High festival is being held at Zirkow in honour of Frau Rosamunda's birthday, which is observed this year with even more ceremony than usual. Thanks to a fortunate combination of circumstances, the major has it in his power to bestow a costly gift upon his wife this year. He has lately concluded a very profitable bargain: he has sold the entire interior arrangements of the brew-house as old iron and copper to a Jew for the magnificent sum of fifteen hundred guilders. With such wealth much can be done. Nothing now prevents the devoted husband from fulfilling Frau Rosamunda's two ardent desires,--a trip to Bayreuth and the thorough repair of the much-defaced decorations on the Zirkow walls and ceilings. On her birthday-table Frau Rosamunda finds, in the midst of a tasteful arrangement of flowers, first, a kind of sign in miniature,--i.e., a square black card, upon which is written, in red letters, "Good for house-decorators,"--and a large earthenware prize pig with stiff, straddling legs and a beautifully-rounded body, upon which is written, also in red letters, "A steed to carry you to Bayreuth." A bouquet of four-leaved clover (Zdena gathered it at dawn) is stuck like a green plume between the animal's projecting ears. A pin-cushion covered with a delicate imitation in needle-work of Irish guipure, the piano arrangement of 'Tristan and Isolde' and a potpourri from 'Parzifal,' both for four hands, complete the number of birthday-gifts. The Irish guipure is Zdena's work; the music comes from Wenkendorf. All these things even the house-decorator are of secondary importance to Frau Rosamunda. Her whole attention is absorbed by the pig, at which enigmatic monster she gazes in wonder.
"A steed to carry you to Bayreuth." It sounds like a poor jest, a very poor jest.
The major looks at his wife with a broad smile.
"Take up the pig and shake it a little," he says at last. Frau Rosamunda obeys. There is a clink of coin. She understands, and runs to her husband with a cry of delight.
She celebrates the remainder of her birthday by playing duets with her cousin from 'Tristan and Isolde' and 'Parzifal' alternately. The major walks about with his hands clasped behind him, deep in thought and well content, like a man who is about to carry out a carefully-devised plan.
The afternoon sun is casting long shadows, and Krupitschka, who has just finished furbishing up the silver,--in honour of the birthday six more silver dishes than usual have been brought out to-day,--is sitting on a bench at the back of the castle, refreshing himself with an examination of the foreign dictionary which he has purchased with the money for his cantharides,--and which, by the way, he finds highly unsatisfactory,--when a young officer of hussars upon an English chestnut mare with a hide like satin comes galloping into the court-yard.
At sight of the horse and its rider all clouds vanish from Krupitschka's horizon; in his opinion there is no finer sight in the world than a "handsome officer upon a handsome horse."
He is not the only one to admire Harry Leskjewitsch on his mare Frou-Frou. At one of the windows of the castle a pale, girlish face appears, and a pair of bright brown eyes look down into the court-yard, for a moment only. But Harry has seen the face, quickly as it disappears, and his heart beats fast.
"Are the ladies at home?" he asks Krupitschka, as he gives his steed in charge to a groom who hurries up, clad in a striped stable-jacket very much darned at the elbows, and a cap with a tarnished silver band.
"They are, Herr Baron." And Krupitschka shows Harry up the steps and to the door of the drawing-room, which he opens with dignity, not because such ceremony is at all necessary, but because the young man has been his favourite from childhood, and he loves to perform any service for him.
When Harry enters, Frau Rosamunda and Wenkendorf are still at the piano, working away at 'Parzifal,' and do not seem over-pleased by the interruption. The major is lying back in a rocking-chair, smoking a cigarette and upon his nephew's entrance springs up with undisguised delight and goes towards him with extended hands.
"Tell the Baroness Zdena that a visitor has arrived!" he calls out to Krupitschka; then, turning to Harry, he says, smiling, "And so you have come to congratulate?"
"Congratulate?" Harry repeats, surprised and preoccupied.
"Oh, you have forgotten, then?" the major rejoins.
Harry slaps his forehead. "Dearest aunt, forgive me! how thoughtless I am!" And he kisses Frau Rosamunda's hand.
"I do not take it at all ill of you," she assures him. "At my age people would rather have their birthday forgotten than remembered."
"Oh--ah! I have not observed that," the major declares.
"Oh, it is different for you. You may be allowed to take notice of my being each year one year older, always provided that you give me upon all my birthdays as great a pleasure as to-day."
"You cannot reckon upon that, my dear; all years are not alike," the major replies. "This was a lucky chance."
"Have you had a stroke of good fortune, uncle?" Harry asks, trying to take an interest in the matter.
"Yes," the major informs him; "I have just concluded a brilliant transaction. I have sold the iron from the interior of the brew-house."
"For how much, may I ask?"
"Fifteen hundred guilders," the major declares, triumphantly. "I would not abate one penny. The superintendent was surprised at the sum, I can tell you."
"I do not understand such matters," Harry rejoins, thinking of the enormous expense of fitting up the brew-house some years ago. His uncle's 'brilliant transaction' reminds him of the story of 'Hans in Luck.' "And in consequence your birthday-gifts have been very superior, aunt?"
"Yes."
Frau Rosamunda displays with delight the prize pig. The green plume between its ears is slightly faded, but the coins in its body clink as triumphantly as ever.
"'A steed to carry you to Bayreuth,'" Harry reads. "I am so glad, my dear aunt, that your wish is to be fulfilled."
"Tickets for two performances besides the journey," the major proudly declares.
"And my cousin has surprised me with some delightful music which I have long wanted."
"Not worth mentioning, Rosamunda," Wenkendorf says, deprecatingly.
"My wife's birthday has really turned out a Wagner festival," the major declares. "Since ten o'clock this morning these two artists have been playing nothing but Wagner, for their own pleasure and the conversion of their hearers. Zdena ran away, but I stood my ground, and I have become quite accustomed to the noise."
"That is a good sign," Wenkendorf assures him.
"You ought to hear Wagner's compositions very often. What do you say, Roderich, to our playing for Harry some of the loveliest bits of 'Parzifal'? We are just in the mood."
"Do not let me interrupt you; pray go on; it will give me the greatest pleasure," Harry murmurs, glancing towards the door. Why does she not come?
Meanwhile, the two amateurs have begun with untiring energy.
"Kundry's Ride!" Frau Rosamunda calls out to her nephew, while her hands dash over the keys. Harry does not hear her. He has seated himself beside the major, and absently takes a cigarette from the case which his uncle offers him.
"I came to bid you good-bye," he says, in an uncertain voice.
"Indeed!" says the major, looking at him scrutinizingly. "Is your leave at an end?"
"No, but----" Harry hesitates and pulls at his moustache.
"H'm!" A sly smile quivers upon the major's broad face. "Have you quarrelled with your betrothed?"
"No, but----"
The door opens, and Zdena enters, slender and pale, dressed in a simply-fashioned linen gown. She has lost her fresh colour, and her face is much thinner, but her beauty, far from being injured thereby, is heightened by an added charm,--a sad, touching charm, that threatens to rob Harry of the remnant of reason he can still call his.
"How are you, Zdena?" he says, going to meet her, while the warmest sympathy trembles in his voice. "You look pale. Are you well?"
"The heat oppresses me," she says, with a slight forced smile, withdrawing the hand which he would fain have retained longer in his clasp than was fitting under the circumstances.
"The Balsam motif," Frau Rosamunda calls from the piano.
After a while Zdena begins:
"How are they all at Komaritz? Heda sent her congratulations to-day with some lovely flowers, but said nothing with regard to the welfare of the family."
"I wonder that Heda did not remind you of the birthday, Harry!" remarks the major.
"Oh, she rejoices over every forgetfulness in those around her," Harry observes, with some malice: "she likes to stand alone in her extreme virtue."
"Motif of the Redeemer's Sufferings," Frau Rosamunda calls out. Zdena leans forward, and seems absorbed in Wagner. Harry cannot take his eyes off her.
"What a change!" he muses. "Can she--could she be suffering on my account?"
There is an agreeable flutter of his entire nervous system: it mingles with the sense of unhappiness which he drags about with him.
"Oh, what a double-dyed fool I was!" a voice within him cries out. "How could I be so vexed with her scrap of childish worldly wisdom, instead of simply laughing at her for it, teasing her a little about it, and then, after I had set her straight, forgiving her, oh, how tenderly!"
"Zdena is not quite herself. I do not know what ails her," said the major, stroking the girl's thin cheek.
"You have long been a hypochondriac on your own account; now you are trying it for other people," says Zdena, rising and going to the window, where she busies herself with some embroidery. "I have a little headache," she adds.
"Earthly Enjoyment motif," Frau Rosamunda calls out, enthusiastically, in a raised voice.
The major bursts into Homeric laughter, in which Zdena, whose overstrained nerves dispose her for tears as well as laughter, joins. Harry alone does not laugh: his head is too full of other matters.
"Is Zdena also going to Bayreuth?" he asks.
"No," the major replies; "the finances are not equal to that."
"'Tis a pity," Harry remarks: "a little change of air might do her good."
"So it seems to me," the major assents, "and I was about to propose a plan. By the way, when do you take your departure?"
"Are you going away?" asks Frau Rosamunda, rising from the piano, aglow with enthusiasm and artistic zeal, to join the trio. Wenkendorf also rises and takes a seat near the rest.
"He is going away," the major replies.
"Yes," assents Harry.
"But what does your betrothed say?"
"I have already put that question to him," said the major.
"One of my comrades has suddenly been taken ill," Harry stammers, frowning; "and so--of course it is very unpleasant just now----"
"Very, very," murmurs the major, with a hypocritical show of sympathy. "When do you start?"
"Oh, the day after to-morrow."
"That suits me remarkably well," the major remarks. "There will be a vacant room at Komaritz, and Zdena might go over for a couple of days."
Wenkendorf frowns disapprovingly. "It is a great pity that you are not going with us to Bayreuth," he says, turning to the young girl.
"That would be a fine way to cure the headache," the major observes.
"I would rather stay at home with you, uncle dear," Zdena assures him.
"That will not do. Friday evening my wife starts for Bayreuth; Saturday I expect the painters; the entire house will be turned upside-down, and I have no use for you. Therefore, since there is room for you at Komaritz----"
"There is always room at Komaritz for Zdena," Harry eagerly declares.
"Yes,--particularly after you have gone. It is decided; she is going. I shall take her over on Saturday afternoon," the major announces. "You can tell Heda."
"And who will go to Bayreuth with my aunt?" asks Harry.
"Her musical cousin Roderich. By the way, Wenkendorf, you will come back to Zirkow from Bayreuth?"
"Of course I shall escort Rosamunda upon her return."
"We shall be glad to welcome you for the hunting. I take it for granted you will give us a long visit then?"
"That will depend upon circumstances," says Wenkendorf, with a significant glance towards Zdena, which does not escape Harry.
Meanwhile, the August twilight has set in. Krupitschka brings the lamps. Harry rises.
"Will you not stay for supper?" asks Frau Rosa.
"No, thank you; I have a deal to do."
"No wonder, before leaving," says the wily major, not making the slightest effort to detain the young fellow. "You are looking for your sabre?--there it is. Ah, what a heavy thing! When I reflect upon how many years I dragged such a rattling tool about with me!"
Harry has gone. The major has accompanied him to the court-yard, and he now returns to the room, chuckling, and rubbing his hands, as if at some successful trick.
"What an idea! So sudden a journey!--and a betrothed man!" Frau Rosa remarks, thoughtfully.
"If I were his betrothed I would hurry and have the monogram embroidered on my outfit," drawls the major. "Let me come there, if you please." These last words are addressed to Wenkendorf, who is about to close the piano. The major takes his place at it, bangs away at his triumphal march with immense energy and a tolerably harmonious bass, then claps down the cover of the much-tortured instrument, locks it, and puts the key in his pocket. "There, that's enough for to-day!" he declares.
The major carried out his plan. On Saturday the painter made solemn entry into Zirkow with his train of workmen, their ladders, paint-pots, and brushes, to turn the orderly household upside-down,--whereupon Baron Paul drove Zdena to Komaritz, in the same drag in which the child of six had first been driven thither by him.
More than a dozen years had passed since that afternoon, and yet every detail of the drive was vividly present in the young girl's mind. Much had changed since then; the drag had grown far shabbier, and the fiery chestnuts had been tamed and lamed by time, but the road was just as bad, and the country around as lovely and home-like. From time to time Zdena raised her head to gaze where the stream ran cool and gray on the other side of the walnut-trees that bordered the road, or at the brown ruin of the castle, the jagged tower of which was steadily rising in the blue atmosphere against the distant horizon. And then she would pull her straw hat lower over her eyes and look only at the backs of the horses. Why did her uncle keep glancing at her with such a sly smile? He could not divine the strange mixture of joy and unrest that was filling her soul. No one must know it. Poor Zdena! All night long she had been tormented by the thought that she had yielded too readily, had acceded too willingly to her uncle's proposal to take her to Komaritz during the bustle made by the painters, and she had soothed her scruples by saying to herself, "He will not be there." And, yet, the nearer they came to Komaritz the more persistent was the joyous suggestion within her, "What if he were not yet gone!"
Click-clack! The ancient St. John, whose bead is lying at his feet precisely as it was lying so many years ago, stands gray and tall among the lindens in the pasture near the village; they have reached Komaritz. Click-clack!--the horses make an ambitious effort to end their journey with credit. The same ox, recently butchered, hangs before the butcher-shop on an old walnut; the same odour of wagon-grease and singed hoofs comes from the smithy, and before it the smith is examining the foot of the same horse, while a dozen village children stand around gazing. The same dear old Komaritz!
"If only he might be there!"
With a sudden jolt the drag rolls through the picturesque, ruinous archway of the court-yard. The chestnuts are reined in, the major's sly smile broadens expressively, and Zdena's young pulses throb with breathless delight.
Yes, he is there! standing in the door-way of the old house, an embarrassed smile on his thin, tanned face as he offers his hand to Zdena to help her down from her high seat.
"What a surprise! You here?" exclaims the old dragoon, with poorly-feigned astonishment, in which there is a slight tinge of ridicule. "I thought you would be miles away by this time. It is a good thing that you were able to postpone your departure for a few days. No, I can't stop; I must drive home again immediately. Adieu, children!"
Baron Paul turns his tired steeds, and, gaily waving his hand in token of farewell, vanishes beneath the archway.
There they stand, she and he, alone in front of the house. The old walnuts, lifting their stately crests into the blue skies along one side of the court-yard, whisper all sorts of pleasant things to them, but they have no words for each other.
At last Harry asks, taking the black leather travelling-bag from his cousin's hand, "Is this all your luggage?"
"The milkman is to bring a small trunk," she replies, without looking at him.
"We have had your old room made ready for you."
"Ah, my old room,--how delightful!"
They cross the threshold, when Harry suddenly stands still.
"Are you not going to give me your hand?" he asks, in a tone of entreaty, whereupon she extends her hand, and then instantly withdraws it. She seems to herself to be doing wrong. As matters stand, she must not make the smallest advance to him,--no, not the smallest: she has resolved upon that. In fact, she did not expect to see him here, and she must show him that she is quite annoyed by his postponing his departure.
Yap, yap, yap! the rabble of dachshunds, multiplied considerably in the last twelve years, comes tumbling down the steps to leap about Zdena; Harry's faithful hound Hector comes and puts his paws on her shoulder; and, lastly, the ladies come down into the hall,--Heda, the Countess Zriny, Fräulein Laut,--and, surrounding Zdena, carry her off to her room. Here they stay talking with her for a while; then they withdraw, each to follow her own devices.
How glad the girl is to be alone! She is strangely moved, perplexed, and yet unaccountably happy.
It is clear that Harry intends to dissolve the engagement into which so mysterious a chain of circumstances has forced him. The difficulty of doing this Zdena does not take into consideration. Paula must see that he does not care for her; and then--then there will be nothing left for her save to release him. Thus Zdena concludes, and the world looks very bright to her.
Oh, the dear old room! she would not exchange it for a kingdom. How home-like and comfortable!--so shady and cool, with its deep window-recesses, where the sunshine filters in through the green, rustling net-work of vines; with its stiff antiquated furniture forming so odd a contrast to the wild luxuriance of extraordinary flowers with which a travelling fresco-painter ages ago decorated walls and ceiling; with its old-fashioned embroideredprie-dieubeneath an ancient bronze crucifix, and its little bed, so snowy white and cool, fragrant with lavender and orris!
The floor, of plain deal planks, scrubbed to a milky whiteness, is bare, except that beside the bed lies a rug upon which a very yellow tiger is rolling, and gnashing his teeth, in a very green meadow, and on the wall hangs one single picture,--a faded chromo, at which Zdena, when a child, had almost stared her eyes out.
The picture represents a young lady gazing at her reflection in a mirror. Her hair is worn in tasteless, high puffs and much powdered, her waist is unnaturally long and slim, and her skirts are bunched up about her hips. To the modern observer she is not attractive, but Zdena hails her as an old acquaintance. Beneath the picture are the words "Lui plairai-je?" The thing hangs in one of the window-embrasures, above a marquetrie work-table, upon which has been placed a nosegay of fresh, fragrant roses.
"Who has plucked and placed them there?" Zdena asks herself. Suddenly a shrill bell rings, calling to table the inmates of Komaritz in house and garden. Zdena hurriedly picks out of the nosegay the loveliest bud, and puts it in her breast, then looks at herself in the glass,--a tall, narrow glass in a smooth black frame with brass rosettes at the corners,--and murmurs, smiling, "Lui plairai-je?" then blushes violently and takes out the rose from her bosom. It is a sin even to have such a thought,--under existing circumstances.
Five hours have passed since Zdena's arrival in Komaritz. Harry has been very good; that is, he has scarcely made an appearance; perhaps because he is conscious that when he is with Zdena he can hardly take his eyes off her, which, "under existing circumstances," might strike others as, to Bay the least, extraordinary.
After dinner he goes off partridge shooting, inviting his younger brother, who is devoted to him and whom he spoils like a mother, to accompany him. But Vips, as the family prefer to call him instead of Vladimir, although usually proud and happy to be thus distinguished by his elder brother, declines his invitation today. In fact, he has fallen desperately in love with Zdena. He is lying at her feet on the steps leading from the dwelling-room into the garden. His hair is beautifully brushed, and he has on his best coat.
The Countess Zriny is in her room, writing to her father confessor; Fräulein Laut is at the piano, practising something by Brahms, to which musical hero she is almost as much devoted as is Rosamunda to her idolized Wagner; and Heda is sitting beside her cousin on the garden-steps, manufacturing with praiseworthy diligence crochetted stars of silk.
"What do you really think of Harry's betrothal, Zdena?" she begins at last, after a long silence.
At this question the blood rushes to Zdena's cheeks; nevertheless her answer sounds quite self-possessed.
"What shall I say? I was very much surprised."
"So was I," Heda confesses. "At first I was raging, for, after all,elle n'est pas de notre monde. But lately so many young men of our set have married nobodies that one begins to be accustomed to it, although I must say I am by no means enchanted with it yet. One's own brother,--it comes very near; but it is best to shut one's eyes in such cases. Setting aside themésalliance, there is no objection to make to Paula. She is pretty, clover, frightfully cultivated,--too cultivated: it is rather bad form,--and for the rest, if she would only dress a little better, she would be quite presentable. And then she makes such advances; it is touching. The last time I dined at Dobrotschau I found in my napkin a butterfly pendant, with little sapphires and rubies in its diamond wings. I must show it to you; 'tis delicious," she rattles on.
"And what did you find in your napkin, Vips?" asks Zdena, who seems to herself to be talking of people with whom she has not the slightest connection, so strange is the whole affair.
"I? I was not at the dinner," says the boy.
"Not invited?" Zdena rallies him.
"Not invited!" Vips draws down the corners of his mouth scornfully. "Oh, indeed! not invited! Why, they invited the entire household,--even her!" He motions disdainfully towards the open door, through which Fräulein Laut can be seen sitting at the piano. "Yes, we were even asked to bring Hector. But I stayed at home, because I cannot endure those Harfinks."
"Ah! your sentiments are also opposed to themésalliance?" Zdena goes on, ironically.
"Mésalliance!" shouts Vips. "You know very well that I am a Liberal!"
Vips finished reading "Don Carlos" about a fortnight ago, and even before then showed signs of Liberal tendencies.
The previous winter, when he attended the representation, at a theatre in Bohemia, of a new play of strong democratic colouring, he applauded all the freethinking tirades with such vehemence that his tutor was at last obliged, to the great amusement of the public, to hold back his hands.
"Ah, indeed, you are Liberal?" says Zdena. "I am delighted to hear it."
"Of course I am; but every respectable man must be a bit of an aristocrat," Vips declares, grandly, "and I cannot endure that Harry should marry that Paula. I told him so to his face; and I am not going to his wedding. I cannot understand why he takes her, for he's in love----" He suddenly pauses. Two gentlemen are coming through the garden towards the steps,--Harry and Lato.
Lato greets Zdena cordially. Heda expresses her surprise at Harry's speedy return from his shooting, and he, who always now suspects some hidden meaning in her remarks, flushes and frowns as he replies, "I saw Treurenberg in the distance, and so I turned back. Besides, the shooting all went wrong to-day," he adds, with a compassionate glance at the large hound now stretched out at his master's feet at the bottom of the steps. "He would scarcely stir: I cannot understand it, he is usually so fresh and gay, and loves to go shooting more than all the others; to-day he was almost sullen, and lagged behind,--hey, old boy?" He stoops and strokes the creature's neck, but the dog seems ill-tempered, and snaps at him.
"What! snap--snap at me! that's something new," Harry exclaims, frowning; then, seizing the animal by the collar, he shakes it violently and hurls it from him. "Be off!" he orders, sternly. The dog, as if suddenly ashamed, looks back sadly, and then walks slowly away, with drooping ears and tail. "I don't know what is the matter with the poor fellow!" Harry says, really troubled.
"He walks strangely; he seems stiff," Vladimir remarks, looking after the dog. "It seems to hurt him."
"Some good-for-nothing boy must have thrown a stone at him and bruised his back," Harry decides.
"You had better be careful with that dog," Heda now puts in her word. "Several dogs hereabouts have gone mad, and one roamed about the country for some time before he could be caught and killed."
"Pray, hush!" Harry exclaims, almost angrily, to his sister, with whom he is apt to disagree: "you always forebode the worst. If a fly stings one you are always sure that it has just come from an infected horse or cow."
"You have lately been so irritable, I cannot imagine what is the matter with you," lisps Hedwig.
Harry frowns.
Lato, meanwhile, has paid no heed to these remarks: he is apparently absorbed in his own thoughts, as, sitting on a lower step, he has been drawing with the handle of his riding-whip cabalistic signs in the gravel of the path. Now he looks up.
"I have a letter for you from Paula,--here it is," he observes, handing Harry a thick packet wrapped in light-blue tissue paper. While Harry, with a dubious expression of countenance, drops the packet into his coat-pocket, Lato continues: "Paula has all sorts of fancies about your absence. You have not been to Dobrotschau for two days. She is afraid you are ill, and that you are keeping it from her lest she should be anxious. She is coming over here with my wife tomorrow afternoon to look after you--I mean, to pay the ladies a visit." After Lato has given utterance to these words in a smooth monotone, his expression suddenly changes: his features betoken embarrassment, as, leaning towards Harry, he whispers, "I should like to speak with you alone. Can you give me a few minutes?"
Shortly afterwards, Harry rises and takes his friend with him to his own room, a spacious vaulted chamber next to the dining-room, which he shares with his young brother.
"Well, old fellow?" he begins, encouragingly, clapping Lato on the shoulder. Lato clears his throat, then slowly takes his seat in an arm-chair beside a table covered with a disorderly array of Greek and Latin books and scribbled sheets of paper. Harry sits opposite him, and for a while neither speaks.
The silence is disturbed only by the humming of the bees, and by the scratching at the window of an ancient apricot-tree, which seems desirous to call attention to what it has to say, but desists with a low rustle that sounds like a sigh. The tall clock strikes five; it is not late, and yet the room is dim with a gray-green light; the sunbeams have hard work to penetrate the leafy screen before the windows.
"Well?" Harry again says, at last, gently twitching his friend's sleeve.
"It is strange," Treurenberg begins; his voice has a hard, forced sound, he affects an indifference foreign to his nature, "but since my marriage I have had excellent luck at play. To speak frankly, it has been very convenient. Do not look so startled; wait until you are in my position. In the last few days, however, fortune has failed me. In my circumstances this is extremely annoying." He laughs, and flicks a grain of dust from his coat-sleeve.
Harry looks at him, surprised. "Ah! I understand. You want money. How much? If I can help you out I shall be glad to do so."
"Six hundred guilders," says Lato, curtly.
Harry can scarcely believe his ears. How can Lato come to him for such a trifle?
"I can certainly scrape together that much for you," he says, carelessly, and going to his writing-table he takes a couple of bank-notes out of a drawer. "Here!" and he offers the notes to his friend.
Lato hesitates for a moment, as if in dread of the money, then takes it, and puts it in his pocket.
"Thanks," he murmurs, hoarsely, and again there is a silence, which Lato is the first to break. "Why do you look at me so inquiringly?" he exclaims, almost angrily.
"Forgive me, Lato, we are such old friends."
"What do you want to know?"
"I was only wondering how a man in your brilliant circumstances could be embarrassed for so trifling a sum as six hundred guilders!"
"A man in my brilliant circumstances!" Lato repeats, bitterly. "Yes, you think, as does everybody else, that I am still living upon my wife's money. But you are mistaken. I tried it, indeed, for a while, but I was not made to play that part, no! It was different at first; my wife wished that I should have the disposal of her means, and I half cheated myself into the belief that her millions belonged to me. She came to me for every farthing. I used to rally her upon her extravagance; I played at magnanimity, and forgave her, and made her costly presents--yes--good heavens, how disgusting! But that is long since past; we have separate purses at present, thank God! I am often too shabby nowadays for the grand folk at Dobrotschau, but that does not trouble me." He drums nervously upon the table.
Harry looks more and more amazed. "But then I cannot see why--" he murmurs, but lacks the courage to finish the sentence.
"I know what you wish to say," Lato continues, bitterly. "You wonder why, under these circumstances, I cannot shake off the old habit. What would you have? Hitherto I have won almost constantly; now my luck has turned, and yet I cannot control myself. Those who have not this cursed love of play in their blood cannot understand it, but play is the only thing in the world in which I can become absorbed,--the only thing that can rid me of all sorts of thoughts which I never ought to entertain. There! now you know!"
He draws a deep, hoarse breath, then laughs a hard, wooden laugh. Harry is very uncomfortable: he has never before seen Lato like this. It distresses him to notice how his friend has changed in looks of late. His eyes are hollow and unnaturally bright, his lips are dry and cracked as from fever, and he is more restless than is his wont.
"Poor Lato! what fresh trouble have you had lately?" asks Harry, longing to express his sympathy.
Lato flushes crimson, then nervously curls into dog's-ears the leaves of a Greek grammar on the table, and shrugs his shoulders.
"Oh, nothing,--disagreeable domestic complications," he mutters, evasively.
"Nothing new has happened, then?" asks Harry, looking at him keenly.
Lato cannot endure his gaze. "What could have happened?" he breaks forth.
"How do you get along with your wife?"
"Not at all,--worse every day," Treurenberg says, dryly. "And now comes this cursed, meddling Polish jackanapes----"
"If the gentlemen please, the Baroness sends me to say that coffee is served." With these words Blasius makes his appearance at the door. Lato springs hastily to his feet. The conversation is at an end.
"What are you doing there, you young donkey,--your lessons not yet learned, and wasting time in this fashion?"
These were Harry's words addressed to his young brother. The boy was standing on an old wooden bench, gazing over the garden wall.
"I am looking after the girl who was here to-day with the people from Dobrotschau."
"Whom do you mean?"
"Why, the beauty; Olga--Olga Dangeri is her name. Come here and see for yourself if it is wasting time to look after her."
With an involuntary smile at the lad's precocity, Harry mounted upon the bench beside his brother, and, through the gathering twilight, gazed after a couple--a man and a girl--slowly sauntering along the road outside the garden. The man walked with bent head and downcast look; the young girl, on the contrary, held her head proudly erect, and there was something regal in her firm gait. The man walked in silence beside his beautiful companion, who, on the other band, never stopped talking, chattering away with easy grace, and turning towards him the while. The silhouette of her noble profile was clearly defined against the evening sky. The last golden shimmer of the setting sun touched her brown hair with a reddish gleam. She had taken off her hat and hung it on her arm; her white gown fell in long, simple folds about her.
"There! is she not lovely?" Vips exclaimed, with boyish enthusiasm. "I cannot understand Lato: he hardly looks at her."
Harry hung his head.
"They have vanished in the walnut avenue; you can't see them now," said Vips, leaving his post of observation. "I like her; she is not only beautiful, she is clever and amiable," the boy went on. "I talked with her for quite a while, although she is not so entertaining as our Zdena,--she is not half so witty. Let me tell you, there is no one in all the world like our Zdena." As he spoke, Vladimir, the keen-sighted, plucked his brother by the sleeve of his blue military blouse, and eyed him askance. "What is the matter with you, Harry?" For Harry shook the boy off rather rudely.
"Oh, hold your tongue for a while!" Harry exclaimed, angrily; "I have a headache."
Thus repulsed, Vladimir withdrew, not, however, without turning several times to look at his brother, and sighing each time thoughtfully. Meanwhile, Harry had seated himself on the old bench whence Vips had made his observations. His hands in his pockets, his legs stretched out before him, he sat wrapt in gloom, digging his spurs into the ground.
He had passed a hard day,--a day spent in deceit; there was no help for it. How mean he was in his own eyes! and yet--how could he help it? Paula had carried out her threat, and had driven over with Selina, bringing Olga and Lato, "to pay the ladies a visit." After the first greetings she had paid the ladies little further attention, but had devoted herself to her betrothed, drawing him with her into some window-recess or shady garden nook, where she could whisper loving words or lavish tender caresses, which he could not repulse without positive rudeness. Oh, how long the visit had seemed to him! Although Paula had withdrawn him from the rest of the company as far as possible, he had found opportunity to observe them. Olga, who could not drive backwards in a carriage comfortably, but with whom neither of the other ladies had offered to exchange seats, had arrived rather pale and dizzy. Zdena had immediately applied herself to restoring her, with the ready, tender sympathy that made her so charming. Vips was right: there was no one like Zdena in the world, although Olga was more beautiful, and also glowing with the charm to which no man is insensible,--the charm of a strong, passionate nature. Not even Harry, whose whole soul was filled at present with, another, and to him an infinitely more attractive, woman, could quite withstand this charm in Olga's society; it made the girl seem to him almost uncanny.
It had rather displeased Harry at first--he could not himself say why--to see how quickly a kind of intimacy established itself between Olga and Zdena. As the two girls walked arm in arm down the garden path he would fain have snatched Zdena away from her new friend, the pale beautiful Olga, whom nevertheless he so pitied.
Meanwhile, Heda had done the honours of the mansion for Selina, in which duty she was assisted by the Countess Zriny, who displayed the greatest condescension on the occasion. Then the ladies asked to see the house, and had been conducted from room to room, evidently amazed at the plainness of the furniture, but loud in their praises of everything as "so effective." Paula had begged to see Harry's room, and had rummaged among his whips, had put one of his cigars between her lips, and had even contrived, when she thought no one was looking, to kiss the tip of his ear. The Countess Zriny, however, accidentally looked round at that moment, to Harry's great confusion. Towards six o'clock the party had taken leave, with many expressions of delight and attachment.
Before they drove off, however, there had been a rather unpleasant scene. Lato had requested his wife to exchange seats with Olga, since the girl could not, without extreme discomfort, ride with her back to the horses. Selina had refused to comply with his request, asserting that to ride backwards was quite as unpleasant for her as for Olga.
Then Olga had joined in the conversation, saying she had heard that the path through the forest to Dobrotschau was very picturesque, and declaring that if Lato would accompany her she should much prefer to walk. To this Lato had made various objections, finally yielding, however, and setting out with his head hanging and his shoulders drooping, like a lamb led to the sacrifice.
Harry's thoughts dwelt upon the pale girl with the large, dark eyes. Was it possible that none of the others could read those eyes? He recalled the tall, slim figure, the long, thin, but nobly-modelled arms, the slender, rather long hands, in which a feverish longing to have and to hold somewhat seemed to thrill; he recalled the gliding melancholy of her gait, he was spellbound by the impression of her youthful personality. Where had he seen a figure expressing the same yearning enthusiasm? Why, in a picture by Botticelli,--a picture representing Spring,--a pale, sultry Spring, in whose hands the flowers faded. Something in the girl's carriage and figure reminded him of that allegorical Spring, except that Olga's face was infinitely more beautiful than the languishing, ecstatic countenance in the old picture.
Long did Harry sit on the garden bench reflecting, and his reflections became every moment more distressing. He forgot all his own troubles in this fresh anxiety.
He thought of Treurenberg's altered mien. Olga had not yet awakened to a consciousness of herself, and that was a comfort. She was not only absolutely pure,--Harry was sure of that,--but she was entirely unaware of her own state of feeling. How long would this last, however? Passion walks, like a somnambulist, in entire security on the edge of profound abysses, so long as "sense is shut" in its eyes. But what if some rude hand, some unforeseen chance, awake it? Then--God have mercy!
Harry dug his spurs deeper into the gravel. "What will happen if her eyes should ever be opened?" he asked himself, with a shudder. "She is in no wise inclined to wanton frivolity, but she is a passionate creature without firm principles, without family ties to restrain her. And Lato? Lato will do his best to conquer himself. But can he summon up the strength of character, the tact, requisite to avoid a catastrophe and to preserve the old order of things? And if not, what then?"
Harry leaned his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees. To what it would all lead he could not tell, but he dreaded something terrible. He knew Lato well, the paralyzing weakness, as well as the subtile refinement, of his nature. Stern principle, a strict sense of duty, he lacked: how could it be otherwise, with such early training as had been his? Instead, however, he possessed an innate sense of moral beauty which must save him from moral degradation.
"A young girl, one of his home circle!" Harry murmured to himself. "No, it is inconceivable! And, yet, what can come of it?" And a sobbing breeze, carrying with it the scent of languid roses from whose cups it had drunk up the dew, rustled among the thirsty branches overhead with a sound that seemed to the young fellow like the chuckle of an exultant fiend.