looking individual, and wondered who he was. With her the wonder was always straightway followed by the ask, so she voiced her curiosity forthwith.
“That man?” said her companion, turning to make sure who she was referring to, “that dark man with the gray gloves? oh, that’s Von Ibn. He’s to be very great indeed some day, I’m given to understand.”
“Hasn’t he stopped growing yet?”
“There is ‘great’ and ‘great,’ you know. He is in for both kinds, it appears.”
“Because of his ‘von’?” demanded Rosina, whose thirst for knowledge was occasionally insatiable.
“No, because of his violin.”
“Does he play?”
“You show ignorance by asking such a question.”
“He plays well, then? – is known?” —
“He is a composer.”
She turned abruptly to the side and sank down on one of the numerous seats before which the endless procession of morning promenaders were ceaselessly defiling.
“Let me look at him!” she cried below her breath; “how more than interesting! He appears just as one might imagine that Paganini did before he made