by L. T. Meade
mybetrothal will be a very great event; and afterwards there will be mytrousseau, and the preparing for my home, and then my marriage with thehusband whom my parents have chosen for me."
"And you look forward to that?" I said.
"Of course; what else does any girl look forward to?"
I could not speak at all for a minute; then I said, "I am truly thankfulI am not a German."
She smiled.
"If we," she said slowly, "have one thing to be more--what you callgrateful for--than another, it is that we don't belong to your sostrange country of England. Your coldness, and your long time ofremaining without your _dot_ and your betrothal and your so necessairehusband, is too terrible for any girl in the Fatherland even tocontemplate the pain."
"Oh!" I said, feeling quite angry, "we pity _you_. You see, Comtesse,you and I can never agree."
She smiled and shook her little head.
"But what would you do," she said a few minutes afterwards, "if thesethings were not arranged? You might reach, say, twenty, or eventwenty-one or twenty-two, and--"
"Well, suppose I did reach twenty-one or twenty-two; surely those yearsare not so awful?"
"But to be unbetrothed at twenty-one or twenty-two," she continued."Why, do you not know that at twenty-five a girl--why, she is lost."
"Lost?" I cried.
"Well, what we call put aside--of no account. She doesn't go to dances.She stays at home with the old parents. The young sister supersedesher; she goes out all shining and beautiful, and the adored one comesher way, and she is betrothed, and gets presents and the _dot_ and thebeautiful wedding, and the home where the house linen is so marvellousand the furniture so good. Then for the rest of her days she is a goodhousewife, and looks after the comforts of the lord of the house."
"The lord of the house?" I gasped.
"Her husband. Surely it is her one and only desire to think of hiscomforts. What is she but second to him? Oh! the chosen wife is happy,and fulfils her mission. But the unfortunate maiden who reaches the ageof twenty-five, why, there is nothing for her--nothing!"
The Comtesses pretty checks were flushed with vivid rose; her blue eyesdarkened with horror.
"Poor maiden of twenty-five!" I said. "Why, in England you are onlysupposed to be properly grown-up about then."
"But surely," said the Comtesse, glancing at me and shrugging hershoulders--"you surely do not mean to say that at that advanced agemarriages take place?"
"Much more than before a girl is twenty-five. But really," I added, "Idon't want to talk about marriages and _dots_; I am only a schoolgirl."
The Comtesse laughed.
"Why will you so speak? What else has a girl of my great nation tothink of and talk of? And the mademoiselles here--what have they tothink of and to talk of? Oh! it is all the same; we live for it--our_dot_, and our future husbands, and the home where he is lord and we hishumble servant."
"It doesn't sound at all interesting," I said; and after that myconversation with Comtesse Riki languished a little.
A few days afterwards this same girl came to me when I was preparing aletter for home. I was writing in our sitting-room when she entered.She glanced quickly round her.
"It is you who have the sympathy," she said.
"I hope so," I answered. "What is the matter, Riki?" Her eyes werefull of tears; she hastily put up her handkerchief and wiped them away.
"There is no doubt," she said, "that you English are allowed libertiesunheard-of for a German girl like me. I would beg of you to do me agreat favour. I have been thinking of what you said the other day aboutthis so great liberty of the English maidens, and the great extension ofyears which to them is permitted."
"Yes, yes?" I said, and as I spoke I glanced at the gilt clock on thechiffonier.
"You are in so great a hurry, are you not?" asked Riki.
"I want to finish my letter."
"And you will perhaps post it; is it not so?"
"Yes; I am going out with Hermione and Mademoiselle Wrex."
"You are going, perhaps, to shops to buy things?"
"Yes. Do you want me to bring you in some chocolates?"
"Oh! that would be vare nice; but if you would, with your own letter,put this into the post also?"
As she spoke she gave me a letter addressed in the somewhat thin andpointed hand which most German girls use, and which I so cordiallydetested.
"It is to Heinrich," she said. "I wouldn't ask you; but your heart iswarm, and--he suffers."
"But why should I post it? Will you not take it downstairs and put itwith the other letters in the letter-box?"
The delicate colour flew to her cheeks; her eyes were brighter thanusual.
"Heinrich would not then receive it," she answered. "You will post it--it is necessaire for him that he gets it soon; he is in need of comfort.You will, will you not?"
I really hardly thought about the matter. I did not know why, but itdid not occur to me that Riki was asking me to do anything underhand oroutside the rules. She laid the letter on the table and flew away. Ihad just finished my own; I put it into an envelope and addressed it,and taking Riki's letter also, I put on my outdoor things and wentdownstairs to meet Hermione and Mademoiselle Wrex.
It was now a very bitter day in March. We had been at school for twomonths. The time had flown. I was a healthy and very happy girl.
Mademoiselle Wrex said, "We must walk quickly to keep ourselves warm inthis so bitter north-east wind."
We all walked quickly, with our hands in our muffs, and as we werepassing a pillar-box I dropped the letters in.
"Now that is off my mind," I thought, with a sigh of relief.
"How did you manage to write two letters?" asked Hermione. "You were insuch a fearful fuss getting through your one!"
I made no answer. Something the next moment distracted our attention,and we absolutely forgot the circumstance.
It was not until about a week afterwards that I observed a change inComtesse Riki. She was very pale, and coughed now and then. She nolonger took interest in her work, and often sat for a long time pensiveand melancholy, her eyes fixed on my face. One bitterly cold day Ifound her alone in the _salon_, where we seldom sat; for although therewas what was called central heating all over the house, it was not oftenput on to any great extent in the _salon_. Riki had flung herself intoa chair which was the reverse of comfortable. She started up when shesaw me.
"Oh, you will sympathise with me in my trouble!"
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"If we might go for a little walk together."
"But why so?" I asked. "You are not fit to go out to-day, it is socold."
"But the cold will revive me. Feel my hand; my pulse beats so fast."
I took her hand; her little pulse was bounding in her slender wrist.
"I am sure you ought not to go out; indeed, you can't." She looked upat me imploringly. Suddenly she burst out crying.
"Oh Riki," I said, "what is the matter?"
"If you don't help me I shall be the most miserable girl in all theworld," she said. "And it is all your fault, too."
"My fault?" I cried. "Why, Riki, you must be mad. Whatever have Idone?"
"Well, you have told me about your so wonderful English customs, and Ihave been taking them to my heart; and there is Heinrich--"
"Who is Heinrich--your brother?"
She stared at me, but made no reply.
"He was the person you wrote to, was he not?"
"Oh, hush, hush! Raise not your voice to that point; some one may comein and hear."
"And why should not people hear? I must say English girls have secrets,but not that sort," I said, with great indignation.
"You are so bitter and so proud," she said; "but you know not theheart-hunger."
"Oh yes, I do!" I answered. I was thinking of my mother and herminiature, and the fading image of that loved memory in the old home. Ialso thought of the new step-mother. Yes, yes, I
knew what heart-hungerwas. My tone changed to one of pity.
"I have felt it," I said.
"Oh, then, you have had your beloved one?"
"Indeed, yes."
"Did I not say that of all the school it was natural I should select youto be to me a companion?"
"Can I help you?" I said.
"You can. Will you, as I am not allowed to go out, take this and put itinto a letter-box?"
"But I cannot make out why there should be any trouble."
"It is so easy, and Heinrich--the poor, the sad, the
