The little trap was so light, and the road was in such good condition, that the friends were able to drive at a very fair pace, in spite of the not inconsiderable gradient. Soon they passed into the wood. The easy, comfortable motion, the perfect beauty of the morning, the fact that the friends were for the first time in undisturbed companionship--all seemed to favour a confidential exchange of thoughts. Yet both men were silent, and barely exchanged a word or two on indifferent topics. At last Otto said, after he had taken a stolen side-glance or two of his friend--
"What do you think, Charles--shall we walk a bit? The road now will be virtually level for some distance."
Bertram nodded assent. The carriage stopped. Otto bade the man drive slowly on in front of them, in the direction of the factory.
"You never can be sure," he began, as they were striding along the well-kept footpath by the side of the road, "that these beggars do not hear more than they should; and I particularly want to ask you something. Tell me--but quite honestly, mind--how do you like the Baron?"
"Let us come to the point at once," replied Bertram; "I have had a talk with your wife."
"Oh! indeed!" exclaimed Otto, hiding his embarrassment as best he could by bursting out laughing, and abruptly leaving off again. "That is to say, I rather thought you would. I should like to have done the same--I mean had a talk with you--yesterday, in fact; but my wife told me not to ... and, don't you know, the ladies always claim precedence."
"Very well; then let me commence at the point where my conversation with your wife came to an end--with the question which she either could not or would not answer when I pressed her, and which seems to me of paramount importance--Does Erna love the Baron? Have you, between you, or have you yourself, any proof of--any support of this? Have you made any observation from which you could conclude such a thing?"
"Look here, old man," said Otto, "you are asking a lot at once. I can't follow you. Proof--support--observation! Good Heaven! Who can look into a girl's head and heart? She has said nothing to me, and rather than ask her--ask her--it's such a queer question to ask, and possibly one might only do harm by it, and learn nothing in the long run, or at least not the truth. Of course she is fond enough of me, and has confidence in me. Heaven knows how fond I am of her! but father and daughter, you know--or rather you do not know, for you never had a daughter--that's a curious business!"
He had taken off his hat and was scratching his head in his perplexity. Bertram understood that he was not likely to get anything out of him that way. After a pause Bertram said--
"Well, let us assume--although, to say the truth, I find it very hard to do so--let us assume that Erna does love this man. Would you then be able to say Yea and Amen with a good conscience? In other words, are you convinced that the man would make Erna happy? That he has, anyhow, the qualities which according to human reasoning and experience, render her happiness at least possible? That he is a man of honour, of fit and upright disposition;--in a word, that he is a gentleman?"
"A gentleman!" exclaimed Otto in amazement "Why, good Heaven!--a man belonging to such a family--bearing such a name--a constant guest at Court--invited to every ball, every evening party there; besides joining their private circle, once or twice every week--why, he must be a gentleman!"
"The deuce he must!" exclaimed Bertram angrily. "If you have no better guarantee than Court balls and such like humbug!"
"But what more would you have?" said Otto. "What more would any one have? If that is no guarantee I wonder what you would call one. I have it as a matter of certainty from Lydia, that his nomination as Chamberlain is made out, is lying ready for signature in the Grand Duke's cabinet; and Lydia ought to know, for, between you and me, she, with the help of our Court Marshal, an old friend of Lotter's father, has been urging the matter strongly at Court. Lotter is very grateful to her, and says quite frankly, that but for her he might have had to wait much longer; and I think that is, a trait in his favour--although I am convinced--but you must please not give any indication that you know--although I am convinced that Lydia has not tried her hardest for Lotter's own sake, but to conciliate my wife, who is bent upon seeing her future son-in-law hold some Court appointment. And the reason why Lydia had to keep in my wife's good graces is not far to seek; and, old fellow, she has had her way at last, and is allowed to sojourn once more under the same roof with you. You see:manus manum lavat."
"So I see, indeed," laughed Bertram. "And now Hildegard must again keep me in good-humour, that I, in my turn, may keep you in good-humour. It were strange indeed, if, under these circumstances, we were not, all of us, in the very best humour!"
"This hardly seems to be your case as yet," said Otto, "your laughter notwithstanding."
"Nor, I hope, yours either," exclaimed Bertram.
"Why do you hope so?"
Bertram made no answer. His Heart was full of sorrow and wrath. He saw that the whole affair was arranged--among the two women anyhow--and the easy-going henpecked husband by his side would be sure to say yes to everything, had probably done so already, and this was but the second scene this morning in a nicely-arranged comedy, with all the parts carefully distributed beforehand. Evidently the drive had but one object--to give Otto an opportunity of saying his part. And he, himself?--Why, barely an hour ago he had solemnly protested to the fair stage-manager that never more would he act again! And she had listened to his solemn protest without laughing in his face! Well, well; there might yet be a chance of interpreting some passage in a way that the clever lady had not thought of!
Otto broke the silence, after they had been walking side by side for some little time, by saying somewhat humbly--
"You are angry with me!"
"What right could I have to be so?" replied Bertram. "I am no relation of yours. I am nothing but a friend; and, as such, I have no right whatever. It is only my duty to give an honest answer if you consult me on a matter of importance. And there is properly no consultation in this case. You are not in need of any advice; you, her parents, are resolved. Nothing is wanting, but the merest trifle--Erna's consent. And, as that is sure to be given in good time, the whole thing is clearly settled, and we may as well talk of something else."
"No, no!" exclaimed Otto, "nothing is settled; and the matter is by no means clear--clear--not in my mind, anyhow; and Hildegard has not the faintest conception how things really stand. She thinks it is only my want of resolution that ... And because she knows how much I value your judgment--if I could only tell you everything ..."
"But you cannot, and you would be, sorry for it afterwards. Therefore, you had better not try."
"But I must at length tell some one, and there is no one else in the world whom I could say it to. Listen: I ... I ..."
A kind of spasm passed over the full, round, good-humoured face; the blue eyes, which he kept rigidly fixed upon his friend, seemed to struggle against rising tears.
"I--I am ruined!"
He had just managed to pronounce these words hoarsely; then he broke, down and sunk upon a log of wood which was lying by the roadside.
Bertram had, at first to struggle against the terrible notion that his friend had suddenly gone mad. But his look, though one of utter despair, was not that of a madman.
"What is this you say, Otto? Impossible, impossible!" he said, sitting down upon the log by the side of his friend, who seemed bereft of all strength. "Go on, anyhow, that I may judge what it comes to. I am quite convinced--beforehand that it comes to nothing at all. But speak, for goodness sake, speak!"
Otto nodded assent, and murmured--
"Yes, yes, I will speak. Come to nothing, forsooth! I have seen it coming--for a long time past--for the last four years at least--ever since I started, in addition to all the other things, that confounded sugar refinery. We made it a Company; but I hold all the shares myself now--I could not bear to ruin the poor beggars who, trusting in me, had taken up the rest. This has cost me untold money; and the whole thing was a failure, and the building is ready to be pulled down again--would already have been pulled down if that, again, did not require money. Besides, a thousand acres of my best soil planted with beetroot--food for the pigs now. And yonder is that porcelain factory, year by year a balance on the wrong side; and then the mines--yes, yes, formerly, but not now ..."
There had been one long series of enterprises, each of which had turned out more unsatisfactory, and, in the long run, more ruinous than the other; and with increasing swiftness they had swallowed up ever bigger sums, and had now at length given at least a most severe shock to a very considerable fortune. This much Bertram gathered clearly from the statements of his friend, although he only understood a small part of the technical and mercantile details.
"But how on earth," he exclaimed, "could a quiet, sensible man like yourself ever dream of venturing on this 'inclined plane'? How could you graft one reckless, foolhardy speculation upon another; neglect, ruin those splendid estates, the legacy of your fathers; stake your peace of mind, your happiness? And if it had been a question of yourself only! But your child--your wife ..."
He paused abruptly.
"Poor chap!" he murmured. "I think I understand after all--poor, good chap!"
He was pressing Otto's hand warmly. Their eyes met. His unhappy friend was smiling, and a most melancholy smile it was.
"To be sure, to be sure," he said; "I did not want it cried from the house-tops; I knew you would find the reason. I myself--dear, dear--I would not have cared to increase my gains. I should have been more than satisfied with the estates and the mines, or with the estates alone, if the mines ceased to yield a profit. You know how as a young man I used to be quite ashamed of having so much money, never a farthing of which I had earned, when I saw how my betters had to toil and moil. And I knew too that I was not good enough for her--that it was great condescension on her part to marry me at all--that I must needs ever be in her debt. From the very commencement I let her have her own way--she should never be able to say that I, thebourgeoisproprietor's son, was ignorant of what befitted and became a beautiful young lady of high degree. I even--don't laugh at me, man--even tried to procure a patent of nobility, she wished it so very much; and I have made many a sacrifice with that object. This whole, ill-starred porcelain factory, for instance--I had been told that at Court they would like me to establish one, and indeed they buy here what they require, though, to be sure, only for kitchen and servants' hall--and there was many another thing besides. And then she wanted the terraces and the park and the mansion-house restored--in the true style, I think they call it--and she takes delight in all this, trumpery rubbish of dim old mirrors, and shaky old chairs, and worm-eaten old cabinets, and coffee-coloured, pictures, and abominable old pots and pans; and I, great God! would willingly buy the whole world for her--lay it at her feet--if only she would love me a little in return. But--you see, Charles, it has all been in vain--quite in vain!"
The big man had buried his face in his hands, and was sobbing like a child. Bertram's soul was filled with pity. The wretched weakness of his friend in reference to his beautiful and beloved, but cold, unloving wife, and its mournful consequences--he now understood it all too well not to be ready to pardon--to a certain extent. But that, husband and wife must settle, must bear, among them--only Erna should not be dragged to ruin, should not also be sacrificed to her mother's unbounded selfishness. And perhaps this was the one bright spot in the dark picture which his friend had drawn of his position.
"You have not endeavoured to give the Baron a clear view of your situation?" he asked.
"For goodness sake--no; certainly not," exclaimed Otto, rising in terror from his stooping position. "Anything but that!"
"And yet you will have to do so as soon as he formally asks Erna's hand from you."
"How can I tell him the truth? He would withdraw immediately."
"Otto, are you not ashamed of yourself? And you would really give Erna to such a cur?"
"What am I to do?"
"What you are simply obliged to do as a man of honour, not to say as a father!"
"And he'll talk about it--here, in the town, at Court--and everything, everything depends upon my credit remaining unquestioned, at least a little longer. If the projected railway is made to pass through here in lieu of through the valley below, it would be done mainly on account of my establishments, my factories, and what not. And in that case I am saved--nay, I must needs grow wealthier than ever I have been. But the ultimate granting of the concession--our local Parliament notwithstanding--rests with the Government; and Lotter, with his divers relations, his well-known influence ..."
He paused, then resumed in a somewhat less confident tone--
"If, therefore, I do not reveal everything to him at present--and, by the by, there is no need for it yet--I am not acting dishonestly, but in everybody's interest. You will grant me this much."
"To be sure," replied Bertram. "I only fear you will not be able to continue this profitable silence for any length of time. For any day it may happen that the young people come to an understanding, and--to-morrow, perhaps, or this very day--they may come and ask for your blessing."
"It would kill me!"
"It would, anyhow, be extremely awkward! Therefore, I beg to make the following proposal to you. I am already authorised by your wife to sound Erna; I now ask you to give me the same commission; and you will tell your wife that you have spoken to me about it. Thus you will both have placed the matter into my hands as it were. Now I shall find Erna either distinctly favourable to your plan, or else distinctly unfavourable, or undecided. In the latter case, I will try to confirm her in that state of mind; and would prove to your wife that to advance with inconsiderate rashness must needs be risking, and, probably, spoiling everything. But even if Erna, really loves the Baron, or, on the other hand, if she is satisfied in her own mind that he is not the man who corresponds to her ideal--all girls create such an ideal for themselves--well, I think I have influence enough with her--or, in case of need, I possess diplomatic talent enough, to get the ultimate decision put off one way or the other. For how long--we shall judge by and by, once you and I are so far agreed."
"My dear boy, I put myself entirely in your hands. I'll not take a step without you. Gracious me--what a lucky thing that you have come! I do not know what would have become of me, and of the whole business."
He shook and pressed both his friend's hands in the excess of his gratitude, looked upon his situation already in a much more hopeful light, turned the conversation again to the new railway and to the stupendous chances which would come to him in case the decision was favourable, and that it would be so, he suddenly assumed to be probable, nay, certain. He never noticed that Bertram had made the little carriage turn which was waiting for them at the end of the wood, and that now they were driving back the way they had come. The suggested inspection of the factory had only been a pretext for having an undisturbed hour with Bertram.
His friend was now sitting in silence by his side. Otto kept on talking to him, lowering his voice on account of the driver's presence. Bertram hardly heard what he said. He hardly saw, either--or if he saw, it was like in a dream--the golden lights flash down through the top of the giant firs, and play around the brown stems and along the mossy ground; he saw but as in a dream the lovely vistas which opened here and there, giving glimpses of loveliest landscape beauty in the valley far below. His busy mind was working and modelling away at the part in the family drama which had, after all, been forced upon him, and which he had not dared to decline--for Erna's sake.
For Erna's sake! How often he repeated that phrase to himself in the course of the day! He wanted nothing for himself. What, indeed, could he have wanted for himself? Nothing more than a man who should see a child lost, in danger, among a crowd of carriages, and who should bound to the spot and carry the child away to some place of safety; nothing more than a wanderer, who sees a fellow-traveller start upon a road of which he knows of old the insecure state, and who warns the heedless man to take some other road instead. One does so because it is one's duty as a human being; one does so because one's heart urges one to do it, because one cannot help doing it.
Yes, a man acts and speaks in such situations as he would hardly act or speak for his own sake. He is more courageous or more anxious than he would be, if his own weal or woe were at stake. One grows beyond one's self, or else sinks beneath one's own everyday moral level.
"And the latter is meanwhile my case," said Bertram to himself, as he played his part with due zeal, and, as he thought, with great success. It was a natural consequence, of that part that he lectured Hildegard (after the event), because she had not yesterday taken him at once into her confidence; that he exchanged with his friend Otto looks of the completest accord and understanding; that he used with Lydia--to her evident delight--a tone of mingled melancholy and fun, which appeared half to express and half to hide a deeper emotion; and that with the Baron he completely dropped his calm manner of the day preceding. How else could he form an opinion of the man? And how could he be a faithful counsellor to Erna without having formed an opinion?
So he examined the Baron's portfolio with patient attention, whilst that nobleman turned over the leaves and gave explanations. The collection would have been a priceless treasure if the quality had corresponded with the quantity. There were sketches from almost every country in Europe; the northern coast of Africa, too--Algiers, Tunis--was largely represented. And then the painter's talent embraced all styles and kinds of painting:--landscape, architecture, still-life, portraiture--nothing had escaped the unwearied brush, nothing had appeared too difficult. On the contrary, there were the most unlikely effects of light and shade, the oddest scenes, the mostrisquésituations, involving the wildest inroads on the laws of perspective and the most reckless foreshortening--and the daring sketcher seemed positively to have revelled in these. And yet Bertram had to confess to himself that a not inconsiderable talent, which, with patient and careful schooling, might have borne beautiful fruit, had been recklessly wasted--and, indeed, generally recklessness did seem to him to be the Baron's leading characteristic. Anyhow, the painter's fluent comments on his own sketches quite corresponded to the reckless style of painting. Everywhere his ideas, good ones and bad ones, and some really original ones, were clothed in the same hurried, flurried, sometimes absurd form, showing a ready, but never a profound insight into human relations, into manners and customs of nations; much, but most desultory reading; extensive, and yet scattered knowledge. The man spoke as he painted, and painted as he played music. Reckless, superficial, inconstant, like his work and his talk, will and must his love be too, thought Bertram.
Could love like that lastingly suffice for Erna? It seemed impossible. But is there such a word as impossible in connection with the magic world of the human heart? Are not the natures of truly noble women at times visited by irresistible and undying passion for wavering, unstable, yes, even for morally worthless men? Does it not well-nigh seem to have all the stability of a law of nature, that totally opposed characters, all inward resistance notwithstanding, feel drawn to and fascinated by each other?
Was this fatal fascination visible in Erna?
Bertram kept his attention unconsciously fixed on that one decisive point, but without being able to come to any definite result. True, he had to confess to himself that even a still keener observer would have vainly tried his hand at the task. Erna joined to-day even less directly than on the previous day in the general conversation; nay more, he thought he noticed what had not been the case yesterday, or what had at least escaped him then, that her gaze, usually so firm, seemed at times fixed on vacancy, then again appeared directed inward, anyhow was not dwelling on her surroundings--a symptom which by no means pleased the observer, because from it one might surely conclude that there existed a deeper sentiment, one which absorbed her inner life. And this sentiment was not likely to be one of aversion to the Baron, to whom she talked more, in her own calm way, than to anybody else; with whom she played music two or three times during the day; and with whom she played chess after supper in her own grave, attentive manner. Hildegard came and explained all these details to Bertram ...
"Believe me," she said, "I know Erna. Mind, my words of this morning. She may be long in confessing her preference for any man, but if she were to dislike any one, he would find it out pretty soon."
"I fear that I am experiencing something of the sort," Bertram replied.
"How so?"
"Have you not noticed that she has not said three words to me all the evening?"
"Insatiable man! Are you not satisfied with Lydia who is ransacking her repertory for your sake? Would you have all womankind at your feet? I shall warn Lotter against you as against his worst rival."
"Do not destroy our budding friendship. But, joking apart, can there be a rival?"
"What are you thinking of? And if there were, I should be sure to know it through Lydia, who, like all elderly girls, is apt to err on the side of seeing too much rather than too little. Moreover, we two, Lydia and I, have never lost sight of the child, and in Erfurth, where, it is true, she went alone once or twice during the last few years, she was always in the company of my sister and her six girls, and I never heard a word, nor the slightest hint. One of the girls, Agatha, the third, Erna's bosom friend, is coming here, by the way, in a day or two; and a good, modest, sensible girl she is, though not as pretty as the rest. But you surely remember Agatha? Well, I'll question her a little when she comes, but I know beforehand that she will not have anything to tell. Oh, you'd better concentrate your jealousy upon Lotter!"
Hildegard surely felt very certain of her ground, else she would not have jested--a rare occurrence with her. Bertram took up a similar tone, and during the game of whist to which he and Otto soon afterwards sat down with the two older ladies, he was remarkably merry and talkative.
But two hours later Konski found him all the more gloomy and taciturn, and so silent that he did not even reply to the "good-night, sir," of that faithful servitor.
"It's the old one," soliloquised Konski, as he meditatively brushed his master's boots in his own little room, "who is bothering him. 'Dear Mr. Konski,' here, 'My good Mr. Konski,' there--I know what she is after. And then, to give me a whole dollar! And she has not any to spare, I can see that much, in spite of her grand airs and her trimmings. And she to rule the roast for master and me! Not if we knows it! And now we'll both marry; and marry smart young ones too! And may the devil fly away with all old women!"
For this morning, after breakfast, a general expedition had been planned--a drive to a certain eminence, from which the Baron was desirous of expounding to them all the arrangements for the forthcoming manœ vres. Bertram had at the last moment made an excuse: much to his regret, he sent Konski to say, that he had forgotten to write some really important letters, and must needs stay at home to do so now. Would the others, please, on no account give up their drive for his sake.
"At first they would not go without you, sir," Konski reported; "but I got them to do it, and they are getting the horses ready now; the ladies are to drive, the gentlemen will go on horseback. So you may stay quietly in bed and try to get another hour's sleep. I am afraid, sir, you have had another awful night!"
And indeed it had been a worse night for Bertram than the preceding one, and this time the morning had not improved him. That he had to admit to himself when, after having first vainly endeavoured to follow the faithful servant's advice, he had at length risen in very low spirits and dressed, trying whether a stroll along the terrace garden-walk would cool his fevered brow and refresh his weary heart.
He had no right to be wearied. He was bound, when they came back, to meet them merrily and serenely; that belonged to his part. How could they give their confidence to one who appeared to have none in himself, in his own strength, his own courage?
And he would need all his courage to look, if it could be done, deeper than hitherto into Erna's eyes, into Erna's heart: and he would need all his strength if that look were to confirm what, yesterday, he had deemed impossible, but what, during the awful night, had come to appear to him as thoroughly possible, nay, as probable. If it were so, then the whole elaborate plan which he had yesterday confided to his friend, had therewith fallen to the ground. Otto's embarrassments were scarcely as great as he had represented them; and even if he had not, according to his wont, exaggerated things, what would be the use of delaying the decision? On the contrary, the more swiftly it came, the better for all. If the Baron was a man of honour; he would not withdraw on learning that the maiden of his choice was not wealthy; if he had influence at Court, if this influence really amounted to something considerable, he would now try all the more to use it for his future father-in-law. They might then make their own arrangements, as best they could; and they would make arrangements; sacrifice some things on both sides, give up some hopes. What would one not sacrifice, what would one not give up, if one loved from one's very heart? But to have to look on at such hearty love, love delighting in sacrifice--never! To run away would be cowardly, no doubt. But then valour, like honesty, is appropriate only when it is needed, and when it will be of some use. He would have to think beforehand of some suitable pretext which should render a sudden departure possible.
Thus lost in mournful thought, Bertram was pacing backward and forward along the terrace-walk, now past sunny espaliers, along which ruddy grapes were already commencing to shine through the dense clusters of vine-leaves, anon between rows of beeches, which were entwined overhead and formed dusky arbour-like groves.
Having reached the end of one of these groves, he paused as one terrified. In front of him, on the platform where the terrace widened, Erna was seated beneath the great plantain tree which overshadowed the whole place with its broad branches. An open volume lay upon the round table before her; she was writing busily, bending over a blotting-book. The graceful form, the finely-chiselled features, stood out in clearest profile against the green terrace above her. In this subdued light the dainty cheek seemed even paler than usual; and as she now paused, pen in hand, lifting a long eyelash and glancing meditatively up at the leafy roof above, the great eyes shone like those of an inspired Muse.
"One draught before I pass onward--on the shadeless remainder of my dreary road," Bertram muttered to himself.
He might have stepped back without being noticed, but he did not do so; his motionless eyes clung to the beautiful picture before him, as one perishing of thirst might gaze upon a brimming cup, when, lo! she turned.
"Uncle Bertram!"
She had said it quite calmly, and now, slowly, she laid down her pen and closed her blotting-book, rising at the same time and holding out her hand to him as he came up.
"I felt that somebody, was looking at me."
"And you wished, to remain unseen, or at least undisturbed. But could I have guessed that I should find you here? Why are you not away with the others?"
A smile flitted over her face.
"I had important letters to write, too."
"Well, you have written, anyhow."
"And have you not? For shame. If you make any excuses you should yourself take them in earnest; then you will come to fancy afterwards that the excuses were really valid."
"I'll remember this in future. But what makes you tell me to my face that my important letters were but an excuse?"
"I thought that you did not care to go; and I think I know the reason why."
"Indeed! I am curious to hear it from you."
"I will tell you. I wanted to say so last night already, for then I noticed quite well how gladly you would have made an excuse, only you could not at the moment think of a suitable one; but I could not have said what I wished to say in a few words, and so I determined to try and have an undisturbed talk with you. Shall we not sit down?"
They sat dawn, Erna with her blotting-book before her, Bertram on the seat opposite. Her large eyes were lifted up to him. But a minute before he had greatly longed to be able to see deep, deep into these eyes, right to the innermost recess of her soul; and now, when it could be, when it was to be, he shrank from it, he wished the time deferred. He would in any case learn the secret all too soon.
"Uncle Bertram, I wanted to tell you that ..."
The dark eyelids had closed after all; well, she anyhow did not see the breathless excitement with which he hung upon her lips. In his mind he heard already the words--"that--I engaged myself last night to be married to the Baron." The pause she made--of a second or two--seemed to him an eternity.
"My dear child," he said in a voice well-nigh inaudible ...
"That ... you shall not for my sake lay upon yourself a burden which you can no longer bear."
The large eyes were gazing firmly at him again, while he bent his own in deadly confusion.
He murmured--
"I--I do not understand you."
"You are too good to wish to understand me; but the excess of your goodness weighs me down and frightens me. I know that you are fond of me, that you do it only because you love me. But I love you too, Uncle Bertram, love you very much, more than formerly, when I did not really know you, did not at all understand you. I am no longer a child, and therefore you should not treat me like a spoiled child and do what I ask, especially when I see that I ask for something to which I had no right. I had no right to ask--I should not have entreated you to be kind to Aunt Lydia. And now I beg of you not to be so any longer, or to the same extent. I cannot bear it. She has harmed you as terribly, as terribly as only an evil heart can harm a good one. And she to be allowed to take your hand, look into your eyes, jest with you, as if nothing had occurred! If this had happened to me, I would not tolerate it--never, never!"
Her voice quivered, her lips trembled; the pale cheek was flushed now, the great eyes were flashing. She said she had not known him, had not understood him--and he? What had he known of her? of the strength of feeling of that heart of hers which had seemed to him to beat in such steady measure? His gaze was fastened on her now in raptured amazement, like the gaze of a mortal to whom something divine is being revealed.
But next moment the wondrous girl had conquered that passionate impulse, her features regained their usual expression, and she went on, calmly enough--
"And you, Uncle Bertram, should not tolerate it either--you, least of all. You cannot lie, cannot play the hypocrite. Let others do so; it befits you ill, it is unworthy of you. I cannot, will not see anything unworthy in you. I will have one human being whom I can believe and trust unconditionally. This one you are, you must be; is it not so, Uncle Bertram?"
She held out her hand to him across the table. He could not refuse it, and yet, as he touched those slender fingers, something thrilled through him as though he had been guilty of some act of desecration.
"You think me too good, too great," he said. "I can only reply, I will try to deserve your confidence."
"And I will give you an opportunity at once. I am not contented with myself either. I too--for the sake of others, to please papa and mamma who seemed greatly to wish it--have been kinder to somebody than at heart I felt justified in being, and I must henceforth change my conduct towards him."
"He has proposed to you?"
"Proposed? To me?"
A scornful smile played round her exquisite lips.
"I beg your pardon, dear Erna. He was so remarkably assiduous in his attentions to you yesterday. You admit yourself that you have been kinder to him than now you care to have been, and he strikes me as being one of those men who grasp the whole hand the moment you hold out your little finger to them. And moreover, I know that your parents encourage him much, and he is surely aware of that too. Thus my question was not wholly groundless; still, I beg your pardon."
"And indeed you need it in this case, Uncle Bertram. Or, have I perhaps behaved so childishly that even a clever man like you could deem such a thing possible?"
"No, no; pray, try to forget what I said without thinking, or take it for a proof that I was right, that I am neither so good nor so clever as you thought."
The words sounded diffident, almost submissive, but his heart was swelling with proud delight, and the songsters perched above in the shady recesses of the big plantain tree seemed to have been silent till now, and to be then commencing all at once to twitter and sing and make sweetest melody; and from the terraces beneath there was wafted up to them in fragrant cloudlets the perfume of carnation and mignonette. What a beautiful, divinely beautiful morning it was!
"Henceforth," said Erna, "we will be open to each other, and then such misunderstandings will not occur again. This one, truly, should make me blush. The Baron is the very last man in whom I could take the very slightest interest. I find nearly everything he says stupid and silly, and if a fairly good idea turns up, as it does every now and then, it is impossible to enjoy it, for the question is sure to obtrude itself: 'What nonsense will he talk next?' I am only now making his acquaintance; he, it is true, has been often here before, but in my absence; and in town, when he came, as he sometimes did, to see Aunt Lydia, I always avoided having to meet him."
"You have met few young men yet?"
"And those few have not made me anxious to meet any more."
"This sounds very hard; but, to say the truth, you are not the first girl whom I have heard talk like this."
"My only wonder is that all do not talk, or, at least, think like this. My own idea is, that men are naturally selfish, frivolous, and vain, and only become with advancing years good, and noble, and amiable, and this applies only to the few exceptions; for I suppose the bulk remain as they were."
"Are you serious?"
"Perfectly. And that is why, the night before last, I could not agree with you at all when you asserted that a young girl could not love a much older man, or was at least committing an act of folly if she did so, which, to her sorrow, she was bound to realise sooner or later, and therefore the sooner the better. Nor is it at all this consideration which makes Hilarie change, and which throws her into the arms of that youth who is behaving so childishly and insanely, that Flavio;--there is quite a different reason for it."
"Then you know the novelette?"
"No; I only read it now; and I had to hunt a long time for it, until I found it in theWanderjahre. The book is lying there. And now I also understand the 'one element,' which you said the night before last that Göthe had excluded, or had not made use of--which is the right expression in this case?--because otherwise the comedy would have been turned into a tragedy."
"And this 'one element,' what is it?"
"The fact that her uncle is not in love with her at all. Was not that it?"
"To be sure. I only wonder at your having found it out."
"And my only wonder is that Hilarie did not discover it sooner. She must have been very blind not to have seen that her uncle returns--or rather does not return--her love from sheer kindliness of disposition; that at best hispenchantis but the faintest reflex of her passionate love. Look at this passage: 'You are making me the happiest man beneath the sun! Exclaiming this, he fell at her feet.' How feeble, how strained! And it contents her, makes her happy. I should have been ashamed of the whole business."
"You must make some allowance for the spirit of the time, for the manner and expression of the period; in that case, these things do not look or sound quite as bad. But now for the other side of the medal: You hold that Hilarie did truly love her uncle, and would have remained faithful to her love, in spite of any number of Flavios, if her passion had been returned?"
"Most certainly!"
"Well, be it so. He loves, loves passionately. Enter Flavio, loving, loving passionately, too. The father perceives it. He sees that his own love would seal the doom of the son whom he loves. Moreover, he is sure--if he is not a conceited fool, but a man of heart and head, he must be sure--that Hilarie would undoubtedly, return his son's passion, if he, the father, the uncle, did not unfortunately stand between them; that the girl's love for the young man, andvice versa, is the only natural--that means, the only right thing; that therefore Hilarie cannot truly love him; that her love rather, if it be not absolutely unnatural, is anyhow an error, an aberration, from which she shall and must turn. Given these things, am I wrong in asserting that then, indeed, the comedy changes to tragedy--a tragedy the secret and silent stage of which, I admit, will be solely ... the elderly man's heart? Do you not agree with me?"
"I must, I think; if I have first granted your suppositions and assumptions, particularly this: that a girl's love for a man much older than herself must needs in every case be an error, an aberration. But then, again, I do not see why the elderly man's love for the girl does not also tend to self-deception, to a fact which he, being more far-sighted, clever, experienced; is bound to realise all the sooner. And then, where is your tragedy?"
Once more the great eyes flashed, the dainty lips quivered, an angry cloud lay on her brow. There was a wild voice in his heart crying: "Where?--here, here--for I love, I love thee! and it is impossible that into thy maiden heart, there should ever fall one spark of the wild conflagration raging here." But he succeeded this time, too, in subduing the tumult in his heart, and he said smilingly--
"I hoped, nay, I knew that you would make this objection, which is absolutely correct, and which helps the Master to regain that absolute sovereignty and undeviating correctness in matters of the heart in which I, wantonly, tried to argue Göthe was deficient. Of course, so the matter stands, turn and twist it as you will--Hilarie's love is an illusion; or, more correctly, it is a foreshadowing of that true and genuine passion which she will feel one day. The Major's love is a reminiscence of what his heart once, in the bygone days of his far-away youth, was glowing with, and what it never again will glow with now. Anything of a warmer feeling that haply still survives, may be sufficient for a sensible, reasonable marriage, with the clever widow, in whose sentiments towards him again reminiscence acts the part of a kindly mediator, and ... but surely ... why, they are back already! Shall we go and meet them?"
From the verandah Lotter's loud voice was heard. Lydia, too, was calling out; she was calling Erna. Bertram had risen, glad of the interruption; he felt his strength very nearly exhausted. He was resting his hand on the back of her chair, lest Erna, if they shook hands, should feel how his hand trembled. But Erna was gazing straight before her with a very gloomy expression of countenance.
"I should like to finish my letter first," she said.
"Then I will disturb you no longer."
He had gone; had gone without offering her his hand. Erna sat for a while without looking up; then she re-opened her blotting-book, and read the last page she had written:--
"I see him always, absent or present; I see his noble, pale countenance, the deep, thoughtful eyes, that mouth which can jest so delicately, and which yet (for me) quivers so often in sorrow for a wasted life, a lost happiness. For me! The others never see it; how should they? To them he is the cold-hearted egotist, the bitter jester, who believes in nothing, least of all in love. To be sure--once betrayed as he has been--alas! Agatha, that is the very thing which draws me irresistibly to him. I can now gaze deep, deep into his noble heart, can feel all the pangs that have torn it, and must be tearing it again now in the presence of the viper who--oh, I do hate her! ... And he manages to be quite friendly in his demeanour to her, because I asked him to, before I knew all the circumstances. But he shall do so no longer. I cannot bear it, when he turns his good, truthful eyes to me, as though he would ask: 'Is it right thus?' No, it is wrong, a thousand times wrong! But is it not wrong, too, that I should be allowed to read in his heart, and he not in mine? Shall I tell him ... all? It is ever on my lips, but then ... no. I should not be ashamed in his presence, he is so kind, and he would understand me! Resting on his protecting arm he would let me shed the last of those hot, angry tears, which will yet persist in sometimes rising to my eyes, and which I brush away indignantly; and I would gratefully accept his mercy, but on one condition only, that I may go on resting on that arm, that he would permit me to love, to serve him, to-day and for ever, as his friend, his daughter, his slave! ... Shall I tell him?"
Erna gave a bitter smile, and took the sheet of paper in both her hands in order to tear it in pieces. Then she laid it down again, and seized her pen once more.
"She who has written this is a conceited little fool, and deserves exemplary punishment for her conceit, and the said punishment is to consist in her sending these lines to her granny, in order to receive by return of post the requisite scolding, even if granny, and this is an urgently repeated request, is coming here the day after to-morrow. For between granny and me there shall not be said one word on this subject, and even less about the other thing and the other one; and now, dearest granny ..."
"Ah, there is Miss Erna!" exclaimed the Baron, issuing with Lydia from the terrace walk.
"We have been looking everywhere for you," said Lydia. "Heavens! how the child has flushed and heated herself over her writing! To Agatha, of course!"
"Ah, if one could read the letter!" exclaimed the Baron.
"There is nothing about you in it, I can give you that assurance, if it will set your mind at ease," said Erna, closing her blotting-book with the unfinished letter in it, and rising.