"Then after pain's drear nightComes morning's glorious light;Before me gleamsBrightly the sacred wave,The blessed daylight beams,From night of pain to saveGawain----"
"Then after pain's drear nightComes morning's glorious light;Before me gleams
Brightly the sacred wave,
The blessed daylight beams,
From night of pain to save
Gawain----"
when Frau Rosamunda, who has been rummaging in her work-basket, rises.
"What is the matter, Rosamunda?" the Baron asks, impatiently. He is the only one who addresses her by her beautiful baptismal name unmutilated.
"Excuse me, my dear Roderich, but I cannot find my thimble. Zdena, be so kind as to go and get me my thimble."
While Zdena has gone to look for it, Frau von Leskjewitsch turns to her cousin, who is rather irritated by this interruption, and exclaims, "Very interesting!--oh, extremely interesting! Do you not think so?" turning for confirmation of her opinion to the other listeners. But the other listeners do not respond. Countess Zriny, who, with her hands as usual encased in Swedish gloves, is knitting with thick, wooden needles something brown for the poor, only drops her double chin majestically upon her breast, and Harry--usually quite unsurpassable in the well-bred art of being bored with elegance and decorum--is tugging angrily at his moustache.
Zdena shortly returns with the missing thimble. The reading begins afresh, and goes quite smoothly for a time; Wenkendorf is satisfied with his audience.
"Oh, wonderful and sacred one!" he is reading, with profound emotion.
Everyone is listening eagerly. Hark! A scratching noise, growing louder each minute, and finally ending in a pounding at the summer-house door, arouses the little company from its rapt attention. A smile lights up Frau Rosamunda's serene features:
"It is Morl. Let him in, Harry." Morl, the hostess's black poodle, is admitted, goes round the circle, laying his paw confidingly upon the knee of each member of it in turn, is petted and caressed by his mistress, and finally, after he has vainly tried to oust the Countess Zriny from the corner of the sofa which he considers his own special property, establishes himself, with a low growl, in the other corner of that piece of furniture.
Wenkendorf, meanwhile, drums the march from 'Tannhäuser' softly on the cover of his thick book and frowns disapprovingly. Harry observes his annoyance with satisfaction, watching him the while attentively, and reflecting on the excellent match in view of which Zdena has forgotten her fleeting attachment for the playmate of her childhood.
"A contemptible creature!" he says to himself: "any man is good enough to afford her amusement. Who would have thought it? Fool that I was! I'm well out of it,--yes, really well out of it."
And whilst he thus seriously attempts to persuade himself that, under the circumstances, nothing could be more advantageous for him than this severance of all ties with his beautiful, fickle cousin, his heart burns like fire in his breast. He has never before felt anything like this torture. His glance wanders across to where Zdena sits sewing, with bent head and feverish intentness, upon a piece of English embroidery.
The reading is interrupted again,--this time by Krupitschka, who wants more napkins for afternoon tea. Wenkendorf has to be assured with great emphasis that they all think the text of 'Parzifal' extremely interesting before he can be induced to open the book again. Suddenly the gravel outside crunches beneath approaching footsteps. The major's voice is heard, speaking in courteous tones, and then another, strange voice, deep and guttural. The summer-house door is opened.
"A surprise, Rosel," the major explains. "Baroness Paula!"
The first to go forward and welcome the young lady cordially is Harry.
The unexpected entrance of the famous beauty produces two important results,--the final cessation of the reading of 'Parzifal,' and a temporary reconciliation between Wenkendorf and Countess Zriny.
Whilst Frau Rosamunda receives her guest, not without a degree of formal reserve, the two aforesaid worthy and inquisitive individuals retire to a corner to consult together as to where these Harfinks come from, to whom they are related, the age of their patent of nobility, and where they got their money.
Since neither knows much about the Harfinks, their curiosity is ungratified. Meanwhile, Baroness Paula, lounging in a garden-chair beside the majestic hostess, chatters in a lively fashion upon every conceivable topic, as much at her ease as if she had been a daily guest at Zirkow for years. Her full voice is rather loud, her fluent vocabulary astounding. She wears a green Russia linen gown with Turkish embroidery on the skirt and a Venetian necklace around her throat, with an artistically-wrought clasp in front of her closely-fitting waist. The effect of her cosmopolitan toilet is considerably enhanced by a very peaked Paris bonnet--all feathers--and a pair of English driving-gloves. She has come in her pony-carriage, which she drives herself. Not taking into account her dazzling toilet, Paula is certainly a pretty person,--very fully developed and well grown, with perhaps too short a waist and arms a trifle too stout. Her features are regular, but her face is too large, and its tints of red and white are not sufficiently mingled; her lips are too full, the dimples in her cheeks are too deep when she smiles. Her hair is uncommonly beautiful,--golden, with a shimmer of Titian red.
Her manner corresponds with her exterior. There is not a trace of maidenly reserve about her. Her self-satisfaction is impregnable. She talks freely of things of which young girls do not usually talk, and knows things which young girls do not usually know.
She is clever and well educated,--left school with honours and listened to all possible university lectures afterwards. She scatters about Latin quotations like an old professor, and talks about everything,--the new battle panorama in Vienna, the latest greenroom scandal in Pesth, the most recent scientific hypothesis, and the last interesting English divorce case. One cannot help feeling that she has brought a certain life into the dead-and-alive little company which had failed to be enlivened by the reading of 'Parzifal.'
"Quelle type!" Wenkendorf remarks to Countess Zriny.
"Épouvantable!" she whispers.
"Épouvantable!" he responds, staring meanwhile at the brilliant apparition. "Her figure is not bad, though," he adds.
"Not bad?" the Countess repeats, indignantly. "Why, she has the figure of a country bar-maid; involuntarily one fancies her in short petticoats, with her arms full of beer-mugs."
The Baron shakes his head, as if reflecting that there is nothing so very unattractive in the image of the young lady in the costume of a bar-maid; at the same time, however, he declares with emphasis that these Harfinks seem to be odiouscanaille, which, although it is perhaps his conviction, does not hinder him from admiring Paula.
All the gentlemen present admire her, and all three, the major, the Baron, and Harry, are soon grouped about her, while the ladies at the other end of the room converse,--that is, make disparaging remarks with regard to the Baroness Paula.
Harry, of the three men, is most pressing in his attentions, which amount almost to devotion. Whatever he may whisper to her she listens to with the unblushing ease which makes life so smooth for her. Sometimes she represses him slightly, and anon provokes his homage.
The ladies hope for a while, but in vain, that she will go soon. She is pleased to take a cup of afternoon tea, after which all return to the house, where at Harry's request she makes a display of her musical acquirements.
First she plays, with extreme force and much use of the pedals, upon the venerable old piano, unused to such treatment, even from the major, the ride of the Valkyrias, after which she sings a couple of soprano airs from 'Tannhäuser.'
Harry admires her splendid method; Countess Zriny privately stops her ears with a little cotton-wool. Hour after hour passes, and Krupitschka finally announces supper. Baroness Paula begins hurriedly to put on her driving-gloves, but when Frau Leskjewitsch, with rather forced courtesy, invites her to stay to supper, she replies, "With the greatest pleasure."
And now the supper is over. Harry's seat, meanwhile, has been next to Paula's, and he has continued to pay her extravagant compliments, which he ought not to have done; and, moreover, without eating a morsel, he has drunk glass after glass of the good old Bordeaux of which the major is so proud. All this has produced a change in him. The gnawing pain at his heart is lulled to rest; his love for Zdena and his quarrel with her seem relegated to the far past. For the present, here is this luxuriant beauty, with her flow of talk and her Titian hair. Without being intoxicated, the wine has mounted to his brain; his limbs are a little heavy; he feels a pleasant languor steal over him; everything looks rather more vague and delightful than usual; instead of a severe, exacting beauty beside him, here is this wonderful creature, with her dazzling complexion and her green, naiad-like eyes.
Countess Zriny and Hedwig have already ordered their old-fashioned coach and have started for home. Harry's horses--his own and his groom's--are waiting before the entrance.
It is ten o'clock,--time for bed at Zirkow. Frau Rosamunda rubs her eyes; Zdena stands, unheeded and weary, in one of the window embrasures in the hall, looking out through the antique, twisted grating upon the brilliant August moonlight. Paula is still conversing with the gentlemen; she proposes a method for exterminating the phylloxera, and has just formulated a scheme for the improvement of the Austrian foundling asylums.
They are waiting for her pony-carriage to appear, but it does not come. At last, the gardener's boy, who is occasionally promoted to a footman's place, comes, quite out of breath, to inform his mistress that Baroness Paula's groom is in the village inn, so drunk that he cannot walk across the floor, and threatening to fight any one who interferes with him.
"Very unpleasant intelligence," says Paula, without losing an atom of her equanimity. "There is nothing left to do, then, but to drive home without him. I do not need him; he sits behind me, and is really only a conventional encumbrance, nothing more. Good-night, Baroness! Thanks, for the charming afternoon. Goodnight! good-night! Now that the ice is broken, I trust we shall be good neighbours." So saying, she goes out of the open hall door.
Frau Rosamunda seems to have no objections to her driving without an escort to Dobrotschau, which is scarcely three-quarters of an hour's drive from Zirkow, and even the major apparently considers this broad-shouldered and vigorous young woman to be eminently fitted to make her way in the world alone. But Harry interposes.
"You don't mean to drive home alone?" he exclaims. "Well, I admire your courage,--as I admire every thing else about you," he adds,sotto voce, and with a Blight inclination of his head towards her,--"but I cannot permit it. You might meet some drunken labourer and be exposed to annoyance. Do me the honour to accept me as your escort,--that is, allow me to take the place of your useless groom."
"By no means!" she exclaims. "I never could forgive myself for giving you so much trouble. I assure you, I am perfectly able to take care of myself."
"On certain occasions even the most capable and clever of women lose their capacity to judge," Harry declares. "Be advised this time!" he implores her, as earnestly as though he were praying his soul out of purgatory. "My groom will accompany us. He must, of course, take my horse to Dobrotschau. Have no scruples."
As if it would ever have occurred to Baroness Paula to have "scruples"! Oh, Harry!
"If you really would be so kind then, Baron Harry," she murmurs, tenderly.
"Thank God, she has gone at last!" sighs Frau Rosamunda, as she hears the light wagon rolling away into the night. "At last!"
Before Harry seated himself beside the robust Paula in the pony-carriage, a slender little hand was held out to him, and a pale little face, half sad, half pouting, looked longingly up at him.
He saw neither the hand nor the face. Oh, the pity of it!
The night is sultry and silent. The full moon shines in a cloudless, dark-blue sky. Not a breath of air is stirring; the leaves of the tall poplars, casting coal-black shadows on the white, dusty highway, are motionless.
The harvest has been partly gathered in; sometimes the moonlight illumines the bare fields with a yellowish lustre; in other fields the sheaves are stacked in pointed heaps, and now and then a field of rye is passed, a plain of glimmering, silvery green, still uncut. The bearded stalks stand motionless with bowed heads, as if overtaken by sleep. From the distance comes the monotonous rustle of the mower's scythe; there is work going on even thus far into the night.
The heavy slumberous air has an effect upon Harry; his breath comes slowly, his veins tingle.
Ten minutes have passed, and he has not opened his lips. Paula Harfink looks at him now and then with a keen glance.
She is twenty-seven years old, and, although her life has been that of a perfectly virtuous woman of her class, existence no longer holds any secrets for her. Endowed by nature with intense curiosity, which has been gradually exalted into a thirst for knowledge, she has read everything that is worth reading in native and foreign modern literature, scientific and otherwise, and she is consequently thoroughly conversant with the world in which she lives.
Harry's exaggerated homage during the afternoon has suggested the idea that he contemplates a marriage with her. That other than purely sentimental reasons have weight with him in this respect she thinks highly probable, but there is nothing offensive to her in the thought. She knows that, in spite of her beauty, she must buy a husband; why then should she not buy a husband whom she likes?
Nothing could happen more opportunely than this drive in the moonlight. She is quite sure of bringing the affair to a satisfactory conclusion.
Click-clack--the ponies' hoofs beat the dusty road in monotonous rhythm, tossing light silvery clouds of dust into the moonlight. Harry is still silent, when--a plump hand is laid upon his arm.
"Please," Paula murmurs, half laughing, and handing him the reins, "drive for me. The ponies are so fresh to-night, they almost pull my hands off."
Harry bows, the ponies shake their manes, snort proudly, and increase their speed, seeming to feel a sympathetic hand upon the reins.
"And I fancied I could drive!" Paula says, with a laugh; "it is a positive pleasure to see you handle the reins."
"But such toys as these ponies!" he remarks, with a rather impatient protest.
"Can you drive four-in-hand?" she asks, bluntly.
"Yes, and five-in-hand, or six-in-hand, for that matter," he replies.
"Of course! How stupid of me to ask! Did you not drive five-in-hand on the Prater, three years ago on the first of May? Three chestnuts and two bays, if I remember rightly."
"Yes; you certainly have an admirable memory!" Harry murmurs, flattered.
"Not for everything," she declares, eagerly; "I never can remember certain things. For instance, I never can remember the unmarried name of Peter the Great's mother."
"She was a Narischkin, I believe," says Harry, who learned the fact on one occasion when some foolish Narischkin was boasting of his imperial connections.
Heaven knows what induces him to make a display to Paula of his historical knowledge. He usually suppresses everything in that direction which he owes to his good memory, as a learned marriageable girl will hold her tongue for fear of scaring away admirers. Harry thinks it beneath his dignity to play the cultured officer. He leaves that to the infantry.
"You distance me in every direction," Paula says; "but as a whip you inspire me with the most respect. I could not take my eyes off your turn-out that day in the Prater. How docile and yet how spirited those five creatures were under your guidance! And you sat there holding the reins with as much indifference apparently as if they had been your shake at a state ceremony. I cannot understand how you contrive to keep the reins of a five-in-hand disentangled."
"I find it much more difficult to understand how a man can play the guitar," Harry says, dryly.
Paula laughs, though with a sense of vexation at being still so far from the attainment of her purpose. She takes off her tall hat, tosses it carelessly into the seat behind them, and slowly pulls the gloves off her white hands.
"That is refreshing!" she says, and then is silent. For the nonce it is her wisest course.
Harry's eyes seek her face, then take in her entire figure, and then again rest upon her face. The moon is shining with a hard, bluish brilliancy, almost like that of an electric light, and it brings into wondrous relief the girl's mature beauty. Its intense brightness shimmers about her golden hair; the red and white of her complexion blend in a dim, warm pallor. Her white hands rest in her lap as she leans back among the cushions of the phaeton.
Click-clack--click-clack--the hoofs of the horses fly over the smooth, hard road; duller and less regular grows the beat of the horses' hoofs behind the wagon,--of Harry's steed and that of his groom.
The fields of grain have vanished. They are driving now through a village,--a silent village, where every one is asleep. The dark window-panes glisten in the moonlight; the shadows of the pointed roofs form a black zigzag on the road, dividing it into two parts,--one dark, one light. Only behind one window shines a candle; perhaps a mother is watching there beside a sick or dying child. The candle-light, with its yellow gleam, contrasts strangely with the bluish moonlight. A dog bays behind a gate; otherwise, all is quiet.
And now the village lies behind them,--a chaos of black roofs, whitewashed walls, and dark lindens. To the right and left are pasture-lands, where countless wild chamomile-flowers glitter white and ghostly among the grass, in the midst of which rises a rude wooden crucifix. The pungent fragrance of the chamomile-flowers mingles with the odour of the dust of the road.
Then the pastures vanish, with the chamomile-flowers and the oppressive silence. A forest extends on either side of the road,--a forest which is never silent, where even in so quiet a night as this the topmost boughs murmur dreamily. It sounds almost like the dull plaint of human souls, imprisoned in these ancient pines,--the souls of men who aspired too high in life, seeking the way to the stars which gleamed so kindly when admired from afar, but which fled like glittering will-o'-the-wisps from those who would fain approach them.
The moonlight seems to drip down the boles of the monarchs of the wood like molten silver, to lie here and there upon the underbrush around their feet. A strong odour rises from the warm woodland earth,--the odour of dead leaves, mingling deliciously with all other forest fragrance.
"How wonderful!" Paula whispers.
"Yes, it is beautiful," says Harry; and again his eyes seek the face of his companion.
"And do you know what is still more beautiful?" she murmurs. "To feel protected, safe,--to know that some one else will think for you."
The road grows rough; the wheels jolt over the stones; the little carriage sways from side to side. Paula clutches Harry's arm. Her waving hair brushes his cheek; it thrills him. She starts back from him.
"Pardon me," she murmurs, as if mortified.
"Pardon me, Baroness," he says. "I had no idea that the forest-road was so rough; it is the shortest. Did you not come by it to Zirkow?"
"No."
"You ought to have warned me."
"I had forgotten it."
Again the wheels creak; tire ponies snort their dissatisfaction, the little vehicle sways, and Paula trembles.
"I am afraid it will be rougher yet," says Harry. "How stupid of me not to have thought of it! There!--the mud is really deep. Who could have supposed it in this drought? We are near the Poacher's ditch: I can perceive the swampy odour in the air."
"The Poacher's ditch?" Paula repeats, in a low tone. "Is that the uncanny place where the will-o'-the-wisps dance?"
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes."
"So brave an Amazon--afraid?"
"Yes, for the first time in my life. I do not know what has come over me," she whispers.
"A poor compliment for me!" he says, then pauses and looks at her.
She turns away her head as if she were blushing.
The tall pines crowd closer and closer on either side of the road; the strip of moon-lit sky grows narrower overhead; the damp odour of decaying vegetation poisons the air. The gloom is intense, the moonbeams cannot find their way hither. In particular the road and the lower portion of the tree-trunks are veiled in deep shade. A tiny blue flame flickers up from the ground, dances among the trees,--then another--and another----
"Ah!" Paula screams and clings like a maniac to Harry. He puts his arm round her, and soothes her, half laughing the while. Did his lips actually seek hers? A sudden, lingering kiss bewilders him, like the intoxicating perfume of a flower.
It lasts but a second, and he has released her.
"Forgive me!" he cries, distressed, confused.
Does she really not understand him? At all events she only shakes her head at his words, and murmurs, "Forgive?--what is there to forgive? It came so unexpectedly. I had no idea that you loved me, Harry."
His cheeks burn. The forest has vanished, the road is smooth; click-clack--the ponies' hoofs fly through the dust, and behind comes the irregular thud of eight other hoofs along the road. Harry looks round, and sees the groom, whom he had forgotten.
The dim woodland twilight has been left far behind; the moon floods the landscape with silvery splendour. All is silent around; not a leaf stirs; only the faint, dying murmur of the forest is audible for a few moments.
Ten minutes later Harry draws up before the Dobrotschau castle. "You will come to see mamma to-morrow?" Paula whispers, pressing her lover's hand. But Harry feels as if he could annihilate her, himself, and the whole world.
"My dear Baroness,--
"Will you and all your family give us the pleasure of your company at dinner on Sunday next, at six o'clock? We wish to surprise you with the revelation of a secret that will, we think, interest you.
"I hear you have a friend with you. It would, of course, be an added pleasure if Baron Wenkendorf would join us on Sunday.
"Hoping for a favourable reply, I am
"Sincerely yours,
"Emilie Harfink."
This note the Baroness Leskjewitsch takes from an envelope smelling of violets and adorned with an Edelweiss, and reads aloud in a depressed tone to her husband, her niece, and her cousin, all of whom listen with a more or less contemptuous expression of countenance.
Not that the note is in itself any more awkward and pretentious than other notes of invitation,--no; but the fact that it comes from Baroness Harfink is quite sufficient to make the Zirkow circle suspicious and ironical.
Three days have passed since the afternoon when Harry and Zdena quarrelled, and Zdena has had time thoroughly to repent her experiment.
The little company is assembled at the breakfast-table in a small summer-house whence there is a view of a tiny fountain leaping about a yard into the air from an oval basin.
Frau Rosamunda thinks the view of this fountain refreshing; the major despises the plaything, calls this breakfast-arbour the "wash-house," or, when he means to be particularly disagreeable, "Wash-Basin Hall," assuming the attitude, as he so designates it, of a kangaroo,--his elbows pressed to his sides, the palms of his hands turned outwards,--and availing himself of his most elegant German accent, which is unfortunately rather unnatural.
"Surprise us? What surprise can the Baroness Harfink prepare for us in which we shall take any interest?" Frau Rosamunda says, musingly, laying the note down beside her plate.
"Oh, leave me out! She knows that you are prone to curiosity, and she is doing what she can to attract you to her house," the major declares. "The 'surprise' is the bit of cheese in the Dobrotschau mouse-trap,--that is all. It may be a new service of old china, or some Japanese rug with golden monsters and chimeras sprawling about on it."
"No; there is a tone of exultation about the note which indicates something far grander," says Frau Rosamunda, thoughtfully, buttering a piece of bread. "I rather think there is a new son-in-law to the fore."
"H'm! Fräulein Paula's betrothal would certainly be a matter of special importance to us," the major says, contemptuously. "Perhaps it might make Harry ill. He made violent love to her the other day!" and the old cuirassier glances at Zdena. She is sipping a cup of tea, however, and her face cannot be seen.
"I thought perhaps," Frau Rosamunda observes, "that Harry might----"
"No, Rosa. Your genius is really too great," the major interrupts her, "if you can fancy for a moment that Harry meant anything serious by his attentions to that village bar-maid."
Zdena has put down her teacup; her delicate nostrils quiver disdainfully, her charming mouth expresses decided scorn. How could Harry suppose----? Nonsense!
"Well, stranger things have come to pass," observes Frau Rosamunda, sagely. "Do not forget that Lato Treurenberg has married into the Harfink family."
"Oh, he--he was in debt--h'm!--at least his father was in debt," the major explains. "That is entirely different. But a man like Harry would never risk his colossal inheritance from his uncle for the sake of Paula Harfink. If it were for some one else, he might do so; but that red-cheeked dromedary--ridiculous!"
"I really do not understand you. You seemed perfectly devoted to her the other day," rejoins Frau Rosamunda. "You all languished at her feet,--even you too, Roderich."
Baron Wenkendorf looks up from a pile of letters and papers which he has been sorting.
"What is the subject under discussion?" he asks. Dressed in the extreme of fashion, in a light, summer suit, a coloured shirt with a very high collar, a thin, dark-blue cravat with polka-dots, and the inevitable Scotch cap, with fluttering ribbons at the back of the neck, he would seem much more at home, so far as his exterior is concerned, on the shore at Trouville, or in a magnificent park of ancient oaks with a feudal castle in the background, than amidst the modest Zirkow surroundings. He suspects this himself, and, in order not to produce a crushing effect where he is, he is always trying to display the liveliest interest in all the petty details of life at Zirkow. "What is the subject under discussion?" he asks, with an amiable smile.
"Oh, the Harfink."
"Still?" says Wenkendorf, lifting his eyebrows ironically. "The young lady's ears must burn. She seems to me to have been tolerably well discussed during the last three days."
"I merely observed that you were all fire and flame for her while she was here," Frau Rosamunda persists, "and that consequently I do not understand why you now criticise her so severely."
"The impression produced upon men by that kind of woman is always more dazzling than when it is lasting," says the major.
"H'm!--she certainly is a very beautiful person, but--h'm!--not a lady," remarks Wenkendorf; and his clear, full voice expresses the annoyance which it is sure to do whenever conversation touches upon the mushroom growth of modernparvenues. "Who are these Harfinks, after all?"
"People who have made their own way to the front," growls the major.
"How?"
"By good luck, industry, and assurance," replies the major. "Old Harfink used to go regularly to his work every morning, with his pickaxe on his shoulder; he slowly made his way upward, working in the iron-mines about here; then he married a wealthy baker's daughter, and gradually absorbed all the business of the district. He was very popular. I can remember the time when every one called him 'Peter.' Next he was addressed as 'Sir,' and it came to be the fashion to offer him your hand, but before giving you his he used to wipe it on his coat-tail. He was comical, but a very honest fellow, a plain man who never tried to move out of his proper sphere. I think we never grudged him his wealth, because it suited him so ill, and because he did not know what to do with it." And the major reflectively pours a little rum into his third cup of tea.
"I do not object to that kind ofparvenu," says Wenkendorf. "The type is an original one. But there is nothing to my mind more ridiculous than the goldfish spawned in a muddy pond suddenly fancying themselves unable to swim in anything save eau de cologne. H'm, h'm! And that plain, honest fellow was, you tell me, the father of the lovely Paula?"
"God forbid!" exclaims the major, bursting into a laugh at the mere thought.
"You have a tiresome way of beginning far back in every story you tell, Paul," Frau Rosamunda complains. "You begin all your pedigrees with Adam and Eve."
"And you have a detestable habit of interrupting me," her husband rejoins, angrily. "If you had not interrupted me I should have finished long ago."
"Oh, yes, we all know that. But first you would have given us a description of old Harfink's boots!" Frau Rosamunda persists.
"They really were very remarkable boots," the major declares, solemnly. "They always looked as if, instead of feet, they had a peck of onions inside them."
"I told you so. Now comes the description of his cap," sighs Frau Rosamunda.
"And the lovely Paula's origin retreats still further into obscurity," Wenkendorf says, with well-bred resignation.
"She is old Harfink's great-grand-daughter," says Zdena, joining for the first time in the conversation.
"Old Harfink had two sons," continues the major, who hates to have the end of his stories told prematurely; "two sons who developed social ambition, and both married cultivated wives,--wives who looked down upon them, and with whom they could not agree. If I do not mistake, there was a sister, too. Tell me, Rosel, was there not a sister who married an Italian?"
"I do not know," replies Frau Rosamunda. "The intricacies of the Harfink genealogy never inspired me with the faintest interest."
The major bites his lip.
"One thing more," says Wenkendorf. "How have you managed to avoid an acquaintance with the Harfinks for so long, if the family has belonged to the country here for several generations?"
"Harfink number two never lived here," the major explains. "And they owned the iron-mines, but no estate. Only last year the widow Harfink bought Dobrotschau,--gallery of ancestral portraits, old suits of armour, and all. The mines have been sold to a stock company."
"Not a very pleasing neighbourhood, I should say," observes Wenkendorf.
"'Surprise you with the revelation of a secret,'" Frau Rosamunda reads, thoughtfully, in a low tone from the note beside her plate.
And then all rise from table. Zdena, who has been silent during breakfast, twitches her uncle's sleeve, and, without looking at him, says,--
"Uncle dear, can I have the carriage?"
The major eyes her askance: "What do you want of the carriage?"
"I should like to drive over to Komaritz; Hedwig will think it strange that I have not been there for so long."
"H'm! don't you think Hedwig might do without you for a little while longer?" says the major, who is in a teasing humour.
"Oh, let her drive over," Frau Rosamunda interposes. "I promised to send the housekeeper there a basket of Reine-Claudes for preserving, and Zdena can take them with her. And, Zdena, you might stop at Dobrotschau; I will leave it to your diplomatic skill to worm out the grand secret for us. I protest against assisting on Sunday at its solemn revelation."
"Then shall I refuse the invitation for you?"
"Yes; tell them that we expect guests ourselves on Sunday. And invite the Komaritz people to come and dine, that it may be true," the major calls after the girl.
She nods with a smile, and trips into the castle. It is easy to see that her heart is light.
"Queer little coquette!" thinks the major, adding to himself, "But she's a charming creature, for all that."
An hour later Zdena, a huge red silk sunshade held over her handsome head, is driving rapidly towards Dobrotschau. She intends to make peace with her cousin.
The exaggerated attentions which he paid to Paula vexed her for the moment, but now she remembers them with only a smile of contempt. "Poor Harry!" she murmurs, in a superior, patronizing way. "Poor Harry! he is a thoroughly good fellow, and so devoted to me!"
The carriage rolls swiftly along the smooth road, upon which the last traces of a recent shower are fast fading beneath the August heat. The sky is blue and cloudless. The sun is rising higher; the stubble-fields to the right and left lie basking in its light; the shadows of the trees grow shorter and blacker, and the dark masses of the distant forests stand out in strong contrast with the sunny fields.
Avoiding the rough forest road, the coachman takes the longer course along the highway. An hour and a quarter passes before Zdena drives through an arched gate-way, surmounted by a crest carved in the stone, into a picturesque court-yard, where between two very ancient lindens stands a Saint John of Nepomuk, whose cross has fallen out of his marble arms, and at whose feet an antique fountain, plashing dreamily, tells of long-gone times,--times that possess no interest for the present inmates of the castle.
Zdena does not waste a glance upon the picturesque beauty of her surroundings. Two riding-horses, very much heated, and led up and down the old-fashioned court-yard, at once engage her attention. Are those not Harry's horses? What is Harry doing here? A slight sensation of anxiety assails her. Then she smiles at her nonsensical suspicions, and is glad that she shall thus meet Harry sooner than she had hoped.
A footman in a plain and tasteful livery hurries forward to open her carriage door; the ladies are at home.
Zdena trips up the steps to the spacious, airy hall, where, among antique, heavy-carved furniture, a couple of full suits of armour are set up, sword in gauntlet, like a spellbound bit of the Middle Ages, on either side of a tall clock, upon whose brass face the effigy of a grinning Death--his scythe over his shoulder--celebrates his eternal, monotonous triumph. On the walls hang various portraits, dim with age, of the ancestors of the late possessor, some clad in armour, some with full-bottomed wigs, and others again wearing powdered queues; with ladies in patch and powder, narrow-breasted gowns, and huge stiff ruffs.
"If these worthies could suddenly come to life, how amazed they would be!" thinks Zdena. She has no more time, however, for profound reflections; for from one of the high oaken doors, opening out of the hall, comes Harry.
They both start at this unexpected encounter; he grows deadly pale, she flushes crimson. But she regains her self-possession sooner than he can collect himself, and while he, unable to utter a word, turns his head aside, she approaches him, and, laying her hand gently upon his arm, murmurs, in a voice sweet as honey, "Harry!"
He turns and looks at her. How charming she is! With the arch condescension of a princess certain of victory, she laughs in his face and whispers,--
"Are you not beginning to be sorry that you said such hateful things to me the other day?"
He has grown paler still; his eyes alone seem blazing in his head. For a while he leaves her question unanswered, devouring her lovely, laughing face with his gaze; then, suddenly seizing her almost roughly by both wrists, he exclaims,--
"And are you not beginning to be sorry that you gave me cause to do so?"
At this question, imprudent as it is, considering the circumstances, Zdena hangs her golden head, and whispers, very softly, "Yes."
It is cold and gloomy in the hall; the two suits of armour cast long dark-gray shadows upon the black-and-white-tiled floor; two huge bluebottle flies are buzzing on the frame of an old portrait, and a large moth with transparent wings and a velvet body is bumping its head against the ceiling, whether for amusement or in despair it is impossible to say.
Zdena trembles all over; she knows that she has said something conclusive, something that she cannot recall. She is conscious of having performed a difficult task, and she expects her reward. Something very sweet, something most delicious, is at hand. He must clasp her in his arms, as on that evening in Vienna. Ah, it is useless to try to deceive herself,--she cannot live without him. But he stands as if turned to stone, ashy pale, with a look of horror.
A door opens. Paula Harfink enters the hall, tall, portly, handsome after her fashion, in a flowered Pompadour gown, evidently equipped for a walk, wearing a pair of buckskin gloves and a garden-hat trimmed with red poppies and yellow gauze.
"Ah! have you been waiting for me up-stairs, Harry?" she asks; then, perceiving Zdena, she adds, "A visitor!--a welcome visitor!"
To Zdena's amazement and terror, she finds herself tenderly embraced by Paula, who, looking archly from one to the other of the cousins, asks, "Shall we wait until Sunday for the grand surprise, Harry? Let your cousin guess. Come, Baroness Zdena, what is the news at Dobrotschau?"
For one moment Zdena feels as if a dagger were plunged into her heart and turned around in the wound; then she recovers her composure and smiles, a little contemptuously, perhaps even haughtily, but naturally and with grace.
"Oh, it is not very difficult to guess," she says. "What is the news? Why, a betrothal. You have my best wishes, Baroness; and you too, Harry,--I wish you every happiness!"