CHAPTER VI.
The fourteen days which had been fixed for the stay of the guests were drawing to a close. They had been entirely devoted to all the pleasures and amusements of country life. The Präsidentin, who, on account of her advanced age, usually made a duty of rest and retirement, could not this time entirely withdraw from all the visits and invitations which chiefly concerned her grandson. Count Arnau had, indeed, become a celebrity, and visitors came from the whole neighbourhood round to see and admire the "lion;" the report, too, that he intended, at no very distant period, to make the choice of a fitting partner for his exalted station, made him still more the centre-point of attention on all sides, in reality, because each was anxious to form a match, brilliant in every respect, for some daughter, sister, or relation. The Count took all in his cool, reserved, and sarcastic manner, without being in the slightest degree impressed.
The duties which he owed to society he undertook with that resignation accorded to a painful but unavoidable necessity, for in this unceasing round of visits and amusements he found the safest weapon against the fermenting discontent, which, in spite of the so-called reconciliation, still reigned in the bosom of the family. Certainly the Präsidentin, in spite of her aristocratic prejudices, was perfectly well-bred, and never failed in the politeness and consideration which she owed towards the guests she had herself invited, but she, nevertheless, managed to make her granddaughter and Herr von Reinert feel that they were only tolerated, and that they owed only this toleration itself to Hermann's influence. Naturally, this knowledge did not contribute to the comfort of the visit. Antonie was sensitive and petulant upon every opportunity, Eugen continually bitter and irritable, and often it was only Hermann's interference or mediation which hindered the threatening breach.
This visit and meeting of relations would, indeed, have been, probably, most unpleasant, had not the frequent presence of strangers laid a wholesome restraint upon all.
It was the last day but one of the guests' stay, towards evening.
The Präsidentin had asked for the children to be sent to her, and Gertrud seized one of the few free hours which her appointment left open to her, to go into the park alone. During the last fortnight she had endeavoured to avoid Herr von Reinert as much as possible, or, at least, never to meet him, except when in charge of her two pupils, but to-night she felt secure; she knew that several farewell calls had to be made in the neighbourhood, and, in the enjoyment of this security, gave herself up freely to the pleasure of an often-desired walk alone.
A book in her hand, she went slowly to her favourite place under the great plane tree.
The park seemed at this time perfectly deserted. The evening sun lay golden upon the bushes and grass plots; in the distance glimmered the white plumage of the swans, sailing lazily up and down on the pond; no sound broke the deep stillness.
Gertrud sat down, leaning her head on her hand. So they had come to an end at last, these much-feared fourteen days of intercourse, and, on the whole, had passed away better than she had hoped. No one had in any possible manner made any hindrance to her manifest desire for retirement. The Präsidentin had a somewhat out-spoken antipathy against "Mademoiselle Walter," and Antonie, though she had not the slightest suspicion of any former relations with her husband, by no means loved the presence of this gouvernante, who had the impertinence to be so beautiful, that even she, aristocratic lady as she was, felt herself put in the shade so soon as Gertrud even appeared. After the stormy surprise of the first moment, Eugen seemed to have come back to his senses, perhaps he also feared his wife's jealousy; in any case, he seemed to understand better how to control himself than in the first sudden meeting, and when they saw one another, which happened usually only at table, and in the presence of others, his demeanour was as distant as hers could be.
And Count Arnau? He had kept his word, and given Gertrud no cause to offend him again. There was an iron consistency in the way with which he seemed to ignore her completely after their last conversation; not a word, not a recognition did she now receive from him, not the slightest, most unimportant attention, accorded even to persons in such a dependent position. The governess appeared no longer to exist for him, and when he was obliged to acknowledge her presence by a cold, forced bow, he did so with manifest reluctance. Certainly this was what she from the first had hoped and striven for, now she had obtained her desire, and all the rest of her difficulties were coming to an end. The day after to-morrow Baron Sternfeld, with his wife and children, would return to his estate; the rest would return to the capital, the party would be broken up--it was to be hoped never to meet again, as far as some were concerned.
Gertrud gave a deep sigh of relief at this thought, or rather endeavoured to do so, but a heavy weight still seemed to be upon her heart, and she clasped her folded hands closer together in wild pain. The young girl had grown much paler these few weeks, and the shade did not lie as of old in her eyes, it was effaced, forced into the background by another expression. There was an anxious unrest, a tormenting pain to be read there now, and the firmly-pressed lips seemed to hold back some secret, which she hardly dared to speak of, even to herself. She took her book and tried to read, but she could not. She opened it in the middle, at the end, in vain. Her eyes wandered over the words without taking in the sense; her thoughts were too strong to be banished.
With a passionate movement, which betrayed the hidden conflict within, she at last threw it down, and hid her face in both hands.
"Gertrud!"
She sprang up with a look of terror.
"Herr von Reinert! You here!"
It was, indeed, Eugen, who stood at some little distance from her. He, too, was pale and agitated, and his voice trembled as with cast down eyes, he asked, in a low tone--
"May I--may I approach?"
"No!" was the firm, grave answer.
In spite of the refusal he dared to advance a step.
"Gertrud, do not be so unforgiving! I know you hate me, that I have made you unhappy--"
With an expression of indescribable pride Gertrud lifted her head, her eyes met his, large, and full of disdain, and not the slightest trace of agitation trembled now in her voice, but there was a touch of compassionate scorn as she replied, quietly--
"You are mistaken, Herr von Reinert; I do not hate you, and have not been made unhappy through you."
"Well, then, I am unhappy!" said Eugen, bluntly. "Since the moment when I left you, I have never known happiness. I could not forget the past, and now that I must meet you again, I am driven to despair!"
With his old passion he threw himself down where she had just been sitting, and pressed his hand against his brow. Gertrud stood before him; who, that was witness of the mute, but powerful conflict, which, but a few minutes since, had agitated the girl's whole being, would have understood the calm collectedness with which she now looked down upon her former lover.
"Eugen!"
He sprang up, but she gravely motioned him back.
"Do not misunderstand me. I address you now as the playfellow of my childish days, whom I have never called anything else. If what torments you is the thought of my presumed unhappiness--my loneliness, be calm, such a reproach I can bear from you. If I have suffered from our separation, it was only through my pride, which rose at the humiliation of being forsaken, my heart had no part in it, for I, Eugen--I have never loved you!"
"Gertrud!"
"Never!" repeated she, firmly. "You released me for the good of us both! perhaps, else, I should have had to confess to you that I could never be your wife."
"Impossible!" cried Eugen, springing up. "If you did not love me, why--"
"Why did I accept your offer, do you mean?" Her eyes sank to the ground, and a gentle shade passed over her face, whilst, with a low voice, the peculiarly painful tone of which pierced to his heart, she continued--"I was scarcely more than a child, I had learnt nothing beyond my mother's sick room, but care, sorrow, and many other things more difficult to bear. The first ray of sunshine which falls upon such a childhood is seldom denied entrance. You came back then from the capital in all the brilliance of your rising talent, admired by all in our little town. You told me of your love, and I--did, what every girl of sixteen does, whose heart is still free. I dreamed myself into the idea that I loved you, whilst I really only cherished an affection for my old playfellow. That this feeling was not love, I began to find out, when we separated, now--now I know it!"
The last words came almost inaudibly from her lips, but there was indescribable pain in them. Eugen had hitherto controlled himself with manifest difficulty, and now he broke out with painful bitterness--
"No, Gertrud, that is not true! It cannot be, you deceive yourself and me. You tell me this, and desire me to be calm, and you do not know how it makes me still more miserable, if I can no longer believe in your love to me. If you knew how unhappy I am in these golden fetters, in this marriage with a wife who sees in me only a plaything for her varying moods, whom she idolises at one moment, and at another reminds, in the most humiliating way, of his unimportance; if you knew how deeply I repent the unhappy course, which I once--"
"Let us put an end to this conversation, Eugen," interrupted she gravely, "it goes beyond the limits which are drawn between us. You have heard the truth from me. I cannot alter anything that I have said, now farewell!"
She would have extended her hand, but he took no notice, but continued in rising agitation--
"Too late, I see what I once possessed in you, what I gave up in foolish madness, and what I have exchanged for it. The fruits of that foolish passion have been reaped long ago, and now that Fate had again led us together--now the old love flames up mightily, and tears me again to your feet--"
In the deepest indignation Gertrud retreated a step.
"You forget yourself, Herr von Reinert, and deeply insult both me and your wife through such words. Leave me, instantly, I will not hear a word more!"
But even these energetic, commanding words, which would not usually have failed in effect, were powerless against a passion which tore Eugen away from the bonds of sense and reason. He fell on his knees, and repeated his former words, in that glowing, raving language with which he had once wooed the girl of sixteen, and which, a year later, Antonie had heard from his lips. This time Gertrud did not reply. With a look of unconcealed scorn she turned silently away, and would have gone, but this seemed to make him beside himself. He sprang up, seized her arm, and tried to keep her back by force.
With a cry of indignation, Gertrud endeavoured to free herself, but there was no longer need. At the moment Eugen dared to touch her, he tottered, thrown back by a powerful arm--
Count Arnau stood between them.
Gertrud, too, had shrunk back at Hermann's sudden appearance, as if it were directed against her also. Before Reinert's wild passion she had kept her presence of mind. Now it suddenly seemed to leave her, and it almost looked as if she feared the protector more than the offender. The Count noted her timidity, and an expression of deep bitterness showed itself round his lips, nevertheless he placed himself protectingly before her, crossed his arms, and calmly awaited the next.
Eugen, meanwhile, had risen, and now came up to him, pale with anger--
"What does that mean, Hermann? Why do you follow me secretly to pry, unasked, into my affairs? What right have you to do it?"
The Count remained very calm in face of this threatening violence, but there was an icy scorn in the glance, with which he measured him from head to foot.
"Can you really dare to ask why I must interfere here?"
"You have insulted me!" cried Eugen, passionately, "insulted me deeply, and either you make me an apology, or give me satisfaction with a weapon in your hand!"
Without honouring him with an answer, Hermann turned to Gertrud--
"Mein Fräulein, you see that Herr von Reinert is not sufficiently master of himself to pay the necessary consideration to the presence of a lady. May I beg you to leave us?"
She stood before him, pale, with downcast eyes. Where had the proud unapproachable demeanour of the maiden come from? Her eyes, which but lately had met his so firmly, so ready for conflict, sank now shyly to the ground. She bowed in mute assent, and walked away.
The Count looked after her long and earnestly, then he passed his hand over his brow, and turned away.
"We are alone, what do you wish to say to me?"
"That I am at last tired out of being dictated to by you, of being treated like a schoolboy, and insulted. What has passed between Gertrud and me concerns no third."
"Really?" The Count's voice was still calm, but passion lurked underneath it. "You may be mistaken."
"It is all the same to me what you think. You have attacked me, thrown me to the ground. I demand satisfaction for this insult; do you hear, Hermann, I demand it from you!"
The Count shrugged his shoulders.
"A duel between us? That would indeed be more than ridiculous."
"Ah, you refuse?"
"Yes! It would be a poor return to my grandmother's hospitality, to shoot each other dead on her estate, added to which, Antonie is too near a relation, and I must openly confess to you, Eugen, my life and work are too valuable to me, for me to risk it for the sake of one of your mad moods. I certainly refuse."
Eugen clenched his fist in boundless rage.
"Hermann, you are--"
"No insults!" said the Count, authoritatively, raising his hand. "I should have thought you have often enough had opportunity to test my courage. To-day's scene is the open breach of a friendship which has long existed only in name. In the future our paths must lie apart--let that be sufficient."
If Hermann really wished to avoid irritating Eugen still further, he ought not to have spoken in this proud, scornful tone. It robbed him of the last particle of sense remaining to him, and drove him finally to the use of force. He came close up to the Count, and with a voice half choked with passion, he said between his teeth--
"I ask you for the last time, will you give me satisfaction?"
"No!"
"Well, then, I will compel you to!"
He raised his hand, and the next minute a blow struck the Count.
The effect was terrible. Every drop of blood left Hermann's face, his fist clenched convulsively, and for a moment it seemed as if he would rush upon the offender and fell him to the earth, but the usual self-command conquered; he took a deep breath, and let his arms fall.
"Good, you shall have your way! To-morrow morning early, then!"
There lay something in the iron energy with which this man controlled himself, which shamed Eugen's violence, and was not without its effect upon him. He stood, perhaps himself frightened at what he had done, as if something like repentance were working within him, for he made a movement, as if to hold the Count back, but it was too late, Hermann had already turned away, and left the place.
On the point of turning into the great avenue, which led towards the house, he stood suddenly before Gertrud, who seemed to have gone but a few steps. A single glance at her face showed him at once, that in spite of her apparent absence, she had been a witness of a conversation, the subject of which she must have expected, meanwhile he said nothing about it, but coming up asked simply--
"I must beg of you to accept of my companionship to the house, else you might be in danger of meeting Herr von Reinert once more."
As before, she made no reply, but silently assented to his proposal. They went slowly along the avenue; here, under the shade of the great oaks and beeches it was already twilight; high up above, the last golden rays gilded the branches, and here and there a bird still warbled low and dreamily his evening song.
The two walked side by side as distantly, as if, indeed, chance had brought them into a position mutually painful. Count Arnau preserved a consistent silence, Gertrud did not raise her eyes from the ground, and yet now and then his eyes searched her countenance as if with a gloomy question, and her bosom heaved more and more stormily in some hidden conflict, which at last gained the victory over her reserve.
"Herr Graf!"
He stopped at once.
"Mein Fräulein?"
She was still silent an instant, the words would not come to her lips, and it evidently cost her a powerful effort, as she at last asked--
"You have consented to a duel with Herr von Reinert?"
Hermann shrugged his shoulders.
"You can bear me witness that I have done all that was possible to avoid it, but Eugen knew how to compel me to it. There are forms, the hurtfulness and foolishness of which one sees, and yet one has to bow to them. After what has passed between us, my honour gives me no other choice than to defend it with a weapon in the hand. I must bow to necessity."
"On my account? No, that shall not, must not be!"
Her voice became firmer as she went on, but something like a smile crossed the Count's features.
"Will you prevent it?"
"Yes!" replied she energetically. "I shall appeal to the Präsidentin, and Frau von Reinert, that both by their influence may--"
"You will not do that!" interrupted Hermann, gravely and sternly. "You will not misuse the knowledge which a chance possessed you of. This is a matter which concerns us men alone, and must be settled by us alone. I, for my part, will not suffer the interference of a woman here, whoever she may be, and neither my grandmother's reasoning, nor the tears and swoons of my cousin will alter my decision in the least."
For the first time during the whole conversation she lifted her eyes to his with such a look of inexpressible, entreating anxiety, that the Count, who had but just before so proudly declared his inflexibility, turned suddenly away, as if he feared to succumb to a temptation. He continued speaking, but his voice was much milder, though it had lost nothing of its peculiar firmness.
"I know that I impose a hard task upon you to be silent, and, perhaps, to tremble, where a word could hinder the bloody decision. I know, too, that few women are equal to such a task, but I give you credit for it. My honour now demands, that the duel shall take place undisturbed, therefore I require your promise to preserve an unbroken silence towards every one until to-morrow at noon. Give me your word upon it!"
He held out his hand to her; whether she actually laid hers in his, or whether he took it, Gertrud knew not, but the little hand trembled so violently that he let it fall the next moment.
"Do not tremble so," said he with bitterness, "I have the first shot, and am sure of my weapon, however deeply Eugen may have angered me, I shall not forget that I once called him friend. He shall not pay for his folly with his life, even if I cannot hope for such generosity from him."
Gertrud had let his bitterness pass without remark, but at his last words she lifted her head in sudden terror. Something in her countenance must have touched the Count magnetically, for his eyes suddenly lighted up, he seized both her hands, and asked in a low tone, but with quite a different expression from before, "Gertrud, why do you hate me?"
The girl started violently, and a suspicious flush bathed her cheeks and brow. She tried to free herself, but he would not let her go.
"From the first you have shown the most unconcealed hatred towards me, and yet, Gertrud, matters must be clear between us now. What have I done to you? Why do you hate me?"
No one would have thought it possible that this cold, hard voice could melt into such soft, heart-felt tones, and Gertrud's whole being seemed to tremble under them. It is impossible to describe the emotions which played in stormy strife upon the young girl's countenance, anxiety, pain, despair, and yet behind all these, an unspeakable joy, which found vent in the single exclamation, half jubilant, and yet half like a deep cry of pain, "O, my God!"
She clasped her hands before her face, Hermann looking steadfastly at her. "I see that a secret lies here, which you will not speak out. But I must take certainty with me to-morrow, Gertrud, tell me only this one thing, for which of us two do you tremble?"
A moment's heavy pause, then she slowly let her hands fall. Her face was deadly pale, but calmly, though almost inaudibly, she answered, "I tremble for every life which is threatened."
The Count drew back a step, the light in his eyes was suddenly extinguished, and his face was once more hard and cold. "You are right, mein Fräulein," said he icily. "Since you are the innocent cause of our duel, the death of either of us must be equally unpleasant to you. I understand that perfectly. Adieu!"
He went to the end of the avenue, his foot hesitated an instant, he imagined he heard a cry, but when he looked back she still stood immovably in the same place. With all his aristocratic pride, Count Arnau threw back his head, and strode through the deepening twilight towards the house.
CHAPTER VII.
The morning broke clear and sunny. At breakfast Count Arnau and Herr von Reinert were missing, they had gone for a ride very early with several other gentlemen, which had only been settled late the evening before. No one thought of attributing any importance to this circumstance, but, on the other hand, Baronin von Sternfeld was greatly displeased that Mademoiselle Walter had also excused herself, on the plea of feeling very unwell. The good lady found this sudden indisposition of the gouvernante very inconvenient, for she was necessitated thereby to look after the children personally the whole day, the bonne and lady's maid being fully occupied with preparations for the next day's journey.
In her room, the windows of which looked out towards the fields, Gertrud paced restlessly up and down.
There was a limit even to her self-command; she had not felt able to appear at breakfast to-day, and to hear the talk over the "early ride," the meaning of which she alone knew. Yes, it was, indeed, a fearful task, to be silent and tremble in the full consciousness of what the next hour might bring, to remain here inactive, whilst over yonder the bloody decision was made; it was almost beyond her strength. She had kept the promise wrung from her, no word had passed her lips, but what this silence cost her, that she alone knew.
One could see that no sleep had closed the girl's eyes, which rested upon the window with an expression of the most painful suspense. Cheerful and golden the sunshine lay upon the fields around, over the woods, still enveloped in a blue mist. The corn waved gently in the morning breeze, and high up in the clear heavens the swallows shot backwards and forwards in rapid flight. But the road which led to the woods remained empty, not a single rider would appear.
Gertrud's pride and self-command seemed over. What, during the whole time, she would not confess to herself, what even yesterday evening she had tried to deny, she had been forced to recognise in the fearful anxiety of the previous night. "He shall not atone for his folly with his life, though I cannot hope for the same generosity from him!"
The words would not be put out of her memory. Eugen would not show any generosity; she knew that he was revengeful, like all weak people, and seized the opportunity gladly to revenge himself upon the man whose intellectual superiority had so often oppressed and embittered him, and he, too, was sure of his weapon, and seldom failed in his mark.
She fell down on her knees, and in speechless anxiety raised her folded hands. She knew now for whom this prayer was offered, and had known yesterday, when that grave, hard voice had asked so gently, "Gertrud, why do you hate me?" Though she had gathered together all her strength for the last despairing resistance, though she had possessed cruel courage to refuse him the one single word which he begged for, it was in vain now. Now she would like to have called him back, now, when it was too late. How icily cold his farewell had sounded--perhaps it was the last. Then suddenly a sound of hoofs was heard in the distance. Gertrud hurried to the window, as she had so often done before in vain, when she had heard any sound, but this time it was no disappointment. Her eyes had recognised the rider, though he was still far off on the edge of the wood; followed by his groom, Count Arnau rode towards the house.
The rebound was too great; the sudden appearance of him whom she had feared lost, decided all. In the cry of boundless delight, which unconsciously burst from her lips, in the expression of her face, lay the secret revealed. She flew to the door, reflection and reason for the moment gone; she must and would meet him!
A heavy, dull blow, then a cracking sound followed--she stopped suddenly, and looked back alarmed. One of her travelling boxes, which she had brought out yesterday, and partly packed, had been thrust out of its place by her sudden rush to the door. A simple, easily explained circumstance, but the girl's feverishly reddened cheek had become suddenly white. Slowly she again closed the door, and hesitatingly, step by step, approached the corner by the window. There was a strange expression in her face, a shrinking, as if before something supernatural, and with a timidity, as if she were really about to meet with some spirit, she bent down to examine the injury.
It was a small, unimportant little box, an old fashioned, insignificant piece of goods, which had belonged to her father, and which only a feeling of filial respect hindered the daughter from parting with. This legacy, almost the only one, which the orphan possessed, had hitherto accompanied her on every journey, and now it all at once fell over and broke, just at the moment when she was on the point of--Gertrud did not dare to complete the thought, but hastily pushed aside the books which had fallen out, and lifted the lid.
The back of the box had burst in two, and out of the crack, squeezed in between the wood and the leather lining, gleamed a piece of white paper. Gertrud mechanically pulled it out, and was about to lay it aside, when her eyes suddenly fell upon a word, an autograph--she passed her hand hastily across her eyes--surely it must be some vision, that she always and everywhere should come upon the name that just now filled all her thoughts, but at the second glance she saw that her eyes had not deceived her. "Hermann Count Arnau" stood there in faded ink, but in clear, plain handwriting--stood there on the old fashioned paper, which had been long years in its hiding place, where it must have fallen from a hole in the inner pocket, through a hasty opening of the box. Gertrud's head seemed to swim, incapable of comprehending the facts connected with it--still half stunned from her previous agitation she unfolded the paper.
It contained only a few lines, apparently very hurriedly put together, but in a business like form. The effect, however, upon the girl was like a lightning flash. She sprang up; her face, a moment since so pale, bathed in a deep flush, her eyes shining in passionate triumph, she pressed the new found paper with both hands against her breast, as if some one would tear it away, and her bosom heaved deeply--deeply, as if the weight of a whole life had been removed from it.
But it was only for a moment, in the next she started at some remembrance, which laid an icy hand on her heart, the fateful paper sank from her trembling hands, she stared at it despairingly, and then raised her eyes with a bitter cry to Heaven. On this paper had once hung the honour and happiness of a whole family--then a mischievous chance had allowed it to disappear.
Twice ten years had passed--two people had perished through its loss, and now chance had given back what was lost.
"O, God, why, just in my hand? And why now, just now?"
No answer came to this despairing question, and no sound from Gertrud's lips; mutely she fought out the conflict, the hardest in her life. How terrible it was, the convulsively wrung hands bore witness, but the lips were silent against the pain. She believed that in the past night she had known the fullest measure of tormenting anxiety, and yet, the despair of that hour compared with this moment! Now, with her own hand she must strike the threatening blow, it would be a deadly one, she knew, and this time more was at stake than life alone.
Only few, in face of such a choice, would have possessed the courage for conflict; they would have succumbed to swoons or tears, only listening to the voice of the heart, and turning away from the fateful decision. For her own unhappiness Gertrud was not one of the weak ones. A lonely, sad youth, containing bitter experiences enough for a whole life, had steeled her to endurance, but also given her that hardness, which happy people know nothing of. The iron law of duty, hitherto the single principle of her life, here, too, silenced every other voice, and, silently, and warningly came back the remembrances of the past, still sleeping unforgotten in her inmost soul. Every bitter hour in which her childhood had been so rich, every tear which she had shed, every humiliation she had endured, the mother's dying bed, the picture of her never known, but yet passionately loved father--all, all passed vividly before her, and as these remembrances poured upon her, the girl's features grew hard and cold, till at last, with dark decision she arose. The conflict was at an end; she laid her right hand as if with an oath, upon the fateful paper.
"The warning came at the right time! I was on the point of treason to myself and to my whole past. My poor sacrificed parents, the daughter will know how to guard your rights--even though she should perish in the act!"
Meanwhile, the other inhabitants of the house sat, as usual, after breakfast, in the garden house. Baron Sternfeld read aloud to his mother from the newspaper, but the political news, which she followed with such attention, seemed to weary the Baronin as well as Frau von Reinert; the former divided her attention between her embroidery and her two little daughters, who were playing outside on the terrace, and the latter yawned again and again behind her handkerchief.
The seven years had left their trace clearly enough upon Antonie. She was no longer that charming, poetical being, who knew so well how to inspire the young artist, that he forgot all else in his passion for her. Her beauty was of that delicate, but passing kind, which only lasts so long as the bloom and freshness of youth remains, and then vanishes, leaving scarcely a trace of its former reign. There were no firm, noble lines, no characteristic expression, no soul, in fact, to make up for these fleeting charms. The former enthusiastic fire in the dark eyes was extinguished, lost in that expression of weariness and languor, as plainly to be read in her features as in her husband's. The Gräfin Arnau, at twenty, had been wonderfully beautiful, Frau von Reinert, now thirty, was already faded, and all the magic arts of her toilette could not make up for what was lost.
Hermann's entrance put an end both to the Baron's reading and the weariness of the ladies. After a short morning greeting, including all, he went up to the Präsidentin's chair, and with a few words, excused his absence at breakfast.
"Where is Eugen?" asked Baron Sternfeld, surprised.
"Eugen has had a slight accident during our ride, and hurt his arm a little, he remained behind at the gamekeeper's, and I have given orders for the carriage to be sent to him. It is not at all a dangerous affair. Dr. Börner, who was one of our party, assured us so, and he put on a bandage at once."
No one thought of doubting this explanation, given in the calmest tone. The Baronin made an exclamation of concern, but Antonie cried hastily--
"That wild riding! I have prophesied over and over again to Eugen that he would have an accident some day, but he never listens to my warnings!"
There was not the slightest trace of anxiety or tenderness in this tone, only an unmistakable vexation. The Präsidentin's face certainly did not show any great concern or sympathy, but, nevertheless, she said gravely--
"Will you not at least go to your husband?"
"What need is there, grandmother? You hear that it is not in the least dangerous, and Eugen will be back in an hour in any case."
So saying, she leaned back in her chair with the most perfect indifference. The Präsidentin was silent, but her face betrayed what she thought of this answer--so this was the end of that unspeakable, glowing passion, which had once torn away the Gräfin Arnau from all the bounds of reason and sense! Hermann well understood his grandmother's look and shrug of the shoulders; was it not he who had favoured the match? It is always painful to have to confess to an error, and today the Count seemed little in the humour for it. As he came in, his eyes had flown restlessly and searchingly through the room, and the cloud which already lay on his brow had become darker. Now his unrest seemed to increase every moment; he became monosyllabic, and absent, and hardly took any part in the conversation.
"Is there no one to take charge of the children to-day?" asked he suddenly, looking towards the little girls, who were chasing each other up and down the terrace, and becoming rather noisy.
"No!" sighed the Baronin. "Mademoiselle Walter gave me the pleasure of excusing herself this morning on the plea of illness, just now, when we want to be off!"
"Ah, so!"
The Count's lips pressed themselves together in fierce anger, whilst the Baronin continued to complain of the great inconvenience of her gouvernante's illness just now, which might possibly even put off their journey.
"That is hardly to be feared, I think!" put in Antonie sarcastically. "I should imagine Mademoiselle Walter's evening walk yesterday has given her a cold, which cannot be of much importance."
"What evening walk?" asked the Baronin, becoming attentive.
"Well, she came back from the park pretty late yesterday evening, and a short time before a gentleman had left her. I could not recognize him, as it was already too dark, but from his appearance and walk I should not imagine that he was either a workman or a servant. Dear me, why not? All the gentlemen of the neighbourhood are unanimous in admiration of mademoiselle's beauty. It would be certainly no wonder if she listened to one of these inspired adorers, and consented to a little rendezvous--"
The Präsidentin knitted her brow; in spite of her antipathy to Gertrud, she was strictly just, and would suffer no calumnies in her presence.
"You ought first to prove that, Antonie," she interrupted in a grave, reproving tone, "as far as I can judge the girl, this accusation is the last that could be made against her, and hitherto Bertha has not found the slightest cause for complaint in her."
"I should also advise you to wait for an explanation of the matter, liebe Toni," continued Hermann coldly.
He still stood by his grandmother's chair, upon which he leaned with folded arms, and looked stedfastly at his cousin, with a peculiar expression. There was something half compassionate, half scornful in his look, and his lips already curled with the old, much feared sarcasm, which he poured unsparingly upon all around him, when irritated by some untoward circumstance.
"It was only a supposition," said Antonie, throwing back her head pettishly at the reproof. "But I had intended some time ago to give Bertha a hint with regard to Mademoiselle Walter; what I have found out lately about her is decidedly not to her credit."
Hermann smiled with unconcealed irony.
"Something you have found out lately? Really!"
Antonie looked questioningly at him.
"What do you mean? I don't understand you."
"Oh, I only meant, that what is not in the young lady's favour, namely, her outward appearance, you must have found out at the first moment."
Antonie flushed deeply at this malice of Hermann's, which, unfortunately, was only too true, and she did not make any denial.
She knew her cousin well enough to know that in a dispute she always got the worst of it, and that when he looked, as he did at this moment, not the slightest consideration need be expected from him. She contented herself, therefore, with darting an angry look at him, and completely ignoring the speech, turned to the Baronin, who now exclaimed suspiciously--
"But what is this you have found out about her?"
Antonie took a rose from the vase before her, and began to pluck it to pieces.
"Well, my information does not concern her so much as her family. I suppose you do not know that 'mademoiselle' has no right to the name of 'Walter.' It is her mother's family name, which the latter re-assumed, or rather was obliged to do so, because her husband's name called forth very unpleasant remembrances."
The sarcastic calmness with which Hermann had listened hitherto, suddenly disappeared and gave place to a deathly paleness. He bent forward in the deepest attention, and followed the conversation in visible suspense.
"A false name!" cried Baron Sternfeld, also coming nearer, "why, that is evident deception! How do you know it, Antonie? And why have you not mentioned it before?"
"Because I only found it out myself yesterday. My maid visited W---- some years since, and got to know something of Mademoiselle Gertrud, whose mother was still living at that time. Therese was not a little astonished to find in this Madame Walter the wife of Brand, formerly steward to the Prince in N----."
Here the Präsidentin suddenly laid her hand on her grandson's arm, and the warning was needed. He had started violently at the name, as if struck by a shot, now he slowly turned towards his grandmother, she exchanged a deep glance with him, whilst he seized her hand convulsively. But the warning was in time, he succeeded in keeping command over his features.
The others were all too much occupied with Antonie's disclosure to notice the Count.
"Brand--Brand!" said the Baron, thoughtfully, "I seem to have heard the name before somewhere. Who was he, did you say, and what do you know of him?"
"Not much to his credit. He embezzled money entrusted to him, belonging to the Prince, and finally, when he found his crime discovered, had the atrocity to shoot himself in Uncle Arnau's business room, before his eyes. I was but a child then, but I know the affair was much talked about, and made a great stir. Hermann must remember it well enough, for the shock almost cost his poor mother her life."
Count Arnau appeared not to have heard the indirect question, at least he gave no answer. His hand lay icy cold in the Präsidentin's, she must have felt by this how it stood with him, for she suddenly looked up anxiously, his face still remained immovable.
The Baronin was in the greatest indignation. "Abominable! The daughter of a thief, of a cheat in my house! And she has dared to be silent towards me, to be taken into my house under a false name!"
Antonie smiled maliciously. "Good gracious, Bertha, do you think it likely she would do otherwise? It would have been simply impossible for her to obtain a respectable situation if she had openly confessed her antecedents."
"No matter, I cannot suffer such a deception, cannot entrust the education of my children to the hands of a person who comes of such a family. I shall speak to her to-day and demand an explanation of her."
"You will not do that, Bertha," interrupted the Präsidentin, in her sharpest tone. "How do you even know whether the girl knows her father's history? I doubt it, and even if she did, the children are not responsible for the sins of their parents, in which they have had no part. If you wish to dismiss the young lady, do it at least as considerately as possible; in any case, I beg that you will take no steps in the affair without once more considering the matter with me."
The old lady had risen and stood so imposingly before her daughter-in-law, that neither she nor her husband ventured a remonstrance, indeed, they were accustomed to bow to the mother's authority unconditionally, though her sudden taking of the gouvernante's part had somewhat surprised them.
The Präsidentin turned to her grandson. "Have the goodness, Hermann, to lead me to my room, I feel somewhat tired. I should advise you, Antonie, to get into the carriage and drive down to your husband. If his hurt is so indifferent to you, propriety nevertheless demands, that you (at least, in the eyes of others) trouble yourself somewhat about it. The carriage is just driving up, I see."
This advice, given in the tone of a decided command, was evidently as unpalatable to Frau von Reinert as the former to the Baronin, but she, too, did not gainsay it. In the worst of tempers, she rang for her maid to fetch hat and shawl, whilst the Präsidentin left the saloon, supported on Hermann's arm.