Evening was drawing on. The festivities on the Berkow estates had been participated in by the bridal pair, and, so far at least, had attained their end. After the happy termination of that perilous incident which had so nearly compromised the whole proceedings, the original programme had been strictly adhered to. The young couple, everywhere in requisition during the afternoon, found themselves at last at home, and left to each other's company. Herr Schäffer had just taken his leave, he was to return to the elder Herr Berkow in the city the following morning; and the servant, who had been busy with the arrangements of the tea-table, now disappeared in his turn.
The lamp on the table shed its clear mild light on the pale blue draperies and costly furniture of the little salon, which, like all the other rooms in the house, had been newly and splendidly decorated for the reception of the new mistress, and formed part of the suite appropriated to her use. The silk curtains, closely drawn, shut from it the outer world; flowers filled the stands and vases, perfuming the air, and on a table before a little sofa stood the silver tea-service ready for use. In spite of all the splendour, it was a perfect little picture of domestic comfort.
So far, at least, as the boudoir itself was concerned; but the newly married couple hardly seemed as yet to appreciate its home-like charm. The bride, still in full dress, stood in the middle of the room musing, and holding in her hand the bouquet which Wilberg, in Martha's stead, had had the happiness of offering her. The scent from the orange-blossoms engrossed her attention so completely, that she had none left for her husband, and he certainly made no very vigorous claim upon it. Scarcely had the door closed behind the footman, when he sank into an armchair with an air of exhaustion.
"It is enough to kill one, this making a show of one's self for ever! Is not it, Eugénie? They have not granted us a minute's respite since yesterday at noon. First the ceremony, then the dinner, then a most fatiguing journey by rail and post, which went on all through the night and forenoon of to-day, then the tragic episode; here again a reception, presentation of officials, dinner.... My father did not remember evidently, when he sketched out the programme, that we possess anything like nerves. I own that mine are completely unstrung!"
His wife turned her head and cast a very contemptuous glance at the man, who, in his first tête-à-tête with her, could talk of his nerves. Eugénie did not appear to have much knowledge of such ailments; not a trace of fatigue was to be seen on her fair face.
"Have you heard whether young Hartmann's wound is dangerous?" asked she by way of answer.
Arthur had exerted himself to make an exceptionally long speech; he seemed surprised that it had obtained so little notice.
"Schäffer says it is nothing," he returned indifferently; "he has spoken to the doctor, I think. By the by, we shall have to make the young fellow some sort of recognition. I shall commission the Director to see about it."
"Ought you not rather to take the matter into your own hands?"
"I? No, pray spare me that! I hear he is not a common miner after all, but the son of the manager, a deputy, or something of the kind. How can I tell whether money, or a present, or what would be the proper thing to give him? The Director will manage it admirably."
He let his head sink into the cushions again. Eugénie answered nothing; she sat down on the sofa and leaned her head on her hand. After the pause of a minute or so, it seemed, however, to occur to Herr Arthur that he owed his young wife some attention, and that he could not possibly remain silent and buried in his arm-chair during the entire hour the tea-drinking would be supposed to last. It cost him an effort, but he made the sacrifice and actually rose to his feet. Going over to his wife, he seated himself by her side, took her hand and even went so far as to attempt passing his arm round her. But it was only an attempt. With a quick movement, Eugénie drew her hand out of his and retreated from him, casting a glance at him like that which, yesterday in church, had so spoiled his father's first embrace. There was the same cold haughty repulse in her look which said better than any words: "I am not to be approached by you, or any like you."
But this high disdainful manner, so imposing to the father, proved less so when employed towards the son, probably because the latter was no longer to be awed by anything. He appeared neither intimidated nor disconcerted at this evident show of repugnance, but merely looked up with some faint surprise.
"Is that disagreeable to you, Eugénie?"
"It is new to me at least. You have hitherto spared me such marks of affection."
The young man was too apathetic to feel all the bitter meaning of these words. He took them as a reproach.
"Hitherto? Well, yes, etiquette was rather severely maintained in your father's house. During the whole two months of our engagement, I had not once the happiness of seeing you alone. The continual presence of your father or your brothers laid a restraint upon us which, now we are together quietly for the first time, may well be laid aside."
Eugénie retreated still farther.
"Well then, now that we are quietly alone together, I declare that such tender demonstrations, made just to satisfy appearances, and in which the heart has no share, are positively distasteful to me. I release you once for all from any such obligations."
The surprise in Arthur's face became a little more marked now; so far, however, he was not really roused.
"You seem to be in rather a peculiar humour to-day. Appearances! Heart! Really, Eugénie, I should not have expected to find such romantic illusions in you of all people."
An expression of deep bitterness passed over her features.
"I took leave of all illusions in life when I promised you my hand. You and your father were bent on uniting your name with that of Windeg, which is old and noble. You thought, by doing so, you would obtain those honours and that society from which you had hitherto been shut out. Well, you have gained your end. For the future, I must sign myself Eugénie Berkow!"
She laid a most contemptuous stress on the last word. Arthur had risen; he seemed to understand at last that this was something more than a bride's caprice, called forth, possibly, by his negligence during the journey.
"You certainly do not seem to like the name much. Until to-day, I had no idea that, in taking it, you had yielded to constraint from your family, but I begin to think"----
"No one has constrained me!" interrupted Eugénie. "No one has even persuaded me. What I did, I did voluntarily, with full consciousness of what I was undertaking. It was hard enough for them at home that I should be sacrificed for their sakes."
Arthur shrugged his shoulders; it was plain from the expression of his face that the conversation was beginning to weary him.
"I really do not understand how you can speak in such a tragic tone about a simple family arrangement. If my father, in making it, had other objects in view, I suppose the Baron's motives were not of a very romantic nature either, only he, probably, had still more cogent reasons for approving of a marriage by which he certainly was not the loser."
Eugénie started up, her eyes flashed, and a hasty movement of her arm threw the fragrant bouquet to the ground.
"And you dare to say that to me? After what occurred before your suit was accepted? I thought, at least, you would blush for it, if indeed you are still capable of blushing."
The young man's languid, half-closed eyes opened suddenly, large and full; there came a gleam into them, like a sudden spark shooting up from beneath dead ashes, but his voice retained its quiet matter-of-fact tone.
"First of all, I must beg of you to be a little clearer. I feel myself quite unable to make out these enigmatic speeches."
Eugénie crossed her arms with a rapid movement; her bosom heaved tumultuously.
"You know, as well as I do, that we were on the brink of ruin. Whose the fault may have been, I cannot and will not decide. It is easy to throw stones at one who is struggling with adversity. When a man has inherited estates overburdened with debt, when he has to maintain the repute of an old name, to keep up a position in society, and to assure his children's future, he cannot amass money as you do in your industrial world. You have always had gold to throw away, your every wish has been forestalled, every whim gratified. I have tasted all the misery of an existence, which, wearing of necessity the outward mask of splendour, was every day, every hour, drawing nearer inevitable ruin. Perhaps we might yet have escaped, if we had not fallen precisely into Berkow's nets. He fairly forced his help on us at first, forced it upon us until he had got everything into his hands, until we, pursued, entrapped, despairing, literally knew not which way to turn. Then he came and claimed my hand for his son as the sole price of deliverance. Rather than offer me up, my father would have braved the worst, but I would not see him sacrificed, his whole career destroyed, I would not have my brother's future blighted, our name dishonoured, so I gave my consent. Not one of my family knew what it cost me!--but, if I sold myself, I can answer for it to God, and to my conscience. You, who lent yourself to be the tool of your father's base designs, have no right to reproach me; my motives were at least nobler than yours!"
She paused, overcome by her emotion. Her husband still stood motionless before her; there was the same slight pallor on his face as had been visible at noon, when the danger was just overpast, but his eyes were veiled once more.
"I regret that you did not make these disclosures to me before our marriage," said he, slowly.
"Why?"
"Because you would not then have incurred the humiliation of signing yourself Eugénie Berkow."
The young wife was silent.
"I had not the slightest suspicion of these--these manipulations on my father's part," continued Arthur, "for my habit is in no way to interfere with his business concerns. He said to me one day, that if I chose to sue for the hand of Baron Windeg's daughter, my proposal would be accepted. I agreed to the plan, and I was formally presented to you, our betrothal following a few days later. That is my share of the business."
Eugénie turned away.
"I would rather have had a plain avowal of your complicity than this fable," she said coldly.
Again the man's eyes opened wide, and again that strange light gleamed in them, ready to kindle into flame, but ever anew quenched by the ashes.
"It seems I stand so high in my wife's estimation, that my words do not even find credence with her?" said he, this time with a decided touch of bitterness.
Eugénie's fair face expressed the most sovereign contempt, as she turned it towards her husband, and she answered slightingly:
"You really must excuse me, Arthur, for not meeting you in a spirit of perfect confidence. Until the day you entered our house for the first time on an errand I understood but too well--until then, I had known you only through the city gossip, and it"----
"Drew no flattering portrait of me? That I can well believe. Will you not have the goodness to tell me what people were pleased to say of me in town?"
She raised her large eyes and looked him steadily in the face.
"People said that Arthur Berkow only made so princely a display, only threw away thousands upon thousands, in order to buy the favour of the young nobility and the right to associate with them, hoping that his own humble birth would thus be forgotten. People said that in the wild, dissipated doings of a certain set, he was the wildest, the most dissipated of all. As to some of the other reports, it would ill become me as a woman to pronounce upon them."
Arthur's hand still rested on the back of the armchair on which he was leaning; during the last few seconds it had buried itself involuntarily deeper and deeper in the silken cushions.
"And you naturally do not think it worth while to attempt to reclaim this lost sinner, on whom sentence has been passed without appeal?"
"No."
She spoke this 'No' in a freezing tone. The young man's face twitched a little as he drew himself up quickly.
"You are more than sincere! Never mind, it is an advantage to know exactly on what footing we are to be together, for together we must remain for a time, at all events. The step we took yesterday cannot be recalled immediately, without exposing us both to ridicule. If you provoked this scene with a view to showing me, that though my presumption had won your hand, yet I must learn to hold myself at a respectful distance from the Baroness Windeg--and I fear this was your sole object--you have gained your end, but"----here Arthur relapsed into his old languid manner, "but I beg of you, let this be the first and last conversation of the kind between us. I detest everything which resembles a scene; my nerves really will not bear them, and it is always possible to regulate one's life without any such useless excitement. And now I think I shall best meet your wishes by leaving you alone. Allow me to wish you good evening."
He took up from the sideboard a silver candelabra, in which lights were burning, and left the room. Outside the threshold he stopped a moment and turned to look back. The gleam in his eyes was no longer faint, it blazed up for one second clear and bright; then all grew dull and lifeless once more, but the candles flared unsteadily as he crossed the anteroom, possibly from the current of air, or was it because the hand which carried them shook a little?
Eugénie remained alone. She drew a deep breath of relief as theportièrefell behind her husband. As though needing some fresh air after so painful a scene, she drew the curtains back, half opened the window, and, stepping on to the balcony, looked out at the balmy spring evening. The stars shone faintly through the thin transparent clouds which veiled the heavens, and the landscape without looked indistinct and shadowy, for the deep twilight had already fallen, clothing it on all sides with its dusky garment The flowers on the terrace below filled the air with their fragrance, and the low splash of the fountains came refreshingly to the ear. Peace and rest were everywhere--everywhere but in the heart of the young wife, who, to-day, for the first time, had crossed the threshold of her new home.
It was over at last, the dumb torturing struggle of the last two months, through which she had been supported by the pain and by the ardour of the fight itself. For heroic natures there is something grand in the idea of giving up one's whole future for others, of buying their salvation with the happiness of one's own life, of sacrificing one's self in their stead to an inexorable destiny. But now when the sacrifice was made, when deliverance had been secured, when there was nothing left to fight for, and nothing to overcome, now all the romantic glamour, which filial love had hitherto woven round Eugénie's resolve, faded away, and she began to feel deeply the cold desolation of the life before her.
The breezy, balmy air of the spring evening seemed to stir in its depths all the long-repressed anguish of this young soul, which had demanded its share of love and happiness from life, and which had been so cruelly robbed of its lawful due. She was young and beautiful, more beautiful than most, she was of a noble old race; and the proud daughter of the Windegs had ever adorned the hero of her youthful dreams with all the brilliant chivalry of her forefathers. That he should be her equal in name and rank was a thing never questioned .... and now? Had the husband, who had been forced upon her, possessed that energy and strength of character which she prized above everything in a man, she might, perhaps, have forgiven him his plebeian birth; but this weakling, whom she had despised before she had known him----Had the insults, which she, with fullest intent, had heaped upon him, and which would have stung any other man to fury, even roused him from his apathetic indifference? Had this apathy of his been shaken even for one moment by the open expression of her contempt? Another, a stranger, must throw himself before the maddened animals this morning, at the risk of being trampled to death by them.
Before Eugénie's mental vision rose the face of her deliverer with its defiant blue eyes and bleeding forehead. Her husband did not even know whether this man's wound were dangerous, whether it might not prove mortal, yet both he and she must have perished but for that energetic, lightning-like deed.
She sank back into a seat and hid her face in her hands. All that she had suffered and fought against for months pressed in on her now with tenfold power, and found utterance in the one despairing cry, "My God! my God! how shall I bear this life?"
Herr Berkow's very extensive mining works lay at some distance from the capital, in one of the remoter provinces. The neighbouring country offered no great attractions. Hills, and nothing but hills; for miles around only the uniform dark green of the pines, which clothed alike the heights and valleys; buried in their midst occasional villages and hamlets, and, here and there, a farm or a country-house. But the soil up in these parts could not yield much. The treasures of the land lay hidden under the earth, and therefore was it that all the life and activity of the neighbourhood congregated to the Berkow estates, where operations on a magnificent scale were carried on for bringing these treasures forth to the light of day.
The estates were rather isolated and cut off from the great lines of communication, for the nearest town was some miles distant; but the great labyrinth of buildings, store and dwelling houses, which had sprung up in these quiet valleys, with all their busy life and movement, formed almost a town in itself. Every appliance which industry or science could suggest, every assistance which machinery and men's hands could afford, was here brought into play to wring its treasures from the reluctant earth. A perfect host of officials, of engineers, inspectors, and superintendents, all under the control of the Director, formed a colony apart, and the men, to be counted by several thousands, only a small minority of whom could be lodged on the spot, lived in the adjacent villages.
The undertaking which, from a very insignificant beginning, had only been raised by the present proprietor to the vast proportions it had now attained, seemed almost too great for the means of any private individual. A gigantic capital was indeed needed to keep it on foot; it was by far the most important enterprise of the sort in the province, and took the lead, therefore, in its branch of industry. This settlement with its unlimited forces of machinery and hand labour, with its establishments and dwelling-houses, with its officials and working-men, formed a state in itself, and its master was as sovereign a lord as any ruler of a small principality.
It was somewhat surprising that a man at the head of such an undertaking should have hitherto failed to obtain a distinction for which he had striven, and which had been granted to others who had done less for the industry of the country. But whenever the decision on such matters emanates directly from a very high quarter, the character and conduct of the candidate for honours come into question. It was so here. Berkow enjoyed but little sympathy in the leading circles of society; there were so many dark spots in his past life, which his riches could veil, but not altogether efface. He had certainly never come into open conflict with the law, but he had often enough drawn very near those confines where the law's action makes itself felt. It was even averred by many that his operations in the distant province, on however grand a scale they might be, were yet not altogether exemplary.
Much was said of an unscrupulous system of working, which aimed only at increasing the proprietor's wealth, and took no heed of the ill or well being of those human agents impressed into its service, of arbitrary encroachments on the part of the officials, of a low ferment of discontent among the hands. But, after all, these were only reports, the settlement itself lay too far off for them to be verified; on the other hand, the fact remained certain that it proved an almost inexhaustible source of wealth to its owner.
Every one was forced, indeed, to confess that this man's perseverance, tenacity, and industrial genius, were at least equal to his unscrupulousness. Sprung originally from a very low condition, tossed hither and thither by the waves of life, he had at last succeeded in gaining a point of vantage, and now for some years had enjoyed the undisputed position of a millionaire. In fact, fortune had latterly seemed to follow in his footsteps; each time he put her to the test, she remained faithful to him, and the most precarious transaction, the most hazardous speculation, would invariably succeed if his hand were but at the helm.
Berkow had become a widower early in life, and had never re-married. To his restless mind, always bent upon the chances of gain, home-ties seemed more of a chain than a consolation. His only son and heir had been brought up in the capital, and nothing had been spared for his education in the way of tutors, professors, visits to the University, and home and foreign travel. But as for any peculiar preparation for his calling as the future head and leader of a great industrial enterprise, such a thing was not thought of.
Herr Arthur showed a decided distaste for learning anything beyond the usual fashionable curriculum, and his father was much too weak, and much too vain of the brilliant rôle his son was playing--to support which he himself cheerfully paid--ever to insist upon a more thorough course of study. If it came to the worst, there were always capable men enough to be had whose technical and commercial knowledge could be secured at a high salary. So the young heir came but once a year to his possessions in the far-off province, while his father, though he took up his residence occasionally in the capital, still retained the superintendence of the whole concern.
The young couple had not been specially favoured by the weather during their visit to the country. The sun showed itself but rarely this spring-time; after many rainy days it shone out at last, however, as if to greet the Sunday. The shafts were empty and the works at rest; but in spite of the Sabbath calm and the smiling sunshine, something of the gloomy monotonous character of the country seemed to weigh on the whole colony.
No attempt at embellishment, no attention to the convenience of the inhabitants, was noticeable in the buildings connected with the industry of the place, or in the dwelling-houses; they were all constructed on a strictly utilitarian principle. That a due sense of the beautiful was not wanting to the proprietor, his own house sufficiently attested. Care had been taken to build it at a suitable distance from the works, and so that it should command a full view over the wooded hills. Within and without it was fitted up and decorated in so luxurious a style as to be almost princely, and with its balconies, terraces and flower gardens, it looked like an oasis of fragrance and poetry lying in the midst of this busy region.
In the immediate neighbourhood of the shafts stood the cottage of Hartmann, the Manager. Its appearance plainly showed that the occupant enjoyed a position of peculiar privilege, and so indeed it was. In his youth the sturdy miner had married a girl in the service of the late Frau Berkow, and a special favourite of her mistress. Even after her marriage the young woman preserved something of her old relations with her former employers, and so it came to pass that her husband was favoured and preferred in every way, advanced from post to post, and finally even promoted to be working-manager. These relations and these favours ceased, it is true, at Frau Berkow's death; the widower was not the man to trouble himself about former members of his household, and when Hartmann's wife also died shortly afterwards, the old connection came altogether to an end.
But from that time forth, the Manager had cherished a strong devotion to the Berkow family, to whose support he owed his present position so devoid of care, whereas, without it, he would probably, like so many of his comrades, never have got beyond the laborious, poorly-paid work in the mines. Several years ago he had brought home his sister's orphan-child, Martha Ewers, and now she admirably filled the place of mistress of his house. As for the fulfilment of his secret desire that she and his son should come together as man and wife, there seemed so far but small prospect of it.
On this particular Sunday morning, the cottage, formerly so peaceful, had been the scene of one of those excited discussions which unhappily had ceased to be uncommon between father and son. The Manager, standing in the middle of the room, was declaiming violently at Ulric, who had just returned from the Director's house, and now leaned, silent and morose, against the door. Martha stood a little apart, watching the strife with unconcealed anxiety.
"Was such a thing ever heard of!" stormed the old man. "Have you not enemies enough up yonder, that you must set to work to hunt up more? A sum of money is offered to my gentleman there, large enough to begin housekeeping upon, and he sets his obstinate head against it, and says 'No!' without more ado! But what do you care about housekeeping and the like? Much you think of taking a wife! To bury yourself in your newspapers when you come home from work; to sit up half the night over your books, and stuff your head full of that new-fangled nonsense which an honest miner has no need to know anything about; to play the lord and master among your mates, so that soon we shall not have to ask the Director, but Herr Ulric Hartmann, what is to be done upon the works--that is all that pleases you. And when, for once in a way, we are reminded that, after all, we are nothing more as yet than a Deputy, then we talk of 'not taking payment,' and throw it back in our employers' faces. I should think if any one ever really earned money, it was you that day."
Ulric had listened in silence so far, but at the last few words he stamped his foot angrily.
"Once for all, I will have nothing to do with the set up there. I have told them that I want no payment for my 'courageous act,' which they make such a fuss about, and I'll take none, so there's an end of it."
The Manager's anger flamed out again; he was just beginning a still sharper remonstrance when Martha interrupted him.
"Let him be, uncle," said she shortly; "he is right."
The old man, quite disconcerted at this unlooked-for interference, stared at her open-mouthed.
"Oh! he is right, is he?" he repeated grimly. "I might have been sure you would take his part!"
"Ulric is angry that they should have tried to pay their debt through the Director, without giving themselves any further trouble about the matter," continued the girl firmly, "and it was not seemly. If Herr Berkow had spoken to him himself, and said just one word of thanks ... But he indeed! he troubles himself about nothing on earth. He always looks as if he were half asleep, and as if it cost him the most dreadful effort even to look at one; and when, for a wonder, he is not really asleep, he lies all day long on a sofa and stares at the ceiling" ...
"Let the young master alone!" broke in the Manager hastily. "All that lies at his father's door. From his childhood, Herr Berkow has given way to all his wishes, and encouraged him in his faults. He used to tell him constantly how rich he would be one day, and to send away the tutors and servants if they would not obey the youngster. Later on, when he grew older, he was only to associate with counts and barons. Money was handed over to him in heaps, and the madder his way of life was, the better his father was pleased. How could a young lad like that keep his own goodness of heart? For a good heart he had, young Arthur, as to that no one shall say me nay! I ought to know, for I have ridden him often on my knee--and he had some feeling too. I remember well when he had to go away to town after his mother's death, how he clung to me and cried bitterly, so that they could not get him away, though Herr Berkow was begging, and coaxing, and promising him everything in the world. I had to carry him to the carriage myself. No doubt, when he had been in the city a while with all thosebonnesand masters, it was different; next time he just gave me his hand, and since then he has always grown prouder and cooler, until now"----an expression of pain passed over the old man's face, but he shook off the weakness quickly, and went on. "Well! it does not matter much to me, but I do not like to hear you rail at him, whenever you get a chance, especially Ulric, who has a downright hatred to him. If that obstinate fellow had had as much of his own way, and some thousands to spend into the bargain, I should like to know what he would have grown into! Nothing good, that is certain."
"Perhaps something worse, father," said Ulric, curtly, "but he would not have grown into a milksop like that, you may take my word for it."
The conversation, which again seemed taking a critical turn, was now fortunately brought to an end. There came a knock at the door, and a servant, in the rich and somewhat over-decorated livery of the Berkow family, entered without waiting for an invitation, and greeted the Manager with a "Good-day."
"Her ladyship sent me over. I am to tell your Ulric--oh! there you are, Hartmann! Her ladyship wishes to speak to you; I am to say she will expect you over there at seven o'clock sharp."
"Me?"
"Ulric?"
These two exclamations were uttered by the old man and his son, in a tone of equal surprise; as to Martha, she stood looking at the man in blank astonishment. He continued equably:
"There must have been something up between you and the Director, Hartmann. He was with her ladyship quite early to-day, though, in a usual way, she does not trouble herself about the gentlemen's business matters, and I was sent off to you at full speed. There is plenty to do up at the house, I assure you; all the gentlemen from the works are invited to dinner, and there are all sorts of grandees coming out from the town too.... But I have not a moment's time. Be punctual, seven o'clock, just after dinner."
The man seemed really in a hurry; he nodded shortly, by way of adieu to all present, and went.
"There!" burst forth the Manager. "They know already of your ridiculous refusal up there. Now look to yourself to find a way of settling the business."
"Shall you go, Ulric?" quickly and eagerly asked Martha, who had remained silent so far.
"What are you thinking of, child?" scolded her uncle. "Do you suppose he can say no again, when the mistress sends expressly for him. But you and he would both be capable of it, really!"
Martha did not attend to this speech. She drew nearer her cousin, and laid her hand on his arm.
"Shall you go?" she repeated in a low tone.
Ulric stood looking darkly at the ground, as though a struggle were going on within him. Presently he threw back his head hastily.
"Certainly I shall. I should be glad to know what her ladyship can be pleased to want with me now, after passing a whole week without once taking the trouble to inquire"----
He stopped short, as if he felt he had said too much. Martha's hand slid from his arm, and she stepped back, but the Manager said with a sigh,
"Well, Heaven save us, if you go behaving in that way up yonder! To make things worse, old Berkow came down yesterday evening. If you two get together, your time here as Deputy is over, and mine as Manager will not be long. I know the master well!"
A contemptuous expression played about the young man's lips.
"Make your mind easy, father. They know how fond you are of the 'family,' and what trouble your unnatural son causes you. He won't even bow down to his betters! No one will quarrel with you, and I"----here Ulric drew himself up to his full height, in defiant self-assertion, "I shall stay on here for a time, at least. They dare not send me away, they are far too much afraid of me."
He turned his back on his father, pushed open the door, and walked out. The Manager clapped his hands together, and was about to send another thundering reproof after his rebellious son, but Martha stopped him, by again, and still more decidedly this time, taking Ulric's part. Tired of the strife at last, the old man caught hold of his pipe, and prepared to go out likewise.
"Hark ye, Martha," said he, turning round in the doorway. "I can see this by you. There is no rebel living but can be over-matched. You have found your master in Ulric, and he will find his, too, as sure as my name is Gotthold Hartmann!"
Meanwhile preparations were being made up at the great house for the grand dinner which was to take place that day. Servants ran up and down stairs, cooks and maids bustled about the kitchens and pantries. There was everywhere something to be attended to, some alteration to be made, and the whole house offered that appearance of busy unrest which usually precedes a festivity.
The quiet reigning in young Berkow's rooms seemed even greater by the contrast. The curtains were let down, theportièresclosed, and in the adjoining apartments, the servants glided noiselessly about over the thick carpets, putting everything in order. Their master was accustomed to dream away the greater part of the day, lying at full length on his sofa, and he did not care to be disturbed by even the slightest noise.
The young heir lay, with half-closed eyes, stretched on a divan. He held a book in his hand, which he was, or rather had been, reading, for the same page had remained long open before him; probably he had found the trouble of turning the leaves too great. Presently, the book fell from his negligent hold, and slipped from his long delicate fingers on to the floor. It would not have been a great exertion to stoop and pick it up, still less to call for that purpose the busy servants near at hand, but he did neither. The book lay on the carpet, and Arthur passed the next quarter of an hour without changing his position or moving in the slightest degree. His face showed sufficiently that he was not meditating on what he had read, he was not even day-dreaming; he was simply feeling himself unutterably bored.
The somewhat ruthless opening of a door which led from the corridor into the neighbouring room, and the sound of a loud imperious voice within, put an end to this interesting state of things. The elder Berkow asked if his son were still there, and, on receiving a reply in the affirmative, he sent the servant away, pushed back the heavyportières, and entered the inner room. His countenance was flushed as though from vexation or anger, and the cloud resting on his brow grew darker as he caught sight of Arthur.
"So you are still lying on that sofa, just as you were three hours ago!"
Arthur was not accustomed, it seemed, to show his father even the outward forms of respect. He had taken no notice of his entrance, and it did not now occur to him to modify the extreme negligence of his attitude.
The lines on his father's brow grew deeper still.
"Your apathy and indolence really begin to pass belief. It is even worse here than in town. I hoped you would conform to my wishes, and take some interest in the success of a concern which was started solely on your account, but"----
"Good Heavens, sir!" said the young man, "you do not want me to trouble myself about workmen and machinery and such things, do you? I never have done so, and I can't, for my life, comprehend why you should have sent us here of all places. I am nearly bored to death in this wilderness."
He spoke languidly, but quite in the tone of a spoilt darling, accustomed everywhere, and under all circumstances, to see his caprices taken into account, and to whom even the suggestion of anything unpleasant was an offence. Something must have happened, however, to irritate his father too much for him to yield this time, as was his custom. He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"I am pretty well used to your being bored to death in every place and in all company, whilst I have to bear all the care and burden alone. Just now, worries are coming in upon me on all sides. It cost sacrifices enough to free the Windegs from their obligations, and here I find nothing but vexation and disagreeables without end. I have had a meeting this morning of all the superior officials with the Director at their head, and I was forced to listen to complaints, and nothing but complaints. Extensive repairs in the shafts--increase of wages--new ventilators. Nonsense! as if I had time and money for that now!"
Arthur listened without any show of sympathy; if his face expressed anything, it was the desire he felt that his father would go away. But the latter was not so obliging; he began to pace up and down the room.
"This comes of trusting to one's agents and their reports! For the last six months I have not been here in person, and everything is going to the deuce. They talk of a ferment of discontent among the hands, of grave symptoms and danger threatening, as if they had not full authority to draw the reins as tight as they choose. A certain Hartmann is pointed out to me as chief agitator. He is looked upon by the other miners as a sort of Messiah, and he is secretly stirring up the whole works to revolt. When I ask why, in Heaven's name, they have not sent the fellow about his business long ago, what answer do I get? They dare not! So far, he has given no grounds for dissatisfaction on the score of his work, and his comrades fairly worship him. There would be a strike on the works if he were sent away without sufficient motive. I took the liberty of telling these gentlemen that they were a set of timid hares, and that I would take the thing into hand myself. The shafts will remain as they are, and as to the question of wages, not an iota of difference shall be made in them. The least attempt at a rising will be met with the utmost severity, and I shall dismiss the plotter-in-chief myself this very day."
"You can't do that, sir!" said Arthur suddenly, half raising himself on the sofa.
Berkow stood still in surprise.
"Why not?"
"Because it was precisely this Hartmann who stopped our horses and saved us from certain death."
His father uttered an exclamation of suppressed wrath.
"The devil! it must just be that fellow! No, then, certainly we cannot send him off at a minute's notice, we must wait for an opportunity. By the by, Arthur," with a displeased look at his son, "it was rather too bad that I should have to hear of that accident from a stranger. You did not think it worth while to write a syllable to me about it."
"Why should I?" returned the young man, resting his head wearily on his hand. "The thing was happily over, and, besides, they have nearly worn the life out of us up here with their sympathy, their congratulations, their questions, and their palaver about it. I do not think one's life is so valuable it is worth making such a fuss about its being saved."
"You don't think it is?" said the father, looking keenly at him. "I should have thought, as you were only married the day before"----
Arthur answered only with a shrug. Berkow's eyes rested on him with a still more searching gaze.
"As we are on the subject--what is all this between you and your wife?" asked he, all at once, without anything by way of preface.
"Between me and my wife?" repeated Arthur, as though trying to remember who was meant.
"Yes, between you two. I expect to take by surprise a newly-married pair in their honeymoon, and I find a state of things here which I should never have supposed possible. You ride out alone, and she drives alone. You never go near each other's rooms, and when you are together, you have not half-a-dozen words to say to one another. What does it all mean?"
The younger man had risen now, and was standing opposite his father, but he had not thrown off his sleepy look.
"You seem to have mastered the details thoroughly, sir," said he. "You could hardly have learnt them all in the half-hour we spent together yesterday evening. Have you been questioning the servants?"
"Arthur!" Berkow's anger was breaking forth, but the habit of indulgence towards his son made him overlook this great offence. He forced himself to be calm.
"It appears you are not accustomed up here to the fashionable way of doing things," continued Arthur, quite undisturbed. "Now, in regard to this, we are eminently aristocratic. You know, sir, you are so fond of all that is aristocratic!"
"Leave your jests!" said Berkow, impatiently. "Is it your pleasure, too, that your wife should allow herself to ignore you in a way which is already the talk of the whole place?"
"I leave her free, that is, to do as she likes, just as I intend to do myself."
Berkow started up from his seat
"This is really going too far! Arthur, you are"----
"Not like you, sir!" interrupted the young man. "I, at least, should never have forced a girl into giving her consent by threatening her with her father's recognisances."
The colour faded suddenly from Berkow's face, and he stepped back involuntarily, asking in an unsteady voice,
"What--what do you mean?"
Arthur drew himself up erect, and some animation came into his eyes as he fixed them on his father.
"Baron Windeg was ruined, that every one knew. Who ruined him?"
"How should I know?" asked Berkow, ironically. "His extravagance, his love of playing the grand seigneur when he was head over ears in debt, was cause enough. He would have been lost without my help."
"Indeed? So you had no ulterior object in view when you gave him your help? The Baron was never offered the alternative of surrendering his daughter, or of preparing to meet the worst? He decided voluntarily upon this marriage?"
Berkow laughed, but his laughter was forced.
"Of course. Who has been telling you anything to the contrary?" But, in spite of his tone of assurance, his look fell. This man had probably never yet lowered his eyes when reproached with an unscrupulous act, but he could not meet his son's gaze on this occasion. A bitter expression passed over the young man's face; if he had had any doubt hitherto, he knew enough now.
After the pause of a second, he renewed the conversation.
"You know that I never had any inclination for marrying, that I only yielded to your incessant persuasion. Eugénie Windeg was as indifferent to me as any other woman. I did not even know her, but she was not the first who had been willing to give up her old name in exchange for wealth. At least, that was how I interpreted her consent, and that of her father. You never thought fit to inform me of that which preceded and followed my proposal. I had to hear of the barter that had been made of us both from Eugénie's mouth. We will let that be. The thing is done, and cannot be undone; but you can understand now that I shall avoid exposing myself to fresh humiliations. I have no wish to stand a second time before my wife, as I had to do the other evening, while she poured out all her contempt for me and my father, and I--I could but listen in silence."
Berkow had been dumb so far, and had half turned away, but at these last words he looked round at his son quickly with some astonishment.
"I should not have believed that anything could irritate you so much," said he slowly.
"Irritate? Me? You are mistaken, we did not reach the pitch of irritation. My lady-wife deigned from the first to mount on the high pedestal of her exalted virtues and of her noble descent, and I, who, in both respects, am equally unworthy, preferred to admire her only from a distance. I should seriously advise you to do the same, that is, if ever you attain to the happiness of her society."
He threw himself down on the sofa again with an air of contemptuous indifference, but even in his sneer there was a touch of that irritation his father had noticed. Berkow shook his head, but the subject was too embarrassing, and the rôle he played towards his son in this business too painful for him not to seize the first opportunity of putting an end to the discussion.
"We will talk it over again at a fitting time," said he, taking out his watch hastily. "Let us have done for to-day. There are yet two good hours before the people arrive; I am going over to the upper works. You will not come with me?"
"No," said Arthur, relapsing into indolence.
Berkow made no attempt to use his authority. Perhaps, after such an interview, the refusal was not disagreeable to him. He went away, leaving the young man alone once more, and, with the renewed stillness, all the latter's apathy seemed to return to him.
While the first bright spring day smiled on the world without, while the woods lay bathed in sunshine, and the sweet scent of the pines rose up from the hills, Arthur Berkow lay within in the darkened room, where the curtains were so carefully lowered, theportièresso closely drawn, as though he alone were not created to enjoy the free mountain air and the bright light of day. The air was too keen for him, the sun too dazzling. It blinded him to look out, and he said to himself that his nervous system was shaken beyond all description. The young heir, who had at his disposal all that life and this world can give, thought, as he had often thought before, that after all both the world and life are horribly empty, and that it is assuredly not worth while to have been born at all.