CHAPTER ITHE GARDEN OF EDEN
“Canyou see him, father?”
The old forester looked round, and saw his daughter coming down the narrow path, bordered with dwarf apple trees, which led from the front door of the cottage to the garden gate.
Answering by a slight shake of the head, he turned round again, and leant over the gate, resuming his occupation of drawing long slow puffs at a huge pipe which he held in one hand. The pipe had a long cherry-wood stem, ending in a deep china bowl, which was capped with a lid of copper. From the holes in this lid came thin blue spirals of smoke, which floated away till they were lost to view against the green background of forest.
Dorothea ran forward lightly, her white muslin skirts just touching the espaliers as she passed, and, coming up to the gate, leant over it beside her father. She rested her soft cheek against his arm, and gazed with dreamy eyes at the smoke-rings, trying to follow them till they dissolved in the surrounding atmosphere.
The summer heat lay like a film over the afternoon. The hush of the landscape was not even disturbed bythe call of a bird or the dry chirp of a cricket. In front of the gateway at which they stood stretched a clear space of rolling turf for one or two hundred paces, at the end of which the grass began to go out of sight beneath short undergrowth and scattered trees, the fringe of a stately woodland. To the right and left of the forester’s lodge the trees gathered in again. Behind, it was approached by a footpath over a widening tract of fields, a tongue of meadow-land thrust into the forest. Far away over the fields, had they looked, rose the faint tower of a church and the signs of a peopled land.
“It is more than two months since he first began coming here,” murmured the young girl, presently. “I wonder who he can be?”
The forester turned his head and smiled, as though there were something in his daughter’s words which caused him secret amusement. Then he took another deep puff at his pipe, and answered—
“It is best not to ask. If he wished us to know he would tell us himself. Take care to please him, without being too curious.”
“I know he comes from the Castle, so he must be one of the gentlemen of the Court,” said Dorothea, speaking slowly, as if to herself. “Who knows? perhaps he is a count.”
As she uttered the word Castle, she raised her eyes, and turned them on an opening in the forest in front, between which and the cottage gate there ran a beaten path. For, a mile and more away through that forest,there rose the royal Castle of Neustadt; and old Franz Gitten was a forester in the service of King Maximilian.
This time Franz spoke more roughly, as if ill pleased with Dorothea’s words.
“It is no business of ours who he is. As long as he likes to come here and drink our cider he is welcome. I tell you not to trouble your head about it.”
Checked in this direction, the girl let a few minutes pass before speaking again.
“I wonder why he comes here so often,” was her next remark. “Surely the wines at the Castle must be better than our cider.”
Again the forester smiled to himself, as he went on smoking without any response.
Dorothea continued—
“The King is at Neustadt now. Will you take me over, some time, father? I have never seen the King.”
Old Franz interrupted her. He raised himself up, with a grunt of satisfaction, and stood looking at the opening in the wood.
Dorothea followed the direction of his glance, and uttered an exclamation.
Two men had just emerged from the shadow of the forest, and were walking through the sheet of sunlight which lay between it and the forester’s lodge.
The ages of these two men differed by a good many years. The elder of the two was a man of over forty, tall, with auburn hair, and restless eyes which glanced perpetually from side to side as he walked along. His dress was easy—a knickerbocker suit of brown velveteen,with a loose open collar, and crimson tie, and a hat of soft black felt with a wide brim. This brim he pulled down over his face as soon as the sunlight struck upon it, and thus partly screened his features from the curious gaze of Dorothea.
“Whom is he bringing with him?” she whispered to her father. “This is the first time he has not come alone.”
The forester took no notice of the question. His attention, after the first brief look, was engaged by the other of the two companions.
In itself the younger man’s figure was not striking. He was short, and yet too slender for symmetry. It was his face which aroused interest, and, with the long straight nose and pointed chin, conveyed the curious suggestion of a younger and handsomer Don Quixote. The delicate contour of the features was like a woman’s, and there was something at once strange and fascinating in the colour of the eyes, which glowed in the bright sunshine with that pale green flame only seen in the field of a rich sunset or in the hollow of certain shells of the Indian seas. But an almost uncanny note was that struck by the young man’s costume. He wore a close-fitting suit of a shade of green exactly matching the grass across which he was walking, so that it was nearly as difficult for the eye to follow the outline of his figure as it is to pick out a green caterpillar against a leaf. This affectation was carried out even to the green acacia stick which swung between his fingers. Only his hat and boots were black, the former similar to hiscompanion’s, but enriched by the addition of a tiny band of gold lacework round the edge. He walked with a light, swift step, and as he came within view of the figures at the lodge gate his face relaxed into a pleased smile.
As the two drew near the entrance, Franz took his pipe from his mouth, and held the gate open for them to pass. At the same time he removed his hat and greeted the younger one, who entered first, with a deep bow.
“Good day, Herr Maurice,” he said, in respectful tones.
“Good day, Franz,” responded the other carelessly. “I have brought my friend, Herr Auguste, to taste your cider. And how is my little Dorothea?”
He went up to her as he spoke, took her in his arms, and kissed her on the forehead. The young girl submitted to the embrace with an unconsciousness which was more innocent than any show of bashfulness. Then he turned to his companion.
“Here, Auguste, let me present you to the Fräulein.”
The elder man gravely lifted his hat and bowed. Dorothea returned a deep curtsey, and then made a movement towards the door of the cottage.
“I will go into the house and get another glass for Herr Auguste,” she said to the one who was called Maurice.
He nodded, and, beckoning his friend to follow, led the way to a corner of the garden, where a quaint, old-fashioned arbour made a pleasant nook to shelter infrom the glare of the sun outside. In the arbour stood a rustic table, formed out of a broad slice sawn off the trunk of an oak tree, and still retaining the bark round its uneven edge. It was supported by an upright log, cut, perhaps, from a branch of the same tree. The table was set out with a tall silver flagon of antique workmanship, and a long narrow goblet of dark green glass of a manufacture peculiar to the district. The two men seated themselves on a bench of materials to match the table, and gazed thoughtfully at one another for a moment without speaking.
Presently Maurice raised his hand and gave the other a playful tap on the shoulder.
“Come, Auguste, why so serious? What do you think of my favourite, now you have seen her? Remember, I want you to tell me frankly.”
Auguste played with the glass goblet, and looked away from his friend’s eyes.
“I am wondering what would happen if I were to take you at your word,” he answered, with a smile of some cynicism.
“What do you mean?”
“It is easy to ask for a frank opinion. It is not so easy to receive it, when it does not happen to be the one we want.”
“Auguste! Why do you talk like that? Surely you cannot help liking her?”
The other man shook off his moody fit, and sat upright.
“She is perfectly charming, my dear friend. Youhave discovered a gem. I am only trying to think what you will do with it.”
The young man gave a dissatisfied frown.
“How long have you learned to be so discreet?” he said in a tone of reproach. “What have we to do with the future? Surely it is enough to enjoy this moment while it lasts? Since I found out this delightful spot, I have been happy. Your absence has been my only cause of regret; and even that I have forgotten during the hours I have spent here in the company of this beautiful child.”
“Ah,” murmured the other, with a touch of sadness, “the sunshine of love soon puts out the fire of friendship.”
“No, no,” protested Maurice, eagerly. “Do you trust me so little after all these years? When have I ever doubted you?”
He spoke earnestly. The elder man was moved. Laying his hand gently on his friend’s arm, he said softly—
“I know. You must forgive my jealousy. The only wonder is that I have had you to myself for so long.”
“And you have still. Believe me, you do not understand my feelings towards this child. Love? I hardly know whether it is love or not. And she? She, I am certain, has never guessed what brings me here day after day. I almost wish she did. I am afraid sometimes lest, if I ever speak to her of love, I shall frighten her from me altogether, like some timid bird.”
He broke off, catching the sound of footsteps on thegravel path outside. The next moment Dorothea herself appeared under the archway which led into the arbour, framed like a picture in the green trellis-work. She bore in her hand a second goblet, like the first, but with a small piece chipped out of the rim.
“You must excuse the flaw, sir,” she said, with a bright smile, as she set it down before Herr Auguste. “It was done by my cousin Johann when he was a boy.”
Rising from his seat at this moment, Maurice moved to the other side of the table, and invited Dorothea to take the place by his side; but she preferred to remain standing, and busied herself in pouring out cider for her guests. Auguste kept his eyes fixed on the pair, and shrewdly noted everything as he sipped from time to time at the pale straw-coloured beverage in the cool green chalice.
The other two kept up a half-confidential chat, during which old Franz drew slowly near, and took up a post of observation on the path outside. His face wore an expression of satisfaction, though he threw an occasional glance of suspicion at Auguste.
Suddenly, during a pause in the conversation, Maurice bethought himself, and slipped one hand into the pocket of his jacket.
“See,” he said, drawing into view a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper, “I have brought you a keepsake.”
Dorothea’s eyes sparkled. Half eagerly, half timidly, she held out her hand.
Laughingly the young man placed the packet in her outstretched palm. She tore off the wrappings, and the next instant was gazing in breathless delight at a tiny brooch, which had a bright yellow carbuncle in the centre, set round with a ring of white petals, each of them represented by a pearl.
“It is a daisy! Oh, how beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Look, father; see what Herr Maurice has given me!”
And before Maurice could check the movement, she had darted out of the arbour to show her treasure to the forester.
Franz weighed it in his hand, and inspected it with the careful eye of a dealer.
“The Herr is very generous,” he remarked approvingly. “It must be worth at least a hundred florins.”
Auguste, who overheard him, could not forbear a smile. He knew that the little brooch had been specially manufactured by the most famous jeweller in Paris, and that it had taken weeks to bring together the perfectly shaped gems which formed the petals of the flower.
But Dorothea had been appalled by the magnitude of the sum named by her father. She came back slowly, and gazed at Maurice with a look of shy alarm.
“It is too good for me,” she said doubtfully. “You might have given it to one of the ladies up at the Castle.”
Maurice laughed.
“Yes, I think I might have prevailed on one of them to accept it—what do you say, Auguste?”
“I do not know one lady of the Court on whom it would look better than on the Fräulein,” was the response.
“Come, let me see it on your neck,” said Maurice. “I think I am entitled to fasten it in its place.”
He went towards her for the purpose; and Auguste, glancing round to see if the forester were still about, strolled out of the arbour and joined him.
Left alone with Dorothea, Maurice took a more caressing tone; and the young girl, on her side, seemed to feel more at her ease. They sat side by side, and talked to each other in low tones which could not be heard outside.
After a little while, however, Dorothea noticed that her companion was in a more serious mood than was his wont. Some change seemed to have come over him, and now and again she caught him gazing at her with a meditative air, as if he wished to say something, but were doubtful how to begin.
At length, after a longer pause than usual, he said slowly—
“Have you ever been away from here, Dorothea? Have you seen anything of the outside world?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered readily. “I often go into the village, and once or twice father has taken me to Dresselburg.” This was the name of a small market town some seven miles away. “Besides,” she added, “I sometimes go to the Castle when the Court is not there, and see all over it.”
“Ah!” The young man’s face brightened, as if hehad found the opening he sought. “Do you like the Castle? Do you think you should care to come and live there yourself, and see the Court as well?”
Dorothea’s blue eyes grew round with awe.
“Oh!” she cried breathlessly, too overcome by the suggestion to take it in all at once. But the next moment she gave her head a shake which stirred all the little golden curls that fringed her face. “I do not think I should like it,” she said. “I should be afraid of all those people. And King Maximilian—if he were to speak to me I think I should sink into the earth.”
A frown crossed the young man’s face.
“Is Maximilian so very terrible, then?” he asked. “Has any one taught you to dread him?”
“No, no. It is not that. But it is because he is the King. I should feel afraid of him—I do not know why. And yet I have often wished that I could see him, if I could be hidden behind something, so that he would not know I was there.”
“You do not feel unkindly towards him, then?”
“Unkindly? Oh, no! How could I, when he is our King? I bless him every night when I say my prayers, and ask God not to let him go mad, like his father.”
The young man trembled. He allowed one or two minutes to go by in silence, and when he spoke again his voice was low and indistinct.
“Do you think,” he said slowly—“do people say, that there is any likelihood of that?”
“I never heard that,” was the answer. “But of course it is in the blood, and they say that when that is so, it may break out at any moment. Do you think it is true that Doctor Krauss, the great mind doctor, is always on the watch, and follows the King secretly wherever he goes?”
She stopped, surprised at the agitation of her companion, who had buried his face in his hands, and was stifling a groan.
“What is it, Herr Maurice?” she asked anxiously. “Are you ill? Shall I call father?”
“No. Say nothing. Take no notice.”
And he got up abruptly, and made his way out of the arbour.
In the mean time Herr Auguste had gone for a stroll round the garden with old Franz.
On the way he engaged in conversation about Dorothea.
“How old is your daughter?” he began.
“Just seventeen, Excellency.”
“Do not call me that,” said the other quickly. “I have no title, except plain Herr.”
“As the Herr pleases,” returned the forester bowing, with evident incredulity. “Dorothea is a good girl,” he added. “She does what her father tells her, in everything.”
“Humph! And pray what is to be the end of this?” He jerked his hand back in the direction of the arbour.
The old man assumed a look of impenetrable stupidity.
“I do not understand. Herr Maurice is very kind and generous. He comes here often, and has made us many presents.”
“Nonsense, man! That is not the way to talk to me. Do you think I am blind? But perhaps I ought to tell you my name, and then you may know who I am. Have you heard of Auguste Bernal?”
Franz bowed with deep respect. The name was well known to every one connected with the Court.
“His Majesty’s friend?” he said.
“Yes. Understand that my only interest in this matter is a friendly one. I wish no ill to you or your charming little daughter. But what advice am I to give to my friend Maurice? You are not a fool, and you must know what an affair like this is likely to lead to.”
The forester drew himself up and gave his questioner a cunning leer.
“I have seen to that,” he said. “I have spoken to Herr Maurice already. He has promised to make me Ranger of the forest, and to settle a pension on Dorothea for life.”
He spoke with an air of pride, like one who feels that he has done everything that can reasonably be expected of him, and come well out of a trying situation.
Bernal turned on him a look of the most profound disgust, which the forester was too absorbed in his inward self-gratulation to perceive. They walked on in silence for a short time.
“Your daughter does not understand the meaning of these attentions yet,” remarked Bernal, presently.
The father shrugged his shoulders.
“She has been well brought up,” was the response.
“By you?” asked the other, dryly.
Franz nodded, with perfect unconsciousness.
“And by her mother,” he added. “She died three years ago next midsummer.”
“Poor child!” murmured Bernal.
By this time they had completed a circuit, and were again drawing near to the arbour, from which they were in time to see the young man rush out, looking deeply disturbed. Auguste quickened his steps to come up to his friend, whom he took affectionately by the arm.
“Has anything happened?” he inquired in low tones.
“No, nothing. Do not ask me about it. It was only an accidental remark which jarred on me. But it is time for us to be going.”
Dorothea came out to them with wonder and concern written on her face.
“Good-bye, little one,” said Maurice, tenderly; and once more he embraced her.
She looked up at him humbly.
“I have not offended you, sir? You will come again?” she pleaded.
“My dear little creature, you offend me! Of course I shall come again. You do look forward to my visits, then?” he said, with a brighter face.
“Very much, sir; and so does father.”
“Ah! Well, good-bye.”
He took a step from her.
“Thank the Herr Maurice for his handsome present before he goes,” came in the tones of a drill-sergeant from the forester.
Before Dorothea could obey, Maurice had seized his friend’s arm, and was walking rapidly towards the gate, with Franz hurrying after them to open it.
Dorothea followed more slowly, and stood there beside her father to watch the two visitors disappearing among the trees.
While they were still absorbed in gazing at the opening down which the others had vanished, Dorothea gradually became aware of some subtle change in the landscape. At first she thought it must be a chillness in the air; then she fancied a cloud must have passed across the drooping sun. But no, the bright sunshine still lay on the forest, and bathed the sward before the garden gate. What was it, then? As she withdrew her eyes from the spot on which they had been fixed, she perceived with a start what had been knocking, as it were, at the door of her consciousness.
A long dark shadow, the shadow of a man coming with noiseless steps, had stolen across the grass in front of where she stood, and lay like a black pointing finger on the ground.