The next day brought with it a little domestic difficulty, which
indirectly and strangely associated itself with the coming end.
My wife received a letter, inviting us to assist in celebrating the
"Silver Wedding" of two worthy German neighbors of ours--Mr. and Mrs.
Beldheimer. Mr. Beldheimer was a large wine grower on the banks of the
Moselle. His house was situated on the frontier line of France and
Germany; and the distance from our house was sufficiently considerable to
make it necessary for us to sleep under our host's roof. Under these
circumstances, if we accepted the invitation, a comparison of dates showed
that we should be away from home on the morning of the first of March.
Mrs. Fairbank--holding to her absurd resolution to see with her own eyes
what might, or might not, happen to Francis Raven on his birthday--flatly
declined to leave Maison Rouge. "It's easy to send an excuse," she said,
in her off-hand manner.
I failed, for my part, to see any easy way out of the difficulty. The
celebration of a "Silver Wedding" in Germany is the celebration of
twenty-five years of happy married life; and the host's claim upon the
consideration of his friends on such an occasion is something in the
nature of a royal "command." After considerable discussion, finding my
wife's obstinacy invincible, and feeling that the absence of both of us
from the festival would certainly offend our friends, I left Mrs.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354