But Harry ceases to muse, for the shrill clang of the bell summons him to supper. He finds the entire family assembled in the dining-room when he enters. All are laughing and talking, even Zdena, who is allowing handsome, precocious Vladimir to make love to her after more and more startling fashion. She informs Harry that Vips has just made her a proposal of marriage, which disparity of age alone prevents her from accepting, for in fact she is devoted to the lad.
"I renounce you from a sense of duty, Vips," she assures the young gentleman, gently passing her delicate forefinger over his smooth brown cheek, whereupon Vips flushes up and exclaims,--
"If you won't have me, at least promise me that I shall be best man at your wedding!"
Harry laughs heartily. "What an alternative! Either bridegroom or best man!"
"But you will promise me, Zdena, won't you?" the boy persists.
"It depends upon whom I marry," Zdena replies, with dignity. "The bridegroom will have a word to say upon the subject." As she speaks, her eyes encounter Harry's; she drops them instantly, her cheeks flush, and she pauses in confusion.
As she takes her place at table, she finds a letter beside her plate, post-marked Bayreuth, and sealed with a huge coat-of-arms. Evidently startled, she slips it into her pocket unopened.
"From whom?" asks Heda, whose curiosity is always on the alert.
"From--from Bayreuth."
"From Aunt Rosa?"
Zdena makes no reply.
"From Wenkendorf?" Harry asks, crossly.
The blood rushes to her cheeks. "Yes," she murmurs.
"How interesting!" Heda exclaims. "I really should like to hear his views as to the musical mysteries in Bayreuth. Read the letter aloud to us."
"Oh, it is sure to be tiresome," Zdena replies, heaping her plate with potatoes in her confusion.
"I wish you a good appetite!" Vladimir exclaims.
Zdena looks in dismay at the potatoes piled upon her plate.
"At least open the letter," says Heda.
"Open it, pray!" Harry repeats.
Mechanically Zdena obeys, breaks the seal, and hastily looks through the letter. Her cheeks grow redder and redder, her hands tremble.
"Come, read it to us."
Instead of complying, Zdena puts the document in her pocket again, and murmurs, much embarrassed, "There--there is nothing in it about Bayreuth."
"Ah, secrets!" Heda says, maliciously.
Zdena makes no reply, but gazes in desperation at the mound of potatoes on her plate. It never decreases in the least during the entire meal.
Jealousy, which has slept for a while in Harry's breast, springs to life again. One is not a Leskjewitsch for nothing. So she keeps up a correspondence with Wenkendorf! Ah! he may be deceived in her. Why was she so confused at the first sight of the letter? and why did she hide it away so hastily? Who knows?--she may be trifling with her old adorer, holding him in reserve as it were, because she has not quite decided as to her future. Who--who can be trusted, if that fair, angelic face can mask such guile?
Countess Zriny, as amiable and benevolent as ever,--Vips calls her "syrup diluted with holy water,"--notices that something has occurred to annoy the others, and attempts to change their train of thought.
"How is your dog, my dear Harry?" she asks her nephew across the table.
"Very ill," the young officer replies, curtly.
"Indeed? Oh, how sad! What is the matter with him?"
"I wish I knew. He drags his legs, his tail droops, and he has fever. I cannot help thinking that some one has thrown a stone at him, and I cannot imagine who could have been guilty of such cruelty."
"Poor Hector! 'Tis all up with him; he has no appetite," Vips murmurs.
"How do you know that?" Harry turns sharply upon the lad.
"I took him a piece of bread this afternoon," stammers Vips.
"Indeed?" Harry bursts forth. "Do that again and you shall suffer for it. I strictly forbade you to go near the dog!" Then, turning to the others, he explains: "I had to have the dog chained up, out of regard for the servants' nonsensical fears!"
"But, Harry," Vips begins, coaxingly, after a while, "if I must not go near the dog you ought not to have so much to do with him. You went to him several times to-day."
"That's very different; he is used to me," Harry sternly replies to his brother, who is looking at him with eyes full of anxious affection. "I have to see to him, since all the asses of servants, beginning with that old fool Blasius, are afraid of the poor brute. Moreover, he has everything now that he needs."
Vips knits his brows thoughtfully and shakes his head.
Suddenly the door of the dining-room opens, and old Blasius appears, pale as ashes, and trembling in every limb.
"What is the matter?" Harry asks, springing up.
"Herr Baron, I----" the old man stammers.
"What is the matter?"
"I told the Herr Baron how it would be," the old man declares, with the whimsical self-assertion which so often mingles with distress in the announcement of some misfortune: "Hector has gone mad."
"Nonsense! what do you know about hydrophobia? Let the dog alone!" Harry shouts, stamping his foot.
"He has broken his chain."
"Then chain him up again! Send Johann here." (Johann is Harry's special servant.)
"Johann is not at home. The Herr Baron does not know what he orders. The dog rushes at everything in its path, and tears and bites it. No one dares to go near him, not even the butcher. He must be killed."
"What, you coward!" Harry shouts; "my dog killed because of a little epilepsy, or whatever it is that ails him!" Meanwhile, Harry notices that his brother, who had vanished into the next room for a moment, is now attempting with a very resolute air to go out through the door leading into the hall. Harry seizes him by the shoulder and stops him: "Where are you going?"
Vips is mute.
"What have you in your hand?"
It is Harry's revolver.
"Is it loaded?" he asks, sternly.
"Yes," Vips replies, scarce audibly.
"Put it down there on the piano!" Harry orders, harshly. The poor boy obeys sadly, and then throws his arms around his brother.
"But you will stay here, Harry? dear Harry, you will not go near the dog?"
"You silly boy, do you suppose I am to do whatever you bid me?" Harry rejoins. And, pinning the lad's arms to his sides from behind, he lifts him up, carries him into the next room, locks him in, puts the key in his pocket, and, without another word, leaves the room. Blasius stays in the dining-room, wringing his hands, and finally engages in a wailing conversation with Vips, who is kicking violently at the door behind which he is confined. Heda, the Countess Zriny, and Fräulein Laut, their backs towards the piano, upon which lies the revolver, form an interesting group, expressing in every feature terror and helplessness.
"Perhaps he may not be mad," Countess Zriny observes, after a long silence, resolved as ever to ignore unpleasant facts. "However, I have my eau de Lourdes, at all events."
At this moment the rustle of a light garment is heard. The Countess looks round for Zdena, but she has vanished. Whither has she gone?
The dining-room has four doors,--one into the garden, another opposite leading into the hall, a third opening into Harry's room, and a fourth into the pantry. Through this last Zdena has slipped. From the pantry a narrow, dark passage leads down a couple of steps into a lumber-room, which opens on the courtyard.
Zdena, when she steps into the court-yard, closes the door behind her and looks around. Her heart beats tumultuously. She hopes to reach Harry before he meets the dog; but, look where she may, she cannot see him.
Wandering clouds veil the low moon; its light is fitful, now bright, then dim. The shadows dance and fade, and outlines blend in fantastic indistinctness. The wind has risen; it shrieks and howls, and whirls the dust into the poor girl's eyes. A frightful growling sound mingles with the noise of the blast.
Zdena's heart beats faster; she is terribly afraid. "Harry!" she calls, in an agonized tone; "Harry!" In vain. She hears his shrill whistle at the other end of the court-yard, hears him call, commandingly, "Hector, come here, sir!" He is far away. She hurries towards him. Hark! Her heart seems to stand still. Near her sounds the rattle of a chain; a pair of fierce bloodshot eyes glare at her: the dog is close at hand. He sees her, and makes ready for a spring.
It is true that the girl has a revolver in her hand, but she has no idea what to do with it; she has never fired a pistol in her life. In desperate fear she clambers swiftly upon a wood-pile against the brewery wall. The dog, in blind fury, leaps at the wood, falls back, and then runs howling in another direction. The moon emerges from the clouds, and pours its slanting beams into the court-yard. At last Zdena perceives her headstrong cousin; he is going directly towards the dog.
"Hector!" he shouts; "Hector!"
A few steps onward he comes, when Zdena slips down from her secure height. Panting, almost beside herself, the very personification of heroic self-sacrifice and desperate terror, she hurries up to Harry.
"What is it--Zdena--you?" Harry calls out. For, just at the moment when he stretches out his hand to clutch at the dog's collar, a slender figure rushes between him and the furious brute.
"Here, Harry,--the revolver!" the girl gasps, holding out the weapon. There is a sharp report: Hector turns, staggers, and falls dead!
The revolver drops from Harry's hand; he closes his eyes. For a few seconds he stands as if turned to stone, and deadly pale. Then he feels a soft touch upon his arm, and a tremulous voice whispers,--
"Forgive me, Harry! I know how you must grieve for your poor old friend, but--but I was so frightened for you!"
He opens his eyes, and, throwing his arm around the girl, exclaims,--
"You angel! Can you for an instant imagine that at this moment I have a thought to bestow upon the dog, dearly as I loved him?"
His arm clasps her closer.
"Harry!" she gasps, distressed.
With a sigh he releases her.
In the summits of the old walnuts there soughs a wail of discontent, and the moon, which shone forth but a moment ago so brilliantly, and which takes delight in the kisses of happy lovers, veils its face in clouds before its setting, being defrauded of any such satisfaction.
"Come into the house," whispers Zdena. But walking is not so easy as she thinks. She is so dizzy that she can hardly put one foot before the other, and, whether she will or not, she must depend upon Harry to support her.
"Fool that I am!" he mutters. "Lean upon me, you poor angel! You are trembling like an aspen-leaf."
"I can hardly walk,--I was so terribly afraid," she confesses.
"On my account?" he asks.
"No, not on your account alone, but on my own, too," she replies, laughing, "for, entirely between ourselves, I am a wretched coward."
"Really? Oh, Zdena--" He presses the hand that rests on his arm.
"But, Harry," she says, very gravely this time, "I am not giddy now. I can walk very well." And she takes her hand from his arm.
He only laughs, and says, "As you please, my queen, but you need not fear me. If a man ever deserved Paradise, I did just then." He points to the spot beneath the old walnuts, where the moon had been disappointed.
A few seconds later they enter the dining-room, where are the three ladies, and the Countess Zriny advances to meet Harry with a large bottle of eau de Lourdes, a tablespoonful of which Heda is trying to heat over the flame of the lamp, while Fräulein Laut pauses in her account of a wonderful remedy for hydrophobia.
Harry impatiently cuts short all the inquiries with which he is besieged, with "The dog is dead; I shot him!" He does not relate how the deed was done. At first he had been disposed to extol Zdena's heroism, but he has thought better of it. He resolves to keep for himself alone the memory of the last few moments, to guard it in his heart like a sacred secret. As Vips is still proclaiming his presence in the next room by pounding upon the door, Harry takes the key from his pocket and smilingly releases the prisoner. The lad rushes at his brother. "Did he not bite you? Really not?" And when Harry answers, "No," he entreats, "Show me your hands, Harry,--both of them!" and then he throws his arms about the young man and clasps him close.
"Oh, you foolish fellow!" Harry exclaims, stroking the boy's brown head. "But now be sensible; don't behave like a girl. Do you hear?"
"My nerves are in such a state," sighs Heda.
Harry stamps his foot. "So are mine! I would advise you all to retire, and recover from this turmoil."
Soon afterwards the house is silent. Even Vips has been persuaded to go to bed and sleep off his fright. Harry, however, is awake. After ordering Blasius to bury the dog, and to bring him his revolver, which he now remembers to have left lying beside the animal's body, he seats himself on the flight of steps leading from the dining-room into the garden, leans his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, and dreams. The wind has subsided, and the night seems to him lovely in spite of the misty clouds that veil the sky. The flowers are fragrant,--oh, how fair life is! Suddenly he hears a light step; he rises, goes into the corridor, and finds Zdena putting a letter into the postbag. He approaches her, and their eyes meet. In vain does she attempt to look grave. She smiles, and her smile is mirrored in his eyes.
"To whom was the letter?" he asks, going towards her. Not that there is a spark of jealousy left in his heart for the moment, but he delights to coax her secrets from her, to share in all that concerns her.
"Is it any affair of yours?" she asks, with dignity.
"No, but I should like to know."
"I will not tell you."
"Suppose I guess?"
She shrugs her shoulders.
"To Wenkendorf," he whispers, advancing a step nearer her, as she makes no reply.
"What did he write to you?" Harry persists.
"That is no concern of yours."
"What if I guess that, too?"
"Then I hope you will keep your knowledge to yourself, and not mention your guess to any one," Zdena exclaims, eagerly.
"He proposed to you," Harry says, softly.
Zdena sighs impatiently.
"Well, yes!" she admits at last, turning to Harry a blushing face as she goes on. "But I really could not help it. I did what I could to prevent it, but men are so conceited and headstrong. If one of them takes an idea into his head there is no disabusing him of it."
"Indeed! is that the way with all men?" Harry asks, ready to burst into a laugh.
"Yes, except when they have other and worse faults,--are suspicious and bad-tempered."
"But then these last repent so bitterly, and are so ashamed of themselves."
"Oh, as for that, he will be ashamed of himself too." Then, suddenly growing grave, she adds, "I should be very sorry to have----"
"To have any one hear of his disappointed hopes," Harry interposes, with a degree of malicious triumph in his tone. "Do not fear; we will keep his secret."
"Good-night!" She takes up her candlestick, which she had put down on the table beside which they are standing, and turns towards the winding staircase.
"Zdena!" Harry whispers, softly.
"What is it?"
"Nothing: only--is there really not a regret in your heart for the wealth you have rejected?"
She shakes her head slowly, as if reflecting. "No," she replies: "what good would it have done me? I could not have enjoyed it." Then she suddenly blushes crimson, and, turning away from him, goes to the staircase.
"Zdena!" he calls again; "Zdena!" But the white figure has vanished at the turn of the steps, and he is alone. For a while he stands gazing into the darkness that has swallowed her up. "God keep you!" he murmurs, tenderly, and finally betakes himself to his room, with no thought, however, of going to bed.
No, he could not sleep; he had something important to do. At last he must pluck up courage and establish his position. This wretched prevarication, this double dealing, could not go on any longer. It was ten times more disgraceful than the most brutal frankness. He seated himself at the very table where, scarcely more than a day before, he had listened to Lato's confessions, and began a rough sketch of his letter to Paula. But at the very first word he stopped. He was going to write, "Dear Paula," but that would never do. Could he address her thus familiarly when he wanted to sever all relations with her? Impossible! "Honoured Baroness" he could not write, either; it sounded ridiculous, applied to a girl with whom he had sat for hours in the last fortnight. He decided to begin, "Dear Baroness Paula." He dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote the words in a distinct hand: "Dear Baroness Paula, I cannot express to you the difficulty I find in telling you what must, however, be told. I had hoped until now that you would discover it yourself----"
Thus far he wrote hurriedly, and as if in scorn of mortal danger. He paused now, and read over the few words. His cheeks burned. No, he could not write that to a lady: as well might he strike her in the face. It was impossible. But what should he do? At last an idea occurred to him, how strange not to have thought of it before! He must appeal to her mother. It was as clear as daylight. He took a fresh sheet of paper, having torn the other up and tossed it under the table, then dipped his pen anew in the ink. But no; it would not do. Every hour that he had spent with Paula, every caress he had allowed her to bestow upon him, was brought up before him by his conscience, which did not spare him the smallest particular. Lato's words recurred to him: "You cannot disguise from yourself the fact that you--you and Paula--produce the impression of a devoted pair of lovers."
He set his teeth. He could not deny that his conduct had been shameful. He could not sever his engagement to her without a lack of honour.
"Oh, good God! how had it ever come to pass?" What had induced him to ride over to Dobrotschau day after day? He had always been sure that an opportunity for an explanation would occur. When with Paula he had endured her advances in sullen submission, without facing the consequences; he had simply been annoyed; and now---- He shuddered.
Once more he took up the pen, but in vain; never before had he felt so utterly hopeless. Every limb ached as if laden with fetters. He tossed the pen aside: under the circumstances he could not write the letter; Paula herself must sever the tie, if it could be severed.
If it could be severed! What did that mean? He seemed to hear the words spoken aloud. Nonsense! If it could be severed! As if there were a doubt that it could be severed! But how? how?
His distress was terrible. He could see no way to extricate himself. Paula must be compelled to release him of her own accord; but how was it to be done? He devised the wildest schemes. Could he be caught flirting with a gypsy girl? or could he feign to be deeply in debt? No, no more feigning; and, besides, what would it avail? She would forgive everything.
Suddenly Vips cried out in his sleep.
"Vips!" Harry called, to waken him, going to his brother's bedside.
The lad opened his eyes, heavy with sleep, and said, "I am so glad you waked me! I was having a horrible dream that you were being torn to pieces by a furious leopard."
"You foolish boy!"
"Oh, it was no joke, I can tell you!" Then, pulling his brother down to him, he went on, "Zdena took the revolver to you, I saw her through the keyhole; not one of the others would have raised a finger for you. No, there is no one in the world like our Zdena." Vips stroked his brother's blue sleeve with his long, slender hand. "Do you know," he whispered very softly, "I have no doubt that----"
Harry frowned, and Vips blushed, shut his eyes, and turned his face to the wall.
The first gleam of morning was breaking its way through the twilight; a rosy glow illumined the eastern horizon; the stream began to glimmer, and then shone like molten gold; long shadows detached themselves from the universal gray and stretched across the garden among the dewy flower-beds. The dew lay everywhere, glistening like silvery dust on the blades of grass, and dripping in the foliage of the old apricot-tree by the open window at which Harry stood gazing sadly out into the wondrous beauty of the world. The cool morning breeze fanned his check; the birds began to twitter.
The young fellow was conscious of the discomfort of a night spent without sleep; but far worse than that was the hopeless misery that weighed him down.
Hark! what was that? The sound of bells, the trot of horses on the quiet road. Harry leaned forward. Who was that?
Leaning back in an open barouche, a gray travelling-cap on his head, a handsome old man was driving along the road.
"Father!" exclaimed Harry.
The old gentleman saw him from the carriage and waved his hand gaily. In a twinkling Harry was opening the house-door.
"I have surprised you, have I not?" Karl Leskjewitsch exclaimed, embracing his son. "But what's the matter with you? What ails you? I never saw you look so sallow,--you rogue!" And he shook his forefinger at the young fellow.
"Oh, nothing,--nothing, sir: we will talk of it by and by. Now come and take some rest."
Baron Leskjewitsch was in an admirable humour. He brightened up the entire household. The Countess Zriny, to be sure, lamented to Fräulein Laut his tireless loquacity, but perhaps that was because his loquacity displayed itself principally in the utterance of anti-Catholic views.
At breakfast, on the first morning after his arrival, he cut the old canoness to the heart. When he rallied her upon the indigestible nature of her favourite delicacy, raspberry jam with whipped cream, she replied that she could eat it with perfect impunity, since she always mixed a teaspoonful of eau de Lourdes with the jam before adding the cream.
Whereupon the Baron called this preservative "Catholic quackery," and was annoyed that she made no reply to his attack. Like a former emperor of Russia, he longed for opposition. He did what he could to rouse Countess Zriny's. After a while he asserted that she was a heathen. Catholicism in its modern form, with its picturesque ritual and its superstitious worship of the saints, was nothing more than cowled Paganism.
The Countess, to whom this rather antiquated wisdom was new, shuddered with horror, and regarded the Baron as antichrist, but nevertheless held her peace.
Then he played his last trump. He informed her that he regarded the Darwinian theory as much less irreligious than her, Countess Zriny's, paltry conception of the Deity. Then the Countess arose and left the room, to write immediately to her father confessor, expressing her anxieties with regard to her cousin's soul, and asking the priest to say a mass for his conversion.
"Poor Kathi! have I frightened her away? I didn't mean to do that," said the Baron, looking after her.
No, he had not meant to do it; he had merely desired to arouse opposition.
"A splendid subject for an essay," he exclaimed, after a pause,--"'the Darwinian theory and the Catholic ritual set forth by a man of true piety.' I really must publish a pamphlet with that title. It may bring me into collision with the government, but that would not be very distressing."
Privately the Baron wished for nothing more earnestly than to be brought into collision with the government, to be concerned in some combination threatening the existence of the monarchy. But just as some women, in spite of every endeavour, never succeed in compromising themselves, so Karl Leskjewitsch had never yet succeeded in seriously embroiling himself with the government. No one took him in earnest; even when he made the most incendiary speeches, they were regarded as but the amusing babble of a political dilettante.
He eagerly availed himself of any occasion to utter his paradoxes, and at this first breakfast he was so eloquent that gradually all at the table followed the example of Countess Zriny, in leaving it, except his eldest son.
He lighted a cigar, and invited Harry to go into the garden with him. Harry, who had been longing for a word with his father in private, acceded readily to his proposal.
The sun shone brightly, the flowers in the beds sparkled like diamonds. The old ruin stood brown and clear against the sky, the bees hummed, and Fräulein Laut was practising something of Brahms's. Of course she had seated herself at the piano as soon as the dining-room was deserted.
Harry walked beside his father, with bent head, vainly seeking for words in which to explain his unfortunate case. His father held his head very erect, kicked the pebbles from his path with dignity, talked very fast, and asked his son twenty questions, without waiting for an answer to one of them.
"Have you been spending all your leave here? Does it not bore you? Why did you not take an interesting trip? Life here must be rather tiresome; Heda never added much to the general hilarity, and as for poor Kathi, do you think her entertaining? She's little more than amouton à l'eau bénite. And then that sausage-chopper," with a glance in the direction whence proceeded a host of interesting dissonances. "Surely you must have found your stay here a very heavy affair. Kathi Zriny is harmless, but that Laut--ugh!--a terrible creature! Look at her hair; it looks like hay. I should like to understand the aim of creation in producing such an article; we have no use for it." He paused,--perhaps for breath.
"Father," Harry began, meekly.
"Well?"
"I should like to tell you something."
"Tell me, then, but without any preface. I detest prefaces; I never read them; in fact, a book is usually spoiled for me if I find it has a preface. What is a preface written for? Either to explain the book that follows it, or to excuse it. And why read a book that needs explanation or excuses? I told Franz Weyser, the famous orator, in the Reichsrath the other day, that----"
"Father," Harry began again, in a tone of entreaty, aware that he should have some difficulty in obtaining a hearing for his confession.
"What an infernally sentimental air you have! Aha! I begin to see. You have evidently fallen in love with Zdena. It is not to be wondered at; she's a charming creature--pretty as a picture--looks amazingly like Charlotte Buff, of Goethe memory; all that is needed is to have her hair dressed high and powdered. What can I say? In your place I should have been no wiser. Moreover, if you choose to marry poverty for love, 'tis your own affair. You must remember that Franz will undoubtedly stop your allowance. You cannot expect much from Paul; and as for myself, I can do nothing for you except give you my blessing. You know how matters stand with me; and I must think of your sister, who never can marry without a dowry. I cannot entirely deprive myself of means: a politician must preserve his independence, for, as I lately said to Fritz Böhm, in the Reichsrath----"
In vain had Harry tried to edge in a word. With a bitter smile he recalled a passage in a Vienna humorous paper which, under the heading of "A disaster prevented," set forth the peril from drowning from which the entire government had been saved by the presence of mind of the president of the Reichsrath, Herr Doctor Smolka, who had contrived just in the nick of time to put a stop to a torrent of words from Baron Karl Leskjewitsch.
Suddenly the Baron stumbled over a stone, which fortunately caused him to pause.
"It has nothing to do with Zdena!" Harry exclaimed, seizing his opportunity.
"Not? Then----"
"I have become betrothed," Harry almost shouted, for fear of not making his father hear.
"And what do you want of me?"
"You must help me to break the engagement," his son cried, in despair.
At these words Karl Leskjewitsch, who with all his confusion of ideas had managed to retain a strong sense of humour, made a grimace, and pushed back the straw hat which he wore, and which had made the ascent of Mount Vesuvius with him and had a hole in the crown, so that it nearly fell off his head.
"Ah, indeed! First of all I should like to know to whom you are betrothed,--the result, of course, of garrison life in some small town? I always maintain that for a cavalry officer----"
Harry felt the liveliest desire to summon the aid of Doctor Smolka to stem the tide of his father's eloquence, but, since this could not be, he loudly interrupted him: "I am betrothed to Paula Harfink!"
"Harfink!" exclaimed the Baron. "The Harfinks of K----?"
"Yes; they are at Dobrotschau this summer," Harry explained.
"So she is your betrothed,--the Baroness Paula? She is handsome; a little too stout, but that is a matter of taste. And you want to marry her?"
"No, no, I do not want to marry her!" Harry exclaimed, in dismay.
"Oh, indeed! you do not want to marry her?" murmured the Baron. "And why not?"
"Because--because I do not love her."
"Why did you betroth yourself to her?"
Harry briefly explained the affair to his father.
The Baron looked grave. "And what do you want me to do?" he asked, after a long, oppressive silence.
"Help me out, father. Put your veto upon this connection."
"What will my veto avail? You are of age, and can do as you choose," said the Baron, shaking his head.
"Yes, legally," Harry rejoined, impatiently, "but I never should dream of marrying against your will."
Karl Leskjewitsch found this assurance of filial submission on his son's part very amusing. He looked askance at the young fellow, and, suppressing a smile, extended his hand after a pompous theatric fashion and exclaimed, "I thank you for those words. They rejoice my paternal heart." Then, after swinging his son's hand up and down like a pump-handle, he dropped it and said, dryly, "Unfortunately, I have not the slightest objection to your betrothal to the Harfink girl. What pretext shall I make use of?"
"Well,"--Harry blushed,--"you might say you cannot consent to themésalliance."
"Indeed! Thanks for the suggestion. I belong to the Liberal party, and do not feel called upon to play the part of an aristocratic Cerberus defending his prejudices." Here the Baron took out his note-book. "Aristocratic Cerberus," he murmured; "that may be useful some day in the Reichsrath. Besides," he continued, "it would just now be particularly unpleasant to quarrel with the Harfinks. If you had asked me before your betrothal whether I should like it, I should have frankly said no. The connection is a vulgar one; but, since matters have gone so far, I do not like to make a disturbance. The brother of the girl's mother, Doctor Grünbart, is one of the leaders of our party. He formerly conducted himself towards me with great reserve, suspecting that my liberal tendencies were due merely to a whim, to a fleeting caprice. I met him, however, a short time ago, on my tour through Sweden and Norway. He was travelling with his wife and daughter. We travelled together. He is a very clever man, but--between ourselves--intolerable, and with dirty nails. As for his women-folk,--good heavens!" The Baron clasped his hands. "The wife always eat the heads of the trout which I left in the dish, and the daughter travelled in a light-blue gown, with a green botany-box hanging at her back, and such teeth,--horrible! The wife is a schoolmaster's daughter, who married the old man to rid herself of a student lover. Very worthy, but intolerable. I travelled with them for six weeks, and won the Doctor's heart by my courtesy to his wife and daughter. I should have been more cautious if I had been at housekeeping in Vienna, although the most violent Austrian democrats are very reasonable in social respects, especially with regard to their women. They are flattered by attention to them on a journey, but they are not aggressive at home. This, however, is not to the point."
It did indeed seem not to the point to Harry, who bit his lip and privately clinched his fist. He was on the rack during his father's rambling discourse.
"What I wanted to say"--the Baron resumed the thread of his discourse--"is, that this democrat's pride is his elegant sister, Baroness Harfink, and the fact that she was once invited, after great exertions in some charitable undertaking, to a ball at the Princess Colloredo's--I think it was at the Colloredo's. I should like to have seen her there!" He rubbed his hands and smiled. "My democrat maintains that she looked more distinguished than the hostess. You understand that if I should wound his family pride I could not hope for his support in the Reichsrath, where I depend upon it to procure me a hearing."
Harry privately thought that it would be meritorious to avert such a calamity, but he said, "Ah, father, that democrat's support is not so necessary as you think. Depend upon it, you will be heard without it. And then a quarrel with a politician would cause you only a temporary annoyance, while the continuance of my betrothal to Paula will simply kill me. I have done my best to show her the state of my feelings towards her. She does not understand me. There is nothing for it but for you to undertake the affair." Harry clasped his hands in entreaty, like a boy. "Do it for my sake. You are the only one who can help me."
Baron Karl was touched. He promised everything that his son asked of him.
The Baron never liked to postpone what he had to do; it was against his principles and his nature. The matter must be attended to at once. As soon as the mid-day meal was over, he had the carriage brought, put on a black coat, and set out for Dobrotschau.
The fountain plashed dreamily as he drove into the castle court-yard. The afternoon sun glittered on the water, and a great dog came towards him as he alighted, and thrust his nose into his hand. He knew the old dog.
"How are you, old friend? how does the newrégimesuit you?" he said, patting the animal's head. Two footmen hurried forward in drab breeches and striped vests. To one of them Baron Karl gave his card, and then awaited the mistress of the mansion in the spacious and rather dark drawing-room into which he had been shown.
He looked about him, and was very well pleased. The tall windows of the room were draped with pale-green silk; the furniture, various in shape and style, was all convenient and handsome; vases filled with flowers stood here and there on stands and tables; and in a black ebony cabinet, behind glass doors, there was a fine collection of old porcelain. The Baron was a connoisseur in old porcelain, and had just risen to examine these specimens, when the servant returned to conduct him to the Baroness's presence.
Baron Karl's heart throbbed a little fast at the thought of his mission, and he privately anathematized "the stupid boy" who had been the cause of it.
"Since he got himself into the scrape, he might have got himself out of it," he thought, as he followed the lackey, who showed him into a small but charming boudoir, fitted up after a rural fashion with light cretonne.
"I'm in for it," the Baron thought, in English. He liked to sprinkle his soliloquies with English phrases, having a great preference for England, whence he imported his clothes, his soap, and his political ideas of reformen gros. In the Reichsrath they called him "Old England."
As he entered the pretty room, a lady rose from a low lounge and came towards him with outstretched hands. Those hands were small, soft, and shapely, and the rings adorning the third finger of one of them--a ruby and a large diamond, both very simply set--became them well. Baron Karl could not help carrying one of them to his lips; thus much, he thought, he owed the poor woman in view of the pain he was about to inflict upon her. Frau von Harfink said a few pleasant words of welcome, to which he replied courteously, and then, having taken his seat in a comfortable arm-chair near her favourite lounge, the conversation came to a stand-still. The Baron looked in some confusion at his hostess. There was no denying that, in spite of her fifty years, she was a pretty woman. Her features were regular, her teeth dazzling, and if there was a touch of rouge on her cheeks, that was her affair; it did not affect her general appearance. The fair hair that was parted to lie in smooth waves above her brow was still thick, and the little lace cap was very becoming. Her short, full figure was not without charm, and her gown of blackcrêpe de Chinefitted faultlessly. The Baron could not help thinking that it would be easier to give her pain if she were ugly. There was really no objection to make to her. He had hoped she would resemble his friend Doctor Grünbart, but she did not resemble him. While he pondered thus, Frau von Harfink stretched out her hand to the bell-rope.
"My daughters are both out in the park; they will be extremely glad to see you, especially Paula, who has been most impatient to know you. I will send for them immediately."
Karl Leskjewitsch prevented her from ringing. "One moment, first," he begged; "I--I am here upon very serious business."
Her eyes scanned his face keenly. Did she guess? did she choose not to understand him? Who can tell? Certain it is that no woman could have made what he had come to say more difficult to utter.
"Oh, let 'serious business' go for the present!" she exclaimed; "there is time enough for that. A mother's heart of course is full----"
In his confusion the Baron had picked up a pamphlet lying on the table between Frau von Harfink and himself. Imagine his sensations when, upon looking at it closely, he recognized his own work,--a pamphlet upon "Servility among Liberals,"--a piece of political bravado upon which the author had prided himself not a little at the time of its publication, but which, like many another masterpiece, had vanished without a trace in the yearly torrent of such literature. Not only were the leaves of this pamphlet cut, but as the Baron glanced through it he saw that various passages were underscored with pencil-marks.
"You see how well known you are here, my dear Baron," said Frau von Harfink, and then, taking his hat from him, she went on, "I cannot have you pay us a formal visit: you will stay and have a cup of tea, will you not? Do you know that I am a little embarrassed in the presence of the author of that masterpiece?"
"Ah, pray, madame!"--the democratpar excellencecould not exactly bring himself to an acknowledgment of Frau von Harfink's brand-new patent of nobility,--"ah, madame, the merest trifle, a politicalcapricciowith which I beguiled an idle hour; not worth mentioning."
"Great in small things, my dear Baron, great in small things," she rejoined. "No one since Schopenhauer has understood how to use the German language as you do. So admirable a style!--precise, transparent, and elegant as finely-cut glass. And what a wealth of original aphorisms! You are a little sharp here and there, almost cruel,"--she shook her forefinger at him archly,--"but the truth is always cruel."
"A remarkably clever woman!" thought Baron Karl. Of course he could not refrain from returning such courtesy. "This summer, in a little trip to the North Cape"--Leskjewitsch was wont always to refer to his travels as little trips; a journey to California he would have liked to call a picnic--"in a little trip to the North Cape, I had the pleasure of meeting your brother, Baroness," he cleared his throat before uttering the word, but he accomplished it. "We had known each other politically in the Reichsrath, but in those northern regions our acquaintance quickly ripened into friendship."
"I have heard all about it already," said the Baroness: "it was my brother who called my attention to this pearl." She pointed to the pamphlet. "Of course he had no idea of the closer relations which we are to hold with each other; he simply described to me the impression you made upon him. Ah, I must read you one of his letters."
She opened a drawer in her writing-table, and unfolded a long letter, from which she began to read, then interrupted herself, turned the sheet, and finally found the place for which she was looking:
"Baron Karl Leskjewitsch is an extremely clever individual, brilliantly gifted by nature. His misfortune has been that in forsaking the Conservatives he has failed to win the entire confidence of the Liberals. Now that I know him well, I am ready to use all my influence to support him in his career, and I do not doubt that I shall succeed in securing for him the distinguished position for which he is fitted. I see in him the future Austrian Minister of Foreign Affairs."
A few minutes previously Baron Karl had been conscious of some discomfort; every trace of it had now vanished. He was fairly intoxicated. He saw himself a great statesman, and was already pondering upon what to say in his first important conference with the Chancellor of the realm.
"Pray, give my warm regards to Doctor Grünbart when you next write to him," he began, not without condescension, when suddenly a young lady hurried into the room,--tall, stout, with Titian hair and a dazzling complexion, her chest heaving, her eyes sparkling. In the Baron's present mood she seemed to him beautiful as a young goddess. "By Jove! the boy has made a hit," he thought to himself. The vague sense of discomfort returned for a moment, but vanished when Paula advanced towards him with outstretched hands. He drew her to him, and imprinted a paternal kiss upon her forehead. Selina and Fainacky now made their appearance. It was quite a domestic scene.
The Baroness rang, and the tea-equipage was brought in for afternoon tea. Olga made her appearance, but Treurenberg was absent; Selina remarked, crossly, that he was again spending the afternoon with the officers at X----. Baron Karl was throned upon roses and inhaling sweet incense, when finally the Baroness, lightly touching his arm, asked before all present,--
"And the 'serious business' you came to consult me about?" He started, and was mute, while the lady went on, archly, "What if I guess its import? You came in Harry's behalf, did you not?"
Baron Karl bowed his head in assent.
"To arrange the day, was it not?"
What could the poor man do? Before he had time to reflect, the Baroness said, "We have considered the matter already; we must be in no hurry,--no hurry. It always is a sore subject for a mother, the appointing a definite time for her separation from her daughter, and every girl, however much in love she may be,"--here the Baroness glanced at her stout Paula, who did her best to assume an air of maidenly reserve, "would like to postpone the marriage-day. But men do not like to wait; therefore, all things considered, I have thought of the 19th of October as the day. Tell Harry so from me, and scold him well for not doing his errand himself. His delicacy of sentiment is really exaggerated! An old woman may be pardoned for a little enthusiasm for a future son-in-law, may she not?"
Shortly afterwards Baron Leskjewitsch was driving home along the road by which he had come. The shadows had lengthened; a cold air ascended from the earth. Gradually the Baron's consciousness, drugged by the flattery he had received, awoke, and he felt extremely uncomfortable. What had he effected? He was going home after a fruitless visit,--no, not fruitless. Harry's affairs were in a worse condition than before. He had absolutely placed the official seal upon his son's betrothal.
What else could he have done? He could not have made a quarrel. He could not alienate Doctor Grünbart's sister. The welfare of the government might depend upon his friendly alliance with the leader of the democratic party. His fancy spread its wings and took its flight to higher spheres,--he really had no time to trouble himself about his son's petty destiny. His ambition soared high: he saw himself about to reform the monarchy with the aid of Doctor Grünbart, whose importance, however, decreased as his own waxed great.
He drove through the ruinous archway into the courtyard. A light wagon was standing before the house. When he asked whose it was, he was told that it had come from Zirkow to take home the Baroness Zdena. He went to the dining-room, whence came the sound of gay voices and laughter. They were all at supper, and seemed very merry, so merry that they had not heard him arrive.
Twilight was already darkening the room when the Baron entered by one door at the same moment that Blasius with the lamp made his appearance at the other. The lamplight fell full upon the group about the table, and Baron Karl's eyes encountered those of his son, beaming with delight. Poor fellow! He had not entertained a doubt that everything would turn out well. Zdena, too, looked up; her lips were redder than usual, and there was a particularly tender, touching expression about her mouth, while in her eyes there was a shy delight. There was no denying it, the girl was exquisitely beautiful.
She had guessed Baron Karl's errand to Dobrotschau. She divined----
Pshaw! The Baron felt dizzy for a moment,--but, after all, such things must be borne. Such trifles must not influence the future 'Canning' of Austria.
Blasius set down the lamp. How comfortable and home-like the well-spread table looked, at the head the little army of cream-pitchers and jugs, over which the Countess Zriny was presiding.
"A cup of coffee?" the old canoness asked the newcomer.
"No, no, thanks," he said. Something in his voice told Harry everything.
The Baron tried to take his place at table, that the moment for explanation might be postponed, but Harry could not wait.
"Something has occurred to-day upon the farm about which I want to consult you, sir," he said. "Will you not come with me for a moment?" And he made a miserably unsuccessful attempt to look as if it were a matter of small importance. The two men went into the next room, where it was already so dark that they could not see each other's faces distinctly. Harry lit a candle, and placed it on the table between his father and himself.
"Well, father?"
"My dear boy, there was nothing to be done," the Baron replied, hesitating. For a moment the young man's misery made an impression upon him, but then his invincible loquacity burst forth. "There was nothing to be done, Harry," he repeated. And, with a wave of his hand implying true nobility of sentiment, he went on: "A betrothal is a contract sealed by a promise. From a promise one may be released; it cannot be broken. When the Harfinks refused to see the drift of my hints, and release you from your promise, there was nothing left for me save to acquiesce. As a man of honour, a gentleman, I could do no less; I could not possibly demand your release."
Baron Karl looked apprehensively at his son, with whose quick temper he was familiar, expecting to be overwhelmed by a torrent of reproaches, of bitter, provoking words, sure that the young man would be led into some display of violence; but nothing of the kind ensued. Harry stood perfectly quiet opposite his father, one hand leaning upon the table where burned the candle. His head drooped a little, and he was very pale, but not a finger moved when his father added, "You understand that I could do nothing further?"
He murmured, merely, "Yes, I understand." His voice sounded thin and hoarse, like the voice of a sick child; and then he fell silent again. After a pause, he said, in a still lower tone, "Uncle Paul has sent the wagon for Zdena, with a note asking me to drive her back to Zirkow. It has been waiting for an hour and a half, because Zdena did not want to leave before your return. Pray, do me the favour to drive her home in my place: I cannot."
Then the young fellow turned away and went to a window, outside of which the old apricot-trees rustled and sighed.
Baron Karl was very sorry for his son, but what else could he have done? Surely his case was a hard one. He seemed to himself a very Junius Brutus, sacrificing his son to his country. And having succeeded finally in regarding in this magnanimous light the part he had played, he felt perfectly at peace with himself again.
He left the room, promising to attend to Zdena's return to Zirkow. But Harry remained standing by the window, gazing out into the gathering gloom. The very heart within his breast seemed turning to stone. He knew now that what he had at first held to be merely a ridiculous annoyance had come to be bitter earnest,--yes, terrible earnest! No escape was possible; he could see no hope of rescue; a miracle would have to occur to release him, and he did not believe in miracles.