Mr. Overberg is a shrewd, clever lawyer, who perfectly understands his business and the way to treat his clients politely and persuasively; he always discourages lawsuits, recommends delay and an attempt at an arrangement, and thus quietly brings about the desired result without, as it were, seeming to interfere. Aunt Sophia respected him highly for his discretion and foresight, though she took care never to let him see through her intentions, since he was not the man to take sharp and decisive measures. For any such business she employed Van Beek, who is a man to carry out the law to the letter, without feeling any pity for the sufferer.

It was therefore in keeping with Overberg’s character that he recommended me to temporize with the General, to give him time to pay his debts, and not to drive such an old man to despair, though he was a foreigner. The good man little knew he was preaching to one who already shared his views, and whose inmost wish was to deal as gently as possible with Von Zwenken.

I must acknowledge that what I heard at the soirÉe did not make a favourable impression on me. The past life of the young lady must have been a singular one, if there be any truth in the gossip I heard about her. I know much must be set down to slander in a small town, where people are at a loss what to talk about when not criticising their neighbours.

But, however, you must judge for yourself from what follows.

Among the ladies to whom I was introduced was a charming young widow with jet-black eyes and lively features; she is a niece of the Roselaers, I am told, and at first I felt very sorry her name was not Francis Mordaunt, the niece-elect of Aunt Sophia. However, when Overberg had drawn her out a little on the subject of the Von Zwenkens, I felt exceedingly glad to think our acquaintance would not extend beyond the present evening.

I began to feel a most intense hatred against her, so unmercifully did she attack poor Francis.

“Yes, they had been well acquainted when her grandfather was commandant of the garrison, and she herself had visited at the house of the Colonel. But no, friendship had never existed between her and the young lady; she was too eccentric and ill-mannered. Just imagine, Jonker, she came to our house one evening when she knew there was to be dancing and music. Yes, she dropped in, as nonchalant as possible, in a dark merino dress, fastened up to the neck, with a turn-down collar and a silk neckerchief—just for all the world like a boy. And her boots—they might have belonged to some plough-boy. Upon my word, I believe there were nails in the soles; a non-commissioned officer would not have been so rude as to enter a salon in them.”

“Perhaps she had made a mistake about the evening,” I said, by way of excuse.

“Certainly not! She received her invitation a week beforehand. Surely that was time enough to get a ball-dress made. And it was not because she hadn’t got any other dresses; for two days afterwards she came to a house where we were invited to spend a quiet evening, en grande toilette, a low dress (as if she expected to be invited to dance), and resplendent with jewellery and diamonds. Now I ask you if that was not done to annoy us and to wound our feelings?”

“It seems to me she took more trouble to do honour to the ladies than she had taken to please the gentlemen.”

“The truth is, she was not at all complimentary to the gentlemen,” rejoined a thin, elderly-looking spinster of an uncertain age, dressed in an old-fashioned style, who I should have thought would have been the last person to come to the defence of a sex that had so clearly neglected her.

“And the gentlemen—no doubt they reciprocated her nonchalance?” I asked. “It is very probable she was left in the company of the elderly ladies all the evening to increase the number of ‘wall flowers.’”

“Yes! but it was because she wished it,” replied the widow. “She would be sure of partners, though she were never such a fright. All the young officers are, as a matter of course, obliged ‘to do the amiable’ to the granddaughter of their colonel. Moreover, Francis Mordaunt is mistress of the art of attracting or repelling as it pleases her. Notwithstanding all her strange whims and caprices, she is never at a loss for a partner, and the moment she enters any ball-room she becomes the observed of all observers. The gentlemen flock round her; she is flattered, flirted with——”

“Yes, flirted with, I grant you; but not respected, I’m sure,” interrupted the elderly spinster. “It is chiefly done to draw out her smart repartees, and the unladylike answers which have made her so famous (or rather infamous).”

“In fact everybody is amused at her scathing replies.”

“Which the ladies are afraid of,” said a gentleman, half jestingly, half reproachfully, “for as a rule they are as true as they are sharp.”

“As a rule she makes the gentlemen the butt of her raillery.”

“How strange then, indeed, that the ladies take her part so little!” I could not help remarking.

“That is not strange, Jonker! The peculiar manner she has adopted to render herself noticeable is just the one our sex cannot suffer. In all her victories we saw a defeat; the good tone was lost.”

“And how did the party pass off for Miss Mordaunt in that curious dress?” I inquired, for I had less interest in carrying on a combat d’esprit with the vicious little widow than in drawing out a more complete sketch of Francis’ character, though it might be coloured by slander.

“Just as she wished it, I believe. In the early part of the evening she was somewhat neglected, and this was evidently her wish, for she did nothing to prevent it; on the contrary, she had told the hostess that she had resolved not to dance, in such a loud and decided tone, that it would have been absurd for any one to invite her afterwards.”

“She’s cunning enough,” put in the elderly spinster. “She only said that lest afterwards she should feel ashamed of herself at the close of the party, in case no one invited her to dance.”

“In fact, it requires more moral courage than the gentlemen in these parts as a rule possess to lead out a lady dressed as she was,” interposed the widow again.

“It appears that the custom of not sparing us gentlemen is catching,” whispered an officer, who had been introduced as Captain Sanders.

I silently bowed, for I wished to listen to Mrs. X., who continued—

“Finally, however, when the cotillon was called, she must join, and the unfortunate leader of the dance had to sacrifice himself. Lieutenant Wilibald, her grandfather’s adjutant, was obliged to take her in tow, mustering up all his courage. After showing a good deal of resistance, which appeared seriously meant, she allowed herself to be led out, but did nothing to lighten her partner’s unpleasant task. On the contrary, she was so recalcitrant, so inattentive and so awkward, that she often caused confusion, and her partner had the greatest difficulty to rectify her mistakes. Indeed, the polite young officer was pitied by the whole company, and the more so because it was known that he was sacrificing himself to a sense of duty; for he was engaged to a charming young lady who had been prevented from attending the ball by a recent death in the family.”

“Pardon, madame; permit me to say that your representation of the facts is not quite correct,” interrupted Captain Sanders, in whose favour I immediately became prepossessed on account of his serious and earnest look. “Allow me to set you right as to facts, for I am a friend of Lieutenant Wilibald’s, and I know he would be sorry if what you have said should go forth to the world as truth. It was by no means a disagreeable task for him to lead out Miss Mordaunt in any dress she chose to appear in, for he was too much in love with her to notice such small matters as dress. Yes, I venture to say, if it had depended on him alone he would not have married the woman he has; but he was forced by circumstances, and Miss Mordaunt did her utmost to promote the marriage and to put him in possession of a fortune.”

I inwardly thanked the Captain for his chivalrous defence of the absent, and I would gladly have taken him by the hand and done so publicly, but that this would have prevented my hearing more on the subject of Francis.

“And has Miss Mordaunt been married since?” I asked, trying to put the question as disinterestedly as possible.

“Why, no!” cried the elderly spinster with a triumphant smile. “So far as we know (and we know pretty well everything that happens in our circle), she has never had an offer.”

“Ah! that is very strange; a young lady who seems to be possessed of so many attractions,” I observed.

“That’s not at all strange,” interrupted the little widow, in a coquettish, sentimental tone. “It was never difficult for her to attract admirers and flatterers for the moment, but it is only by the heart that a woman wins true affection and esteem; and, with the Captain’s permission, no one could ever believe Francis Mordaunt to be in earnest, for she has no heart—she never cared for anything but horses and dogs.”

“You forget her grandfather!” pleaded the Captain.

“Well, yes, she has been his idol; but this very fact has turned out her ruin.”

“How are we to understand that remark, madame?” asked Overberg, whose jovial face grew serious.

“That he has left the girl far too much to her own whims and fancies.”

“What shall I say, chÈre amie? He was afraid of her.” (It was the elderly spinster who again began the attack.) “He could roar at his officers, but he was afraid of a scene with Francis.”

“Excuse me for once more contradicting you, miss. Colonel von Zwenken never roared at his officers—this I know by experience; but it is true he was conspicuous by his absence when Francis Mordaunt went into society. He suffered her to go out when she liked, and with whom she liked. Alas! he sat at the card table in his club whilst Francis by her thoughtlessness and certain peculiarities in her character, was rendering herself a victim to calumny and envious tongues.”

“Bravo, Captain! it’s noble of you to defend the absent.”

“I am only sorry I cannot do so without blaming another absent person; but what I say is known, and well known, in this circle.”

“As well known as the eccentricities of Major Frank. Whatever Captain Sanders may say, we are not making her conduct appear worse than it is; we are only speaking of it as it struck us at the time.”

“That everybody must acknowledge,” said an old lady, who had thus far listened with sparkling eyes. “Only remember what talk her conduct gave rise to when she met the stranger staying at the ‘Golden Salmon,’ by appointment, unknown to the Colonel, who had forbidden the man his house! Did she not set all our ideas of good breeding at defiance by walking in the plantation in open daylight with a perfect stranger.”

“In fact, I am assured she pawned her diamonds to pay his hotel bill. She even wished to sell them, for she asked a friend of mine to buy them.”

Overberg’s healthy, blooming face turned pale; but he said nothing. The Captain, however, spoke again—

“It is only too true she would risk all to attain her ends, if she had once set her mind on a thing.”

“And that for a person who went to a third-rate hotel—did not even give his own name, as it was said afterwards; and who certainly was a sharper or a coiner.”

“If such had been the case, the police would have looked after him sharp,” interposed Overberg.

“That is my opinion also,” said the Captain; “and I think Wilibald Smeekens was right. He said it was some one who had formerly committed a breach of military discipline, and whom she out of pity wished to assist in getting out of the country.”

“Ahem! out of pity,” said the old lady. “Young ladies should be careful how they show such pity—carrying on an intrigue. I can assure you that at the time it was a question whether we ought not to banish her from our society.”

“But no one dared to pronounce the sentence of banishment,” said the Captain, “for fear of the Colonel, who had it in his power to refuse the military music for the balls and open-air concerts in summer. And this he certainly would have done if he had known what was hatching against his granddaughter. But the ladies were more prudent; they pulled poor Francis to pieces behind her back.”

“With this result,” added the elderly spinster, “that of her own accord she almost entirely withdrew from our society.”

“No, there is another reason,” said the widow, with a significant shake of the head; “it was not our treatment, but her own conscience which pricked her after that affair with her coachman.”

“Yes, you are quite right; that was a sad affair,” assented the Captain, to my painful surprise.

The honourable man, who had evidently combatted calumny and slander, was now silenced. I wished to ask what had happened, but the words stuck in my throat; I felt as if they would choke me. The postmaster, however, who had just entered the room, put the question, which the tongues of the ladies were quivering with impatience to answer.

“Unfortunately, no one knows the exact particulars,” began the elderly spinster, whose shrill, sharp voice made itself heard above the rest; “but it is generally believed she wished to make her coachman elope with her. Possibly she might have succeeded, but the man was already married, and when that became known——”

“She pitched him off the box whilst the horses were going at a furious rate,” put in the old lady, with a demoniacal smile of pleasure.

“Others who are supposed to know, say she struck him dead with the whip,” added the little widow, who must have her say. “Horrible! most horrible!” she continued, turning up her eyes with mock sentimentality.

Yes, horrible indeed, thought I, when both young ladies and old vie with each other in a wicked desire to give the coup de grÂce to one of their own sex who has erred, or, may be, only taken one false step in life.

“I have been told,” murmured another voice, “that she fought with him; and the horses taking fright, he fell from the box under their feet.”

“However it happened, the truth will never be known, for he now lies in the churchyard.”

“Yes, now you’ve got the truth without any figures of speech,” jested the widow; “and with him the crime is buried, and hushed up for ever.”

“With your permission, ladies, had there been a question of anything of that sort, the law would have taken its course,” observed Overberg; “and I know for certain it was never brought before a court.”

“That I can believe,” answered the widow. “The magistrate is a great friend of the Colonel’s, plays cards with him every evening, and to palliate the affair, and silence public indignation, he made an official visit to the commandant’s house. Francis Mordaunt was examined, and, as might be expected beforehand, came out of the affair snow-white—at least, according to the magistrate’s report,” added the widow, with a satirical shrug of the shoulders.

“But, madame,” interposed Overberg, evidently growing angry, “do you mean to say you suspect the impartiality of the magistrate?”

“I suspect no one; I only tell you how the affair ended—namely, that it was hushed up, and the relations of the coachman bribed to keep quiet. Such people are easily frightened. One thing, however, is certain, and that is, Major Frank has not dared to show her face in our circle since; and besides this, it seems to have been the cause of her grandfather retiring from the service.”

“He had attained the age to be put on the retired list,” said the Captain; “and with his pension he obtained the honorary rank of General.”

“Be that as it may, the General retired from the world to Castle de Werve,” observed the old lady.

“Where, now, Major Frank has the command,” put in the spinster.

“And spends her time in riding and shooting,” added the little widow, turning up her nose superciliously.

“I venture to contradict the latter part of the assertion with regard to the shooting,” said Overberg; “for the General has not renewed his shooting license and has leased the shooting over his own estates to a client of mine, who, however, leaves the hares and partridges in perfect peace.”

This latter remark led to a long conversation amongst the gentlemen about the shooting and fishing in the neighbourhood, whilst the ladies set to work to sharpen their tongues on other absent victims.