Evening had come, and throughout the house there was a feeling of disquiet and much busy movement. Baron Windeg had had another and a longer interview with his daughter in the afternoon, and directly afterwards the lady's maid had received orders to pack up her mistress's wardrobe. Herr Berkow had previously informed the servants that his wife would leave in the morning with her father for a stay of several weeks in the capital, and had desired that the necessary preparations should be made.
Of course, this piece of news at once made the round of all the officials' dwellings, and there, as at home, excited more uneasiness than surprise. It was clear as day that the master was only sending away her ladyship because he was convinced there would soon be "a row" on the works. He wished to know that she was in safety, and had probably himself sent for her father to fetch her away. Windeg was right. The pretext was so plausible, it occurred to nobody to doubt it.
At first, the strangely cold relations between the young married pair had been much discussed and commented on; but that had gradually ceased. It was known that the marriage had not been one of inclination, but as no quarrels or violent scenes were ever heard of--and, had there been any such, they could hardly have escaped the servants' notice--as Berkow was always politeness itself in his behaviour to his wife, and Eugénie tranquillity itself in her manner towards him, it was concluded that they must have become accustomed to and satisfied with each other: the usual result of these marriages of convenience. Their peculiar way of life seemed to be only what was practised in the great world.
In the higher circles of the capital it was usual to live thus apart and on a politely cool footing, and it could therefore be a matter of no surprise that the Baroness Windeg and the son of Berkow the millionaire should adopt the same course. That this journey, which had been preceded by no quarrel, should contain in it the germs of a final separation, was suspected by no one, and it struck no one as strange that the family did not spend that evening in company as usual.
Dinner was served for the two guests in the dining-room; her ladyship, being unwell, ordered tea in her boudoir, and then, to her maid's astonishment, left it untouched. As to Herr Berkow, he did not dine at all, but retired to his study where he had "business" to attend to, giving strict orders that he should not be disturbed.
Without all was pitch darkness, and here within the lamp on the writing-table shed its light on a man who, for more than an hour, had been pacing restlessly to and fro. Behind those closed doors the mask of indifference he had worn so long, was thrown off at last, and an outlet given to the storm silently raging within him. This was no longer the blasé young heir, nor the resolute leader whose suddenly-aroused energy and presence of mind had impressed his subordinates with respect and inspired the officials with courage.
In this man's face were visible traces of a great passion, the extent of which had been unknown even to himself, until the moment when the object of it was about to be lost to him. That moment had now come, and, for a while, his passion claimed its right to be heard.
The pallor of his brow, his quivering lips and burning eyeballs told a tale of what that day's interview had cost him, though the Baron had asserted of it that he could not have supposed the matter would be so easily arranged.
It had come at last then, that much-dreaded day of separation! and it was well that another had stepped in and effected that which his will lacked strength to undertake. How often during the last fortnight had Arthur himself thought of using the pretext which the Baron now suggested to him, and so of shortening the torture of this life under a common roof; for that measured calm of exterior, belying at every moment, as it did, the inward glow at his heart, could no longer be sustained. It exceeded his powers of endurance! And yet he had taken no step.
It is an indisputable truth that what is unavoidable had best be done at once; but not every one who would, if necessary, courageously use the knife to a poisoned bodily wound, can pluck up resolution to tear a devouring passion from his breast. With it there comes irresistibly the dread of losing the much loved object.
They had been long separated, these two, but, at least, he could still behold that fair face with the dark, speaking eyes, and the proud and delicate features which had grown so grave of late, and then there came moments of bliss, fleeting as lightning, which made amends for whole days and weeks of bitterness; such as that time in the forest the day before yesterday, when, with evident anxiety, she had pressed her horse close to his, when she had trembled in his arms as he lifted her from her saddle.... It might be cowardly, but he could not voluntarily renounce all this before it was demanded of him. And now the demand was made!
The door was gently opened, and a servant appeared hesitating on the threshold.
"What is it?" exclaimed Arthur. "Did I not give orders"----
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man timidly.
"I knew you did not wish to be disturbed, but as her ladyship herself"----
"Who?"
"Her ladyship is here herself, and wishes"----
The man had no time to finish. To his astonishment, his master tore the door from his hand and hurried past him into the ante-room. There he saw his wife, apparently waiting; in an instant he was at her side.
"You have yourself announced? What unnecessary etiquette!"
"You wished to see no one, I hear, and Frank told me the order applied to every one without exception."
"Arthur frowned, and turned to the servant, who said apologetically,
"I really did not know what to do. It is the first time my lady has come here."
He stammered these words in his confusion, meaning them as an excuse and nothing more, but Eugénie turned quickly away, and the reprimand on her husband's lips remained unspoken.
The man was right after all; he had received no instructions for such an exceptional case as that of his mistress paying a visit to his master's room. It was truly the first time she had been there. Hitherto, they had only met in her boudoir, at table, or in the drawing-rooms. The present visit might well create surprise among the servants.
Arthur signed to the man to go, and came back into the study with his wife. She hesitated a little on the threshold.
"I wished to speak to you," she said, in a low voice.
"I am quite at your service."
He closed the door and pushed forward an armchair, inviting her by a gesture to be seated. These few minutes had sufficed to give him back all that self-control which he had so constantly exercised during the past few weeks. He spoke and moved in a cool measured way, as though showing politeness to a strange lady in a strange salon.
"Will you not sit down?"
"Thank you, I shall not detain you long."
There was something shy and uncertain in her manner which contrasted oddly with her usual composure. Perhaps in these rooms she felt ill at ease, or perhaps she found it hard to open the conversation.
Arthur did not come to her assistance. He saw that she twice tried to find words and failed, but he stood at his table silent and constrained, and waited.
"My father has told me of his talk with you," she began, "and also of its result."
"So I expected, and--excuse me, Eugénie--it was just on that account I was surprised to see you here. I thought you were occupied with the preparations for your departure."
These words were probably intended to counteract any impression his agitation at seeing her might have produced, and they had the desired result. Some seconds clasped before she continued.
"You had already spoken of my journey to the servants in the afternoon?"
"Yes, I thought you would wish it, and it seemed best that the order for the necessary preparation should come from me. Had you thought of introducing the subject in any other way? If so, I regret that I was not earlier made acquainted with your views."
His tone was frigid, and Eugénie felt as though an icy breath had been wafted over to her. Involuntarily she retreated a step.
"I have no observation to make, only it surprised me that my departure, the date of which had once been fixed, should now be hastened on. You had, I thought, reasons which would have induced you to keep to our arrangement."
"I? On this point I yielded to a wish, to a request of yours. Baron Windeg gave me to understand, at least, that it was so."
Eugénie started. She drew a long breath of relief, and all shyness and uncertainty vanished, as though, with this one answer, her courage had wholly returned to her.
"I thought so! My father went too far, Arthur; he spoke in my name, when he was only setting forth his own wishes. I have come now to clear up this misunderstanding, and to tell you that I shall not go, at least not until I hear from your lips that you wish me to do so."
Eugénie watched him with breathless attention, as though striving to read in his eyes what was passing in his mind; but they were downcast still, and her words produced no visible effect. His features relaxed once as she spoke of a misunderstanding, or so she fancied, but the change in him was but momentary, and, after a pause of a few seconds, he replied coldly and composedly as ever: "You will not go? And why not?" She stepped up to him and said resolutely: "You told me yourself the other day that all your future is involved in the coming struggle. I know since our last meeting with Hartmann that it will be fought out to the uttermost, and that your position is even more critical than you will allow. At such a time I can and will not leave you, it would be cowardly, and" ...
"You are very generous," interrupted Arthur with ill-concealed bitterness. "But to perform an act of generosity, some one must be found willing to accept it, and I certainly am not willing to accept yours."
Eugénie's hand grasped the chair near her, she pressed her fingers tightly into its velvet cushions, as though in repressed anger.
"Not?"
"No. The plan was of your father's making, so be it. He is doubtless right in requiring that his daughter, who will shortly be his altogether again, should be placed in safety and protected from those rough scenes and excesses which, in all probability, may take place here. I am quite of his opinion, and I agree fully to to-morrow's separation."
She raised her head and said with spirit,
"And I only agreed to it when I thought it was your wish. I cannot yield in this matter to my father's will alone. I have taken upon myself the duties of your wife, in the sight of the world at least, and, so far, I shall fulfil them. They command me not to desert you basely in the face of that which threatens you, but to remain at your side until the worst has been tided over, and the date originally fixed for our parting has come. Then I will go, and not before."
"Not if I expressly ask you to do so?"
"Arthur!"
He stood half turning from her, and crushing in his hand a paper he had mechanically taken up from his bureau. The self-control he had regained by so violent an effort was not proof against that look and tone.
"I have begged you once already not to play at generosity with me. I have no liking for such scenes. Duties! It may be the duty of a woman, who has willingly given her husband both hand and heart, to stay by him and share his misfortune, perhaps his ruin, as she has shared his prosperity. That is not our case. We have no duties to each other, for we never had any rights one upon the other. The only thing which I could offer you in our compulsory union was the possibility of dissolving it; it has been dissolved from the moment that we decided upon a separation. That is my answer to the offer you have made me."
Eugénie's dark eyes were still fixed on his face. The tell-tale lightning-like flash, which at times seemed to discover the unknown depths of his being, came not to-day, and yet to-day of all days did she long to conjure it up at any cost.
Whatever she may have seen or guessed by it--and something she must have divined, or her proud spirit would never have so far bent as to allow her to come hither with her proposal--he would not grant her the triumph of again beholding it or of convincing herself of its true meaning.
He remained perfect master of himself, and left her a prey to torturing doubt. Her woman's instinct had spoken unhesitatingly when Ulric Hartmann's look had glowed upon her yesterday up on the forest heights, and, with the knowledge of what lay behind, horror of it had seized her as well. Yet she had been quite calm then, through all the danger with which she was threatened by an insane passion.
Here, where there was nothing to fear, she shook from head to foot in a fever of emotion, and a thick veil seemed to fall on all around, just as the brown eyes opposite were veiled before her. The inward voice was silent now, and yet at this moment she would have given her life to have acquired a certainty.
"You should not make it so hard for me to stay." Her voice betrayed something of the perplexity within her; it wavered between pride and soft submission. "I had much to fight against and much to conquer before I came here. You know it, Arthur, and should spare me."
The words were almost supplicating, but Arthur had reached such a pitch of irritation, he could no longer understand this. The bitter rage, which had taken possession of him and now shook his whole frame, gave its own interpretation to her words, and he answered sharply.
"I do not doubt that the Baroness Windeg is making an immense sacrifice in resolving to bear a hated name yet three months longer, and to remain at the side of a man she so thoroughly despises, notwithstanding that immediate freedom is offered her. I had to hear once how repugnant both are to you, and can judge therefore of what the victory over yourself must have cost you."
"You are reproaching me with the conversation we had on the night of our arrival," said Eugénie in a low tone. "I ... I had forgotten it!"
His eyes blazed now, but not with the light she had sought and hoped for. He was too distant from her, too full of hostility, for that.
"Really? And you do not ask whether I have forgotten it. I was forced to listen then, but that was the limit of what I could bear. Do you think a man will allow himself to be trampled in the dust with impunity, as I was by you on that evening, and then rise from it without further ado when it pleases you to alter your opinion? I was not quite so miserably weak as you imagined; from that time forth I was not weak at all. That hour was decisive for me, but it was decisive for our future also. Whatever may befall me, I will bear it alone. During the last few weeks I have learnt so much, I shall be able to go through with that too, but"--he drew himself up with a glow of pride--"but the woman who on the day after our wedding repulsed me with such haughty contempt, without condescending to ask whether the husband to whom she had given her hand were really as culpable as she believed him, who received my assurance, my given word, that she was in error as the ready pretext of a liar, who, to my question as to whether it might not be worth while to try and redeem so lost a man, flung at me that contemptuous 'No'--that woman shall not stay by me; I will not have her at my side while I am fighting for all my future in this world. I will stand alone!"
He turned away from her in his wrath. Eugénie stood overwhelmed and speechless. Great as had been the change in her husband of late, she had never before seen him roused to passion, and at this moment his violence almost frightened her. By the storm, now bursting over her head, she could measure all that had lain hidden behind the indifference which had so revolted her, all that had smouldered within him for months together, until at last it drove him out of that apathy which had become a second nature.
Ah yes, that cold disdainful No! She knew now better than any one how unjust she had been to him, and now that she saw how that word of hers had mortified him, she might have allowed the present hour to make amends for all the evil the other had wrought, if only those last unfortunate words had remained unspoken. They touched her pride, and, when once that was called into play, all clear judgment and reflection were at an end, even though she knew herself to be in the wrong.
"You will stand alone," she repeated. "Well, I will not impose my presence on you. I wished to convince myself that my father's plan was yours also. I see it is so, and therefore I shall leave."
She turned to go. At the door she stopped a moment. It seemed to her that, as she touched the handle, he made a rapid movement as though about to spring after her; but it must have been an illusion, for, when she looked round, he was still standing at the table, deadly pale indeed, but with that answer of hers, that harsh inexorable "No," clearly written on his face and entire bearing.
Eugénie summoned up all her courage for one farewell speech.
"We shall only see each other to-morrow in my father's presence, and never again perhaps after that, so ... Good-bye, Arthur."
"Good-bye," said he hoarsely.
The door closed behind her; she was gone. The last few moments they could spend alone together had fled; the last bridge between them had broken down. Neither had been willing to yield an inch; neither would speak the word which alone had power to help and save, the one word which would have made good everything, even had the breach between them been ten times as wide. Pride had won the day and sealed their fate.
Grey and gloomy the morning dawned over the hills. In the house all was stirring at an unaccustomed hour. It was necessary to start early, so that the travellers might reach the nearest railway junction in time for the train which should take them on to the capital the same evening. At present there was no one in the breakfast-room but Conrad von Windeg. The Baron was still in his apartment, Eugénie was not visible either, and the young officer appeared to be very impatiently waiting for something or some one. He had paced up and down, had stepped out on to the balcony, and finally flung himself into an arm-chair, but he jumped up quickly as Arthur Berkow came in.
"Oh, you are here already!" said the latter, greeting his youthful brother-in-law with the cool politeness usual between them.
Conrad hurried up to him.
"I wanted to say a few words to you; but, good Heavens! what is the matter with you? Are you ill?"
"I?" said Arthur quietly. "What can you be thinking of? I am perfectly well."
"Are you?" returned Conrad with a look at the pale drawn features which told of a sleepless night. "I should not have thought so!"
"I am not used to get up so early, it always makes one look only half awake. I am afraid you will have a bad journey. There is a terrible fog this morning."
He went up to the window to look out at the weather, and also to escape from his companion's unpleasant physiognomical observations. Conrad was not to be put off so. He stepped up to his brother-in-law's side.
"I wanted to be down first," began he, hesitating a little, "because I should like to say a few words to you while we are by ourselves, Arthur."
Berkow turned round, surprised as much by the mode of address as by the wish expressed. Conrad had never before called him by his Christian name. He had hitherto followed his father's example and employed the formal "Herr Berkow."
"Well?" said Arthur, surprised indeed, but friendly.
The young officer was evidently divided between doubt and confusion on the one hand, and some unexpressed feeling on the other.
After the pause of a minute or so, he raised his frank handsome face and looked at his brother-in-law earnestly.
"We have been unjust to you, Arthur, and I perhaps more than the rest. I was indignant at the marriage and at the compulsion we had been subjected to, and I honestly confess I have hated you with all my heart ever since the day you married my sister. I found out yesterday that we had been mistaken in our opinion of you, and so it is all up with my hatred. I am sorry, very sorry, and--and that is what I wanted to say. Will you shake hands, Arthur?"
He held out his hand heartily. Arthur grasped it.
"I thank you, Con," he said, simply.
"Well, thank God, that is over. I could not sleep for it all night!" exclaimed the young fellow, greatly relieved. "And, believe me, my father does you justice too. He won't own it to you, I daresay, but I know it is in his mind."
A fleeting smile crossed Arthur's face, but it did not clear his brow or bring a sparkle to his eyes. A heavy shadow lay on both as he answered quietly,
"I am glad of it. So we shall not part as enemies."
"Oh, about the journey," broke in Conrad, hastily. "My father is still up in his room, and Eugénie is all by herself in hers. Will you not go in and speak to her?"
"What for?" asked Arthur in surprise. "The Baron may come in at any moment, and Eugénie will hardly"----
"I will stand before the door and not let any one in. I will manage to keep my father here until you are ready."
Arthur's face flushed under the other's earnest gaze, but he shook his head gravely.
"No, Con, that is not necessary. I spoke to your sister yesterday evening, and we said all there was to say."
"About her leaving?"
"About her leaving."
The young officer looked disappointed, but he had no time to press his offer, for the Baron's step was just then heard outside, and immediately afterwards he came in.
Conrad retreated into the back ground with an air of vexation, murmuring to himself as he did so:
"But the thing is not on the square, for all that."
The inevitable meeting at breakfast was over, helped through by the Baron's formal politeness, and by the constant presence of the servants; and now the carriage drove up to the terrace below. The gentlemen took their overcoats, and the maid brought Eugénie's hat and shawl. Arthur offered his arm to his wife to lead her down, for the appearance of a perfectly good understanding between them must be kept up to the last.
Grey and gloomy the morning had dawned over the hills; grey and gloomy it descended now into the valleys below. Before the windows a sea of mist ebbed and flowed, and here within doors the cold frosty morning light streaming already into the great rooms gave to them a weird and desolate look. The splendour of their decorations seemed suddenly to have lost all lustre and colour, now that they were about to be left empty once more--very empty would they be, for their young mistress was leaving them without thought of return.
Conrad noticed that his sister had precisely the same look on her face as that which just before had startled him on Arthur's; but, beyond this, he could discover nothing unusual in their appearance or behaviour. They were both fully capable of playing the parts they had undertaken, although their features betrayed that the effort to do so had cost them a sleepless night. Perhaps this icy composure of theirs was not all assumed.
When a storm has spent itself, there follows that dead calm which so often helps us with relative ease over the most dreaded passages in life. It casts a veil over the soul, and this veil obscures from it all clear consciousness of the decisive moment. The struggle and combating subside into a dull prevailing sense of pain, through which, now and again, darts a fierce sudden pang, making the sufferer reflect as to the reason of his anguish.
Eugénie, leaning on her husband's arm, went down the stairs without really knowing why or whither they were going. As in a dream she saw the carpeted steps over which her dress rustled, the tall oleander trees standing in the hall, the faces of the servants bowing as she went by. It all passed before her in an indistinct shadowy way.
Then all at once something sharp and almost painful smote her forehead; it was the cold morning air, and she shuddered as she went out into it. Before her stood the carriage ready to bear her away; she saw this and nothing else, for terraces, flower-beds and fountains, all had vanished, and the pale morning twilight gleamed only on a thick curtain of vapour. Once again the eyes of husband and wife met, but they spoke no word to each other. The cloud lay heavy and thick between them too.
Then Eugénie felt that a hand, cold as ice, was laid in hers, heard some distant polite farewell speech, the words of which she did not comprehend; but it was Arthur's voice which spoke, and, at that sound, the sharp stinging pain darted once more through her dull dream. After that came the stamping of horses' hoofs and the roll of wheels, and away they went out into the faintly illumined mists which surged and swelled around them, as on that spring day when, up on the forest heights, the separation had been decided on, in the hour of which the old legends say: "What parts then, parts for all eternity."
"We shall have it in earnest now, I tell you," said the chief-engineer to the Director, as they were walking together towards their respective homes. "Their august leader seems to be only waiting for us to furnish him with a pretext, in order to give the signal for attack. They regularly challenge us now, and insults are the order of the day. The whole district has been raised by them; the same thing is rife now on all the works around, only we had the honour of being first in the field. That brings grist to Hartmann's mill. He carries his head as high as ever again."
"Herr Berkow seems to be prepared for anything," said the Director. "He has placed his wife in safety as speedily as possible. That shows better than all else what he fears from his own people."
"Bah! our people!" broke in his colleague. "We should soon come to terms with them, if it were not for that one man. So long as he is in command, there is no peace or rest to be thought of. If Hartmann were away from the works but one week, I would answer for a settlement of the whole business."
"I have thought already"--the Director looked round cautiously, and lowered his voice--"I have thought already whether we could make use of the suspicion which is in every one's mind, and which, we may be sure, does the fellow no injustice. What do you say?"
"It will not do. We have suspicions enough, but where are the proofs? Nothing was found amiss with the pulleys or with the ropes. They broke, and that was all that could be discovered, though the matter was thoroughly sifted when the judicial inquiry was made. How it came about, and what happened down below, can only be known to Hartmann, and he is a match for any man. No one would make him commit himself. It would result in nothing; they would have to set him free again."
"But a criminal charge would deprive him of all power to harm for the time being. If an accusation were lodged against him, he would be imprisoned for a few weeks, and then"----
The chief-engineer frowned ominously.
"And the fury of our people, when they see hands laid upon their leader, will you take that upon yourself? I will not. They would storm the house down over our heads, if the manœuvre were seen through, as it assuredly would be."
"That might be a question. There is no longer the old love between him and them."
"But there is the old fear. He rules with it more despotically than ever; and, besides, you do our men a wrong in supposing they would desert their comrade, their leader, just on a mere suspicion. They may be shy of him, may fall off from him in time; but the moment we were to attempt to touch him, they would rally round and protect him at all hazards. No, no; it won't do. The very thing we want to avoid, a bloody conflict, would be inevitable then: and more than this, I am convinced Herr Berkow would not lend a hand to it."
"Does he still guess nothing of the suspicions which are afloat?"
"Nothing. No one has cared to allude to the matter before him, and I think it will be best to spare him further. He has enough to bear as it is."
"Yes, more than enough; and the evil tidings of the last few weeks, together with Schäffer's letters from the city, seem to have produced some effect upon him. I believe he is seriously thinking of giving way."
"Nonsense," said the chief-engineer. "Before announcing that ultimatum to the people, he had the alternative of risking his money or of submitting to Herr Hartmann's rod while it might please that worthy to chastise us; after the way he met them then, there could be no further question of giving in. Every trace of authority would be gone irretrievably, if he did not show a steady front now. Hemustgo forward, and it is always an advantage in battle to feel that there is nothing for it but to advance boldly."
"But if his fortune is at stake?"
"But if his honour is at stake?"
The two then fell into one of those heated and fruitless debates which commonly ended in each retaining his own opinion. This was the case now when they parted shortly afterwards.
"Neutrality is a fine thing!" growled the chief-engineer after his colleague, as he turned into his house. "Just a little proper anxiety, a little proper caution, keep fair with both parties, because you never can tell which may get the upper hand at last I wish all the sneaks--Wilberg, what the deuce are you about there with my daughter?"
The two young people, at whom these words were levelled, sprang apart as though they had been detected in a crime. But in truth, Herr Wilberg had only ventured to kiss the young lady's hand in the most innocent manner possible. He was looking so tender, however, and Mélanie, for her part, was feeling so moved, that the advent of her father, already vexed and irritated by his talk with the Director, came upon them both like a thunderbolt.
"I must entreat your forgiveness," stammered the luckless clerk; while Fräulein Mélanie, conscious that, after all there was nothing so very wicked in allowing one's hand to be kissed, stood by unabashed.
"I beg you will give me an explanation of all this," said the chief-engineer angrily. "What are you doing down here in the hall? Why don't you go up into the drawing-room, which is the proper place for you?"
The explanation thus demanded could hardly be given in two words, though the young people had been guiltless enough in the matter of this meeting. Wilberg had gone up to his superior's house with a commission from Herr Berkow in his head, and deep melancholy at his heart. The latter was naturally called forth by the departure of his liege lady. He had heard that this departure was intended on the evening before it actually took place, and the knowledge of it had not roused him from his dreams on the fatal morning. The young clerk was no early riser, and would never have committed the imprudence of exposing himself at that hour to the cold foggy air, which might have brought on an attack of rheumatism.
It was not he who, at break of day, was standing under the pines there where the high road turned into the forest, patiently waiting for the one minute in which the carriage would roll by, for the one look at a face within, which, after all, was looked for in vain, for it lay, with closed eyes, buried in the cushions, and altogether hidden from view.
As he, who had so waited, passed under the young poet's windows on his way home to the Manager's house, Herr Wilberg was still in the enjoyment of undisturbed repose. That, however, did not prevent his feeling unutterably wretched on his awakening, and the whole week through he bore himself with an air of such profound melancholy, that Fräulein Mélanie, meeting him accidentally in the hall, could not help asking him compassionately what ailed him.
The unhappy lover was just in the humour to unburthen himself to this sympathising listener of his long-pent-up woe. He sighed several times; made a few vague allusions, and, of course, ended by pouring out his whole heart, to receive, equally, of course, a still warmer show of sympathy in return.
If the young lady had felt curious before, she was touched beyond all expression now. She thought the story beautifully romantic, and poor Wilberg worthy of her sincerest pity. It was, therefore, in no way disconcerting to her when, at the end of all these disclosures and comfortings, he seized her hand and imprinted on it a grateful kiss. There could not be the slightest danger that he would ever love another!
And now the master of the house broke in on this touching scene with all the prose of his paternal authority, and demanded to be told why these outpourings of the heart took place in the hall, and not upstairs in the drawing-room, where her mamma's presence would naturally have acted as a restraint upon them. Herr Wilberg, feeling that a great wrong was being done to him, shook himself together and managed to explain.
"I have a commission from Herr Berkow."
"Oh, that is different. Mélanie, go upstairs; you hear it is a business matter."
Mélanie obeyed, while her father remained standing at the foot of the stairs, not inviting his visitor up as usual. The latter was therefore obliged to discharge his errand on the spot.
"All right," said the chief-engineer calmly. "The plans in question are at Herr Berkow's disposal; I will take them up to him. And now, Herr Wilberg, a word with you. In spite of our mutual antipathy, I have always done you full justice." Herr Wilberg bowed. "I look upon you as a capable official." Herr Wilberg bowed again. "But I consider that you are a little crazy."
The young man, just in the act of bowing for the third time, started up suddenly erect and stared at his interlocutor in speechless amazement; the other went on imperturbably:
"With regard to your mania for scribbling, I mean. That is no business of mine, you would say? I should hope it is not. You have alternately sung the praises of Hartmann, of her ladyship, and of Herr Berkow. You are quite at liberty to do that, if it pleases you; but don't take it into your head to sing about my Mélanie. That I forbid. I won't have such nonsense put into the child's head. If your poetical feelings are in want of a fresh object, take me or the Director; we are quite at your service."
"I think I shall decline that," said Wilberg, highly affronted.
"As you like; but remember, my daughter is not to be trifled with. If ever a poem 'To Mélanie,' falls into my hands, I shall be down upon your iambics and your alexandrines, or whatever the nonsense is called. That was what I had to say to you. Good-bye."
With that this ruthless personage turned his back on the poet, whose finest susceptibilities he had so cruelly wounded, and walked upstairs. In the sitting-room his daughter met him.
"O papa, how could you be so hard and so unjust to that poor Herr Wilberg? He is so miserable."
The chief-engineer laughed out loud.
"Miserable! He? He is a miserable scribbler, that is what he is, always stringing abominable verses together; and the more one tries to make him understand it, the more madly he insists upon rushing into rhyme. As to that kiss"----
"Good gracious, papa! you are entirely mistaken," interrupted Mélanie, very decidedly. "It was only out of gratitude. He is in love with Lady Eugénie Berkow, and has been, quite hopelessly, of course, ever since she was married. It is natural he should feel wretched, and that her going away should drive him to despair."
"Oh, so it was his wretchedness and despair which made him kiss your hand. Odd, very. But how do you know all this, Mélanie? You seem very well informed about this fair-haired minstrel's love affairs."
The young lady raised her head with an unmistakable air of self-complacency.
"I am his confidant. He has poured out his whole heart to me. I tried to comfort him, but he will not be comforted; he is far too miserable for that."
"Here is a pretty story!" cried the chief-engineer, highly incensed. "So it has gone as far as that already, has it? Outpourings of the heart and attempts at consolation! I should not have thought that Wilberg was so clever. He, who speculates on the pity of you women, is pretty sure to--but we will put a stop to the thing at once. In future, you will be so good as not to listen to such confidential communications. They are most improper. As for the consolation business, I forbid it, once for all. I will take good care that he does not set his foot in the house again, so there's an end of it!"
Mélanie turned away, pouting. Her papa showed no great knowledge of mankind when he fancied that, with his dictatorial fiat, he had really put an end to the matter and laid the spectre, which had suddenly risen up before him in the guise of a verse-making, guitar-playing son-in-law. He ought to have known that, now for the first time, Fräulein Mélanie would seriously resolve upon offering any consolation in her power to the poor misunderstood Wilberg, whenever an opportunity of doing so should occur, and that Herr Wilberg would that very evening sit down to compose a poem "To Mélanie." Such matters are not settled by the mere words, "It is not to be, so there's an end of it."
The day was drawing to a close. The sun, as it went down, broke through the gathering clouds once more with a bright crimson glow which flooded woods and hills with a brief transitory splendour. Only for a few minutes; then the great red ball of fire sank slowly below the horizon, and with it disappeared all the brilliancy and colour which it had lent the earth for one fleeting moment.
Arthur Berkow had just opened the iron gate which gave egress from the park, and stepped outside. There he stood still, arrested by the sight before him, and gazed long and sadly at the departing sun. His countenance bore the expression of that perfect calm for which he had so striven, but it was not the confident calm of a man who, having victoriously thrown off one weakness, girds himself up for fresh endeavours.
He who stays behind on a sinking ship, and sees disappear in the distance the boat which is bearing all he prizes on earth away to safety and the far-off coast, while the ship itself drives helplessly nearer and nearer the rocks on which it must inevitably perish, such a one may hold out with unflinching courage, but he can be light-hearted no more. When the last hope has fled, there comes a great hush. He is able and ready then to meet the worst; and it was this stillness which lay on Arthur's features. He had dreamt his dream, and the days at hand were such as to require a full and complete awakening.
He crossed the meadow, and took the direction leading to the officials' dwelling-houses. The broad ditch, full of water, which ran along the upper end of the park, passed through this meadow-land; but, in place of the graceful little bridge which spanned it higher up, there was here only a simple plank, strong and safe enough, but so narrow as only to afford room for one passenger at a time. Arthur stepped on to it quickly, and had advanced a few steps, when he came suddenly to a stand before Ulric Hartmann, who appeared to recognise him at the same moment. Berkow stood still, supposing that the Deputy would retreat and allow him to pass; but the latter thought possibly the time had now arrived for that provocation to which the chief-engineer had alluded. Whether he really were trying to force on a conflict, or only obeying the instincts of his own rebellious nature, he stood motionless, and made no sign of giving way.
"Well, Hartmann, are we going to stand still like this?" said Arthur quietly, after he had waited a few seconds in vain. "The plank is too narrow for us both; one of us must go back."
"Must I be the one?" asked Ulric, sharply.
"I should think so."
Hartmann was about to answer in an aggressive spirit, but all at once a reflection struck him.
"Well, yes, we are upon your ground; I have forgotten that."
He went back, and let his employer cross over. Arthur stopped when he reached the opposite side.
"Hartmann!"
Ulric, who had already one foot on the plank, turned round at this address.
"I should have sent for you before this, if I had not feared my doing so might be wrongly interpreted. As we have met, I should like to speak to you."
A gleam of triumph shot over the other's face; but it passed quickly, and his features re-assumed the reserved look which was habitual to them.
"Here in the meadow?"
"The place does not signify; we are alone here."
Ulric approached slowly, and placed himself opposite his employer, who was leaning against one of the willows which bordered the water-course. The evening mists were beginning to rise, and yonder over the forest, where the sun had lately set, the whole sky was suffused with a deep crimson after-glow.
They were a strange contrast, these two. The slender, almost delicate figure of the high-bred man with his pale face in complete repose, his dark earnest eyes, whence that light had now vanished which gave to them at times so inexplicable a charm, and the giant frame of the miner, carrying his fair curly head so proudly, whose gaze, full of fire and a sort of savage satisfaction, never swerved from his adversary's pale countenance. The instinct of jealousy taught him to see and mark that which was observed by no one else, and, if all the world maintained that Arthur Berkow had passed by his beautiful wife unmoved, that he had never felt the slightest interest in her, Ulric knew well that no man could remain indifferent who called such a woman as Eugénie Windeg his own, knew too all that the loss of such a woman implied, since that morning when he had stood under the pines, watching her carriage as it rolled away.
But, through all the pain of the separation, there rang a note of triumph. A wife who loves her husband does not leave him at a time when all around him is reeling and falling, yet she had gone, gone to the safe protection of her father and brothers, and left him alone exposed to all and everything. That must have struck home to him, to this proud Berkow, whom neither hatred nor menace, neither fear of violence or revolt, or even of ruin itself, could touch, and though he should succeed in deceiving all about him with that calm brow of his, yet he could not deceive his enemy. That blow had surely gone to his heart.
"I need not tell you now of all that has occurred of late," began Arthur; "you must be as well acquainted with it as I am, perhaps even better. The other works have followed your example; we are entering upon a lengthened conflict. Can you answer for your comrades?"
Ulric started at this question.
"How do you mean, Herr Berkow?"
"I mean, shall we be able to settle this business ourselves without foreign interference? On the other works they have found it impossible to do this. Up at the forges they have already sent a request for help from the town. You are no stranger to the tumults there, and you best know whether this were necessary or not. I should assuredly only have recourse to such a measure in a case of extreme need, and in legitimate self-defence. But such a case may arise. Already several of my agents have been insulted, I myself was within an ace of meeting with insult in the woods. Do not build upon my patience or upon my weakness. However much I may desire to avoid all extreme measures, I warn you I shall oppose force to force."
At the first words Ulric had looked up in surprise. He had expected something other than this declaration, but the quiet manner in which it was made took from it all aggressive action and imposed a moderate tone on him, the adversary. There was but a slight scoff in his voice as he answered,
"That is nothing new to me. Force to force! I knew from the first we should come to that some day."
Arthur looked steadily at him.
"And whose fault is it, if we must come to that? Is it brought about by the resistance of the masses or by the obstinacy of one man?"
"By the obstinacy of one man, you are right there, Herr Berkow. You know it needs only one single word from you for us all to be at work again to-morrow."
"And you know that I cannot speak the word, because it involves that which is impossible. It is for you to concede something now. I propose it to you once again."
"Really?" said the miner, with an outburst of scorn. "No doubt, because the whole province is astir, and we have got our mates to help and back us."
Berkow drew himself up quickly, and his eyes flashed.
"Because we shall have to restore by force of arms that order and discipline you are now trampling under foot, and because I wish, if it be possible, to save my people from such a fate. Lay aside your scorn, Hartmann, you do not believe in it yourself. Whatever has happened, or may yet happen between us two, we may, I think, mutually absolve each other of cowardice."
Again there came the look and tone which had struck all dumb with astonishment that day in the committee-room. Ulric looked with mingled wrath and admiration at his employer, who dared so to speak to him at an hour like the present. The scene in the forest must have shown him what the possible consequences of these chance meetings might be, and yet he had himself sought an interview in this solitary place.
The park was quite empty; there was not a soul in sight across the fields, and the houses lay at some considerable distance. Not one of the officials would, under such circumstances, have stopped to hold converse with the dreaded Hartmann, no, not even the bold chief-engineer. It was only the once despised "milksop" who was ready so to face danger. Truly, his enemy had absolved him of cowardice long ago.
Arthur seemed conscious of the advantage he had gained. He came a step nearer.
"Can you not see, Hartmann, that with such behaviour as this you are making your future stay here quite impossible?" he asked gravely. "You think, perhaps, that when we come to negotiate, your friends will put pressure upon me. I shall yield to no constraint, I give you my word. Nevertheless, I can and do appreciate your valuable powers, misguided as they are. So far, they have been used to my injury alone, but, for that very reason, I can better estimate the services they might render, should you one day cease to be hostile to me. Listen now to the voice of reason. Be satisfied with the practical concessions you have obtained, and, of my own free will, I offer you to remain on the works with the usual chances of promotion. I know there is a certain risk in retaining an element of discord like yourself among my hands, but I am willing to run the risk, if my trust in you meets with similar confidence."
The offer in itself was somewhat hazardous perhaps, made, as it was, to a man who looked on all moderation as a proof of weakness. Berkow, however, had not altogether miscalculated his aim. Ulric did not answer, but, for a nature like his, it was much that the proposal was not at once repulsed with harsh distrust.
"So far I have asked for confidence in vain," continued Arthur. "Up to this time you have refused to trust me. I came here as a stranger, if not to the place itself, to you at least and to all that concerns the works. You met me with a declaration of war, without even inquiring what alterations and improvements I might be willing to make. You received and treated me as an enemy, and yet you could not know whether I were your enemy at heart or not."
"We are at war," said Ulric curtly. "Everything is fair at such times."
All around them as they stood blazed the reflection of the crimson sunset, and Arthur's face, as he raised it, was tinted with the bright warm colour.
"Must there be war between us? I do not mean the present strife, which must come to an end sooner or later. I mean that secret embittered warfare which hard treatment and oppression on the one side, and rancour and hatred on the other, feed and foster continually. It has been so all these years, I know, and it will be so again, if you submit only through compulsion. We ought to make peace before there is blood shed on either side. We can still do it. As yet, nothing has happened to make the breach irreparable; in a few days it may be too late."
With all its quietness there was something in the young master's voice which went home to the hearer's heart, and the emotion visible in Hartmann's face showed that he had not been insensible to it. Accustomed to rule over his equals, he was the more keenly alive to any supercilious treatment on the part of his superiors, and also to any evidence of an ill-concealed fear.
Now he found himself raised to a position which had never yet been assigned him. He knew well that Arthur would not have so spoken to any other of the men employed, perhaps not to any of the officials; he felt it was solely due to his own personal qualities that he was dealt with thus. The owner of the works spoke to him as man to man, on a matter upon which the ill or well being of both depended, and he would surely have carried the day had he been any other than Arthur Berkow. Ulric's nature was too untrained, too passionate, for him to do justice there where his hate was fully roused.
"Our confidence has cost us dearly," said he bitterly. "Your father made such a claim upon it during all those long years that we have none left now for his son. I believe you don't make the offer out of fear, Herr Berkow, I should not believe it of any one else, but I do of you. But, as we have set about helping ourselves, I think we had better fight it out to the last. Let it be decided this way or that. One of us must win in the end."
"And your comrades? Will you take upon yourself the responsibility of all the care, the want, the chances of defeat, which this 'fighting it out' may bring with it?"
"I can't help it. It is done for their sake."
"No, it is not done for their sake," said Arthur firmly; "but for the sake of their leader's ambition. He wishes to get the domination over them into his hands, and, were he to get it, he would prove a worse despot than their former masters ever were. If you still have faith left in your so-called mission, Hartmann, you can no longer impose on me with it; for I see that you throw aside as worthless all that I declare myself ready to do for the improvement of the people's condition, and you keep steadily the one aim and end in view, the true bearing of which I understand but too well. You wish to make me and my agents powerless for the future, helpless in face of any resolution you may be pleased to adopt, or any insurrection you may stir up. Now that you speak in the name of the masses, blindly obedient to your dictates, you wish to arrogate to yourself all the rights of a master, and, with the empty title, leave me nothing but the onus of the position. You do not wish for a recognition of your party; you wish for a subjugation of every other. That is why you stake all upon a throw, and, believe me, you will lose it."
This was a bold speech to be addressed to such a man; it stung Ulric to fury.
"Well, as you seem to know so much about it, Herr Berkow, you may know more for all I care! You are right. This is not a question of higher wages or of a trifle more safety in the mines. That may be enough for those who concern themselves only about their wives and children, and think of nothing else all their lives long; the men of spirit among us require more. We want to have the reins in our hands, to have our rights as equals acknowledged and respected. It may be a hard lesson to learn for those who have had unlimited authority up to this time, but they will have now to treat with us. We have begun to understand at last that it is we who toil and you who enjoy the fruits of our labour. You have made use of our arms for this slavish work long enough, now you shall learn to feel them."
He hurled forth these words with exceeding violence, as though each of them were a weapon with which he would strike down and slay his enemy. All his outrageous passion burst forth anew, and the rage, which included an entire class, concentrated itself for the time being on the individual member of it now before him. As he stood there with clenched fists, the veins in his forehead swelling, he seemed ready to follow up his words with deeds.
Arthur, however, did not move a muscle or attempt to retreat by so much as a step from the dangerous neighbourhood. He stood in that attitude of cold, proud repose peculiar to him, and looked his adversary steadfastly in the face, as if by the power of his eyes alone he could fascinate and tame him.
"I think, for the present, you will have to leave the reins in hands which are accustomed and able to hold them. That also must be learnt. You may rise in rebellion and destroy existing institutions by brute force, but you will never create new ones with it. Try to conduct these works by the strength of your arms alone, to the exclusion of that powerful element you hate so much, which directs your labour, gives impulse to the machinery, and lends mind to your work. As yet this guiding faculty belongs to us. Keep to your own sphere and rank in life, and the equality of your rights will no longer be disputed. At present you can only throw into the balance the weight of numbers, and that will not suffice to give you the mastery."
Ulric tried to answer, but his voice was choked by passion. Arthur cast one look over at the forest where the red glow grew ever deeper and deeper; then he turned to go.
"If I could have foreseen that all conciliating words would be unavailing, I should not have sought this interview. I have offered to make peace with you and to let you remain on the works. Hardly any other man would have made such a sacrifice, and it cost me an effort before I could bring myself to do it. You have rejected my proposal with scorn and hatred. You will be my enemy. Well, be it so then, but the whole responsibility of what may now happen must lie with you. I have striven in vain to stem the torrent of disaster. Whatever may be the issue of the strife between us, you and I have done with each other for ever."
So saying, he turned his back on the miner and left him.
"Success to you," cried out Hartmann after him ironically, but Arthur did not appear to hear. He was already at some little distance, and now struck off into the road which led towards the houses.
Ulric remained behind. Above his head the willow-branches swayed to and fro in the evening breeze; over the meadows floated and curled a soft white vapour, and up yonder over the tops of the pines there came once more a weird blood-red flush which paled gradually until it faded completely away. As the Deputy gazed at the flaming sky, his own face caught a tinge of that sanguinary hue.
"'We have done with each other.' No, no, Arthur Berkow, we are only beginning now. I would not own to myself the cowardly feeling which held me back, but I dared not attack him whilst she was by his side. Now the way is open; now the time for a reckoning has come."