The world of spirits is a favourite topic with your aristocratic dilettanti, and every Austrian familyqui se respectehas its spectre.
The Zinsenburgs have their White Lady, the Truyns their magnificent four-in-hand, which, as the fore-runner of any terrible domestic calamity, rattles past the windows of the Truynburg in the Bohemian forest--no one knows whither or whence.--The Kamenz family have only a black hand that inscribes weird characters of fire on the walls; the Lodrins have their blind woman who is heard laughing when disgrace or misfortune threatens the family. Of all the family spectres in Bohemia this laughing, blind woman is the most grisly. Her origin dates from dim antiquity. The legend runs that in the eleventh or twelfth century a knight, Wolf von Lodrin, married in accordance with a family arrangement, but with no love on the bride's part, a beautiful and noble maiden. Inflamed with passion for her, and finding it impossible to win her affection, in an evil hour, and in a fit of devilish rage, he struck her across the face with his riding-whip, and blindness followed the blow. Overcome by horror at what he had done the knight fell into a brooding melancholy, and at last killed himself. When his blind widow was told of it, she laughed; she herself lived to be a hundred years old, but after the knight's suicide she never spoke a single word,--only every time that any calamity befell the family, or one of its sons suffered disgrace she could be heard laughing. It was this blind spectre that still haunted Tornow. Formerly she had been seen frequently, it was said, a tall figure in grey, with a black bandage over her eyes, and an uncanny smile upon her pale lips, and the apparition always preceded some dire family misfortune. Her laugh had last been heard the day before Oswald's birth, wherefore it was feared that either the mother or the child would die, or that the Countess would give birth to some monster. But when a beautiful boy was born, and the mother recovered after her confinement much sooner than had been predicted, the blind Cassandra rather fell into disrepute, especially as both the Count and Countess set their faces against any belief in her existence, the Count because of his devout religious faith, and the Countess because she was too enlightened to encourage any such superstition.
Oswald had never bestowed much thought upon the spectre, merely smiling in a superior way when it was mentioned, but in the present excited, irritated state of his nerves even the superstitious gossip of his old servants made an impression upon him. During the rest of the evening, however, he put forth all his force to obliterate the impression that his irritability at the whist-table had made upon Truyn and Pistasch. And he succeeded; but when, after all the guests had departed, he retired to his room for the night his strength was exhausted. The old torture assailed him, only it was even keener and more agonizing than that which he had brought with him from Prague. He tossed his head from side to side on his pillow in feverish sleeplessness. Endowed from boyhood with that faultless courage which is rather a matter of temperament than of education, to-night for the first time in his life he was thrilled with a vague dread. Every noise, however slight, made him catch his breath with a suffocating sense of oppression.
At last his eyes closed in troubled and restless sleep, but his anguish pursued him in his dreams. He seemed to be lying upon a meadow of emerald green, with bright flowers blooming all around, and gay butterflies fluttering here and there, while above him arched the cloudless blue, lit up by golden sunshine. Suddenly he felt the earth beneath him move, and he began slowly to sink into it. Overcome with horror he tried to arise, but the more he tried the deeper he sank into what was loathsome, slimy mud. He awoke, bathed in cold perspiration, gasping for breath, his heart beating wildly.
He gazed around; everything wore a weird unwonted look in the half-light of the summer night that encircled every object with a halo of grey mist. Through the open windows the heavy, sultry air floated in and out. He listened,--everywhere was silence, all nature lay as under the ban of an evil spell. Then a stir broke the silence,--did something rustle softly?--he seemed to hear the very wings of the night-moths fluttering above the flowers. His father's death mask glared white through the gloom; it grew longer and longer as if fain to descend from where it hung---- What was that----? a low chuckle seemed to sound behind the very wall beside him! The bodiless shadows floated hither and thither and suddenly grouped themselves in one spot; a tall grey figure with bandaged eyes and white lips drawn into a scornful smile stood leaning against the wall--it moved! It glided to his bed; uttering a cry he grasped at it; it vanished and he fell back on his pillow.
A few minutes afterward a light step approached his door, the latch was cautiously lifted, and his mother in a long white dressing-gown, holding a lighted candle in a little flat candlestick, entered. Her bedroom was just beneath his, and she had heard his cry. "Ossi!" she called gently.
"Yes, mother!"
"What was the matter?"
"I had a bad dream."
She lit the candles upon his table and leaned over him, scanning his features, startled by their ghastly pallor. "What is the matter with you, Ossi?--I cannot endure any longer to see you silently suffering such pain and distress."
"Nothing," he said dully--"nothing."
"Nothing! Can you--will you say that to me,--to me, your mother! A while ago, when you returned from Prague, I thought you changed, but you soon recovered; yet all last evening I was conscious that you were tormented by some secret anguish. For God's sake, tell me what it is." As she spoke she stroked his arms soothingly from the shoulder downwards. "If you only knew what torture it is to me to see you suffer without being able to help you, or at least to share your pain with you!"
The nameless magic of her presence affected him more powerfully than ever--her tender caress produced in him the delightful, languid sensation of convalescence. For a moment he half-resolved to tell her everything, that she might once for all allay his pain. But his cheek flushed,--how could he?--no, he must master it of himself. He pressed both her hands to his lips.--"Do not ask me, mother, I pray you," he murmured, "how often must I repeat that I cannot, try as I may, tell you everything."
The Countess gravely shook her head. "That excuse does not satisfy me; I can understand that it is easier to speak of certain things to a father than to a mother, but don't you know that never since your boyhood have I tried to keep you in leading-strings? When did I ever play the spy upon your actions, or meddle with what did not concern a mother?"
"Never, mother dear, so long as I was well and happy," he assented, involuntarily adopting a tone of tender raillery, "but, if I happened to hang my head,--oh, then, you were sometimes very indiscreet."
"A son who is ill or unhappy is always about two years old for his mother," she said. "Come now, confess; I am an old woman, you can speak out before me. I am convinced that your exaggerated conscientiousness is leading you to magnify some very commonplace affair;--an old love scrape is perhaps casting a shadow over your betrothal...."
"You are mistaken, mamma, there is nothing to trouble me in my past; it is all as if it had never been."
"Well, then, what troubles you?"
For a moment he did not speak, then he said in a low tone rather hastily, "A wretched nervousness--sorry fancies! Can you believe it?--just before you came in, I saw plainly, as plainly as I see you, the laughing blind woman come towards me!"
"Are you beginning to suffer from the Lodrin hallucinations?" the Countess exclaimed.
The 'Lodrin hallucinations,'--she uttered the words carelessly, without reflection. His soul drank them in thirstily.
"Apparently, mamma, but I shall get rid of them, I shall certainly get rid of them," he replied in a clear, joyous voice.
"And what other fancies did your nerves suggest?" she asked, scrutinizing his face anxiously.
"Loathsome imaginings which sullied my heart and soul, and which I tried in vain to banish, foul suspicions of those whom I venerate most. I was free from them in your presence only, mother, and that is why I have come to you so often of late; these phantoms never dare to assail me when I am with you!"
The Countess arose and extinguished the candles; for a while there was silence.
"Mother," he said softly, and almost overpowered by sleep as he took her hand in his, "tell me what it is that rays out from your hallowed eyes, with power to chase all shadows from my soul?"
Again there was silence. For a few minutes she listened to his calm regular breathing. He had fallen asleep.
With hands folded in her lap, deadly pale, and with a look of horror in her eyes, she remained seated on the edge of the bed. The day had just dawned when she arose. Oswald half awoke and opened his eyes. "You here still, mamma? Oh what a delicious sleep I have had!"
"Sleep on, my child," she whispered, leaning over him and kissing his brow, before she left the room. She glided slowly along the corridor, her hand upon her heart. "Shall I have the strength," she murmured, "shall I have the strength?"
If he could only have got hold of these Lodrins,--if he could only have found an opportunity to speak with them, he could have humbled their pride before now, the Conte said to himself. He was still endeavouring to find some such opportunity; yesterday he had positively forced his friend the Baroness Melkweyser to drive over at last to Tornow to lay at the feet of the Countess Lodrin the antique set of china, albeit not in the name of the Conte Capriani, but of her humble servant, Doctor Alfred Stein. He was curious to hear what Zoë would have to tell, but after her return from Tornow Zoë had incontinently retired to her apartment with a violent headache, and the request that a cup of strong tea might be sent to her.
The headache lasted all through the next forenoon to the great vexation of the Conte, who was, moreover, in extreme bad humour. He was annoyed by a trifle, a perfectly absurd trifle, but it had sufficed to stir up all the gall in his nature. Hismaître d'hôtelhad given him warning this morning, or, as that worthy expressed it, had handed in his resignation. When the Conte, who set great store by him, asked him his reason for so doing, and whether his salary was not sufficiently large, Monsieur Leloir, with the respectful air proper to the well-trained servant that he was, but with a distinctness that left nothing to be desired, replied that the salary corresponded to his wishes, and he had nothing to object to in the treatment that he had received, but--he felt too lonely, secluded,--"Monsieur le Comte voit trop peu de monde."
Two highly satisfactory messages, brought him shortly afterwards by the telegraph that connected his study at Schneeburg with the business world, did not suffice to drive this vexatious occurrence from his mind. He looked considerably sallower than usual when he appeared at lunch. All the rest were seated at table when the Baroness Melkweyser appeared. In her character of convalescent she wore a gorgeous, brocade dressing-gown upon which was portrayed a forest of gigantic sunflowers against an olive-green background. Otherwise she betrayed no indication of feeble health; her appetite was particularly reassuring.
"You are very subject to headache nowadays," said the Conte, in a tone of reproof.
Instead of replying Zoë helped herself for the second time to omelette with truffles, and Parmesan cheese.
"Perhaps the long drive was too fatiguing," suggested the mistress of the house, always kindly desirous of atoning for her husband's rudeness.
"Had you a pleasant visit at Tornow?" asked Fermor.
"It is always pleasant to see dear old friends again," said Zoë curtly. Her mood was undeniably irritable; apparently she had laid in a stock of arrogance at Tornow, that would last her several days.
"I really must go over to Tornow," said Fermor, "I trust, Baroness, that you did not mention my having been here so long; the Countess might well think it very strange that I had not been over to see her." Kilary smiled, and Fermor went on in his affected, drawling way. "Very admirable people, the Lodrins, but they are not very interesting to me;--they are too matter-of-fact;--they have too little feeling for art."
After lunch, whilst Fermor was testifying to the depth of his feeling for art, by improvising on the grand piano an accompaniment to a new ode by Paul Angelico, who, in his immortal waterproof, draped like Sophocles, stood opposite and read the ode aloud in a sonorous voice out of a little volume bound in red morocco, Capriani took occasion to draw Zoë Melkweyser aside that he might ask: "Did you have any opportunity yesterday to deliver my message to the Countess Lodrin?"
"Yes," replied Zoë drily.
"And what answer have you brought me?"
"The Countess says she is quite ready to purchase the china of you."
"To purchase it of me!" repeated the Conte, pale with anger, "but my dear Zoë,"--in moments of great excitement the Conte was wont to call the Baroness by her first name,--"but my dear Zoë what did you propose to her?"
"Exactly what you told me."
"Indeed?"--the Count drew closer to her, and leaned forward,--"did you tell her that I laid the china at her feet, not in the name of the Count Capriani, but of the Doctor Stein whom she knew years ago in the Riviera?"
"Yes, and I told her that you said you had formerly attended the Count, her husband."
"Well?"
"She replied--do you really wish to hear her reply."
"Yes."
"Well, then, she replied, 'that may possibly be so, but I do not remember it.'"
The Conte grew still paler, and his face wore an ugly expression;--he picked up a paper-knife of beautiful oriental workmanship, and began to toy with it restlessly.
"I beg you to observe," Zoë began, "that I am entirely innocent in this matter. You certainly remember that I postponed for weeks the delivery of your message, and that I fulfilled your commission reluctantly at last. I told you beforehand what the result would be; but you were so perfectly sure that the Countess would remember the name of Stein...."
"What's the matter?" asked Kilary approaching them. "What agitates you so, my dear Capriani."
"The Conte is determined to prove to me that nothing can withstand his power, not even a paperknife," said Zoë sharply, pointing to the one which the Conte was bending.
"Or the Lodrin arrogance," observed Kilary, "eh? My dear Capriani, in my native town in Upper Austria they have an old proverb, 'What can't be lifted must be let alone.' Now if you would only take this proverb to heart you would save yourself a vast amount of time and vexation."
Just then the paper-knife snapped in two, and the Conte threw the pieces on the floor.
"Who is riding past?" asked the baroness, with undisguised curiosity, leaning out of the window by which she had been standing.
"It must be Count Kamenz," said Ad'lin, who had been busy encouraging by her applause the united, artistic efforts of Fermor and Paul Angelico, "I am surprised that he has not paid us a visit before now."
"No, it is the Lodrin cousins," said Kilary, "they are evidently going to see Malzin."
Ad'lin looked disappointed. And the Conte turning away from the Baroness and Kilary began to pace the room slowly to and fro. After a while he paused in front of his wife, who with a sadder face than usual was cutting out her cretonne flowers. "You went to see the Malzins to-day,--how is he?"
"Very ill; unlike other consumptives, he is perfectly aware of his condition, and consequently the future of his children lies heavy on his heart. I did my best to comfort him--but that was little enough." "Do you know whether he still proposes to go to Gleichenberg?" her husband interrupted her.
"Yes, he is getting ready to go. Müller, the old nurse voluntarily offered to accompany him; she could not find it in her heart to have him waited upon and tended by strangers."
But Müller's touching devotion did not interest Capriani in the least. "This is evidently just the time to talk with him about the vault," he said as if to himself.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Frau von Capriani startled out of her usual submissive gentleness,--"with an invalid!" ....
"Come, come, let us have no sentimentality!" he interrupted her sharply. "You know I understand nothing of the kind."
In his childhood, beside his father's sick-bed, Oswald had learned how to treat an invalid with rare tenderness; but what he never had been taught nor could have been taught,--what was his very own nature,--was his impetuous, untiring kindheartedness, a kindheartedness that was never content with passively theorizing, but always refused to discontinue effort even in the case of the most distressing emergencies, and always longed to soothe with hope the pain which it could not cure.
Fritz, on the day after the dinner, had sent a note to Tornow, telling of his sad condition and of his projected journey to Gleichenberg, and Oswald and Georges had instantly ridden over to Schneeburg, where they found Fritz coughing incessantly, propped up with pillows in a large easy-chair before his writing-table, painfully endeavouring to write out his last will. Ten minutes of Oswald's presence sufficed to cause life to wear a different aspect for Fritz. Oswald scolded him for giving them all such a fright with that desponding note of his, protested that a man looking as well as he did had no right to depress his friends with melancholy forebodings, told of the miracles wrought by Gleichenberg on many of his acquaintances, and declared that 'a mere hemorrhage' was of very little consequence, particularly in cases like Fritz's where consumption was not in the family.
"I had one, when I was a volunteer, after parade one day," he concluded, "and I never should know it to-day."
"That must have been something different, Ossi," said Fritz, laughing at his friend's earnestness;--the laugh brought on a violent fit of coughing. Oswald put his arm around him and supported his head;--"it will soon be over, hand him a glass of water, Georges, there...."
"However low down a fellow may be, it lightens his heart to look into your eyes, Ossi," said Fritz, taking breath after the cough had gone.
"You're right there, Fritz," Georges agreed, "and yet there's no more inflammable, and momentarily unjust man in the world, than he."
"Yes, but then...." began Fritz.
"Now be quiet," Oswald ordered, "the best thing for you to do would be to lie down for a while, and we will do our best to entertain you without making you laugh."
"Thanks," said Fritz, "but I .... I should like to say something to you. When a man stands on the brink of the grave...."
"Aha, you are posing again as an interesting invalid," Oswald rallied him; "well--Georges, go down stairs and pay your respects to Pipsi, there's a good fellow; I hear her chattering with her little brother beneath the window;--I know how pleased Fritz is with your visit, but, just now, you are a little in the way."
Georges laughed, and withdrew bowing low.
They were left alone in the long, low room; against the windows the leaves of the old apricot-trees rustled dreamily, and the air was fragrant with the scent of the last flowers of summer. The portraits of Fritz's parents and of their Imperial Majesties looked down from the wall, their outlines rather vague in the darkened apartment, and on the old door-jamb, scored with the children's names a prismatic sunbeam was playing.
"Now tell me, Fritz, what is the matter? You know there is no need of any beating about the bush between us," said Oswald leaning towards the sick man, "speak low, I can hear you."
Fritz fixed his gaze upon the door-jamb where among the old names two new ones had been written, 'Pipsi five, Franzi three years old.' "God knows, I have no reason to cling to life," he said with a sigh, "and yet my heart is sore at the thought that next year I shall--make no mark there!--Poor children!--who will care for them when I am gone?" His voice broke, and it was with difficulty that he kept back the tears. "I have taken a great deal of pains with them, and hitherto they have been good little things,--at least so they seem to me ...."
"Your children are charming," was Oswald's warm assurance.
"Are they not?" gasped Fritz, and his hollow eyes sparkled, "but they are still so little--when I am dead they will run wild. Capriani will not let them starve--assuredly not; buthowwill he provide for them?--and my wife agrees with him in everything--that is the worst of it;--Ossi, in my will I have expressed a wish that my children should be separated from their mother. She does not care for them very much; I think she would be glad to be rid of the burden of bringing them up .... and I have begged you--you will not take it ill of me, Ossi,...." he hesitated.
"Would you like me to be their guardian?"
"Ah, Ossi!"
"Then that is settled," said Oswald, holding out his hand, "and, moreover, my mother told me to tell you that when I am married she should have nothing more to do, and would take pleasure in attending to the education of your little ones. You can hardly ask anything better for them."
"Ah, Ossi, your mother is an angel!"
"Indeed she is," said Oswald gravely.
"She is well?"
"No, she was very weary to-day at dinner, she had a sleepless night from anxiety on my account--my poor mother! And now since your mind is easy on all points, old fellow, it is to be hoped that you'll torment yourself no longer with gloomy forebodings, but do your best to get well and strong. Let us recall our poor exiled Georges, shall we not--ça! who's there? some one knocked!"
"Come in!" said Fritz.
Conte Capriani entered, a roll of parchment in his hand.
Oswald winced.
"For Heaven's sake stay," panted Fritz, holding his friend fast by the wrist.
"Yes, pray stay, my dear Count," said Capriani, who must have heard Fritz's words, or had understood his gesture. "I knew that I should meet you here, but what I have to arrange with our friend, Malzin, might as well be discussed before a hundred witnesses. I am really glad to see you again--our last conversation came to so sudden a termination," and the Conte familiarly held out his hand to the young man.
Oswald measured him from head to foot with a haughty glance, and put his hand in his pocket. Then leaning his elbow upon the high back of Fritz's easy-chair, he stood motionless while Capriani angrily pushed a chair near to the table and sat down.
"So, my dear Malzin, you are off for Gleichenberg," he began, with his left thumb stuck into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, and his right hand resting on the roll of parchment on his knee.
Oswald's gaze was fixed with a strange curiosity upon the face of the stock-gambler; all the loathsome ideas which had sullied his soul of late recurred to him; how disgraceful, nay how ridiculous his foul suspicions seemed when confronted with the flesh and blood Capriani.
Meanwhile the Conte, irritated to the last degree by the young Count's cold stare, continued, "You must, of course, be desirous of settling your affairs, Malzin, before your departure. Under present circumstances you ought to be glad to be able to provide for the future of your children."
"Certainly; I have discussed it fully with my relatives," murmured Fritz, trembling with agitation, and clasping his thin hands on the table.
"Discussed?--that can lead to nothing," Capriani asserted, "I see, I see, the same loose way of attending to business. A matter of such importance ought to be definitely settled. It is time for you to listen to reason, as regards that vault; of course we all hope that you will return from Gleichenberg sound and well, but we must be prepared for the worst. If you close your eyes to this you leave your children unprovided for, and you, you alone will be to blame, seeing that by merely executing this deed of sale for that burial-vault--downright rubbish--you will receive the extremely handsome and liberal sum of thirty thousand gulden. Now, pray be reasonable."
The Conte spread the parchment out on the table before Fritz, dipped a pen in the ink, and handed it to him.
The tears came into the wretched man's eyes. "My poor children!" he groaned and took the pen.
On the instant Oswald snatched the fateful parchment from the table, and threw it on the floor; "You shall not sign it, Fritz!" he exclaimed, his voice hoarse with indignation; then turning to the Conte, he said sharply, "You see that my cousin is not equal to the excitement of an interview like the present. May I beg you to leave us?"
The Conte sprang up, his breath came in quick gasps, and a dark menace shot from the eyes that he rivetted upon the young man's face.
"May I beg you to leave the room," Oswald repeated with icy disdain.
"You show me to the door?"--the Conte said, beside himself with rage,--"you dare to do this to me--you--were not my hints the other day plain enough?...."
Oswald lost all self-control; "Scoundrel! Liar!" he gasped hoarsely. His riding-whip lay on the table--he seized it and pointed to the door; "Begone!" he thundered.
For an instant Capriani hesitated, baleful threatening flashing in his eyes. "I am going," he said, "but you shall hear from me!" and the door closed behind him.
Quivering with rage, Oswald turned about. "My God! Fritz ....!" he exclaimed in terror. Fritz had risen from his chair, and after advancing a step, had fallen drenched in blood beside his couch!
The hemorrhage had at last been arrested, the doctor sent for, and the sick man put to bed. Oswald was sitting beside him, awaiting the arrival of the physician. From time to time he whispered a comforting word to the invalid or gave him a bit of ice. Some one gently lifted the latch of the door. "Ossi!" Georges called softly.
"Well?"
"Capriani has sent this note to you."
"To me? Let me have it."
Oswald took the note and retired to the bedside again. Shortly afterward he appeared in the adjoining room where Georges was, his eyes filled with gloom, his face ghastly pale.
"What does the dog say?"
"He asks where his second can find me, as I might not like to receive him beneath my mother's roof. He is right--!"
"Second?" Georges interrupted him. "Have you quarrelled?"
"Yes, he was insolent to me and to Fritz, and so I called him a scoundrel and turned him out of the room."
"And you are going to accept his challenge?"
"Yes!"
"You, you mean to fight with Conte Capriani--with a wretched swindler, with no claim to the satisfaction of a gentleman? Are you insane? Do you not see how such a duel must degrade you?--Show me his letter that I may know what to do, and then let me go to him. I assure you that the matter can be settled in a quarter of an hour; it is nothing but empty brag on his part."
"I tell you that I insist upon this duel," exclaimed Oswald, beside himself.
"Upon a duel with an adventurer who, with his money, comes from no one knows where? It is impossible, downright impossible! Show me his letter."
Oswald changed colour, felt in his pocket--"I have not got it,--I threw it away--" he stammered disconnectedly, "moreover, the letter has nothing to do with the matter. Go to him,--it is against all rule,--but I will not have his seconds cross my threshold. One second is enough for me, I will not have another dragged into this disgusting affair. Arrange everything with Kilary, and as soon as possible--pistols!"
"Pistols?--at thirty-five paces?"
"Fifteen if he chooses,--or for all I care across a handkerchief!"
Georges went close up to his cousin, and looked into his eyes as if to read his very soul; then he drew a long breath and said, "You are not alone in the world, Ossi,--you have a mother and a betrothed who idolize you! and yet you would hazard your life for the sake of a single angry outburst, for a mere whim; you would accept the challenge of a man who, spurred on by envy and wounded vanity, is capable of anything, and to die by whose hand could only disgrace you? And all because--because you are possessed for the moment by some fixed delusion which makes life intolerable to you!" Oswald winced. Georges went on, "The only one who could gain anything by your death is myself,--and God knows I would give my life at any moment to save yours! I do not grudge you the position that you occupy."
"What do you mean? What stuff are you talking," Oswald interrupted him imperiously; his face was still ashy pale, and his voice sounded harsh--"'You do not grudge me the position that I occupy!'--Perhaps you think you have a right to it?"
"But, Ossi!--How can you--? you are beside yourself--you are insane!" ejaculated Georges, utterly confounded.
"Yes, yes,--I have known it for some time, Georges, I am losing my reason!" Oswald murmured in broken, weary tones. He groped for support, sank into a chair, and covering his face with his hands, sobbed like a child.
There was a long pause. At last Oswald raised his head. "Now, go!" he said in a sharp tone of command, such as he had never before used to his cousin. "Go to him--pistols--and soon. If you will not go, I will send Pistasch,--judge for yourself whether that would improve matters!"
And Georges shrugged his shoulders and went.
As soon as he was alone Oswald took the Conte's fateful letter from his pocket, and read it through once more.
No! he had read it aright, there it stood in black and white!.... "After what I have thus told you," so the letter concluded, "it is evident that a duel between us two can be nothing but a mere formality--it is, however, a formality which I demand as due to my honour as a man ...."
He must go to his mother and show her the letter; there was nothing else to be done--nothing--! He must know whether he had the right to shoot him down like a dog, or .... He was overcome by a sudden dizziness, and the thought occurred to him, 'What if I should faint away, and some one should find this letter here and read it--!' He rose, lit a match and burnt the letter, with a feeling akin to relief when nothing remained of the disgraceful document, save a few ashes.
George's words recurred to him; evidently Georges suspected something wrong, that was clear,--but what? the contents of that letter he could not suspect. But what if it were true? What if some one should discover it? Every one would flee from him, even those who had loved him most. And on a sudden he himself felt a fearful, paralysing disgust at the blood in his veins! A dull lump seemed to rise in his throat,--it choked him. 'But it cannot be,' he said to himself, 'it cannot be.' Then he sat still for a long time, scarcely daring even to think; he himself did not know for how long, but when at last the door opened and Georges entered, he noticed that it had begun to grow dark.
"Well--the affair is settled!" began Georges gloomily.
"For when?"
"To-morrow morning at six o'clock--devil that he is, it could not be soon enough for him; he pretended that he must leave for Paris in the evening; probably he thought that if the duel were delayed you might reconsider it, and instead of giving him satisfaction for the insult of which he complains, add to it the thrashing which he deserves."
Oswald sat leaning his head on his hand and did not speak.
"God knows, I would not have gone to him," Georges went on, "if I had not hoped to arrange matters amicably, even against your will,--if I had not thought I could persuade him to withdraw his crazy challenge! But the swindler has resolved to fight you; it is the greatest social triumph that he has achieved in all the years that he has been trying to climb. Kilary told me, in so many words, that it was only for show, that it was to be a mere formality,--but--. Even that cynic, Kilary, declares that he cannot understand your condescension. Well, you rank so high in public opinion, that people will only wonder at your eccentricity. Will you say good-bye to Fritz, or shall we go immediately?"
Fritz had fallen asleep, Oswald would not disturb him, and so they rode off.
There must have been a storm in the neighbourhood; the air had grown cooler, a light wind whirled the dust aloft. Heavy broken clouds were driving overhead, and where the sun had set there was a glow as of a conflagration, as if the sun in descending had set fire to the clouds. The red light slowly faded, and all colours were merged in melancholy, uniform gray.
The two men rode on in silence, which was broken at last by Oswald; "Georges, I know that if this affair turns out badly to-morrow you will be blamed for your share in it, blameless though you be. Wherefore I will leave a letter behind me, telling how I absolutely forced you to be my second."
"What an idea!" exclaimed Georges angrily; then he added affectionately--"if so terrible a misfortune should occur, I should have neither heart nor head to care what people said! Moreover, after what Kilary told me, there can be no chance of any tragical conclusion to the affair."
"One never can tell," rejoined Oswald.
Georges was startled, and after a short pause began. "Don't be childish, Ossi! It depends entirely upon you whether this duel ends harmlessly or not;--there's not much honour to be gained in provoking a mad dog. Since you condescend--to my utter mystification--to fight with Capriani, do not irritate him by disdainful conduct on the ground. A very minute portion of courtesy will suffice to satisfy him,--but thus much is absolutely necessary!"
Oswald made no reply. After a while he turned his horse. "Where are you going?" asked Georges.
In a constrained, unnatural voice Oswald replied. "You ride on towards home, I should like to go to Rautschin to see Gabrielle, before...."
Georges, who had failed to understand so much in his cousin's behaviour through the day, thought this desire at least quite natural. He let Oswald go, and rode on alone to Tornow. He looked round once after Oswald, and was surprised to see him ride so slowly,--he was walking his horse.
What the young man wanted was,--not to clasp his betrothed in his arms,--all that he wanted by this prolongation of his ride was the postponement of the interview with his mother. When he reached Rautschin he stopped short and looked up at the windows of the castle. He thought of the first happy days of his betrothal in Paris; image after image passed before his mind with beguiling sweetness;--for a moment he forgot everything.
The windows of the corner drawing-room where the family were wont to pass their evenings were open;--he listened. He could hear them talking, and could distinguish Zinka's soft, somewhat veiled tones, and the sweet, childlike voice of his betrothed, but without catching her words;--once he heard her laugh merrily, almost ungovernably. When was it that he had last heard that very laugh? He shuddered,--it was on the evening of his betrothal in the Avenue Labédoyère--when Zoë Melkweyser had unfolded her ridiculous mission.
And from out the past resounded distinctly on his ear; "Gabrielle and the son of the Conte Capriani--! Gabrielle and the son of Capriani!"
He struck his forehead with his fist.--Over the low wall on this side of the castle, that separated the park from the road, hung the branch of a rose-bush heavy with Marèchale Niel roses. Oswald plucked one, kissed it, and tossed it through the open window of the drawing-room. "Good-night, Gabrielle!" he called up.
When she came to the window to bid him welcome, she saw only a horseman enveloped in a cloud of dust trotting quickly past the castle in the direction of the little town.
Night had set in, and Oswald had not yet returned to Tornow. The Countess was waiting for him, sitting beside a table whereon stood a lamp with a rose-coloured shade. Georges had told her that her boy had gone round by the way of Rautschin, which she had thought quite natural, but none the less was she anxious for his return.
The clock struck a quarter past ten; perhaps he had returned after all and had not come to her. But no, he would certainly have come to ask after her health; he had thought her looking ill to-day, and had been anxious about her, had tenderly begged her to lie down for a while to recover the sleep that she had lost on his account. She had tried to smile at him unconcernedly, but it had been a hard task; a casual remark by Pistasch that morning had informed her of Oswald's interview with Capriani in Prague, at which no one else had been present, and which had agitated him excessively. She divined his misery. His love for her, and his confidence in her were so unbounded that he regarded his torturing suspicion as anidée fixe. Perhaps this temporary distress of his would pass away without its cause ever being mentioned between them. God grant it might! But if not? If he should come to her to-day or to-morrow and say 'Mother I cannot of myself be rid of this,--forgive me, mother, if I lay down at your feet this burden that oppresses me, and beg you to soothe my pain!'
She shuddered as this possibility occurred to her. What answer should she make? 'Shall I have the strength to lie?' she asked herself, and then she told herself, 'I must find the strength; what do I care about myself? My whole life for years has been falsehood and deceit,--but he must have peace--his life I must save!'
She knew that if she could succeed in uttering this lie calmly, his suspicion would be laid at rest forever, that no evidence in the world would prevail with him against her word. How she should continue to live on after this lie, was quite another thing, but she could die, and God knew she would willingly lay down her life for her child.
She tried to shake off these evil forebodings. All that she dreaded might never come to pass; surely she might succeed, by preserving a calm, circumspect demeanour, in slaying his doubt, in destroying his suspicion without recurring to a direct falsehood.
Poor woman! Upright to a rare degree as was her nature in its essence, it became distorted beneath the terrible burden weighing on her, and she was ready to resort to every petty artifice that could afford her any stay in her miserably false position! She had buried her sin deep, deep, and had reared above it a wondrous temple sacred to all that is fairest, noblest, and most unselfish in the world. So grand and firm was this temple towering aloft to the blue skies, that she dreamed it would endure forever. She trusted it would. Out of love for her child she had grown devout. For years she had prayed the same prayer every evening: "Oh God! I thank Thee for my dear, noble child--accept his excellence, as an atonement for my sin!"
She believed that God had heeded her prayer, nay, she even believed, in her boundless affection for her child, that God had wrought a miracle in her behalf! She forgot that the great mysterious Power that shapes our destinies never transgresses the laws that it has made, and that the consequences of our guilt inexorably pursue their way, until their natural expiation is fulfilled. In this case that expiation took a shape far different from any that a mother's tender heart could have devised.
The clock had struck eleven. Her anxiety increased although she could not have defined her dread. Her windows were open, she listened;--at last there was the sound of hoofs, the jingle of a bit and bridle. She breathed a sigh of relief.
A few moments elapsed, and then a weary, lagging step came along the corridor to her door;--why did that step instantly reveal to her that the decisive moment had come? There was a knock at her door,--Oswald entered. "Forgive me for disturbing you so late, mamma," he said in a tone lacking all animation, "I saw your light from below...."
"Late?--it is hardly eleven o'clock; you know that you never disturb me, dear child. Since when have you learned to knock at my door? The next thing you will send in your name."
The forced gayety of her tone did not escape him. "Oh, I did not know--I--" he murmured vaguely, dropping, without kissing, the hand which she extended to him; then he took a seat near her, but outside of the little oasis of light shed by the lamp on the table beside the Countess.
"You came home by the way of Rautschin?"
"Yes."
"Are they all well there?"
"I do not know; I did not go in, it was too late."
"And Fritz? How is the poor fellow?"
"Very ill!"
"Did you give him my message?"
"Yes, he sends you his thanks."
Oswald seemed metamorphosed. Never before had he answered her so curtly; she glanced at him anxiously, he was sitting leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head resting on his hand like one longing to carry out a terrible resolve.
A distressing silence ensues. He feels as if he were about to ask of a competent authority whether or not there be a God. He cannot bring himself to do it, and then too how shall he shape the fearful question?--how can he utter anything so vile in her presence?--he who all his lifelong would rather have blasphemed in a church than have spoken an evil syllable before his mother!
The minutes pass; tick, tick, goes the antique watch with the silver face on the Countess's writing-table. He clears his throat.
"Mother!" he begins.
She interrupts him. "I feel very ill, Ossi!" she says, rising with difficulty from her arm-chair, "give me your arm, I should like to go to bed."
But he gently urges her back in her chair again. "Only a moment, mother; I have something to say to you,--I cannot spare you!"
"Well--say it then!" She sits erect, deadly pale, clutching the arms of her chair; he stands before her, one hand resting on the table, his eyes cast down.
"It will not pass my lips," he murmurs, "it will not;--myidée fixehas assailed me again with a strength that I cannot master, try as I may,--it perverts and absorbs my sense of duty, my conscientiousness.--Mother....!" the blood rushes to his face, "Mother--could you forgive me if, in a fit of madness, I struck you in the face?"
Can she ever forget the imploring, despairing tone of his voice?
"Yes, what do you wish?--I cannot understand--" she stammers.
He gazes at her in surprise. "Mother!" he exclaims--his breath comes short and quick, when, as though repeating memorised phrases, he says, "Capriani and I have quarrelled--to revenge himself upon me he has written me a letter in which he says that you----" he sees her sudden start--"Great God! can you dream of what he accuses you?"
She gasps for breath, her lips part, she tries with all her strength to say "no!"--has God stricken her dumb? Struggle as she may only a faint gasp issues from her lips, no word can she speak!
"Mother!" he moans, "Mother!" She is mute.
The ground seems to rock beneath his feet, the outlines of every object grow indistinct, dissolve into undefined spots of colour which fade and mingle.
For a moment he stands as if turned to stone; then he turns towards the door, walking slowly as if under a crushing weight,--on a sudden he hears the rustle of skirts behind him, two frail, ice-cold hands clasp his arm;--half-fainting his mother crouches beside him on the floor. "My son! my child!" she gasps "Have mercy!"
But he loosens the clasp of her hands, without impatience, without anger, with the apathy of a man whose heart has been slain in his breast, and leaves the room.