Among the dwellers on the Berkow estates there was probably only one person who viewed the strife, which had so violently broken out between master and men, in any but its most alarming aspect. This person was Herr Wilberg. In that official's foolish young head there lurked so much vague exaggerated romance that he could not help thinking it all highly interesting. His fancy was taken by this situation so fraught with peril, by the knowledge that the low ferment of discontent reigning all around might at any moment explode and bring about a catastrophe.
The admiration he had felt for Hartmann had been promptly transferred to the new proprietor, when the latter had placed himself at the head of affairs, grasping the helm with a vigour which no one expected from so weak and effeminate a hand. But in Arthur's strenuous efforts to make himself thoroughly at home in the new field of labour and to stem the torrent of dangers and losses pouring in upon him on all sides, the superior officials alone were called on to aid by their sympathy and support. The younger members of the establishment enjoyed an involuntary leisure in consequence of the general lull, and Herr Wilberg employed his idle hours in plunging deep into his so-called passion for his liege lady, and by doing his very best to feel as unhappy in it as possible.
To tell the truth, this last was somewhat difficult, for he was, in reality, quite in his element and extremely proud of this hopeless attachment. His idea was that love, to be poetical, must of necessity be unfortunate, and a happy affection would have been really embarrassing to him. This adoration from afar suited him perfectly, and he found ample opportunity of indulging in it, for he now seldom or ever saw the object of his idolatry.
Since the day on which he had accompanied Eugénie through the park, he had only spoken to her once. Accidentally meeting him one day, she had tried to learn from him something more definite about the strike then just breaking out. Strict orders had, however, been issued by Herr Berkow to the effect that his wife was in no way to be alarmed, and Wilberg obeyed them so far as to avoid all reference to the actually existing state of affairs; on the other hand, he could not resist giving a faithful description of the scene which had taken place in the committee-room between her husband and Hartmann.
Coming from his lips, the whole history naturally took a dramatic colour, and Arthur, in his suddenly awakened energy, rose to such a pitch of heroism, it was really incomprehensible how such a story could have entirely failed in its effect.
Eugénie had listened, it is true, with evident and eager attention, but she was pale and unusually still while listening; and, when he came to the end, the narrator waited in vain for a word of remark from her lips. She thanked and then dismissed him with cool politeness, and the young man left her, feeling rather surprised and a good deal hurt at such a want of sympathy on her part.
So she too had no perception of the poetical, or perhaps the situation had appeared less imposing to her, from the fact that her husband had been the hero of the hour. Another would very likely have triumphed in this thought, but Wilberg's romantic fancies generally distinguished themselves by the complete reversal of all natural sentiments.
He felt injured that his recital had produced no greater effect. When in Eugénie's company, he was apt to feel something of that glacier-like atmosphere which, according to the chief-engineer, constantly surrounded her. She was so high, so distant, so unapproachable, and never more so than when she condescended to some act of kindness.
In presence of such condescension, no choice was left a man but either to bow down in absolute adoration, or for ever to bear about with him the sense of utter insignificance and nothingness. As the latter alternative could not possibly suit Herr Wilberg, he was fain to choose the former.
Buried in such thoughts as these, he had strolled on in the direction of the Manager's house; it being his habit to look neither to the right nor to the left, he came, as he stepped on to the bridge, into violent collision with a lady who was crossing from the other side. Startled at the sudden shock, she gave a little cry and sprang for safety to one side. Wilberg looked up now, and stammered an excuse.
"I beg your pardon, Fräulein Mélanie, I did not see you. I was so taken up with my thoughts, I paid no heed to where I was going."
Fräulein Mélanie was the daughter of the chief-engineer, at whose house the young clerk occasionally visited; but his ideas had confessedly taken so high a flight that he had bestowed but small notice on the girl of sixteen who, with the exception of a graceful figure, a sweet young face, and a pair of roguish eyes, had nothing in the least romantic to recommend her.
She was far from his poetical standard, and the young lady, for her part, had up to this time troubled herself very little about the fair-haired Herr Wilberg; she had even thought him rather tiresome. But now he evidently considered it his duty to make reparation for his involuntary rudeness by addressing to her some polite speeches.
"You are coming back from a walk, Fräulein Mélanie? Have you been far?"
"Oh no, not far. Papa has forbidden me to take long walks, and he does not much like my coming out alone. Tell me, Herr Wilberg, is all this about our miners really so dangerous?"
"Dangerous? How do you mean?" said Wilberg diplomatically.
"Well, I don't know, but papa is so grave sometimes, it makes me feel quite nervous and frightened. He has talked too of sending mamma and me into town on a visit."
The young man's face assumed an expression of deep melancholy.
"The times are full of grave earnest," he said, "of terrible earnest! I cannot blame your father for wishing to place his wife and child in safety. We must stand and fight to the last man!"
"To the last man?" cried the girl, horrified. "Good Heavens, my poor papa!"
"Well, I only meant that in a figurative sense," said Wilberg soothingly. "There is no question of personal danger; and even if it should come to that, your father's years and his duties as head of a family would exclude him from all perilous service. In that case, we young ones should step into the breach."
"Would you?" asked Mélanie, looking at him rather distrustfully.
"Certainly, Fräulein Mélanie, I should be the very first."
With a view to giving greater emphasis to this declaration, Herr Wilberg was about to lay his hand solemnly on his breast, when all at once, he jumped back and hurried as fast as possible over to the other side, Mélanie following him with equal speed. Close behind them stood Hartmann's gigantic form. He had come over the bridge unnoticed, and smiled now a contemptuous little smile as he saw the evident emotion of the young people.
"You need not be afraid, Herr Wilberg," said he quietly. "I am not going to hurt you."
The young clerk seemed to feel the absurdity of his sudden retreat, and to perceive also that, as the companion and protector of a young lady, he was bound to adopt a different line of conduct. He summoned up all his courage and, placing himself before the no less intimidated Mélanie, answered with some show of firmness,
"I hardly suppose, Hartmann, that you mean to attack us in the open street."
"That is what you gentlemen seem to expect," said Ulric derisively. "You run away, all of you directly I show myself, just as if I were a highwayman. Herr Berkow does not, he is the only one," the miner went on speaking with a growl now as he uttered the hated name. "He holds his ground, no matter if I have the whole gang at my back."
"Herr Berkow and her ladyship are just the only two who do not suspect" ... began Wilberg imprudently.
"Who do not suspect what?" asked Ulric, turning a dark look on him.
Whether the young official were exasperated by the derision with which he and his colleagues had been treated, or whether he considered it necessary to play the hero for Mélanie's benefit, is uncertain; suffice it to say that he yielded to one of those fits of passion which not seldom carry timid natures into extremes.
"We do not run away from you, Hartmann, because you are stirring up the people to rebellion and making it impossible to come to an understanding with them. It is not on that account we get out of your way, but because,"--here he lowered his voice so that the girl could not overhear his words--"because the ropes broke that day when you went below with Herr Berkow--if you must know the reason why every one avoids you."
They were very thoughtless, very rash words, particularly to be spoken by a man like Wilberg, but he little dreamed of the effect they would produce. Ulric started, uttered a half-suppressed cry of rage which was full of menace, then grew ashy pale, and letting fall his clenched fist, caught convulsively at the iron railings of the bridge. He stood there with heaving breast and teeth tightly ground together, gazing down at the two before him in speechless fury.
This proved too hard a trial for the young folks' courage. Neither knew which ran away first, dragging the other with him or her; but they both made off with all possible speed, and only slackened their pace when they had put several houses between them and the object of their fear, and convinced themselves that they were not followed.
"For Heaven's sake, what did it mean, Herr Wilberg?" asked Mélanie anxiously. "What did you say to that dreadful creature Hartmann, that made him start like that? How rash of you to provoke him!"
The young man smiled, though his lips were still colourless. It was the first time in his life he had ever been accused of rashness, and he was conscious that the reproach was merited. Now only did he clearly see the full measure of the risk he had run.
"Offended pride!" he gasped. "The duty of protecting you, Fräulein! You see he dared not attack us after all."
"No, we got away in time," returned Mélanie naïvely, "and it was a good thing we did, for our lives would have been in danger if we had stayed."
"It was only on your account I ran," said Wilberg, feeling a little hurt. "I should have held my ground if I had been alone, even at the risk of my life."
"That would have been very sad though," remarked the girl. "You who write such beautiful poetry!"
Wilberg blushed with agreeable surprise.
"Do you know my poems? I did not think in your house ... Your father has rather a prejudice against my lyrical tendency."
"Papa was talking to the Director about it a little while ago," said Mélanie, and then suddenly came to a full stop. She could not tell the poet that her father had read aloud to his colleagues those verses, which to her sixteen-year-old imagination had seemed so touching, adding many a biting jest and malicious comment as he read, and finally throwing down the paper with the words:
"And the fellow can spend his time now on such rubbish as that!"
At the moment she had thought it rather cruel and unjust to the young man. He no longer seemed tiresome to her, now that she knew he had been crossed in love, as clearly as appeared from his verses. That explained and excused all the peculiarities of his behaviour. She hastened to assure him that, for her part, she thought his verses lovely, and in shy but fervent sympathy, tried to console him somewhat for his supposed misfortune.
Herr Wilberg suffered himself to be comforted. He found it indescribably refreshing to meet at last with a being who could understand him, and still more refreshing to feel himself compassionated by the said being. It was quite a misfortune that they had by this time reached the chief-engineer's house, and that the master of it, in his august person, stood at the window, watching them with surprised and rather critical looks. Wilberg had no wish to expose himself to his superior's jokes, which, he knew, would be inevitable, should it occur to Mélanie to relate their meeting with Hartmann and their common flight. He took leave of the young lady therefore, and Fräulein Mélanie ran up the steps, racking her brains to try and find out who the object of this interesting and unfortunate attachment could be.
Old Manager Hartmann sat at home in his cottage, leaning his head on his hand; not far from him, at the window, stood Lawrence and Martha. As Ulric suddenly opened the door, the three broke off their conversation so abruptly, that the new-comer might easily have guessed they had been talking of him. He did not notice it, however, but closed the door, flung his hat on the table and threw himself without a word of greeting into the great arm-chair by the fireside.
"Good day," said the Manager, turning slowly round to him. "Don't you think it worth your while now to say a civil word when you come in? I should have thought you might have kept that up, at least."
"Don't worry me, father," exclaimed his son impatiently, throwing back his head and pressing his hand to his forehead.
The Manager shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Martha left her place by the window and sat down by her uncle, taking up the work she had laid aside while talking with Lawrence. For some minutes there was an oppressive silence in the room, then the younger man went up to his friend.
"Deputy Wilms has been here to speak to you, Ulric. He will come back in an hour. He has been making the round of all the neighbouring works."
Ulric passed his hand over his brow, as though to chase away some tormenting dream.
"Well, and how goes it?" he asked, but in a listless mechanical way; he seemed hardly to know what the other was speaking of.
"They are going to join us. Our example appears to have given them courage, for the game is beginning everywhere now. The forges will strike first, and the other works will follow suit, unless all they ask is granted to them at once. That is out of the question, so in a week all the miners and works in the district will be empty."
"At last!" Ulric started up, as though electrified; all his dreamy listlessness and lack of interest had vanished. The man had regained his old elasticity. "At last!" he repeated, heaving a deep sigh of relief. "It was time; they have left us alone long enough!"
"Because we began alone in the first instance."
"May be so, but we could not wait. Things were not on the same footing here as on the other works. Each day's labour brought the Berkows a step forward and took us a step back. Has Wilms gone over to the villages? He ought to let the others know at once, it will raise their spirits."
"Not before they want it," said the Manager quietly. "Their courage seems to be on the wane. For the last fortnight not a stroke of the hammer has been heard. You are waiting and waiting, fancying that you will be asked to come back, or that, at least, some attempt at a bargain will be made up yonder, and yet they make no sign. The officials avoid you, and the master does not look as if he meant to give way an inch. I tell you, Ulric, it is high time you should find assistance somewhere."
"Nonsense, father," cried the young man. "We have hardly been off work a fortnight, and I told them beforehand, they might make up their minds to be idle a couple of months, if we meant to conquer, and conquer we must."
The old man shook his head.
"A couple of months! You and I and Lawrence, may hold out that long, but not those who have a wife and children to keep."
"They must," said Ulric coldly. "I did think, certainly, we should have managed it faster and with less trouble. I was mistaken in that. But, if they are determined up yonder to drive us to an extremity, we will let them have a thorough good taste of what it means."
"Or they us," put in Lawrence. "If the master really"----
Ulric gave an angry stamp with his foot.
"'The master,' always 'the master!' Can't you find another name for this Berkow? You used not to call him so, but ever since he has told you to your faces that he is, and will be, the first person here, you have not an opinion of your own about it. I tell you, if we go through with the thing, we shall be masters, he will only have the name then, and we shall have the power. He knows it very well; that is why he resists so strongly, and that is why we must persevere until he grants us all we ask. We must go on at any cost."
"Try it," said the Manager briefly. "See if you can turn the world topsy-turvy all by yourself. I have given up talking about it this long while."
Lawrence took his cap from the window-sill, and prepared to go.
"You must know best, if we are likely to succeed or not. You are our leader."
Ulric's face grew dark.
"Yes, I am, but I thought it would have been easier to keep you in hand. You make the work hard enough for me."
The young miner exclaimed indignantly,
"We! you can hardly complain of us. Every word you say is obeyed instantly."
"Obeyed!" And Ulric turned a dark and searching gaze upon his friend. "Yes, obedience is not wanting, and it is not that I am complaining of. But we are not as we used to be. Even you and I, Karl, are not as we used to be together. You are all of you so distant now, so cold and shy; it seems to me often as if you were all afraid of me, and--and that's all."
"No, no, Ulric!" Lawrence resented the reproach vehemently, it almost appeared as if the other had hit the right mark. "We have perfect trust in you, and you alone. No matter what you may have done, you did it for us, not for yourself. We know that, all of us, we none of us forget that."
"No matter what you may have done, you did it for us!" The words sounded harmless enough and may have contained no hidden meaning, but Ulric seemed to detect one in them, for he looked hard at the speaker. Lawrence avoided his gaze, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
"I must go," he said hastily. "I will send Wilms over to you. You will stay here, so that he will be sure to find you?"
Ulric made no answer. The flow of emotion of the last few minutes had subsided, and his face was pale again as at his entrance. He nodded affirmatively, and turned to the window.
The young miner took leave of the Manager and left the room, Martha rose and went out with him. During the whole of the foregoing conversation she had spoken no word, but had observed the two men attentively. She stayed rather long outside, but that could excite no wonder. Her uncle and cousin knew well enough that a newly-engaged pair have much to whisper to one another, and they seemed, indeed, to trouble themselves not at all about it.
The father and son remained alone together, and the silence now intervening was even more painful than that which had ensued on Ulric's entrance. He stood at the window now, leaning his forehead against the panes, and staring out without seeing anything before him.
The Manager still sat at the table resting his head on his hands; his sorrowful, care-worn face plainly showed the ravages which the last few weeks had made. The lines graven on it by old age were furrowed more deeply now, and his eye had grown dim. All the old animation and pugnacious vigour, with which he had been wont formerly to administer many a sermon to his son, had vanished; he sat there, quiet and depressed, making no attempt to renew the conversation.
At last the silence became intolerable to Ulric. He turned round hastily.
"And you say nothing to the news which Wilms has brought us? Is it really all the same to you whether we succeed, or whether we are beaten?"
The old man raised his head slowly.
"It is not all the same to me, but I can't take delight in your threats and your violence. Best wait and see who is most hurt by them, the gentlemen or ourselves. You do not care much about that, you have got your own way. It is for you to command now throughout the works. Every one appeals to you, every one bows down before you, obeys your slightest word. That was what you wanted from the first, what the whole business was set on foot for."
"Father!" cried the young man.
"Let be--let be," said the Manager, interrupting him. "You will not confess it to me, and perhaps not to yourself, but it is so. You took them all along with you, and me with the rest, for of what use to hold back alone? Take care where you lead us. The responsibility is yours."
"Did I begin the thing alone?" broke out Ulric vehemently. "Was it not decided unanimously that there must be a change, and have we not given our word to stand together until the change is made?"
"In case your demands were not granted--yes. But everything has been granted, or as good as everything, for what has been refused has really nothing to do with the demands of our people. You were the one to bring in all that, Ulric, and it is you alone who hold them to it. If it were not for you, they would have been at work long ago, and we should have peace and quiet on the works again."
Ulric threw back his head defiantly.
"Well, yes, I did start it, and I take no shame to myself that I can see farther, and provide for the future, better than the rest. If it will satisfy them that the old poverty should be made a little more bearable, and their miserable lives a little safer in the mines, it will not satisfy me, or any man of spirit among us. We ask for much, that is true, we ask for nearly everything, and if Berkow were the millionaire the world takes him for, he would never dream of giving himself into our hands. But he is that no longer, and his whole weal or woe depends upon whether these hands of ours are busy for him now or not. You don't know the state of things up there in the bureaus, and the reports which are read at the meetings, father, but I do, and I tell you, struggle against it as he may, he will have to yield when he is attacked on all sides at once."
"And I tell you he will not!" declared the Manager. "He will close the works first. I know Arthur well; he was like that as a child, quite different from you. You stormed at everything, and were always for using force, if your work, or your play-fellows, or even your garden hedge, did not please you. He never set about anything willingly, and sometimes it would be a long time before he made up his mind to it; but, when once he began, he would never leave off until he had mastered the thing, whatever it might be. He is roused now, and he means to show you the stuff he is made of. He holds the reins, and no one will be able to drag them out of his hands; there is something of your own obstinacy in him. Think of what I say, when some day he makes you feel it."
Ulric stood gloomy and silent. He did not contradict in his usual vehement way, but the fact that contradiction was impossible stirred up a feeling of wrathful resentment within him. Perhaps he had already felt something of his adversary's mettle.
"And however the thing may turn out," continued his father, "do you suppose that you can stay on here as Deputy, that they will suffer you to remain on the works, after what has happened?"
The young man laughed scornfully.
"No, certainly not, if it depends upon the gentlemen up yonder. They will never take me into favour again, that is very sure. But there will be no question of favour. We shall dictate our terms to them, and the first condition made by all the men unanimously will be that I am to remain."
"Are you so certain of that?
"Father, don't insult my mates," exclaimed Ulric. "They would never desert me."
"Not if the first condition up yonder is that you should go? The master will insist on that, depend upon it."
"Never; he will never obtain that from them. They know all of them that I have not done it for my own sake. I was not badly off, I have no need to starve, I can earn my bread anywhere. It was their misery I wanted to lessen. Don't talk to me, of it, father. They give me trouble enough often, but when things come to be serious, I shall pull through; there is not one of them who will desert me then. Wherever I lead they will follow, and where I stand they will stand by me, yes, that they will, to the very death!"
"They would have some time ago, they won't now." The old man had risen, and only as he turned to the broad daylight could it be fully seen how careworn his features were, and how bowed the figure which, but lately, had been so strong and vigorous.
"You said to Lawrence yourself that things are not as they used to be," he went on in a very low voice, "and you know well the day and hour when the change came about. I hardly need tell you so now, Ulric, but that day cost me the bit of peace and rest I had hoped for in my old age. It is all over with that now, for ever!"
"Father!" cried the young man again. The Manager stopped him with a hasty gesture. "Let it be as it is. I know nothing of what happened, I will know nothing of it, for, if I had to listen to the story in so many words, then all would be up with me indeed. The mere thought is enough; it alone has almost driven me out of my senses."
Ulric's eyes flashed angrily again, as when his friend had made that allusion a short time before.
"And if I were to tell you, father, that the ropes gave way, if I were to tell you that my hand had never been near them"----
"Tell me nothing rather," broke in the old man bitterly. "I should not believe you, and the others would not believe you either. You were always savage and prone to use violence. You would have felled your best friend to the ground in your wrath. Try it, go among your mates and say to them: 'It was nothing but an accident.' There is not one of them who will believe you!"
"Not one?" repeated Ulric, hoarsely. "And you doubt me too, father?"
The Manager fixed his dimmed eyes on his son.
"Can you look me in the face and declare that you were in no way to blame for the accident, in no way? that you"----he did not finish the question, for Ulric had not been able to bear his gaze. The eyes, which a minute before had flashed with anger, now sought the ground, a sharp quiver passed over him, he turned away and--was silent.
A great stillness fell upon the room. Nothing was heard but the old man's heavy breathing. His hand trembled, as he passed it across his brow, and his voice trembled still more, when at last he spoke in a low tone.
"Your hand was not near? Whether it were your hand precisely, or however it may have come about, they are all of opinion, thank God, that inquiries are useless, and that nothing can be proved, at all events in a court of justice. Settle it with yourself, Ulric, as to what befell down below, but don't bully your mates any more. You were quite right. They have been afraid of you since then, and nothing else. See how long you can manage them with fear alone."
So saying he went out. Ulric made a rapid movement as though about to rush after him, but stopped suddenly, striking his forehead with his clenched fist, while a sound like a suppressed groan escaped his breast.
Ten minutes may have passed before the door was again opened and Martha came in. Her uncle was gone, and Ulric lay back in the arm-chair, his head buried in his hands. That did not appear to surprise her much; she cast one glance at him, then went up to the table and began to put together her work. Ulric had raised himself as she approached. He stood up now slowly and went over to her. In general, he paid but little heed to the girl's doings, and would still less trouble to speak to her of what concerned herself. But now he did both these things.
Perhaps a moment had come when even his reserved unbending nature longed for a word, for a token of sympathy, at a time when all fled from him, all avoided him.
"So you and Lawrence have made it up?" he began. "I have not spoken to you about it yet, Martha, I have had so many other things in my head of late. Are you engaged?"
"Yes," was the short and not very encouraging answer.
"And when is the wedding to be?"
"There is time enough for that."
Ulric looked down at the girl, who with quick-coming breath and trembling fingers was busying herself with her work, without even raising her eyes to him. A sort of reproachful feeling rose up in his mind towards her.
"You have done right, Martha," he said, in a low voice. "Karl is a good fellow, and very fond of you, fonder, perhaps, than .... than others might have been. Yet you sent him away again without an answer after our last talk. When did you promise to marry him?"
"Yesterday three weeks."
"Yesterday three weeks! Why, that was the day after the accident. So it was then you promised?"
"Yes, it was then. I could not do it before. It was only on that day I felt as if I ever could be his wife."
"Martha!"
The man's voice swelled half in anger, half in pain. He would have laid his hand on her arm, but she started back involuntarily. He let his hand fall and moved away.
"You too?" he said hoarsely. "Well, yes, I might have known it."
"Oh, Ulric!" exclaimed the girl in wild despairing accents, "what have you done to yourself, to us all!"
He was still standing opposite her. His hand shook as it rested on the table, but his face had grown stern and hard again.
"Whatever harm I may have done myself, I shall take the consequences of it without troubling any one else. As for you all, why, there is not one of you that will even listen to me. But I tell you now, once and for good," here his voice grew hard and menacing, "I have had enough of your endless hinting and tormenting. I won't bear it any longer. Believe what you will and whom you will, it shall be just the same to me in future. What I have begun, I shall go through with, in spite of every one; and if there is really to be an end of all confidence, I shall, at least, know how to enforce obedience."
So saying he went out. Martha made no attempt to detain him, and she would certainly have tried in vain. He crashed to the door of the room behind him, making the little house shake in its foundations. Next minute he had left the cottage.
The arrival of the guests up at the château had brought some animation to that divided household, but it had hardly drawn the young couple more closely together. Although the visitors' stay was limited to a few days, Arthur continually found pretexts and opportunities for withdrawing from their society, an attention for which his father and brother-in-law were both sincerely grateful.
The Baron was but now returning after a sojourn of several weeks on the Rabenau property, his own from this time forth. Notwithstanding the frightful catastrophe which had occurred on the occasion of his first visit, he had been forced to leave his daughter on the following morning, a nearer duty calling him to his cousin's grave. Even when the last offices were over, there remained much to be set in order, and the heir's presence had been indispensable.
He was now returning in company of his eldest son, whom he had sent for to join him, and, this time also, they made the short détour round by the Berkow estates, all the more readily that the young Baron Conrad had not seen his sister since her marriage.
More was intended by this visit than a mere family meeting, or so it appeared from a conversation which took place in Eugénie's boudoir on the day after their arrival, Arthur being absent as usual. His wife sat on the sofa listening to her father, who was standing before her, and just winding up a long peroration, while Conrad, leaning against a chair at a little distance from them, watched his sister with a look of eager expectation.
Eugénie sat resting her head on her hand so as to shade her face. When her father ceased speaking, she did not alter her position or look up, but replied in a low voice:
"No hints or allusions are needed for me to understand what you mean, papa. You are speaking of a separation."
"Yes, my dear," said the Baron, earnestly, "to a separation, no matter under what pretext, or at what cost. What is obtained by force must be kept by force, the Berkows should have remembered that. Now that I am once more master of my own actions, that I need be their debtor no longer, I will employ every means to free you from those chains which you took upon yourself solely on my account, and which, deny it as you may, are making you wretched in the extreme."
Eugénie did not answer. Her father took her hand and sat down by her.
"The thought is new to you and takes you by surprise? It flashed upon me directly I received the weighty news which brought about such an unexpected change in our circumstances. At that time it would have been difficult to realise it. The elder Berkow had left nothing undone to secure an alliance with our family. It was out of the question that he should consent to a dissolution of the marriage, for that would have shut him out from those circles to which he hoped to gain access through us; and with such a man as he, capable of anything in his utter unscrupulousness, we could not well proceed to open fight. His death put an end to all the difficulties at a blow, for his son's resistance can be got over. He has played a merely passive rôle throughout the business, and simply lent himself to be his father's tool. He will yield, I hope, to energetic action on our part."
"He will yield," affirmed Eugénie under her breath. "Have no fear on that score."
"So much the better!" replied Windeg. "We shall attain our end the more speedily."
He was, it seemed, desirous of pushing forward to that end without loss of time, and such was indeed the fact. To the poor nobleman, heavily laden with debt, there had been no choice left but to accept Eugénie's sacrifice, and so save his own and his sons' name and position; whatever it may have cost him, he bent to a hard necessity, and the very necessity of the case taught him how to bear it.
But, to the Lord of Rabenau, who had regained complete independence, and with it all his old sense of dignity, who could pay back with ease the sums he had received, this bond of restraint appeared a burning disgrace, and he looked upon his daughter's marriage as an act of injustice committed to her prejudice, and which he must repair at any cost. During his stay at Rabenau this thought had haunted him, and had gradually shaped itself into a plan which was now ripe for execution.
"It will certainly meet both your wishes and ours that this painful affair should be entered into and settled as quickly as possible," he continued. "I was going to propose that you should accompany us to the city under some pretext or other, and, when there, take the necessary steps to accomplish it. You need simply refuse to return to your husband, and insist upon a separation. We will take care that he does not make good his claims by force."
"Yes, by Jove, that we will, Eugénie!" broke in Conrad passionately. "If he should find he has made a bargain to his liking, and refuse to give it up, your brothers will compel him to yield at the point of the sword. He cannot threaten us now with shame and public humiliation as his father did. That was the only thing the Windegs feared, the only argument by which a daughter of their house could ever have been won from them."
His sister stopped him almost impatiently.
"There is no occasion for threats. Con, and none for your anxiety, papa. Both are equally uncalled for. That which you expect to have to fight for and win by force has long been a settled thing between Arthur and myself."
Windeg started up, and Conrad came a step nearer impetuously in his surprise.
Eugénie strove to give firmness to her voice, but she could not succeed; it quivered audibly as she went on:
"Before Herr Berkow's death we had come to an agreement about it, but we wished to avoid the éclat of too early and sudden a rupture, and so we imposed on ourselves the restraint of living for a time under the same roof."
"Before Berkow's death?" interrupted her brother. "Why, that was soon after you were married!"
"So you introduced the subject yourself?" said the Baron with equal animation. "Did you insist upon it?"
They neither of them seemed to understand the pain which was so plainly written on the young wife's face. She called up all her self-command and answered steadily.
"I never alluded to the matter. Arthur voluntarily offered me a separation."
The Baron and his son looked at one another, as though such a piece of intelligence overstepped their powers of comprehension.
"Indeed! I was not prepared for that," said the Baron, at last, slowly. "He himself! I should not have expected it!"
"No matter," cried Conrad with a sudden burst of tenderness, "no matter, so long as he gives you back to us, Eugénie. We have none of us been able to take any pleasure in the inheritance which has come to us, because we knew that you have been made unhappy for our sakes. My father will not be fairly at ease in the new life until you come back, no more will any of us. We have missed you so in everything."
He threw his arm round his sister, and she hid her face for a few seconds on his shoulder. It was as deadly white and cold in its beauty as it had been when she stood before the altar; yet now she was on the eve of returning to her father's house, from which she had that day been torn away.
The Baron looked at his daughter in some surprise, as she now raised her head and passed her handkerchief over her brow.
"Excuse me, papa, if I seem rather strange to-day. I am not quite well, not well enough, that is, to discuss this subject. You must let me go to my room, I"----
"You have had too much to bear of late," said her father tenderly. "I see it, my dear, even though you will not confess it. Go, and leave all to my care. I will spare you as much as possible."
"It is odd though, is it not, sir?" said the young Baron, as the door closed behind his sister. "Do you understand this Berkow? I don't."
Windeg paced up and down the room with a frown on his brow. He was not merely surprised, but wounded in his pride by this disclosure. To the aristocrat it had seemed quite explicable that a parvenu owning millions of money should employ all the means at his disposal, hesitating neither at intrigue nor sacrifice, to obtain a connection with himself, even though such endeavours were met with unbounded hatred and contempt. But that his plebeian son-in-law should have received the hand of a Baroness Windeg with perfect equanimity, as if there had been nothing extraordinary in such a marriage; that, as time went on, he should have shown himself as insensible to the honour done him as his father was the reverse;--these were things he never could forgive. And now this man, this Arthur Berkow, retired from the connection of his own free will, before any inducement to do so had been held out to him. This was too much for the haughty Windeg. He had been eager to struggle for, to re-conquer, his daughter's freedom, but that he should owe it to her husband's generosity or indifference was intolerable to him.
"I will speak to Berkow," he said presently, "and if he really does agree, which I doubt, in spite of what Eugénie has told us, we must set to work without delay."
"Without delay?" asked Conrad. "They have hardly been married three months, and I think they are right in wishing to avoid too early a rupture."
"No doubt they are, and I should give my complete approval, if I had not other reasons of my own for hurrying on the affair. Things are not as they should be here on the works. I have received a hint from a friendly source that these disturbances, which have broken out among the hands employed, may inflict a deadly injury upon the Berkow property, enormous as it is supposed to be. If a crash should come, his wife could hardly leave him at such a moment; for the sake of public opinion she must stay on. Though we have deeper and far more serious reasons for desiring a separation, his ruin would be looked upon as the real cause, and that must not be. Better we should be thought to stir in the matter prematurely than suffer our hands to be tied, as they would be, should a catastrophe occur. A vast undertaking like this does not fall to pieces in a few weeks. It would take a year at least, and in half that time a divorce may be obtained, if he puts no difficulties in the way. Eugénie must return to our house, must be free again, before the state of things here gets known in the city."
"I should have thought my sister would have taken up the idea more cheerfully and with greater zest," said Conrad meditatively. "To be sure, if they had settled the matter before between themselves, there was nothing in it new to her, but she seems as quiet and silent about it, as if it were no concern of hers, as if her liberty did not depend upon it."
The Baron shrugged his shoulders.
"She does not like the thought of the unavoidable talk it will excite, of all the unpleasant details of the law-suit which cannot be spared her. It is always a painful step for a woman to take, and yet it must be taken. In this case we shall, at any rate, have the whole city on our side. It was unfortunately no secret why this marriage was arranged, and but little surprise can be felt that we should hasten to dissolve it."
"Here comes Berkow," whispered Conrad, as the door of the adjoining room was opened. "You wish to speak to him. Shall I leave you together?"
Windeg shook his head.
"You are the eldest son of our house, and at such discussions the presence of a third person often acts as a wholesome restraint. Stay here, Conrad."
While these words were being quickly exchanged in a low voice, Arthur had crossed the ante-room. He came in now, and the greetings on either side were polite and frigid as usual. The conversation began with the customary flowers of rhetoric. The guests regretted they should enjoy so little of their host's company, the latter put forth as an excuse the accumulation of business which deprived him of the pleasure, etc., mutual formalities believed in by neither party, but behind which each sheltered himself as affording, at least, some subject matter for talk.
"I hope Eugénie's constant company will make up to you for my enforced absence," continued Arthur, glancing through the salon as though in quest of his wife.
"Eugénie is slightly indisposed; she has just left us," returned the Baron, "and I should be glad to make use of this opportunity to express to you a wish of mine, the fulfilment of which depends mainly on yourself."
"If its fulfilment depends on me, you have but to command."
The young man took up a position opposite his father-in-law, while Conrad, who knew what was coming, withdrew, as though accidentally, into a window recess, and appeared to be steadfastly gazing out on the terrace below.
Windeg's bearing was full of stately calm and aristocratic dignity. He desired to be as impressive as possible, and so do away at once with any possible resistance on the part of his daughter's plebeian husband; for he looked upon Arthur's offer of a separation, at the most, as a hasty speech made in a moment of passion. He could not believe it to be serious.
"People seem to attach a greater degree of importance to this revolutionary movement on your estates than it probably has in reality," he began. "As I came by the town yesterday and paid a visit to the commandant of the garrison there, a very old friend of mine, the feeling among the hands over here was described to me as most dangerous, and an outbreak of disturbances was said to be extremely probable."
"They appear to take more interest in my works and in my people than I had supposed," said Arthur, coldly. "I have, at all events, not besought the Colonel for help in case of need."
The Baron understood the hint.
"As for me, of course, I can form no opinion on the subject," he replied quickly. "I only wished to draw your attention to the fact that there would be impropriety in exposing Eugénie to any such possible scenes of disorder. It is my desire to take my daughter with me to the city, just for a time, until the situation here has cleared a little."
A shade fell on the young man's face. Again he cast a quick glance over to the door which led to his wife's apartments, as though trying to divine whether the wish came from her. His reply was quite calm, however.
"Eugénie is mistress of her own actions. If she considers it necessary to leave she is perfectly at liberty to do so."
Windeg, highly pleased, bent his head affirmatively.
"She will accompany us then to-morrow morning. As to the length of her absence, there we approach a subject which is equally painful to us both, but I prefer to touch upon it by word of mouth, particularly as I know our wishes to be identical with regard to the main point at issue."
Arthur seemed about to start from his chair, but he controlled himself and kept his seat.
"Oh! so Eugénie has already been making communications to you?"
"Yes, does that surprise you? Her father would, of course, be the first person in whom she would confide."
Arthur's lips twitched nervously.
"I supposed that the matter would remain between ourselves until the time for action had arrived. I see I was wrong."
"Why postpone things when once a decision has been come to?" asked the Baron quietly. "The present time is most favourable for carrying it into execution. The existing state of affairs here affords the best, the most unexceptional pretext for my daughter's leaving. It need not be known at first that she is leaving definitively. In these summer months, when every one is away from the city, the preliminary steps can be taken with least notice. When an éclat cannot be avoided, it is preferable to give people at once an actual event to talk about. In that way gossip is soonest exhausted."
A long pause followed. Arthur looked again, this time with rather an enigmatical expression, at the door of his wife's apartments; then he turned slowly to her father.
"Did the wish that this affair should be hurried on come from Eugénie herself?"
The Baron thought proper to withhold the truth on this occasion. By so doing, he would attain his end more quickly, and Eugénie would certainly be grateful to him for it.
"I speak in my daughter's name," he declared gravely.
Arthur rose suddenly, and so hastily that his chair was thrown to the ground.
"I consent to everything, Baron, to everything! I thought I had explained to your daughter my reasons in favour of a delay. They were entirely dictated by consideration for herself, and did not concern me in any way. If, notwithstanding these, she still desires to hasten on the matter--be it so!"
The tone in which these words were spoken was so peculiar, that Conrad, who had all along been apparently intent on the terrace below, although, in reality, he had not lost a word of the discussion, turned round suddenly and looked at his brother-in-law in astonishment.
Windeg himself felt surprised. What reason was there for any show of temper? He simply wished that a tie, burdensome to both parties, should be loosed a little earlier than had been intended.
"You fully agree to a separation then?" he asked, a little uncertain.
"Fully."
The Baron breathed freely. So Eugénie had been right in declaring that her husband would consent at once. What remained to be settled would, he thought, hardly present a difficulty.
"I am very much indebted to you for meeting me thus," said he politely. "It will facilitate matters for both sides. There is one other thing which I must mention, though it has no bearing upon the subject in hand. Your father"--the present Lord of Rabenau flushed crimson at the remembrance--"your father was good enough to take up certain obligations of mine which I was not then in a position to discharge. I am able to do so now, and I should wish as speedily as possible"----
He paused, for Arthur had turned his eyes full upon him with a look which forbade him to go on.
"Had we not better let this subject rest? I really must beg that it may not be touched upon."
"It might be allowed to rest so long as our mutual relations subsisted," returned Windeg gravely, "but not when they cease to exist. You will not oblige me to remain your debtor?"
"There was no question here of a debt in the ordinary sense of the word. Those obligations, which my father agreed to meet were, in reality, held by himself alone. The documents relating to the transaction were destroyed, so far as I know, when"--here the young man's extreme irritation broke for an instant through his enforced calm--"when you paid the price for them."
The Baron rose offended.
"The marriage was concluded at that time, in pursuance, certainly, of Herr Berkow's wish; it is now about to be dissolved, more particularly at our desire. The circumstances are completely reversed."
"Is it absolutely necessary that we should keep up the business point of view and make a bargain of the divorce also?" interrupted Arthur with cutting sarcasm. "I hope that I and my wife may not be made the subject of traffic a second time. Once was quite sufficient."
The Baron altogether misunderstood these words, as he also misunderstood the agitation which prompted them. He answered with his haughtiest air.
"Remember, if you please, Herr Berkow, that the word traffic, which you are pleased to employ, can only have reference to one of the parties concerned. It cannot apply to us."
Arthur stepped back; his attitude was proud and dignified, such as the nobleman opposite him could but rarely assume.
"I know now how this marriage was brought about, and I know too how those obligations came to exist which forced you into giving your consent. You will therefore understand why it is I request that not another syllable may be said about this debt. I require of you, Baron, that you do not make a son blush for his father's memory."
Once before Windeg had been disconcerted by his son-in-law's behaviour, on the occasion when the latter had thought fit to decline the peerage offered him, but that had been done in a cool, half negligent manner, and quite in the former Arthur Berkow's style. The present scene and the way in which he now bore himself fairly petrified the Baron. Involuntarily he glanced at his son, who had come out of the recess, and on whose youthful countenance was depicted a boundless astonishment which he gave himself no trouble to conceal.
"I was not aware you viewed the matter in that light," said Windeg at last "It was not my intention to wound your feelings."
"I suppose not, so we will let the subject drop into the past. With regard to the divorce, I will give my solicitor instructions to meet yours in a friendly spirit, and to render him any assistance in his power. Should a personal application to myself be necessary at any time, pray consider me as quite at your disposal I will do all I can to bring the matter to an end as speedily and with as little unpleasantness as possible."
He bowed to both gentlemen and left the room. In an instant young Conrad was at his father's side.
"What can it all mean? What, in the name of goodness, has come over this Arthur Berkow during the last three months? I thought yesterday evening he was graver and had a more decided way with him than formerly, but I never should have imagined he would be capable of behaving with so much dignity."
The Baron had not yet recovered from his astonishment. His son's exclamation roused him. "He really appears not to have been aware of the part his father was acting towards us. That certainly alters the case," said he in some confusion. "If only he had not required me to remain in his debt!"
"He does perfectly right," said Conrad, firing up, "now that he knows by what a system of usury Berkow drove us to our ruin. Not a quarter of the prodigious sums, afterwards arrayed against us, was ever advanced or expended by him in buying up those bills, and not a penny can the son receive if he will not bring dishonour on himself too. One could see that he was filled with shame at the whole disgraceful story. But this interview of ours took a very strange turn. The painful, the humiliating rôle in it was, unquestionably, his, and yet he managed to make us feel almost ashamed of our offer."
Windeg seemed disposed to take this last observation rather ungraciously, perhaps because he could not gainsay it.
"If we were unjust to him before, I am ready now to do him full justice," said he, "and the more so that we really owe him some thanks for his conduct with regard to this divorce business. I did not expect it would be so easy, notwithstanding the indifference he has always shown about the marriage."
Conrad's face again assumed a meditative expression, which, certainly, was not proper to it.
"I don't know, sir; it strikes me that the thing is by no means so settled. Berkow was far from being as calm as he tried to appear, and it was the same with Eugénie. There was no indifference in that violent start of his when you declared that she insisted on an immediate separation, and in Eugénie's face, when she left us, there was still less. A very odd idea has occurred to me in consequence!"
The Baron smiled with great superiority.
"You are quite a child still in some things. Con, in spite of your epaulets and your twenty years. Do you imagine that the determination which, as it now appears, they have both long since come to, could have arisen without previous quarrels and unpleasantness? Eugénie has suffered much from these scenes; perhaps Berkow may have suffered also. What you so sagely remarked was the reverberation of storms gone by, nothing more. Thank God, there is plain sailing between us now, and the storms are over for good and all."
"Or perhaps they are only just beginning!" said Conrad to himself under his breath, as he left the room with his father.