If Erika could have known anything of the unpleasant scene in Charlottenburg Avenue, her warm-hearted indignation would immediately have developed into vigour the germ of affection for Goswyn that already, unknown to herself, slumbered in her heart. She would certainly have committed some exaggerated, irresponsible act, which would have overthrown at a blow Goswyn's rudely-aroused, tormenting pride. She never could have borne to have another inflict upon him pain or humiliation. The entire disagreeable complication would have come to a crisis in a most touching scene, and in the end two people absolutely made for each other would have been sitting hand clasped in hand on the lounge beneath the fan-palms in Countess Lenzdorff's drawing-room, conversing in low tones, and Erika would have arrived at the sensible and agreeable conviction that there could be nothing better in the world than to share the life of a strong, noble husband to whom she could implicitly confide her happiness. The problem of her life would have found its solution, and she would have been spared the perilous errors and hard trials awaiting her in the future.
But the ugly story never reached her. The three men who had been auditors of Dorothea's coarse cruelty would have considered as a breach of honour any report of it, and the Princess Dorothea contented herself with a giggling declaration to all who chose to listen that her brother-in-law Goswyn had had the mitten from Erika Lenzdorff, without referring to the way in which her information had been procured.
Thus Erika passed the rest of the day with a rather sore, compassionate feeling in her heart, never doubting that she should have her usual ride with Goswyn the next morning, when she promised herself to be particularly amiable. All would come right, she said to herself.
But that same evening, when she was taking tea with her grandmother, old Lüdecke brought his mistress a letter which she read with evident surprise and then laid down beside her plate. She did not eat another morsel, and scarcely spoke during the meal. Observing that Erika, distressed by her silence, had also ceased eating and was anxiously glancing towards her grandmother from time to time, she asked, "Have you finished?" Her voice was unusually stern. Erika was startled. "Yes," she stammered, and, trembling in every limb, she followed her grandmother out of the dining-room and into the Countess's cheerful, cosey boudoir. There the old lady began to pace thoughtfully to and fro: she looked very dignified and awe-inspiring. Erika had never before seen her thus, walking with short impatient steps, frowning brow, and a face that seemed hewn out of marble. She began to be frightfully uncomfortable in the presence of the angry old woman, and was trying to slip away unobserved, when her grandmother barred her way and said, harshly, "Stay here: I have something to say to you, Erika."
"Yes, grandmother."
"Sit down."
Erika obeyed.
The room looked very pleasant, with its light furniture revealed in the shaded brilliancy of coloured hanging lamps. One window was open; a low rustle of leaves was wafted in through the pale-green silken curtains upon the warm languorous breath of the spring night. Her grandmother seated herself in her favourite arm-chair beside her reading-table, with Erika opposite her on a frail-looking little chair, bolt upright, with her hands in her lap, and a very distressed expression of countenance.
"This letter is from Goswyn," the old lady began, tapping the letter in her lap.
"Yes, grandmother," murmured Erika.
"You guessed it?" the old lady asked, in a hard, unnatural voice, and with an exaggerated distinctness of utterance, which were very strange to her granddaughter.
"I know his handwriting."
"H'm! You know what is in the letter?"
"How should I?" Erika's pale cheeks flushed crimson.
"How should you? Well, then, I must tell you"--she smoothed down her dress with an impatient gesture--"that you refused his offer to-day: that is what the letter contains. Surely you should know it. Such things are not done in sleep."
"Ah, yes, I know that," Erika murmured, beginning to be irritated in her turn; "but how was I to suppose that he would write it to you? I cannot see what he does it for?"
"What for? He informs me that he must deprive himself of all intercourse with us for a time, that he has obtained leave of absence and is going away from Berlin."
"But why?" exclaimed Erika. "This is perfect nonsense! It was settled that we should ride together to-morrow as usual."
"Indeed! You expected him to ride with you after you had rejected him?"
"He was perfectly agreed," Erika eagerly declared: "we parted the best of friends. I do not want to marry him, but I prize his friendship immensely. I told him so. He has surely put that in the letter. He is never unjust; he must have told you that I was nice to him. How could I help being so, when I pitied him so much?" The girl's voice trembled. "You have missed something in the letter; you must have missed something," she persisted.
Her grandmother opened the letter again, and read, first in an undertone, then aloud: "Yes, here it is: 'Never was man rejected more charmingly, with greater sweetness, than I by the Countess Erika; but it did me no good. I only thought her more bewitching than ever before in her tender kindliness,--yes, even in all her dear, child-like, awkward attempts to reconcile what in the very nature of things is irreconcilable.
"'For a while I shall be very wretched; but you know me well enough to feel sure that I shall not go through life hanging my head, any more than I shall now butt that same head against the wall. I trust that the time will come when I shall be of some use to you, my dear old friend, and, it may be, toher; but at present I am good for nothing.
"'It is best that I should retire into the background. To-morrow I leave Berlin. Forgive me for finding it impossible to take leave of you in person, and believe in the faithful devotion of yours always,
"'G. Von Sydow.'"
After the old lady had finished the reading of the letter, not without a certain pathetic emphasis, she looked up. Erika's face was bathed in tears. Her grandmother was dismayed, and after a pause began again, but in a very different and a very gentle tone.
"This affair annoys me excessively, Erika."
The girl nodded.
"The fact is,"--the grandmother laid her hand on Erika's arm,--"you are very inexperienced in such affairs. Another time you must not let matters go so far. One must do everything in one's power to spare an honourable gentleman such a humiliation. Your conduct would have given the most modest of men reason to suppose you cared for him. You misled me completely."
"Misled!--cared for him!" Erika repeated, tapping the carpet nervously with her foot. "But I do like him very much."
Her grandmother all but smiled. "My dear child, I do not quite understand you. Consider! Shall I write and tell Goswyn that you were a little unprepared, and that you are sorry,--there's no disgrace in admitting that,--and--Heaven knows I shall be glad enough to write the letter!" She rose to go to her writing-table, but Erika detained her, nervously clutching at her skirts.
"No! no! oh, no, grandmother!" she almost screamed. "I do like him; I know how good he is; but I do not want to marry him, I am still so young. For God's sake do not force me to do so!" She had grown deadly pale, as she clasped her hands in entreaty.
Her grandmother looked at her with a grave shake of the head. "As you please," she said, no longer stern, but depressed, worried,--a mood very rare with her. "Now go and lie down: rest will do you good; and I should like to be alone for a while."
Far into the night did the old Countess pace restlessly to and fro in her boudoir, amidst all the graceful works of art which she had collected about her with such satisfaction and which gave her none at present. At last she seated herself at her writing-table, and before Goswyn left Berlin the next day he received the following letter:
"My Dear Boy,--
"This matter affects me more than you would think. I was so sure of my case. At first I was disposed to scold the girl; but there turned out to be no reason for doing so. Not a trace did she show of vulgar love of admiration, nor even of heartless thoughtlessness. Everything that she said to you is true: she likes you very much. I tried to set her right,--in vain! For the present there is nothing to be done with her.
"In the course of conversation I perceived that there was nothing for which the child was to blame; the fault was all mine. Can you forgive me?
"But that is a mere phrase. I know that it never will occur to you to blame me.
"My words will not come as readily as usual, and I am very uncomfortable. I am writing to you not only to tell you how much I pity you, but also to relieve my anxiety somewhat by talking it over with you.
"I have come to see that my grandchild, whom I so wrongly neglected--the words are not a mere phrase--for so long, and for whom I now have an affection such as I have never felt for any one in my life hitherto, will give me many an unhappy hour.
"Her sad, dreary youth has left its shadow on her soul, and has exaggerated in her a perilous inborn sensitiveness.
"There are depths in her character which I cannot fathom. She is good, tender-hearted, noble, beautiful, and rarely gifted; but there is with her in everything a tendency to exaggeration that frightens me. I forebode now that my long neglect of the child from mere selfish love of ease will be bitterly avenged upon me.
"If I had watched her from childhood, I should now know her; but, fondly as I love her, I cannot but feel that I do not understand her, and the great difference in our ages makes any perfect intimacy between us impossible. Moreover, in spite of my trifle of sagacity, of which I have availed myself for my own pleasure and never for the benefit of others, I am an unpractical person, and shall make many a stupid mistake in my treatment of the child. And it is a pity; for I do not over-estimate her: she is bewitching!
"Yet, withal, I cannot help thinking that you have not acted as wisely as I should have expected you to,--that with a little more heartfelt insistence you might have prevailed where my persuasion failed. In especial your sudden flight is a perfect riddle to me. I looked for more perseverance from you. But this is your affair.
"I am very sorry not to see you again before your hurried departure. I shall miss you terribly, my dear boy, I have become so accustomed to refer to you in all my small perplexities. Still hoping, in spite of everything, that sooner or later all may be as it should be between Erika and yourself, I am your affectionate old friend,
"Anna Lenzdorff."
Chafed and sore in heart as Goswyn was at the time, this letter did him good. After reading it through he murmured, "When she thus reveals her inmost soul, it is easy to understand how, with all her faults and follies, one cannot help loving the old Countess."
A Thread in the web of Erika's existence snapped with Goswyn's departure. The sudden separation from him without even a farewell she felt to be very sad, and long after he had gone the mere mention of his name would thrill her with a vague, restless pain, a nervous dissatisfaction with herself, with the world, with him, a dim sense that some error had crept into her life's reckoning and that the story ought to have turned out otherwise. In the depths of her heart she was bitterly disappointed when after a rather gay summer and autumn she heard upon her return to Berlin that young Sydow had been transferred to Breslau.
Soon, indeed, she lacked the time for occupying her thoughts with her dear good friend but unwelcome suitor. Existence developed brilliantly for her, and the world's incense mounted to her head, and bewildered her, as it bewilders all, even the wisest and gravest, if they are exposed to its influence.
She was presented at court, where she produced the most favourable impression, and was distinguished by the highest personages in the land in a manner to excite much envy.
Of course she went out a great deal,--so much that her grandmother, who had always been characterized by a certain social indolence, grew weary of accompanying her, and, whenever she could, intrusted her to the chaperonage of her oldest friend, Frau von Norbin.
But when Erika reached home at midnight or after it she had to recount her triumphs at her grandmother's bedside. The old Countess would scrutinize her closely, as she would have done a work of art, and once she said, "Yes, you are a rare creature, it cannot be denied: you are more lovely after a ball than before it. How life thrills through you! But I do not understand you. I know your mind, and your nerves, but I have never proved the depths of your heart." Then she shook her head, sighed, kissed the youthful beauty upon her eyelids, and sent her to bed.
Yes, there was no end to the homage paid her. No young girl had ever been so admired and caressed as was Erika Lenzdorff in the first two years after her presentation. It fairly rained adorers and suitors. Then--not because her beauty began to fade; no, she had never been more beautiful, she had developed magnificently--her conquests decreased. Her admirers were capricious, returning to her at times, and then holding aloof again; and as for suitors, they entirely disappeared.
One fact was too patent not to be acknowledged by even the girl's adoring grandmother. To the usual society man Erika was duller and more uninteresting than the rawest pink-and-white village girl whose natural coquetry taught her how to flatter his vanity and emphasize his superiority. She did not know how to talk to her admirers, and her admirers did not know how to talk to her. The men thought her 'queer.' She passed for a blue-stocking because she read serious books, and for 'highfalutin' because she speculated upon matters quite uninteresting to young girls in general. Since with all her feminine refinement of mind she combined not an iota of worldly wisdom, she harboured the conviction that every one regarded life from her own serious stand-point, and would fearlessly propound the problems that occupied her to the most superficial dandy who happened to be her partner in the german.
Her grandmother once said to her, "You scare away your admirers with your attempts to teach them to fly. Men do not wish to learn to fly: you would succeed far better if you should try to teach them to crawl on all fours. Most of them have a decided predilection for doing so, and those women who can furnish them with a plausible pretext for it--for crawling on all fours, I mean--are sure to be the most popular with them."
In reply to such a declaration Erika would gaze at her grandmother with an expression 'so pathetically stupid' that the old Countess could not help drawing the girl towards her and kissing her.
"It is a pity you would not have Goswyn," the old Countess generally concluded, with a sigh: "you are caviare for people in general, and Goswyn was the only one who knew how to value you. I cannot comprehend you, Erika. Goswyn is the very ideal of a husband; warm-hearted, brave, and true, there is real support in his stout arm, and his broad shoulders are just fitted to bear a burden that another would find too heavy. He is no genius, but instead is brimful of the noblest kind of sense. Understand me, Erika; there is a great difference between the noblest kind and the inferior article."
But by the time she had reached this point in her eulogy of Goswyn, Erika was standing with her hand on the latch of the door, stammering, "Yes, yes, grandmother; but I--I have a letter to write."
She liked to avoid any discussion of Goswyn: a sensation of unrest, always the same, never developing into any distinct desire, was sure to assail her heart at the mention of his name.
The girls who had made theirdébutswith her were now almost all married. Very commonplace girls, whom she had treated with condescending kindness, married her own former admirers: she was no longer wooed. At first she laughed at the airs of superiority which the young wives took on in her society; but the second winter she was annoyed by them. Meanwhile, a fresh bevy of beauties made their appearance, and many a girl was admired and fêted, simply because she had not been seen as often as the Countess Erika.
In the depths of her heart, she had no desire whatever to marry. In her thoughts marriage was simply a clumsy, inconvenient requirement of our social organization, compliance with which she would postpone as long as possible. Against 'all for love' her inmost being rebelled, and yet her lack of suitors vexed her.
Then, when the first social feminine authorities of Berlin began to shake their heads over her as a 'critical case,' she suddenly startled society by the announcement of her betrothal to a very wealthy English peer, Percy, Earl of Langley.
She became acquainted with him at Carlsbad, whither her grandmother had gone for the waters. For several days she noticed that an elderly, distinguished-looking man followed her with his eyes whenever she appeared. At last, one morning he approached the old Countess, and with a smile asked whether she had really forgotten him or whether it was her deliberate intention persistently to cut him.
She offered him her hand courteously, and replied, "Lord Langley, on the Continent a gentleman is supposed to speak first to a lady. Moreover, if I had been willing to comply with your national custom, I should hardly have known whether it were well to present myself to you."
He laughed, with half-closed eyes, and rejoined that her remark could bear reference only to a period of his life long since past; now he was an old man, etc. "I have sown my wild oats," he declared, adding, "I've taken a long time to sow them, haven't I? But it's all over now!" Whereupon he requested an introduction to the Countess's companion.
From that time he devoted himself to the two ladies. Erika was flattered by his respectful admiration, and liked to talk with him. In fact, she had never conversed with so much pleasure with any other man. He had formerly belonged to the diplomatic corps, and had known personally all the people mentioned by Lord Malmesbury in his memoirs,--in short, everybody who during the past forty years had been either famous or notorious, from the Emperor Nicholas, for whom he had an enthusiasm, to Cora Pearl, concerning whom he whispered anecdotes in the old Countess's ear, and whose career he declared, with a shrug, was a riddle to him.
He was the keenest observer and cleverest talker imaginable, distinguished in appearance, always well dressed, a perfect type of the Englishman who, casting aside British cant, leads a gay life on the Continent, without faith, without any moral ideal, saturated through and through with a refined, cynical, witty Epicureanism, gently suppressed when in the society of ladies, although from indolence he did not entirely disguise it.
Two weeks after recalling himself to the Countess Lenzdorff's memory, he wrote her a letter asking for her grand-daughter's hand. The old lady, not without embarrassment, informed the young girl of his proposal. "It certainly is trying," she began. "I cannot see how it ever entered his head to think of you. A blooming young creature like you, and his sixty years! What shall I say to him?"
Erika stood speechless for a moment. The old Englishman's proposal was an utter surprise to her, but, oddly enough, it did not produce so disagreeable an impression upon her as upon her grandmother. She had always wished to mingle in English society. Wealthy as she was, she was aware that her wealth bore no comparison to that of Lord Langley. And then the position of the wife of an English peer was very different from that of the wife of any Prussian nobleman. Her fatal inheritance of romantic enthusiasm had latterly found expression with her in a certain craving for distinction. What a field opened before her! She saw herself fêted, admired, besieged with petitions, one of the political influences of Europe.
"Well?" asked Countess Lenzdorff, who had meanwhile taken her seat at her writing-table.
"Well?" Erika repeated, in some confusion.
"What shall I say? That you will not have him, of course; but how shall I courteously give him to understand---- It is intolerable! Do not get me into such a scrape again. Although, poor child, you cannot help it."
Erika was silent.
Her grandmother had begun to write, when she heard a very low, rather timid voice just behind her say,--
"Grandmother!"
She turned round. "What is it, child?"
"You see--if I must marry----"
Her grandmother stared, then exclaimed, sharply, "You could be induced----?"
Erika nodded.
The old lady fairly bounded from her chair, tore up the letter she had begun, threw the pieces on the floor, and left the room. The door was closed behind her, when she opened it again to say, curtly, "Write to him yourself!"
Two days after his betrothal, Lord Langley left Carlsbad to superintend the preparations at Eyre Castle for the reception of his bride, whom he hoped to take to England at the end of August.
The lovers shed no tears at parting, and there was no other display of tenderness than a reverential kiss imprinted by Lord Langley upon his betrothed's hand. This respectful homage appeared to Erika highly satisfactory.
After the old Countess had taken the cure at Carlsbad she betook herself with Erika to Franzensbad to complete it.
At that time a great deal was said, in the sleepy, lounging life of Franzensbad, of the Bayreuth performances. 'Parsifal' was the topic of universal interest. The old Countess at first absolutely refused to listen to Erika's earnest request to go to Bayreuth; in fact, she had been in a bad humour ever since the betrothal, and her tenderness towards Erika had ostensibly diminished. She contradicted her frequently, was quite irritable, and would often reply to some perfectly innocent proposal of her grand-daughter's, "Wait until you are married." She would not hear of going to Bayreuth, maintaining that the bits of 'Parsifal' which she had heard played as duets had been quite enough for her,--she had no desire to hear the whole performance; moreover, she had had a headache--ever since Erika's betrothal.
Her opposition lasted a good while, but at last curiosity triumphed, and she announced herself ready to sacrifice herself and go to Bayreuth with her granddaughter.
Lord Langley's last letter had come from Munich, where one of his daughters (he was a widower, and had no son) was married to a young English diplomat. Grandmother and grand-daughter were to meet him there, and then all were to proceed to Castle Wetterstein in Westphalia, the family seat of Count Lenzdorff, a great-uncle of Erika's, where the marriage was to take place.
Highly delighted at her grandmother's consent to her wishes, Erika wrote to Lord Langley asking him to meet them at Bayreuth instead of waiting for them at Munich, although, she added, he was to feel quite free to do as he pleased.
Lüdecke, the faithful, was sent to Bayreuth to arrange for lodgings and tickets, and a few days afterwards the old Countess, with Erika and her maid Marianne, left Franzensbad, with its waving white birches, its good bread and weak coffee, its symphony concerts, and its languishing, pale, consumptive beauties. The dew glistened on leaves and flowers as they drove to the station. After they had reached it, Marianne, the maid, was sent back to the hotel for a volume of 'Opera and Drama,' and a pamphlet upon 'the psychological significance of Kundry,' in the former of which the old Countess was absorbed during the journey to Bayreuth.
They were received with genial enthusiasm by the fair, fresh wife of the baker, in whose house Lüdecke had procured them lodgings, and they followed her up a bare damp staircase to the tile-paved landing upon which their rooms opened. They consisted of a spacious, low-ceilinged apartment, with a small island of carpet before the sofa in a sea of yellow varnished board floor, furnished with red plush chairs, two india-rubber trees, a bird in a painted cage, and a cupboard with glass doors, on either side of which were doors opening into the bedrooms,--everything comfortable, clean, and old-fashioned.
After some refreshment the two ladies drove about the town, and out into the trim open country through beautiful, shady avenues, avenues such as usually lead to princely residences, and into the quiet deserted park, where there were few strangers besides themselves to be seen. Returning, they dined at 'the Sun,' at the same table with Austrian aristocrats, Berlin councillors of commerce, and numerous pilgrims to the festival from known and unknown lands. Then they sauntered about the dear old town, with its many-gabled architecture, and visited the Master's grave and the old theatre. The old Countess lost herself in speculations as to what the Margravine would have thought of the great German show that now wakes the lethargic old capital from its repose at least every other year; and Erika, laughing, called her grandmother's attention to the 'Parsifal slippers' and the 'Nibelungen bonbons' in the unpretentious shop-windows.
The sun was very low, and the shadows were creeping across the broad squares and down the narrow streets, when the old Countess proposed to go back to their rooms to refresh herself with a cup of tea. Erika accompanied her to the door of their lodgings, and then said, "I should like to look about for a volume of Tauchnitz. May I not go alone? This seems little more than a village."
"If you choose," her grandmother, already halfway up the staircase, replied.
With no thought of ill, Erika turned the corner of the nearest street.
She walked slowly, gazing up at the antique house-fronts on either side of her. Suddenly she heard a voice behind her call "Rika! Rika!"
She turned, and started as if stunned by a flash of lightning. Before her, his whiskers brushed straight out from his cheeks, rather more florid than of yore, in a very dandified plaid suit, with an eye-glass stuck in his eye, stood--Strachinsky.
"Rika, my dear little Rika!" he cried, holding out his hand. "What a surprise, and what a pleasure, to find you here, and without the Cerberus who always has barred our meeting! Fate will yet avenge it upon her."
Erika trembled with indignation, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. Try as she might, she could not reply. A senseless, childish panic mastered her, as terrible as it would have been had this man still had power over her and been able to snatch her from her present surroundings and carry her back to the dreary life at Luzano.
"You are quite speechless," he went on, having meanwhile seized her hand and carried it to his lips. "No wonder, it is so long since we have seen each other. That jealous old drag----"
"I must beg you not to allude to my grandmother in that way!" she exclaimed, conscious of a benumbing, nervous pain at the remembrance of her terrible, sordid existence with this man.
"You are under the old woman's influence," Strachinsky declared, "and nothing else was to be expected; but now all will be different: when you are once married, more cordial relations will be established between us. I bear no malice; I forgive everything: I was always too forgiving,--it was my only fault. My poor wife always called me an idealist, a Don Quixote,--my poor, idolized Emma,--I never can forget her." And he passed his hand over his eyes.
"I must go home: my grandmother is expecting me," Erika murmured.
"I should think you could consent to bestow a few minutes upon your old father, if only out of regard for your mother's memory," Strachinsky observed, assuming his loftiest expression.
Regard for her mother's memory! Certainly, she would not let him starve or suffer absolute want. "Do you need anything?" she asked.
"No," he replied, curtly, with a show of wounded feeling.
Then followed a pause. She looked round, ignorant of where she was, for during this most unwelcome interview she had continued to walk on without observing whither she was going.
"Will you show me the way to Maximilian Street?" she asked him.
"To the left, here," he replied, laconically; then, with lifted eyebrows, he observed, "Unpractical idealist that I am, I was disposed to forget and forgive the outrageous ingratitude with which you have treated me in these latter years,--nay, always. I had even resolved to call upon your betrothed; although that would have been to reverse the order of affairs. But I perceive that your arrogance and pride are greater than ever. No matter! I only hope you may not be punished for them too severely!" With these words, he touched his hat with grotesque dignity and was gone before she could collect herself to reply.
Meanwhile, the sky had become overcast; a keen wind began to blow, and large drops of rain were falling before Erika reached the door of the lodgings in Maximilian Street.
As she mounted the staircase she heard her grandmother's voice in the drawing-room and recognized the cordial tone which she used when speaking to the few people in the world with whom she was in genuine sympathy. Nevertheless, agitated by her late interview, Erika inwardly deplored the arrangement of their apartments which made it impossible that she should reach her bedroom without passing through the drawing-room. She opened the door: her grandmother was seated on the sofa, and near her, in an arm-chair, with his back to the casement window, was a man in civilian's dress. He arose, looking so tall that it seemed to Erika he must strike his head against the low ceiling of the room. She did not instantly recognize him, as he stood with his back to the light, but before he had advanced a step she exclaimed, "Goswyn!" and ran to him with both hands extended. When, with rather formal courtesy, he kissed one of the hands thus held out as if seeking succour, and then dropped it without any very cordial pressure, she was assailed by a certain embarrassment: she remembered that she should have called him Herr von Sydow, and that it became her to receive her rejected suitor with a more measured dignity. But she was not self-possessed today. The shock of meeting her step-father had unstrung her nerves; the numbness which had of late paralyzed sensation began to depart; her youthful heart throbbed almost as loudly as it had done when she had first ascended the thickly-carpeted staircase in Bellevue Street, as strongly as upon that brilliant Thursday at the Countess Brock's, when, suddenly overcome by the memory of her unhappy mother, she had fled from the crowd of her admirers to sob out her misery in some lonely corner.
Lord Langley's worldly-wise, self-possessed betrothed had vanished, and in her stead was a shy, emotional young person, oppressed by a sense of her exaggerated cordiality towards the guest. She now seated herself as far as possible from him in one of the red plush arm-chairs.
"How long have you been in Bayreuth, Herr von Sydow?" she asked, in a timid little voice, which thrilled the young officer's heart like an echo of by-gone times.
Erika, whose eyes had become accustomed to the darkened light of the room, noted that he smiled,--his old kind smile. His features looked more sharply chiselled than formerly; he had grown very thin, and had lost every trace of the slight clumsiness which had once characterized him.
"I came several days ago: my musical feast is already a thing of the past," he replied.
"Indeed! And what then keeps you in Bayreuth?" Erika asked.
He laughed a little forced laugh, and then blushed after his old fashion, but replied, very quietly, "I learned from your factotum Lüdecke, whom I met the day before yesterday, that you were coming, and so I determined to await your arrival."
She longed to say something cordial and kind to him, but the words would not come. Instead her grandmother spoke.
"It was kind of you to stay in this tiresome old hole just to see us. I call it very kind," she assured him, and Erika added, meekly, "So do I."
A pause ensued, broken finally by Goswyn: "Let me offer you my best wishes on the occasion of your betrothal, Countess Erika." He uttered the words very bravely, but Erika could not respond: she suddenly felt that she had cause to be ashamed of herself, although what that cause was she did not know.
"Are you acquainted with Lord Langley, Goswyn?" the old Countess asked, in the icy tone which she always assumed when any allusion was made to her grand-daughter's engagement.
"No. You can imagine how eager I am to hear about him."
"He is one of the most entertaining Englishmen I have ever met,--a very clever man," the Countess declared, as if discussing some one in whom she took no personal interest.
"It was not to be supposed that the Countess Erika would sacrifice her freedom to any ordinary individual," said Goswyn, with admirable self-control.
For all reply the Countess raised the clumsy teacup before her to her lips.
With every word thus spoken Erika's sense of shame deepened, and she was seized with an intense desire to be frank with Goswyn, and to dispel any illusion he might entertain as to her betrothal. "Lord Langley is no longer young," she said, hurriedly. "I will show you his photograph."
She went into the adjoining room and brought thence the photograph in its case, which she opened herself before handing it to Goswyn. He looked at the picture, then at her, and then again at the picture. His broad shoulders twitched; without a word he closed the case, and put it upon a table, beside which Erika had taken her seat.
An embarrassing silence ensued. The sound of rolling vehicles was heard distinctly from below, and one stopped before the dark door-way. Soon afterwards the staircase creaked beneath a heavy tread. Lüdecke opened the low door of the old-fashioned apartment, and announced, "Frau Countess Brock."
The 'wicked fairy' unconsciously had a novel experience: her appearance was a relief.
As usual, she bowed and nodded on all sides, but, as she was unable for the moment to find her eye-glass, she saw nobody, and fell into the error of supposing a tall india-rubber tree in a tub before a window to be her particular friend the chamberlain Langefeld. Not until Goswyn discovered the eye-glass hanging by its slender cord among the jet ornaments and fringes with which her mantle was trimmed and humanely handed it to her, did she find out her mistake. Goswyn was about to withdraw after having rendered her this service, but she tapped him reproachfully on the shoulder and begged him to stay a moment with his old aunt. He might have resisted her request; but when Countess Lenzdorff added that he would please her by remaining, he complied, and seated himself again, although with something of the awkwardness apt to be shown by an officer when in civilian's dress.
The 'wicked fairy' established herself beside the Countess Anna upon the sofa behind the round table, and accepted from Erika's hand a cup of tea, which she drank in affected little sips. She was clad, as usual, in trailing mourning robes, although no one could have told for whom she wore them, and the Countess Anna's first question was, "Do you not dislike wandering about Bayreuth as the Queen of Night?"
"On the contrary," replied the 'wicked fairy,' rubbing her hands, "I like it. Awhile ago one of my friends declared that I appeared in Bayreuth as the mourning ghost of classic music. Was it not charming?--but not at all appropriate, for I adore Wagner!" And she began to hum the air of the flower-girl scene, "trililili lilili----"
"What do you think of 'Parsifal'?" Countess Anna asked, turning to Goswyn. "One of the greatest humbugs of the century, eh? They howl as if possessed by an evil spirit, and call it joy,--call it song!"
"At the risk of falling greatly in your esteem, I must confess that 'Parsifal' made a profound impression upon me, Countess," Goswyn replied.
"Et tu, Brute!" his old friend exclaimed.
"I do not entirely approve of it, if that is anything in my favour," he rejoined.
"Ah, there is nothing like Wagner! there is but one God,--and one Wagner!" The 'wicked fairy' went on humming, closing her eyes, and waving her hands affectedly in the air.
"The scene containing the air which you are humming is not one of my favourites," Goswyn remarked.
"Oh, it charmed us most of all,--Dorothea and me," the 'wicked fairy' declared. "Those hovering little temptresses, so seductive, and Parsifal, the chaste, in their midst!" She clasped her hands in an ecstasy. "The other evening at Frau Wagner's we met Van Dyck. He is rather strong in his mode of speech. Dorothea seemed much entertained by him, but afterwards she thought him shocking."
"Your niece seems to have a positive mania just now for thinking everything 'shocking,'" Countess Anna said, dryly. "She sings no more music-hall ditties, and casts down her eyes modestly when she sees a French novel in a book-shop. Such a transformation is, to say the least, startling. Oh, I beg pardon, Goswyn; I always forget that Dorothea is your sister-in-law."
"No need to remember it while we are among ourselves," Goswyn rejoined. "Coram publico, I would beg you to modify your expressions, for my poor brother's sake."
"He cannot endure Thea," Countess Brock said, laughing, as she shook her forefinger at him; "but I know why that is so. Look how he blushes!" In fact, Goswyn had changed colour. "He fell in love with her in Florence. She told me all about it--aha!"
"Does she really fancy so, or has she invented the story for her own amusement?" Goswyn murmured, as if to himself.
The 'fairy' continued to giggle and writhe about in the corner of the sofa.
"You must have been much with Dorothea of late," the Countess Anna remarked, quietly: "you have acquired all her airs and graces. Is the lady in question in Bayreuth at present?"
"No; she left early this morning, for Berlin, where she has various matters to attend to before she goes to Heiligendamm. But we have been together for some time. We were in Schlangenbad for six weeks. Oh, we enjoyed ourselves excessively,--made all sorts of acquaintances whom we should never have spoken to at home. But--I came to see you, Anna, for a special purpose,--two purposes, I might say. One concerns Hedwig Norbin's birthday,--her seventieth,--and the other--yes, the other--guess whom I met in Schlangenbad?" She threw back her head and folded her arms across her breast, the very impersonation of anticipated enjoyment in a disagreeable announcement.
"How can I?"
"Your grand-daughter's step-father: yes," nodding emphatically.
Erika started. Countess Lenzdorff said, calmly, "Indeed! I pity you from my heart; but, since I had no share in bringing such a misfortune upon you, I owe you no further reparation."
"H'm! you need not pity me. He interested me extremely. You and your grand-daughter have seen fit simply to ignore him; but you do not know what people say."
"Nor does it interest me in the least."
"Well, you may not care about the verdict of society, but it is comfortable to stand well with one's conscience, as Dorothea said to me the other day."
"Indeed! did she say that to you?" Countess Anna murmured in an undertone.
"Yes, and she was indignant at the way in which you have treated the poor man."
"Is it any affair of hers?" Countess Lenzdorff asked, sharply.
"Oh, she is quite right; I am entirely of her opinion," the 'fairy' went on; then, turning to Erika, "I cannot help remonstrating with you. He certainly cared for you like a father until you were seventeen. He was a man whom your mother loved passionately."
Erika sat as if turned to marble: every word spoken by the old 'fairy' was like a blow in the face to her.
The Countess Lenzdorff's eyes flashed angrily. "Do not meddle with what you do not in the least understand, Elise!" she exclaimed. "As for my daughter-in-law's passion for that stupid weakling, it was made up of pity on the one hand for a man whom she came to know wounded and ill, and on the other hand of antagonism towards me. The fact is, I provoked her; the marriage would never have taken place if I had not most injudiciously set myself in opposition to Emma's betrothal to the Pole. Her second marriage was a tragedy, the result of obstinacy, not of love."
"My dearest Anna, that is entirely your own idea," the Countess Brock asserted. "Every one knows that you cannot appreciate any tenderness of affection because your own heart is clad in armour, but you can never convince me that your daughter-in-law did not love the Pole passionately. In the first place, her passion for him was the only possible motive for her marriage; how else could it have occurred to her?--bah!--nonsense! and in the second place, Strachinsky read me her letters,--letters written soon after their marriage. He carries these proofs everywhere with him: his devotion to his dead wife is most touching. Poor man! he wept when he read the letters to us, and we wept too. I had invited a few friends, and he spent two evenings in reading them aloud to us. When he had finished he kissed the letters, and said, with a deep sigh, 'This is all that is left to me of my poor, adored Emma,' and then he told us of the tender relations that had existed between himself and his step-daughter, until she, when a brilliant lot fell to her share, had cast him aside--like an old shoe-string, as he expressed it. I do not say that such a connection is the most desirable, buton choisit ses amis, on subit ses parents. Certain duties must be conscientiously fulfilled, and, my dear Erika, be sure that I advise you for your good when I beg you to be friends with your step-father: you owe him a certain amount of filial affection. He is here in Bayreuth, and has requested me to effect a reconciliation between you and him."
Erika made no reply. She sat motionless, speechless. The 'fairy' played her last trump. "People are talking about your unjustifiable treatment of him," she said; "but that can all be arranged. May I tell him that you are ready to receive him, Anna?"
The Countess Lenzdorff rose to her feet. "Indeed!" she exclaimed, with an outburst of indignation; "you wish me to receive a man who, for the sake of exciting sympathy, reads aloud to your invited guests the letters of his dead wife? What do you take me for? I will have him turned out of doors if he dares to show his face here! And I have no more time at present to listen to you, Elise: I am going to pay a visit to Hedwig Norbin. Will you come with me?"
"With the greatest pleasure!" cried the 'wicked fairy,' decidedly cowed.
"Bring me my bonnet and gloves from my room, my child," her grandmother said to Erika, and when the girl brought them to her she kissed her on the cheek.
Goswyn had risen to depart with the two ladies. Erika looked after him dully as, after taking a formal leave of her, he had reached the door of the room. Then she suddenly followed him. "Goswyn," she murmured, "stay for one moment!"
He stayed; the door closed after the others, and they were alone.
What did she want of him? He did not know: she herself did not know. He would advise her, rid her of the weight upon her heart: her old habit of appealing to him in all difficulties returned to her in full force. The time was past for her when she could relieve herself in any distressing agitation by a burst of tears: she sat there white and silent, plucking at the folds of her black lace dress.
At last, passing her hand across her forehead once or twice, she began in a forced monotone, "You know that I idolized my mother; I have told you about her; perhaps you remember----"
"I do not think I have forgotten much that you have ever told me," he interrupted her.
The words were kind, but something in his tone pained her. Something interposed between them. It had seemed so natural to turn to him for sympathy, but she suddenly felt shy. What was her distress to him?
"Forgive me," she murmured. "I longed to pour out my heart to some one. I have no one to go to, and I suffer so! You cannot imagine what this last quarter of an hour has been to me. My poor mother's marriage was a tragedy; my grandmother was right. No one who did not live with her can dream of all that she suffered for years. Her last request to me when she was dying was that I would not let him come to her. And now that wretch is boasting to strangers--oh, I cannot endure it! Can you understand what it all is to me? Can you understand?"
The question was superfluous. She knew very well that he understood, but she repeated the words mechanically again and again. Why did he sit there so straight and silent? She was pouring out her soul to him, revealing to him all that was most sacred, and he had not one word of sympathy for her. A kind of anger took possession of her, and, with all the self-control which she could summon up, she said, more calmly, "I know I have no right to burden you with my misery----"
"Countess Erika!" he exclaimed, with a sudden unconscious movement of his hand, which chanced to strike the case containing Lord Langley's photograph. It fell on the floor; Goswyn picked it up and tossed it contemptuously upon the table, while his face grew hard and stern.
He was the first to break the silence that followed. "Is this Strachinsky staying in Bayreuth?"
"Yes. I met him to-day."
"Do you know his address?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"For the simplest reason in the world: I wish to procure your mother's letters for you."
"The letters!" she exclaimed. "Oh, if that were possible! But upon what pretext could you demand them of him? they belong to him; we have no right to them."
"Might is right with such a fellow as that," Goswyn said, as he rose to go.
She offered him her hand; he took it courteously, but there was no cordial pressure on his part, nor did he carry it to his lips.
In a moment he was gone. She stood gazing as if spell-bound at the door which closed behind him. She did not understand. He was the same, but in his eyes she was no longer what she had been. This conviction flashed upon her. He was, as ever, ready to help her, but the tender warmth of sympathy of former days had gone, as had the reverence with which the strong man had been wont to regard her weakness: she was neither so dear nor so sacred to him as she had been.
In the midst of the pain caused her by the 'wicked fairy's' malicious speeches she was aware of a paralyzing consciousness that she had sunk in the esteem of the one human being in the world whom she prized most highly.
When the Countess Lenzdorff returned at the end of an hour, her grand-daughter was still sitting where she had left her, in the dark. When Erika heard her grandmother coming, she slipped into her own room.