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Flemming, indeed, had a fleeting surprise at finding in the aunt a woman of thirty-five or thirty-eight, in the Indian summer of her beauty. Lynde had given him the idea of an elderly person with spectacles. As to Miss Denham, she had not fallen short of the mental picture Flemming had drawn of her which ought to have surprised him.
"Who is going with you, boys?" asked Flemming, looking at their deeply-bronzed, healthy faces so like his own, though his hair had now begun to grizzle about his sunburnt temples. "Jack and Tom, and two Anaa men," they replied, "they sent us to ask you if they could come. They have finished the new roof for the oil-shed, and want to go very badly. Say 'yes, father." "All right boys. You may go.
Here the Baron rang, and ordered a bottle of Prince Metternich. He then very slowly filled his pipe, and began to smoke. Flemming was lost in a day-dream. But, as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters, never to be effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature, Lords of the Public Domain of Thought.
Flemming gave him a piece of gold; and after a short conversation he seated himself, at alittle distance on the grass, and began to play and sing. Wonderful and many were the sweet accords and plaintive sounds that came from that little instrument, touched by the student's hand.
"So you have returned much sooner than you intended;" said Flemming, after the first friendly salutations. "Yes," replied Berkley; "I got tired of Ischel, very tired. I did not find the friends there, whom I expected. Now I am going back to Salzburg, and then to Gastein. There I shall certainly find them. You must go with me."
No charms or graces in a woman, however, could much surprise Flemming; he accepted them as matters of course; to him all women were charming in various degrees. He had that general susceptibility which preserves us the breed of bachelors. The constant victim of a series of minor emotions, he was safe from any major passion.
At any rate he now has his own way to make, and I commend him to your kindness, if I have not exhausted it. Your affectionate nephew, J. FLEMMING. Five or six days after this letter reached Mr. Bowlsby, Mr. Edward Lynde presented himself in the directors' room of the Nautilus Bank. The young man's bearing confirmed the favorable impression which Mr.
The Baron had fallen fast asleep in his chair; but Flemming sat listening with excited imagination, and the Professor continued in the following words, which, to the best of his listener's memory, seemed gleaned here and there from Fichte's Destiny of Man, and Shubert's History of the Soul. "Life is one, and universal; its forms many and individual.
Silently they floated back to Saint Gilgen, amid the cool evening shadows. The village clock struck nine as they landed; and as Berkley was to depart early in the morning, he went to bed betimes. On bidding Flemming good night he said; "I shall not see you in the morning; so good bye, and God bless you. Remember my partingwords. Never mind trifles.
"You seem to take it for granted," interrupted Flemming, "that, in our reveries, the soul really goes out of the body into distant places, instead of summoning up their semblance within itself by the power of memory and imagination!" "Something I must take for granted," replied the Professor. "We will not discuss that point now. I speak not without forethought.
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