In the capital there reigned all the busy movement of a summer afternoon. A many-coloured ever-changing crowd thronged the main streets, promenaders, people intent on business, and artisans succeeding each other in one unbroken stream. All around unceasing noise and the endless roll of carriages, great clouds of dust rising on every side, and overhead the hot rays of the afternoon sun, already falling obliquely, and lighting up the whole scene.
From the windows of the Windeg mansion, situated in one of the principal streets, a young lady was looking down on the hurry and bustle below which had grown almost strange to her in the solitude of her mountain home.
Eugénie had returned to her father's house, and the short interval of her married life seemed effaced and forgotten. In the family circle it was rarely adverted to, and never except when some allusion to the approaching separation had to be made. The sons followed in this their father's example, and he kept silence on the subject at home, hoping thereby to stifle every painful remembrance.
At the same time he busied himself with those preliminary steps necessary before entering on the judicial proceedings of the divorce. Until this stage should be reached, the matter was not to be made public. The servants and those few acquaintances, who were still in town, knew no more than that the young wife had come on a visit to her family, in consequence of some disturbances on her husband's estates.
Eugénie occupied the rooms which had been hers before her marriage. Nothing in them had been altered, and when, as in former days, she stood at her favourite window, which opened on to a balcony, and looked out, all the old well-known objects met her sight; she might never have been away at all.
The last three months could be nothing more to her than an ugly dream, from which she had now awakened to the old freedom of her maidenhood, and to a freedom far more complete than any she had known before, for now there was no spectre of care haunting each step made by herself and those dearest to her. Every new day would no longer bring fresh humiliations and fresh sacrifices, each hour of the family life need no longer be poisoned by the fear of what might happen on the morrow, of possible disgrace, of ruin with all its fearful consequences. The noble old race of the Windegs could now come forward once more with all the prestige of wealth and power, for the Lord of Rabenau was rich enough, when all former losses were covered, to make a splendid provision for himself and all belonging to him.
There was indeed one shadow still on all this new-born sunshine, and it was caused by that plebeian name so detested by the Baron, and, at one time, by Eugénie.
But even this need only be a question of time. The beautiful talented girl had formerly met with many admirers of her own rank, who would sooner or later have become suitors for her hand, in spite of her father's embarrassed circumstances; indeed, any man wedding Eugénie Windeg might well forget that he would be taking home as his bride the daughter of a poor and debt-laden house. Then the elder Berkow had stepped in, had roughly interfered with all these plans and projects, and destined the prize to his own son. He was able to demand that which others must sue for, and he knew how to use his power. But now Eugénie would be free, and her father could afford to give her a brilliant dowry. He knew more than one among his peers who was ready, and not from interested motives alone, to take up again the thread which had been so rudely severed; and so, with the name, the last remembrance of that former marriage would vanish for ever, and, by a union of suitable rank, the young Baroness would be placed in a position equal, if not superior, to that assigned to her by birth. Then the last spot on the Windeg shield would be effaced, and it would shine out once more with undiminished lustre.
But the young wife hardly looked as calm and full of joyous hope as the advent of so much good fortune might have led one to expect. She had now been some weeks in her father's house, and yet the colour had not returned to her cheeks, and her mouth had not learnt to smile again.
Here, surrounded by all the love and care of her own people, she continued pale and silent as she had been by the side of the husband who had been forced upon her, and now, as she looked down on the crowds below, there was not one in all that varying multitude who had power to fix her attention for an instant. She gazed down on them with that far-off dreamy look which sees nothing near at hand, but is intent on some very different object in some far distant place. "In that city of yours one loses everything, even one's love of solitude and the woods." These words hardly seemed applicable here. Eugénie looked as if quite a painful longing for them had taken possession of her.
The Baron was in the habit of coming to his daughter's rooms for half an hour before going for his afternoon ride. He came in now with a graver face than usual and holding a paper in his hand.
"I must trouble you with some business matters to-day, my dear," he began, after a few words of greeting. "I have just had an interview with our solicitor, which has proved more satisfactory than we could have expected. The representative of the other side is empowered to meet all our wishes, and the two have come to an agreement as to the necessary steps to be taken. The whole affair will probably be settled much more quickly and easily than we had dared to hope. I must ask you to sign this paper, please."
He held out the document to her. Eugénie stretched out her hand to take it, and then suddenly drew it back again.
"I am to"----
"Just to put your name here underneath, nothing more," said the Baron calmly, laying the paper on a writing-table and pushing forward a chair. Eugénie hesitated.
"It is a deed, I see. Ought I not to read it over first?"
Windeg smiled.
"If it were an important document, we should have given it to you to read, of course, but it has reference only to the proceedings in divorce. The demand will be made for you by counsel, but your signature is required. It is a mere formality at the opening of the suit, the details will follow later. If you would like to hear how it sounds, I"----
"No, no," interrupted she, "it is not necessary. I will sign, but it need not be done at once. I am not in the humour for it now."
The Baron looked at her in astonishment.
"Humour? but you have only to sign your name. It will be done in a minute, and I have promised your counsel to let him have it this evening; he intends to present the petition to-morrow morning."
"Well then, I will bring it to you this evening signed. Only not now, I cannot do it now."
Windeg shook his head and looked displeased.
"This is a very strange whim, Eugénie, and I do not understand it at all. Why cannot you make this simple stroke of your pen now in my presence? However, if you insist upon it .... I shall expect that you will give it to me this evening at tea, there will still be time to send it off."
He did not notice that his daughter breathed a sigh of relief at these words. Going up to the window, he too looked down into the street.
"Will not Conrad come to me?" asked Eugénie, after a moment's pause. "I have not seen him yet except at dinner."
"He is very likely tired after his journey, and may be taking a little rest. Oh, there you are, Conrad, we were just speaking of you."
The young Baron, who came in at this moment, must have counted on finding his sister alone, for he said with evident and not altogether pleased surprise,
"You here, sir? They told me you were having an interview with the solicitor in the library."
"It is over, as you see."
Conrad seemed to wish it had lasted a little longer. He made no answer, but went up to his sister and sat down comfortably by her side. He had only come up from the country that day at noon.
A strange, and, in the Baron's sight, highly untoward chance had willed that the regiment to which his eldest son belonged should be quartered in the town nearest to the Berkow estates. Now, of all times, when the connection had so entirely ceased! An extension of leave for the young officer could not be thought of, as the rising of the miners throughout the neighbourhood had produced much agitation in the province, and riots were expected which might call for an intervention of the military, so Conrad must return very shortly to the garrison-town, where Berkow had, of course, many intimate acquaintances.
He had already received strict injunctions from his father not to mention the intended separation just at present. The Baron kept to his original tactics; he would present the world with an accomplished fact. For the rest, he fondly imagined, though he did not say so, that his son would avoid all personal contact with his whilom relative.
This supposition appeared to be correct; at least Arthur's name was never mentioned in the young officer's letters, and the existing state of things on his works only casually alluded to. Conrad had been sent to the capital on some matter relating to his service. There had been no opportunity as yet of talking freely; he had only been at home a few hours, and, at dinner, the presence of guests had imposed some restraint upon the family.
Now, however, the objectionable subject having once been introduced in reference to Eugénie's signature, the Baron inquired in a tone of the utmost indifference, as if asking for news of a very slight and distant acquaintance, how things were going on the Berkow estates.
"Badly, sir, very badly," said Conrad, turning to his father, but keeping his place at his sister's side. "Arthur fights like a man against the misfortunes which are assailing him on all sides, but I am afraid he will succumb to them at last. He has ten times more to battle against than the proprietors of the other works. All his father's sins, during twenty years of tyranny and oppression, are visited now upon him, and he has to suffer, too, for all the reckless speculations of later times. I cannot make out how he manages to struggle on. Any one else would have given way long ago."
"If the movement is growing too strong for him, I am surprised he does not call in military aid," said the Baron coldly.
"That is just it, but on this subject he won't listen to reason. For my part," cried the young heir of the Windegs, with the characteristic inconsiderateness of his class, "for my part, I would have shot down the fellows long ago, and have forced them to leave me in peace. They have given him cause enough, and if their ringleader goes on exciting them, as he is now doing day by day, they will be burning his house over his head soon. But it is all of no use, you may argue and pray. 'No, and once again no; so long as I can defend myself, no stranger shall set his foot on my works!'
"And to be frank with you, sir, they will be very pleased in the regiment if our help is not required; we have had to give it too often already during the last few weeks. At the other places round, things were not half so bad as at the Berkow mines, yet the first thing the owners did was to cry out for troops to protect them, and thereby place themselves on a war-footing with their own people.
"There have been some ugly scenes, and at such times, it is we who always have to bear the brunt. We are not to proceed with harshness, if it can be avoided, yet we are to make our authority respected, and the whole responsibility of whatever may happen falls upon us. So the Colonel and all the officers take it very kindly of Arthur that he has held out, and still persists in holding out, against his rebels by himself."
Eugénie listened to her brother with breathless attention. He seemed to look upon her as quite uninterested in the matter, and addressed himself solely to his father. The Baron, who had noticed with rising displeasure the constant recurrence of the word "Arthur," now said in a tone of chilling reproof:
"You and your comrades appear to be very well acquainted with all that goes on at Herr Berkow's works."
"The whole town is talking of it," declared Conrad, quite unmoved. "As for me, I certainly have been out there pretty often."
At this avowal his father gave a start of surprise.
"You have been out to see him, and that frequently?"
Perhaps the young man had observed the emotion which at his last words had become visible in Eugénie's face. He took her hand in his now and held it fast as he continued in the same careless way:
"Well, yes, sir. You told me not to talk about that business, you know, and it would have looked odd if I had ignored my brother-in-law altogether, especially situated as he now is. You did not forbid my going out there."
"Because I imagined your own sense of propriety would have forbidden it," said Windeg, highly incensed. "I took it as a matter of course that you would avoid that connection, instead of which you appear to have sought it, and that without writing one word on the subject to me. Really, Conrad, this is too bad!"
If he had told the whole truth, Conrad must have confessed that he had feared to receive a direct prohibition, and so had prudently abstained from all mention of his proceedings in his letters. In a general way he stood in proper awe of his father's frown, but to-day Eugénie's presence seemed to counterbalance its effect. He looked in her eyes, and what he saw there must have made the paternal reproaches easy to bear, for he even smiled as he answered quite unconcernedly,
"Well, I can't help it if I have taken such a liking to Arthur. You would have done the same in my place. I assure you he can be perfectly charming if he likes, only he is always so awfully grave. To tell the truth, his gravity suits him very well, though. I said to him yesterday, when I was coming away, 'If I had known from the first what you were, Arthur'"----
"Arthur!" interrupted his father, with his severest intonation.
The son tossed his head rather defiantly.
"Well yes, we call each other Arthur and Con, now, that is, I asked him to. I don't see why we should not, he is my brother-in-law."
"He is your brother-in-law no longer," said the Baron coldly, pointing to the table. "There lies our petition for a divorce."
Conrad glanced, not over tenderly, at the document in question.
"Oh, the petition. Has Eugénie signed it?"
"She is about to do so."
He looked at his sister. Her hand trembled in his, and her lips quivered as if she could with difficulty repress her agitation.
"Well, it seems to me, sir, that precisely with regard to this matter of the divorce, Arthur has behaved in a way to make all reproachful and bitter feeling towards him out of the question. It would be mean not to do him full justice now. I never should have thought it possible that a man could so shake off his languor and rouse himself to such energy as I see in him.
"All that he has been doing during the last few weeks, choosing always exactly the right time and place to make his action felt, all the horrible scenes and conflicts he has prevented, he alone in the midst of those rebellious masses by the mere force of his presence and personal influence--all that must be seen to be believed. He has become a regular hero. That the Colonel and all the officers say; in fact the whole town says so. The officials have behaved remarkably well, because he is always at their head.
"Not one among them has left the works, but when I came away, they seemed to have reached the extreme limits of endurance. The misfortune is, Arthur has taken it into his head that no stranger shall come between him and his people, and he is carrying out his resolution with rare consistency. I think, if it comes to the worst, he is capable of barricading himself and his staff up in the house and of making them all defend themselves to the last man, rather than call for help. It would be just like him!"
Here Eugénie pulled her hand out of her brother's; she got up quickly and went to the window.
The Baron rose also with an expression of the most lively displeasure.
"I really do not know, Conrad, how it is you answer a simple question about the state of things on Herr Berkow's estate by so exaggerated a panegyric of him. It shows a want of consideration for your sister which I should not have expected from you, for you have always professed to regard her with special affection. You will find yourself in an awkward position when the divorce proceedings become known. What figure you will then make with your eccentric admiration for this man, which you appear to have paraded before the whole garrison, I leave you to reflect. But now I beg this conversation may cease, you see how painfully Eugénie is affected by it. Pray come with me."
"Leave Conrad with me just a few minutes, papa," said his daughter; "I should like to ask him something."
The Baron shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"Well, be so good then as not to touch upon this subject again, and so agitate yourself still more. In ten minutes the horses will be below, Conrad. I shall expect you to be there. Good-bye for the present, Eugénie."
The door had hardly closed upon him, when the young officer rushed up to his sister at the window, and threw his arm round her with rough but unmistakable tenderness.
"Are you angry too, Eugénie?" he asked, "was I really unfeeling?"
Eugénie looked at him with passionate eagerness. "You have seen Arthur, have spoken to him frequently, yesterday even, when you were coming away. Did he send no message by you, absolutely none?"
Conrad looked down. "He desired to be remembered to you and my father," said he, rather crestfallen.
"How? In what words?"
"He called after me when I was in the carriage, 'Remember me to the Baron and to your sister.'"
"And that was all?"
"That was all."
Eugénie turned away. She wished to hide from her brother the bitter disappointment which was written in her face, but Conrad held her fast. He had her own beautiful dark eyes, but with him their expression was bolder, more full of vivacity. At this moment, however, as he bent over her, all his thoughtless gaiety had vanished, and given place to a most unaccustomed earnestness.
"You must have wounded him cruelly at some time, Eugénie, and in a way he cannot get over. I would so gladly have brought you a line or a word at parting, but it was not to be had from him. He would never talk about you, but each time I mentioned your name he went deadly pale and turned away, and then dragged in another subject by the ears, so as not to hear any more, just exactly as you do when I speak to you about him. By Jove! there must be a regular hatred between you two?"
Eugénie tore herself free from him.
"Leave me, Con, for Heaven's sake! leave me, I can bear it no longer."
A look almost of triumph passed over the young man's face, and there was a ring of repressed joy in voice.
"Well, I don't want to intrude upon your secrets. I must go now, or my father will be getting impatient, he is in such an awful temper to-day. I shall leave you alone now, Eugénie; there is that divorce petition to be signed, you know. It will be ready, no doubt, by the time we come home. Good-bye."
He hurried off. The horses were standing before the door, and the Baron was looking impatiently up at the windows above. The ride was not a particularly agreeable one, for not only the eldest, but the two younger sons, soon felt the effects of their father's ill-humour. Baron Windeg could not endure that any one bearing the name of Berkow should, in his presence, be spoken of in terms of praise; and, as he naturally supposed his daughter to have the same feeling, he considered that an offence had been offered both to her and to himself.
Conrad had to bear many allusions to his "want of tact" and his "want of consideration." He let it all pass very quietly, however; on the other hand, he showed the most lively interest in the ride, or rather in the duration of it. It was so long since he had been in town; the drive on the outskirts was so animated and diverted him so much, that he contrived to spin out the expedition to a considerable length, and it was growing quite dark when the four returned to the city.
In the meantime Eugénie had remained alone. Her door was locked, she could endure no one near her now. The walls of her room and the old family portraits which adorned them, had witnessed many a fit of weeping, many a bitter struggle when the girl's marriage had been under discussion, but none so cruel as the present, for now the battle was with herself, and the enemy was not easy to conquer.
There upon the writing-table lay the paper by which a wife prayed to be judicially parted from her husband; only the signature was wanting. When once that was affixed the divorce would really be gained, for the consent of her husband and the Baron's influential connections assured to the affair a speedy and favourable issue. She had refused to make that all-important stroke of her pen, but it must be made now. What had the one hour availed? It would be all the same whether the inevitable step were taken sooner or later! But just then Conrad had come in with his story, and had torn open afresh the wounds which had not yet ceased to bleed.
And yet her brother had brought her no message, not even a word of greeting. "Remember me to the Baron and to your sister," that was all! Why not rather "to Lady Eugénie," that would have been colder still and more fitting. Eugénie went up to the writing-table, and her eyes wandered over the words of the document. There too all was cold and formal, though the fate of two people was decided by it. But Arthur had willed it so. He it was who had first spoken the word of separation, who first and unhesitatingly agreed to hasten it on; and, when she had gone to him and declared herself ready to stay, he had turned from her and bade her go. The blood rushed to her temple again, and she stretched out her hand to take the pen.
She was woman enough to know that this signature of hers would be a blow to him, although he must be in a great measure prepared for it. She had been able to interpret looks, and had been conscious of unguarded moments in which he had betrayed himself; but, that he had mastered his weakness to the very last moment, that he would not understand when she hinted to him of the possibility of a reconciliation, that he was peremptory to her as she had been to him, that he opposed his pride to hers--these were offences for which he must now suffer, even though the cost to herself should be tenfold greater.
The demon of pride rose up within her again in all its fatal strength. How often had it successfully held the field against all better feelings, not always for her own good or for that of others! But to-day another voice made itself heard as well. "Arthur is fighting like a man against the misfortunes which are awaiting him on all sides, but he will succumb to them at last."
And when he should so succumb, he would be alone, alone in his defeat as he had been in the battle. He had no friend, no confidant, not one. The officials might serve him devotedly, strangers might admire him; but there was no one to cleave to, no one to feel for him, and the wife, whose place was at his side, was at this moment signing the paper by which she prayed for a separation with the briefest possible delay from the husband whom she had already abandoned, and who was now struggling day by day against imminent ruin.
Eugénie let fall the pen and stepped back from the writing-table. After all, what had been Arthur's crime? He had shown himself indifferent to a wife who, as he believed, had married him solely with a view to his wealth. When she had convinced him of his error, she had added contemptuous words such as no man will bear if he has a spark of honour in him. Here, too, his father's sins had been visited on him, and he had abundantly suffered for them during his short married life.
Since that first conversation no further trouble had come to her, except that her husband had held back from her in distant coldness, but he--what had he not endured? Eugénie best knew what the three months had really been, which to those about them had presented only the superficial calm of indifference, and which had held stings sharp enough to irritate a man beyond endurance.
It is possible to wound with every look, with every breath, and this had been done. Looking down on him from the elevation of her rank and position, she had tried to crush him into that pitiful nothingness which, in her opinion, was his proper condition. Day by day she had used her weapons, all the more ruthlessly when she found he was vulnerable. She had made of his home a place of torment, of his marriage a curse, and all this that she might revenge herself on him for his father's unscrupulous treatment of her family. With fullest intent she had driven him so far that he himself had proposed a separation, because he could no longer endure life at her side. If, at last, he drew himself up and pushed aside the hand which had so racked and tortured him, whose was the fault?
She sprang up from the seat on which she had thrown herself, and began to pace up and down in terrible agitation as though trying to escape from herself. She knew well what she was trying to obtain from herself, whither her efforts were tending.
There was but one thing now which could help and save, but that was impossible, that could not be! If she were to make the sacrifice of all her pride, and the sacrifice were not accepted frankly and freely as it was offered? Might she not have been mistaken, have read those eyes amiss; they had never been unveiled for more than an instant, and then only reluctantly. If he were again to meet her with that same freezing look, asking her by what right she was doing that which would have been any other woman's simple duty? If he were again to say that he would stand or fall alone, if he were to bid her go once more? No, never! better the separation, better a whole life of misery and regret, than incur the possibility of such humiliation.
The departing sun, tipping the trees out yonder with gold, had long since set and twilight had fallen, but it brought no quiet or coolness to the heated overcrowded streets. Without, the sultry evening air was full of the same hum and stir; the stream of people still passed and repassed unceasingly, and the sound of voices and of the rattle of carriages was still borne up confusedly to the windows above.
But, through it all, another sound was heard, faint at first as a mere whisper, but growing ever nearer, ever more distinct. Had it been wafted over from those green forest-heights and made its way through the great busy thoroughfares of the city up to the young wife's ears? What it was she hardly knew; it was like the soughing of the wind in the pine branches, and, through it, echoed once more all the old forest music with its mysterious chords.
There came back to her vividly that first glimpse of spring, those bitter-sweet moments passed under the shelter of the friendly woods. The mists rose up around her again, the storm howled, and the brooks tumbled tumultuously down into the valleys below. Out of the thick grey mist one figure stood out clear and definite--the one figure which since that time had never left her sleeping or waking--and looked at her reproachfully with its great brown eyes.
He who has passed through such a crisis as this, when all the powers of the soul are concentrated on the resolution shaping itself within, may have known these rapid flashes of memory, may have seen again old scenes in their fullest details rising up before the mind's eye, without visible or external cause, but with a force irresistible.
Eugénie felt that the air around her was full of these memories, felt that, one after the other, the weapons were falling from her hands, until at last there remained only the magic influence of that hour when she had made the discovery that her hate was at an end, and that, in its place, something else was springing up, something against which she had striven, as it were, to the death, but to which she must now make surrender.
It was soon over, that last short struggle between the old demon of unbending pride, unable to forgive the repulse it had once met with, and the woman's heart telling her that she was loved, spite of all.
This time the forest voices had not spoken in vain. They gained the victory at last. The paper, which was to divide two people who had sworn to be one for ever, lay torn upon the ground, and the young wife was on her knees, raising her beautiful face, down which the hot tears were streaming, and sobbing,
"I cannot--I cannot do him and myself this wrong. It would strike home to us both. Come what may, Arthur, I will stay by you."
"Where is your sister?" asked the Baron, when, an hour later, he entered the lighted drawing-room and found his sons there alone. "Has not Lady Eugénie been told that we are waiting for her?" he continued, turning to the servant who had been preparing the tea-table, and was about to leave the room.
Conrad forestalled the answer.
"Eugénie is not at home." said he, signing to the man to go.
"Not at home!" repeated the Baron, in astonishment. "Has she driven out so late as this? Where can she have gone?"
Conrad shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know. Directly I came in I ran up to her rooms. She was not there, but I found this lying on the floor."
He drew out a paper, and an odd little twitch played about his lips as, seemingly with the utmost gravity, he pieced the two halves neatly together and laid them before his father. The Baron looked down at them, but could make nothing of it.
"Why, that is the petition drawn out by the proctor, which I gave to Eugénie to sign! I will have the servants up. If she has really gone out, they must know where the carriage was to take her."
He laid his hand on the bell, but Conrad stopped him, and said very quietly:
"I think, sir, she must have gone to her husband."
"Are you out of your senses, Conrad?" cried the Baron. "Eugénie gone to her husband!"
"Well, I only fancy so. We shall soon know for a certainty, for I found this note on her writing-table addressed to you. I brought it down, it is sure to give us some information."
Windeg tore open the envelope. In his hurry, he did not notice that Conrad so far transgressed all etiquette as to go behind him and read over his shoulder. There could be no mistake now about the triumphant expression of the young officer's face. It was so evident, that the two younger brothers, who understood nothing of what was going on, looked first at him and then at their father with anxious and inquiring looks.
The note contained only a few lines.
"I am going to my husband. Forgive me, papa, for leaving so suddenly, so secretly. I will not lose an hour, and I do not wish to encounter your opposition; I must have withstood it, for my resolution is taken. Do nothing more in the matter of the divorce, and recall that which has been done already. I do not give my consent to it, I will not leave Arthur.
"Eugénie."
"Was such a thing ever heard of?" the Baron broke out, letting the note fall from his hands. "A daughter of mine dares to change her mind in this way and to make a clandestine flight from my house. She withdraws herself from my protection, destroys all my hopes and plans for her future, and goes back to this Berkow, who is on the very brink of ruin, goes back among all those miners in revolt, when the whole neighbourhood is in a state of anarchy. This verges on madness. What has happened? I demand to be told, but first this senseless plan must be frustrated, while there is yet time. I will go immediately" ...
"The express train to M---- left half-an-hour ago," interrupted Conrad, "and the carriage is just coming back from the station. It is too late now, any way."
At this moment the carriage, which had, no doubt, been used by Eugénie, was heard coming in at the gates. The Baron began to see that it was too late, and now the vials of his wrath were turned upon his son.
He reproached him with being the sole cause of all. With his ridiculous laudation of his brother-in-law, with his exaggerated accounts of the man's situation, he had stung Eugénie's conscience, until a morbid sense of duty had driven her to her husband's side, for no other reason than because he was unhappy; and when once she was there, who could tell whether a complete reconciliation might not come about, if Berkow were selfish enough to accept the offered sacrifice?
But Windeg swore by all that was dear to him, that he would carry through the divorce in spite of all. The thing was set on foot, it was in the hands of counsel, and Eugénie must and should be brought to reason. He, the Baron, "would see whether he could not use his authority as a father, although two of his children"--with a crushing glance at poor Conrad, who, for the nonce, was the only criminal at hand, "although two of his children appeared to disregard it altogether."
Conrad let the storm pass over his head, and spoke no syllable in his own defence; he knew from experience that it was the best way. He sat with drooping head and downcast eyes, as if he were a prey to the most unmitigated remorse for the thoughtlessness of his conduct and the evil it had wrought.
But when the Baron, still furious, left the room and went to shut himself up in his private apartments, there further to ponder and growl over this incredible business, the young lieutenant sprang up with a bound, the roguish expression of his handsome face and the sparkle in his eye telling plainly how little the paternal anger had gone to his heart.
"To-morrow morning Eugénie will be with her husband," said he to his brothers who now assailed him with questions and reproaches, "and my father may try to come between them with his lawyers and paternal authority as much as he pleases. Arthur will take good care of his wife when once he knows she belongs to him; he has not known it so far. As for us," here he cast a very meaning glance at the door by which his father had disappeared, "we shall have stormy weather for the next week. The worst is yet to come, when my father finds out how things really are between those two, and that something else is in question here than mere conscience and a sense of duty.
"One comfort is, Arthur will have sunshine; with it and Eugénie at his side he will win through, never fear. Thank goodness, there is an end of the divorce suit, courts of justice and counsel included, and if one of you has a word to say against my brother-in-law, let him say it to me. I'll answer him."
Early in the forenoon of the following day a postchaise, travelling along the road from M----, came to a halt at the entrance of the valley where lay the Berkow works, the first outlying buildings of which were already to be seen quite close at hand.
"Don't do it, my lady," said the driver, speaking to some one inside the carriage.
"You had far better turn back with me as I begged you to do at the last station; I heard of it there, and the peasants we just met on the road told us of it again. There are battle and murder up on the works to-day. Quite early this morning the men were pouring in from all the villages around, and there is the devil to pay now out yonder. With the best will in the world, I can't take you up to the house. I should be risking my horses and the chaise too. When these fellows are once in revolt, they spare neither friend nor foe. Must you go up there just to-day? Could you not wait until to-morrow?"
The young lady, who was the sole occupant of the carriage, made no reply, but opened the door and stepped out.
"I cannot wait," said she gravely, "but I will not endanger you or your property. It is not more than a mile, I can easily go there on foot. You can turn back."
The driver renewed his warnings and remonstrances. It seemed very strange to him that this unknown and elegant lady, who had paid him so liberally, urging him at the same time to use the utmost speed, should now venture alone into the tumult. He obtained nothing from her, however, by his entreaties. She impatiently signed to him to turn back, and at last, shrugging his shoulders at her persistency, he made up his mind to obey.
Eugénie took a footpath which did not lead direct to the works, but ran across the meadows towards the upper entrance to the park, and where she would in all probability be safe. If it came to the worst, she would, at all events, find protection and an escort in one of the officials' dwelling-houses, which lay in that direction. How necessary both might be, she certainly had not known when, yielding to a sudden impulse, she had set out on this journey alone, and even now she did not understand the full extent of the peril to which her present expedition exposed her.
It was not the possibility of danger which brought that heightened colour to her cheeks, that restless sparkle to her eye, which made her heart beat so violently that she was forced to stop every now and then to take breath. It was the fear she felt of the coming decision. That heavy dream-like feeling, which had come upon her on leaving her husband's home, had hung about her during all the weeks of the separation.
Neither the old home, nor her people's love, nor the bright and happy prospects opening out before them all, had sufficed to rouse her. That dreamy sense of unreality had clung to her with painful oppressiveness and with many a vague longing. Now the awakening had come, and all her thoughts were bent on the one question.
"How would he receive her?"
She had just reached a small solitary house, forming, as it were, the extreme outposts of the works, when she saw a man hurrying towards her. He started with a look of terror as he recognised her.
"My lady! For Heaven's sake, how did you come here, and to-day of all days?"
"Oh, Manager Hartmann, is it you?" said Eugénie, going up to him. "Thank God I have met you! Troubles have broken out on the works, I hear. I had to leave my carriage out yonder, the driver dared not bring me on. I am going on foot up to the house."
The Manager shook his head, and replied hastily:
"You cannot, my lady, you cannot go up now. To-morrow perhaps, or perhaps towards evening, but not now."
"Why not?" cried Eugénie, turning very pale. "Is our house threatened? Is my husband" ...
"No, no, Herr Berkow is not mixed up in it today. He is up at the house with all the officials. This time the trouble is among themselves. Some of the men wanted to take to their work again this morning, and my son" ....
Here the old man's face worked with agitation.
"Well! you must know it before long! My son was furious about it. He and his party have driven them back, and set a guard round the shafts. The others won't put up with that, and now they are banding themselves together. The whole works are in revolt, every man against his neighbour. Merciful goodness! what will happen next?" cried the Manager, as, in spite of the distance, rumours of the wild clamour and uproar were borne distinctly over to them.
"But I intended to avoid the works," urged Eugénie. "I was going to try and gain the park by the path across the meadows, and so on to" ....
"For Heaven's sake, don't go there!" interrupted the old man. "Ulric and all his followers are holding a meeting out in the meadow yonder. I was on my way to try once more if I could not make him listen to reason, and induce him, at all events, to set the shafts free. We are going against our own flesh and blood now, but he has neither eyes nor ears for anything in his fury. Not that way, my lady, it is the most dangerous of all."
"I must go up to the house," Eugénie declared resolutely. "I must go, cost what it may. Come with me, Hartmann, only as far as the houses. In case of the worst, I can stay there until the road is clear again. At your side I shall be secure at least from open violence."
The old man shook his head sadly.
"I cannot help you, my lady. Now that we are all in arms, one against the other, my own life is hardly safe in the midst of this strife and turmoil, and if once they get to know who you are, my being at your side would be of very little use. There is only one man now they feel any respect for, who can make himself obeyed in case of need, and that is my Ulric. But he hates Herr Berkow mortally, and he hates you too because you are the master's wife. Good God!" broke off the old man suddenly, "here he comes! There has been mischief doing again, I can see it in his face. Go out of his sight just for the present, I implore you."
He pushed her through the half-opened door of the little cottage, and he had hardly done so, when steps and loud voices were heard approaching. Ulric was coming up the road followed by Lawrence and several other miners. His face was crimson, and on his brow lay a thunder-cloud ready at any moment to explode. He was talking excitedly as he came along, and he did not notice his father's presence.
"If they are our mates and our brothers, no matter! Down with them directly they turn traitors to us. We gave our word to stand by each other, and now they crawl up to the old collar like cowards and desert us and our cause. They shall be made to pay for it. Are the shafts well guarded?"
"Yes, but" ...
"I'll have no buts," cried the leader imperiously to the man who would have ventured to hazard an objection. "That was about the one thing wanting, treason in our own camp, just as we are on the eve of victory. They shall be driven back by force, I tell you, if they make the least attempt to go below. We will teach them their duty and their proper place, if they have to learn it at the cost of a few broken heads."
"But there are two hundred of them," said Lawrence gravely, "and to-morrow there may be four--and, if once the master steps in and begins to talk to them--you know how that tells! We have seen it often enough of late."
"If there were four hundred," shouted Ulric, "if half our people were on their side, we would fight them with the other half and beat them too. I'll see if I can't make myself obeyed! But now, forward, lads. Karl, you go over to the works and bring me word if Berkow is meddling in the matter and talking to the men in that cursed way of his, getting hundreds to desert from us again. You others, back to the shafts. See that the way to them is thoroughly blocked, I will come myself presently. Off with you!"
His command was at once obeyed. The miners hurried off in the prescribed directions, and Ulric, seeing now for the first time that his father was standing by, hurried up to him and said,
"You here, father? Why, you ought to be"----all at once he stopped, rooted to the ground; his face grew deadly white, every drop of blood slowly receding from it, and his eyes were fixed and dilated as though he had seen a ghost. Eugénie had come out of the house and was standing before him.
A sudden thought had flashed into the young wife's mind, and instantly she acted on it without staying to reflect on the boldness and the peril of her venture. She was bent on going to her husband at any cost, and now she must overcome the horror with which this man had inspired her ever since she had discovered the true reason of her power over him. She had often put this power to the proof; now the time had come to turn it to account.
"It is I, Hartmann," said she, mastering an involuntary shudder and appearing before him calm and composed. "Your father was just warning me not to go on my way alone, and yet I must go on."
At the sound of her voice, Ulric seemed first to realise that it was actually Eugénie Berkow who stood before him, and no mere vision of his heated fancy. He would have rushed up to her, but that look and tone still kept their old influence over him. As he listened, a calmer and milder expression came over his face.
"What are you doing here, my lady?" he asked uneasily, his rough imperious manner softening into one that was almost gentle. "There is ill work among us to-day, which is not for women to see, least of all for you. You must not stay here."
"I want to go to my husband," said Eugénie quickly.
Formerly she had almost invariably spoken of Arthur as "Heir Berkow;" now she called him her husband, in a tone which seemed to make Ulric understand all that was implied in that one word.
In the first moment of his surprise he had not reflected how or why she had come there so suddenly; now he glanced quickly, first at her travelling dress, and then around, as though in quest of her carriage and attendants.
"I am alone," said Eugénie, catching this glance, "and it is that which prevents my going on. I am not afraid of any actual danger, but of the insults I might be exposed to. You offered me your escort and protection once, Hartmann, when I did not need them. Now I mean to make a claim on both. Lead me over to the house. You can, if you will."
The Manager had stood by, anxiously looking on, expecting that at any moment his son might attack the wife of a master he so hated, and ready to rush in between them. He could not understand Eugénie's tone of quiet assurance towards a man whom she, like every one else, must know to be the real instigator of the whole rebellion. Now as she made this request wishing to entrust herself to the rebel leader's safe keeping, the old man's bewilderment knew no bounds. He looked at her in horrified amazement.
As to Ulric, he was roused to violent anger by the demand made upon him. That milder gleam had vanished, and the old imperious defiance had come back to him.
"I am to lead you over?" he said in a low hoarse voice. "And you ask that of me, my lady, of me?"
"I ask it of you." Eugénie kept her eyes steadily fixed on his face, feeling that so her power over him would be greater. It seemed now, however, to have reached its limits. He burst out like a madman.
"Never, never! I would rather see the house stormed, see it pulled to the ground, than take you there again. What? he up yonder is to have you at his side again, so that he shall take courage and resist to the last? He is to have the triumph of knowing that you have come away from the city by yourself and made your way through the whole place in revolt, just that he should not be left alone? But you may look for another guide for that, and if you find one"--with a threatening look at his father--"he shall not go far with you, I'll take care of that."
"Ulric, control yourself, you are speaking to a lady!" cried the Manager, stepping between them in mortal fear. He naturally saw nothing in this scene but an outbreak of that unrestrained enmity which his son had long cherished towards the whole Berkow family, and he took up a position before his master's wife, determined, come what might, to protect and shield her. She pressed by him, however, gently but resolutely.
"So you will not go with me, Hartmann?"
"No, a hundred times, no."
"Well then, I shall go alone."
She turned away in the direction of the park, but with two strides Ulric reached her and placed himself before her, barring the road.
"Back, my lady, you can't get through, I tell you, least of all, this way where my men are. Lady or not, it is all the same to them now. Your name is Berkow, and that is enough. As soon as they find out who you are, you will have them all upon you. You cannot and shall not go over there now. Stay here where you are."
These last words were spoken imperatively and in a tone of menace, but Eugénie was not accustomed to submit to orders, and the almost delirious violence with which he was striving to keep her from Arthur called up in her a vague anxiety and dread lest things should be worse with him than she had been led to believe.
"I shall go to my husband," she repeated very resolutely, "and I shall see whether on my way to him any one dares stop me by force. Let your friends assault a woman, give the signal for it yourself, if you care to take the credit of the heroic deed. I shall go."
And she went; darting by him and taking the path which led across the fields.
Hartmann stood gazing after her with eyes which glowed again, paying no heed to his father's prayers and remonstrances. He understood better than the old man what she intended by this venture, what she wished to compel him to. But this time he would not yield to her. She might perish on the threshold of her own house, in sight of her husband, before he would take her back to the arms of a man he hated, before he ...
At this moment a troop of miners made their appearance, excited and uproarious, coming from the place of meeting to rejoin their leader. The foremost of them was only some hundred paces off. They had already noticed the solitary female figure before them; in another minute she would be recognised, and he himself had, but half-an-hour ago, been goading on these men to blind fury against all that bore the name of Berkow.
Eugénie went forward to meet the danger, not attempting even to conceal her face. In his desperation Ulric stamped on the ground; then he tore himself free from his father, and in an instant was at her side.
"Put down your veil," he said, and grasped her hand with an iron grasp.
Eugénie obeyed, drawing a deep breath of relief. She was safe now; she knew he would not loose his hold on her hand again, if all the men on the works were to attack them at once. She had gone on deliberately to meet the danger, with full consciousness of what she was doing, but also with the conviction that nothing short of her visible and imminent peril would win for her that protection which had been refused.
They now came up to the troop of insurgents, who at once attempted to throng round their leader so as to place him in their midst, but he briefly and emphatically bade them make way, and ordered them over to the shafts without loss of time. They obeyed at once as their comrades had done previously, and Ulric, who had not halted for so much as a second, drew his companion on more rapidly than ever. She began to see plainly how impossible it would have been for her to force a passage through by herself, and how idle any other protection would have proved than that which was at her side.
This stretch of meadow-land, usually so peaceful, was to-day the scene of busy surging tumult, although the actual strife was confined to the neighbourhood of the shafts. Knots of miners were trooping about, or standing closely grouped together in noisy conference. Everywhere angry faces and threatening gestures were to be seen, everywhere turmoil and confusion reigned paramount, an object only seemed wanting for them to give vent to their wild excitement by some deed of violence.
Happily, the footpath skirted the edge of the fields where the tumult was relatively less, but even here Ulric no sooner showed himself than he became the centre of observation, and was greeted everywhere with loud shouts, in which there mingled a certain note of surprise. A host of astonished, distrustful, suspicious glances were levelled at the female figure by his side. No one guessed that, attired in that dark travelling-dress and thick veil, the master's wife was passing through their midst. Had any one fancied he recognised her gait and bearing, such a notion would have been scouted by the others.
Ulric Hartmann was protecting her, and he would most surely never have accorded his protection to any one connected with the house of Berkow; still it was a lady who was walking with him, the Manager's rough, uncourteous son, though he cared nothing for women generally, not even for Martha Ewers, who was cared for, in some degree, by almost every unmarried man in the place.
Ulric, who, at a time like the present, looked upon and treated his comrades' wives as an unnecessary burthen to be shaken off as much as possible, Ulric was now playing the guide to this stranger, and there was a look on his face as though he would strike down any one who ventured a step too near her. That short walk, which lasted barely ten minutes in all, was a bold experiment even for the young leader himself, but he showed that here, at least, he was master, and that he knew how to make use of his power.
Now, by a few imperious words, he dissolved a group which stood in his way; now, again, he issued orders and instructions to a troop of miners bearing down upon him, which took them off in another direction; to those who would have pressed round with questions and reports of what was going on he cried,
"By and by, I am coming back!" and all the time he never lost a moment, but drew his companion swiftly on, so as to prevent discovery or delay.
At last they reached the park, closed at this spot by a wooden gate only. Ulric pushed it open, and stepped inside with her under the sheltering trees.
"That is enough," he said, letting go her hand. "The park is safe still, and in five minutes you will be at the house."
Eugénie was still trembling at the danger they had passed through, and her hand ached from the iron pressure of his. She put back her veil slowly.
"Make haste," said he with bitter sarcasm. "I have honestly done my part towards helping you back to your husband. You will not keep him waiting now?"
Eugénie looked up at him. His face betrayed the torture she had inflicted, by placing before him the alternative of witnessing an attack upon her, or of himself leading her to her husband.
She had no courage to thank him, but she put out her hand in silence.
Ulric pushed it away.
"You asked much of me," he said. "So much that it was within a hair of miscarrying. Now you have your will. Do not attempt to compel me again as you did to-day, especially whenheis by; for, if you do, I swear I will give you both up to your fate."
On the terrace before the house stood the two servants, Frank and Anthony, gazing over in the direction of the works with anxious yet curious looks. They started back no less affrighted than the old Manager had been, for, without the sound of carriage wheels to announce her coming, and unattended even by her maid, they suddenly saw standing before them their mistress, whom they supposed to be far away in the distant capital.
She could not possibly have come through the works, still less by way of the park, for out on the meadows at the back things were even worse--yet she was there! They were both so confounded, they could hardly answer her hasty question, but she managed to find out that Herr Berkow was at that moment at home, and hurried past them up the steps.
Frank, who followed her, had even more ground for astonishment, for she hardly allowed him to take her hat and shawl, and, when he would have hastened with the news of her arrival over to the wing occupied by his master, she bade him stay, and said she would go and announce herself. The man stood with the cloak in his hand, staring after her with open mouth. It had all passed like a whirlwind. What could have happened in the city?
Eugénie passed rapidly through the several rooms in succession, until all at once she stopped. Arthur's study was near at hand, and from it the sound of voices met her ear. She had so surely reckoned on finding her husband alone, had wished to come to him thus unexpected, unannounced, and now she found him in the company of a stranger!
Ah! she could not meet him in the presence of another! Eugénie stood undecided whether to stand back or to remain. At last she stepped noiselessly behind the heavyportière, the folds of which almost hid her from view.
"It is impossible, Herr Berkow," said the sharp clear voice of the chief-engineer, "If you push forbearance further, you will do it to the injury of those who are beginning to take to their work in an orderly manner. They beat a retreat on this occasion, because they were the weaker, but we shall have worse and bloodier scenes than what took place this morning. That was only a hand-to-hand skirmish. Hartmann has shown that he will not spare his own people if they rebel against his system of terrorism. Friend and foe may suffer alike, but his principles must be upheld."
Eugénie could see through the open door into the room. Just opposite her at the open window stood Arthur, the full light falling upon his face, which had grown so much more sombre since last she had seen it. Even then the shadow of care had lain on his brow; at that time, however, it had been new to him and had not marked itself there indelibly, but now two deep furrows were graven which probably would never again be effaced.
Each separate line in his face was sharper, more severely defined; the look of energy, which then had but newly dawned and was only distinctly visible in moments of excitement, had now become the dominant expression of his countenance even when at rest, and had altogether replaced the old dreamy air; his voice and manner were alike firm and decided. It was evident that he had learned in a few weeks that which it takes others years to acquire.
"I should certainly be the last to advise seeking help from without, if it could be avoided, but I do think that now we, and you in particular, have abstained from it long enough. There really can be no blame to us if, at length, we have recourse to measures which were employed on the neighbouring works long ago without any such pressing necessity as ours."
Arthur shook his head sadly.
"The other works can be no rule for us. A few arrests, a few slight wounds, and matters were settled there. Fifty men and three or four shots in the air were sufficient to quell the whole revolt. Here they have Hartmann at their head, and we all know what that means. He would not yield to a bayonet charge, and all his party are ready to stand or fall with him. They would challenge us to do our worst, and, to buy peace, we must sacrifice some lives."
The other was silent, but his significant shrug showed that he was of the same opinion.
"But if peace is to be had in no other way?"
"If it were to be had at all! but it is not, and the sacrifice of life will be made in vain. I can crush the rebellion for the time being, but in a year, in a few months perhaps, it will break out again, and you know as well as I do that the last chance of keeping on the works would be gone from me then. Elsewhere there are some signs of returning confidence and of a juster feeling; elsewhere the people seem to be coming to their senses again, but that is not to be hoped with us. The distrust sown during long years cannot be speedily overcome. Hatred and hostility was the watchword given out against me when I came here; it is the watchword still, and, if once I cause blood to be shed, all will be over for ever between us."
"Hartmann may venture to bring his recusant followers back to obedience by open combat and to impose his will on them by force, he will still remain their Messiah to whom they look for salvation. If I were to order one shot to be fired, if I take up arms in my own defence, I shall be called a tyrant, ready to murder them in cold blood, and taking delight in their destruction. The old Manager was right that day, when he said: 'If troubles break out here among our people, the Lord have mercy upon us!'"
There was no complaint, no dispirited lament in these words, only the bitterness of a man who finds himself at length borne to the very verge of that precipice to avoid which he has in vain been straining every nerve.
Probably the young master would have so spoken to no other. The chief-engineer was the only person who seemed to have drawn nearer him of late. He had stood by him so steadfastly through all the danger, helping so actively to carry out all the necessary measures, and he was the only one to whom Arthur would occasionally speak freely, passing beyond the mere instructions and encouraging speeches which were all the other officials ever heard from his lips.
"But some of the hands are willing to take to work again already," objected the elder man.
"And that is just what compels me to make war on the rest. There is no making terms with Hartmann. I have tried to do so and failed."
"With whom? You have tried what?" asked the other, with such a horrified expression that Arthur looked at him in surprise.
"To come to an understanding with Hartmann. It was not done officially, it is true, that might have been interpreted as a sign of weakness. It was when we met one day accidentally that I held out my hand to him once again."
"You should not have done it," interrupted the other almost passionately. "Held out your hand to that man! But I had forgotten, you know nothing as yet."
"I should not?" repeated Arthur sharply. "May I ask what you mean, sir? Be satisfied that I am well able to maintain the dignity of my position even on such an occasion as that."
The chief-engineer had already regained his composure.
"Excuse me, Herr Berkow, I intended in no way to criticise your conduct as master of the works, it was in your position as the son that I----but you are ignorant of the reports connected with your father's last moments. We agreed not to mention them before you; it was done with the best intention, but now I see that we were wrong, that you must be told. You would have offered Hartmann your hand, and that, I repeat, ought not to have been."
Arthur looked at him fixedly. His face had grown colourless and his lips quivered.
"You speak of Hartmann and of my father's death. Is there any connection between the two?"
"I fear so, we all fear so. General suspicion rests upon the Deputy, not among us alone, but among his fellow-miners."
"Down there in the shaft," cried Arthur terribly agitated. "A murderous assault on a defenceless man! I do not believe that of Hartmann."
"He hated the deceased," said the chief-engineer emphatically, "and he has never denied his hatred of him. Herr Berkow may have exasperated him by some word, some command. Whether the ropes really broke, and he seized the moment of danger to save himself and hurl the other down into the depths below, or whether the whole thing were premeditated, is all a dark mystery, but innocent he is not, that I'll answer for."
Arthur was evidently deeply moved by this disclosure; he leaned heavily on the table.
"At the inquest it was proved to be an accident," said he in an unsteady voice.
"Nothing at all was proved at the inquest, so they concluded it was an accident and let it pass as such. No one dared make an open accusation, proofs were wholly wanting, and there would have been endless conflicts with the miners if their leader had been taken up on suspicion and then discharged, as he, no doubt, would have been. We knew, Herr Berkow, that, under existing circumstances, a struggle was inevitable between you and him, and we wished to spare you the bitterness of knowing your adversary for what he is. That was why we kept silence."
Arthur passed his hand across his brow.
"I never dreamt of that, never! Even though it be nothing more than a suspicion, you are right, I should not offer that man my hand."
"That man," broke in the official, speaking with much energy, "that man, as leader of the rest, has brought the whole misfortune on us, that man has constantly heaped coals on the fire and kept up the strife, and now that he sees his power is on the decline he is doing all he can to make the breach irreparable, and a reconciliation impossible. Can you, will you, spare him still?"
"I spare him? No! I had done with him when he so roughly repulsed the overture I made him, but I cannot spare the others either after what has happened to-day. I am driven to take extreme measures. There were two hundred this morning who wanted to return to work, and they certainly have the right to require protection at their labour. The shafts must be secured at any cost, and I cannot do it alone, so"----
"So ...? We are waiting your orders, Herr Berkow?"
There was a pause of a minute, then the struggle visible in Arthur's face yielded to an expression of pained but firm resolve.
"I will write to M----. The letter shall go today. It must be."
"At last!" murmured the chief-engineer, half reproachfully. "It was high time!"
Arthur turned to his writing-table.
"Go over now and see that the Director and the other gentlemen remain at the posts I assigned them when I was at the works. It would have been useless to interfere in all the clamour this morning; perhaps now it may be possible. In half-an-hour I shall be with you. Should anything particular occur before send me word over at once."
Before leaving the room the official stepped up to his side again.
"I know what the resolution has cost you, Herr Berkow," he said earnestly, "and we none of us take the thing lightly, believe me, but we must not look on the dark side. Perhaps it may be settled without bloodshed after all."
He bowed and left the room, much too hurried and too preoccupied to notice Eugénie, who, at his approach, retreated still farther behind the sheltering curtain. Without looking to the right or the left, he passed rapidly through the adjoining room and closed the door after him. Husband and wife were alone together.
Arthur had only replied by a bitter smile to the chief-engineer's parting words.
"Too late!" he said to himself, "they will not yield until blood is shed. I must reap what my father has sown."
He threw himself down on a chair and leaned his head on his hands. Now that he had not to meet the eyes of strangers, now that he need no longer play the leader on whose resolution all depended, the look of energy faded from his face, and, in its place, came one of exhaustion, such as may overcome the strongest man when, for weeks at a stretch, his powers of mind and body have been overwrought and strained to the uttermost.