THE SECRET.
An hour later Zdena, a huge red silk sunshade held over her handsome
head, is driving rapidly towards Dobrotschau. She intends to make peace
with her cousin.
The exaggerated attentions which he paid to Paula vexed her for the
moment, but now she remembers them with only a smile of contempt. "Poor
Harry!" she murmurs, in a superior, patronizing way. "Poor Harry! he is
a thoroughly good fellow, and so devoted to me!"
The carriage rolls swiftly along the smooth road, upon which the last
traces of a recent shower are fast fading beneath the August heat. The
sky is blue and cloudless. The sun is rising higher; the stubble-fields
to the right and left lie basking in its light; the shadows of the
trees grow shorter and blacker, and the dark masses of the distant
forests stand out in strong contrast with the sunny fields.
Avoiding the rough forest road, the coachman takes the longer course
along the highway. An hour and a quarter passes before Zdena drives
through an arched gate-way, surmounted by a crest carved in the stone,
into a picturesque court-yard, where between two very ancient lindens
stands a Saint John of Nepomuk, whose cross has fallen out of his
marble arms, and at whose feet an antique fountain, plashing dreamily,
tells of long-gone times,--times that possess no interest for the
present inmates of the castle.
Zdena does not waste a glance upon the picturesque beauty of her
surroundings. Two riding-horses, very much heated, and led up and down
the old-fashioned court-yard, at once engage her attention. Are those
not Harry's horses? What is Harry doing here? A slight sensation of
anxiety assails her. Then she smiles at her nonsensical suspicions, and
is glad that she shall thus meet Harry sooner than she had hoped.
A footman in a plain and tasteful livery hurries forward to open her
carriage door; the ladies are at home.
Zdena trips up the steps to the spacious, airy hall, where, among
antique, heavy-carved furniture, a couple of full suits of armour are
set up, sword in gauntlet, like a spellbound bit of the Middle Ages, on
either side of a tall clock, upon whose brass face the effigy of a
grinning Death--his scythe over his shoulder--celebrates his eternal,
monotonous triumph. On the walls hang various portraits, dim with age,
of the ancestors of the late possessor, some clad in armour, some with
full-bottomed wigs, and others again wearing powdered queues; with
ladies in patch and powder, narrow-breasted gowns, and huge stiff
ruffs.
"If these worthies could suddenly come to life, how amazed they would
be!" thinks Zdena. She has no more time, however, for profound
reflections; for from one of the high oaken doors, opening out of the
hall, comes Harry.
They both start at this unexpected encounter; he grows deadly pale, she
flushes crimson. But she regains her self-possession sooner than he can
collect himself, and while he, unable to utter a word, turns his head
aside, she approaches him, and, laying her hand gently upon his arm,
murmurs, in a voice sweet as honey, "Harry!"
He turns and looks at her. How charming she is! With the arch
condescension of a princess certain of victory, she laughs in his face
and whispers,--
"Are you not beginning to be sorry that you said such hateful things to
me the other day?"
He has grown paler still; his eyes alone seem blazing in his head. For
a while he leaves her question unanswered, devouring her lovely,
laughing face with his gaze; then, suddenly seizing her almost roughly
by both wrists, he exclaims,--
"And are you not beginning to be sorry that you gave me cause to do
so?"
At this question, imprudent as it is, considering the circumstances,
Zdena hangs her golden head, and whispers, very softly, "Yes."
It is cold and gloomy in the hall; the two suits of armour cast long
dark-gray shadows upon the black-and-white-tiled floor; two huge
bluebottle flies are buzzing on the frame of an old portrait, and a
large moth with transparent wings and a velvet body is bumping its head
against the ceiling, whether for amusement or in despair it is
impossible to say.
Zdena trembles all over; she knows that she has said something
conclusive, something that she cannot recall. She is conscious of
having performed a difficult task, and she expects her reward.
Something very sweet, something most delicious, is at hand. He must
clasp her in his arms, as on that evening in Vienna. Ah, it is useless
to try to deceive herself,--she cannot live without him. But he stands
as if turned to stone, ashy pale, with a look of horror.
A door opens. Paula Harfink enters the hall, tall, portly, handsome
after her fashion, in a flowered Pompadour gown, evidently equipped for
a walk, wearing a pair of buckskin gloves and a garden-hat trimmed with
red poppies and yellow gauze.
"Ah! have you been waiting for me up-stairs, Harry?" she asks; then,
perceiving Zdena, she adds, "A visitor!--a welcome visitor!"
To Zdena's amazement and terror, she finds herself tenderly embraced by
Paula, who, looking archly from one to the other of the cousins, asks,
"Shall we wait until Sunday for the grand surprise, Harry? Let your
cousin guess. Come, Baroness Zdena, what is the news at Dobrotschau?"
For one moment Zdena feels as if a dagger were plunged into her heart
and turned around in the wound; then she recovers her composure and
smiles, a little contemptuously, perhaps even haughtily, but naturally
and with grace.
"Oh, it is not very difficult to guess," she says. "What is the news?
Why, a betrothal. You have my best wishes, Baroness; and you too,
Harry,--I wish you every happiness!"