My Friend Prospero

by Henry Harland

  V

  "Who is the young man you have been talking with so long?" asked FrauBrandt, as Maria Dolores came into her sitting-room, a vast, square,bare room, with a marble floor and a painted ceiling, with Venetianblinds to shelter it from the sun, and a bitter-sweet smell, as ofrosemary or I know not what other aromatic herb, upon its cool air.

  "Oh? You saw us?" said Maria Dolores, answering the question withquestion.

  "Him I have seen many times--every day for a week at least," said FrauBrandt. "But I never before saw you talking with him. Who is he?" Shewas a small, brown, square-built, black-haired, homely-featured oldwoman, in a big, round starched white cap and a flowing black silk gown.She sat in an uncushioned oaken armchair by the window, with somewhite knitting in her bony, blunt-fingered brown hands, andtortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles on her nose. But the spectaclescouldn't hide the goodness or the soundness or the sweetness that lookedforth from her motherly old honest brown eyes.

  "He is a young man who lives _en pension_ at the presbytery," said MariaDolores, "a young Englishman."

  "So?" said Frau Brandt. "What is his name?"

  "I don't know," said Maria Dolores, with disengagement real or feigned."His Christian name, I believe, is John."

  "But his family name?" persisted Frau Brandt.

  "It is probably Brown, Jones, or Robinson," said Maria Dolores. "Or itmay even be Black, Smith, or Johnson. Most Englishmen are named one orthe other."

  "So?" said Frau Brandt. "But is it prudent or seemly for you to talkfamiliarly with a young man whose name is unknown to you?"

  "Why not?" asked Maria Dolores, raising her eyebrows, as if surprised."He seems a very harmless young man. I don't think he will eat me. Andhe is English,--and I like English people. And he is intelligent,--hisconversation amuses me. And he has nice easy, impetuous manners,--sodifferent from the formality and restraint of Austrian young men. Whatcan his name matter?"

  "But"--Frau Brandt looked up impressively over her spectacles, and hervoice was charged with gravity, for she was about to ask a question tothe Teutonic mind of quite supreme importance--"but is he noble?" It wasto her what--nay, more than what--the question, "Is he respectable?"would have been to an Englishwoman.

  Maria Dolores laughed.

  "Oh, no," she said. "At least I have every reason to believe not, and Idevoutly hope not. He belongs I expect to what they call in England themiddle class. He has an uncle who is a farmer."

  Frau Brandt's good old brown eyes showed her profoundly shocked, andexpressed profound reprehension.

  "But you were speaking with him familiarly--you were speaking with himalmost as an equal," she pronounced in bated accents, in accents ofconsternation.

  Again Maria Dolores laughed.

  "True," she assented gaily, "and that is exactly what I couldn't do ifhe _were_ noble. Then I should have to remember our respectivepositions. But where the difference of rank is so great, one can talkfamiliarly without fear. _Ca n'engage a rien_."

  Frau Brandt nodded her head, for full half a minute, with many meanings;she nodded it now up and down, and now shook it sidewise.

  "I do not like it," she said, at last. "Your brother would not like it.It is not becoming. Well, thanks be to Heaven, he is only English."

  "Oh, of course," agreed Maria Dolores, "if he were Austrian, it would beentirely different."

  "But is it fair to the young man himself?" pursued Frau Brandt. "Is heaware that he is hobanobbing with a Serene Highness? You treat him as anequal. What if he should fall in love with you?"

  "What indeed! But he won't," laughed Maria Dolores, possibly with amental reservation.

  "Who can tell?" said Frau Brandt. "His eyes, when he looked at you, hadan expression. But there is a greater danger still. You are both at thedangerous age. He is good-looking. What if your heart should becomeinterested in him?"

  "Oh, in that case," answered Maria Dolores, lightly, her chin a littlein the air, "I should marry him--if he asked me."

  "What!" cried Frau Brandt, half rising from her chair.

  "Yes," said Maria Dolores, cheerfully unexcited. "He is a man ofbreeding and education, even if he isn't noble. If I loved a man, Ishouldn't give one thought to his birth. I'm tired of all our Austrianinsistence upon birth, upon birth and quarterings and precedencies. Ifever I love, I shall love some one just for what he is, for what God hasmade him, and for nothing else. It wouldn't matter if his father were acobbler--if I loved him, I'd marry him." Her chin higher in the air, shehad every appearance of meaning what she said.

  Frau Brandt had sunk back in her chair, and was nodding her white-cappedold head again.

  "Oh, my child, my child," she grieved. "Will you never rid your fancy ofthese high-flown, unpractical, romantic whimsies? It all comes ofreading poetry." She herself, good woman, read little but her prayers.

  "Oh, my dear true Heart," responded Maria Dolores, laughing. She crossedthe room, and placed her hand affectionately upon Frau Brandt'sshoulder. "My dearest old Nurse! Do not distress yourself. This is notyet a question of actuality. Let us not cry before we are hurt." And shestooped, and kissed her nurse's brown old brow.

  But afterwards she stood looking with great pensiveness out of thewindow, stood so for a long while; and I fancy there was a softer glowthan ever in her soft-glowing eyes, and perhaps a livelier rose in herpale-rose cheeks.

  "What are you thinking so deeply about?" Frau Brandt asked by-and-by.

  Maria Dolores woke with a little start, and turned from the window, andlaughed again.

  "Oh, thinking about my cobbler's son, of course," she said.