ENTRAPPED.
Before Harry seated himself beside the robust Paula in the
pony-carriage, a slender little hand was held out to him, and a pale
little face, half sad, half pouting, looked longingly up at him.
He saw neither the hand nor the face. Oh, the pity of it!
The night is sultry and silent. The full moon shines in a cloudless,
dark-blue sky. Not a breath of air is stirring; the leaves of the tall
poplars, casting coal-black shadows on the white, dusty highway, are
motionless.
The harvest has been partly gathered in; sometimes the moonlight
illumines the bare fields with a yellowish lustre; in other fields the
sheaves are stacked in pointed heaps, and now and then a field of rye
is passed, a plain of glimmering, silvery green, still uncut. The
bearded stalks stand motionless with bowed heads, as if overtaken by
sleep. From the distance comes the monotonous rustle of the mower's
scythe; there is work going on even thus far into the night.
The heavy slumberous air has an effect upon Harry; his breath comes
slowly, his veins tingle.
Ten minutes have passed, and he has not opened his lips. Paula Harfink
looks at him now and then with a keen glance.
She is twenty-seven years old, and, although her life has been that of
a perfectly virtuous woman of her class, existence no longer holds any
secrets for her. Endowed by nature with intense curiosity, which has
been gradually exalted into a thirst for knowledge, she has read
everything that is worth reading in native and foreign modern
literature, scientific and otherwise, and she is consequently
thoroughly conversant with the world in which she lives.
Harry's exaggerated homage during the afternoon has suggested the idea
that he contemplates a marriage with her. That other than purely
sentimental reasons have weight with him in this respect she thinks
highly probable, but there is nothing offensive to her in the thought.
She knows that, in spite of her beauty, she must buy a husband; why
then should she not buy a husband whom she likes?
Nothing could happen more opportunely than this drive in the moonlight.
She is quite sure of bringing the affair to a satisfactory conclusion.
Click-clack--the ponies' hoofs beat the dusty road in monotonous
rhythm, tossing light silvery clouds of dust into the moonlight. Harry
is still silent, when--a plump hand is laid upon his arm.
"Please," Paula murmurs, half laughing, and handing him the reins,
"drive for me. The ponies are so fresh to-night, they almost pull my
hands off."
Harry bows, the ponies shake their manes, snort proudly, and increase
their speed, seeming to feel a sympathetic hand upon the reins.
"And I fancied I could drive!" Paula says, with a laugh; "it is a
positive pleasure to see you handle the reins."
"But such toys as these ponies!" he remarks, with a rather impatient
protest.
"Can you drive four-in-hand?" she asks, bluntly.
"Yes, and five-in-hand, or six-in-hand, for that matter," he replies.
"Of course! How stupid of me to ask! Did you not drive five-in-hand on
the Prater, three years ago on the first of May? Three chestnuts and
two bays, if I remember rightly."
"Yes; you certainly have an admirable memory!" Harry murmurs,
flattered.
"Not for everything," she declares, eagerly; "I never can remember
certain things. For instance, I never can remember the unmarried name
of Peter the Great's mother."
"She was a Narischkin, I believe," says Harry, who learned the fact on
one occasion when some foolish Narischkin was boasting of his imperial
connections.
Heaven knows what induces him to make a display to Paula of his
historical knowledge. He usually suppresses everything in that
direction which he owes to his good memory, as a learned marriageable
girl will hold her tongue for fear of scaring away admirers. Harry
thinks it beneath his dignity to play the cultured officer. He leaves
that to the infantry.
"You distance me in every direction," Paula says; "but as a whip you
inspire me with the most respect. I could not take my eyes off your
turn-out that day in the Prater. How docile and yet how spirited those
five creatures were under your guidance! And you sat there holding the
reins with as much indifference apparently as if they had been your
shake at a state ceremony. I cannot understand how you contrive to keep
the reins of a five-in-hand disentangled."
"I find it much more difficult to understand how a man can play the
guitar," Harry says, dryly.
Paula laughs, though with a sense of vexation at being still so far
from the attainment of her purpose. She takes off her tall hat, tosses
it carelessly into the seat behind them, and slowly pulls the gloves
off her white hands.
"That is refreshing!" she says, and then is silent. For the nonce it is
her wisest course.
Harry's eyes seek her face, then take in her entire figure, and then
again rest upon her face. The moon is shining with a hard, bluish
brilliancy, almost like that of an electric light, and it brings into
wondrous relief the girl's mature beauty. Its intense brightness
shimmers about her golden hair; the red and white of her complexion
blend in a dim, warm pallor. Her white hands rest in her lap as she
leans back among the cushions of the phaeton.
Click-clack--click-clack--the hoofs of the horses fly over the smooth,
hard road; duller and less regular grows the beat of the horses' hoofs
behind the wagon,--of Harry's steed and that of his groom.
The fields of grain have vanished. They are driving now through a
village,--a silent village, where every one is asleep. The dark
window-panes glisten in the moonlight; the shadows of the pointed roofs
form a black zigzag on the road, dividing it into two parts,--one dark,
one light. Only behind one window shines a candle; perhaps a mother is
watching there beside a sick or dying child. The candle-light, with its
yellow gleam, contrasts strangely with the bluish moonlight. A dog bays
behind a gate; otherwise, all is quiet.
And now the village lies behind them,--a chaos of black roofs,
whitewashed walls, and dark lindens. To the right and left are
pasture-lands, where countless wild chamomile-flowers glitter white and
ghostly among the grass, in the midst of which rises a rude wooden
crucifix. The pungent fragrance of the chamomile-flowers mingles with
the odour of the dust of the road.
Then the pastures vanish, with the chamomile-flowers and the oppressive
silence. A forest extends on either side of the road,--a forest which
is never silent, where even in so quiet a night as this the topmost
boughs murmur dreamily. It sounds almost like the dull plaint of
human souls, imprisoned in these ancient pines,--the souls of men
who aspired too high in life, seeking the way to the stars which
gleamed so kindly when admired from afar, but which fled like
glittering will-o'-the-wisps from those who would fain approach them.
The moonlight seems to drip down the boles of the monarchs of the wood
like molten silver, to lie here and there upon the underbrush around
their feet. A strong odour rises from the warm woodland earth,--the
odour of dead leaves, mingling deliciously with all other forest
fragrance.
"How wonderful!" Paula whispers.
"Yes, it is beautiful," says Harry; and again his eyes seek the face of
his companion.
"And do you know what is still more beautiful?" she murmurs. "To feel
protected, safe,--to know that some one else will think for you."
The road grows rough; the wheels jolt over the stones; the little
carriage sways from side to side. Paula clutches Harry's arm. Her
waving hair brushes his cheek; it thrills him. She starts back from
him.
"Pardon me," she murmurs, as if mortified.
"Pardon me, Baroness," he says. "I had no idea that the forest-road was
so rough; it is the shortest. Did you not come by it to Zirkow?"
"No."
"You ought to have warned me."
"I had forgotten it."
Again the wheels creak; tire ponies snort their dissatisfaction, the
little vehicle sways, and Paula trembles.
"I am afraid it will be rougher yet," says Harry. "How stupid of me not
to have thought of it! There!--the mud is really deep. Who could have
supposed it in this drought? We are near the Poacher's ditch: I can
perceive the swampy odour in the air."
"The Poacher's ditch?" Paula repeats, in a low tone. "Is that the
uncanny place where the will-o'-the-wisps dance?"
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes."
"So brave an Amazon--afraid?"
"Yes, for the first time in my life. I do not know what has come over
me," she whispers.
"A poor compliment for me!" he says, then pauses and looks at her.
She turns away her head as if she were blushing.
The tall pines crowd closer and closer on either side of the road; the
strip of moon-lit sky grows narrower overhead; the damp odour of
decaying vegetation poisons the air. The gloom is intense, the
moonbeams cannot find their way hither. In particular the road and the
lower portion of the tree-trunks are veiled in deep shade. A tiny blue
flame flickers up from the ground, dances among the trees,--then
another--and another----
"Ah!" Paula screams and clings like a maniac to Harry. He puts his arm
round her, and soothes her, half laughing the while. Did his lips
actually seek hers? A sudden, lingering kiss bewilders him, like the
intoxicating perfume of a flower.
It lasts but a second, and he has released her.
"Forgive me!" he cries, distressed, confused.
Does she really not understand him? At all events she only shakes her
head at his words, and murmurs, "Forgive?--what is there to forgive? It
came so unexpectedly. I had no idea that you loved me, Harry."
His cheeks burn. The forest has vanished, the road is smooth;
click-clack--the ponies' hoofs fly through the dust, and behind comes
the irregular thud of eight other hoofs along the road. Harry looks
round, and sees the groom, whom he had forgotten.
The dim woodland twilight has been left far behind; the moon floods the
landscape with silvery splendour. All is silent around; not a leaf
stirs; only the faint, dying murmur of the forest is audible for a few
moments.
Ten minutes later Harry draws up before the Dobrotschau castle. "You
will come to see mamma to-morrow?" Paula whispers, pressing her lover's
hand. But Harry feels as if he could annihilate her, himself, and the
whole world.