KOMARITZ AGAIN.
The major carried out his plan. On Saturday the painter made solemn
entry into Zirkow with his train of workmen, their ladders, paint-pots,
and brushes, to turn the orderly household upside-down,--whereupon
Baron Paul drove Zdena to Komaritz, in the same drag in which the child
of six had first been driven thither by him.
More than a dozen years had passed since that afternoon, and yet every
detail of the drive was vividly present in the young girl's mind. Much
had changed since then; the drag had grown far shabbier, and the fiery
chestnuts had been tamed and lamed by time, but the road was just as
bad, and the country around as lovely and home-like. From time to time
Zdena raised her head to gaze where the stream ran cool and gray on the
other side of the walnut-trees that bordered the road, or at the brown
ruin of the castle, the jagged tower of which was steadily rising in
the blue atmosphere against the distant horizon. And then she would
pull her straw hat lower over her eyes and look only at the backs of
the horses. Why did her uncle keep glancing at her with such a sly
smile? He could not divine the strange mixture of joy and unrest that
was filling her soul. No one must know it. Poor Zdena! All night long
she had been tormented by the thought that she had yielded too readily,
had acceded too willingly to her uncle's proposal to take her to
Komaritz during the bustle made by the painters, and she had soothed
her scruples by saying to herself, "He will not be there." And, yet,
the nearer they came to Komaritz the more persistent was the joyous
suggestion within her, "What if he were not yet gone!"
Click-clack! The ancient St. John, whose bead is lying at his feet
precisely as it was lying so many years ago, stands gray and tall among
the lindens in the pasture near the village; they have reached
Komaritz. Click-clack!--the horses make an ambitious effort to
end their journey with credit. The same ox, recently butchered,
hangs before the butcher-shop on an old walnut; the same odour of
wagon-grease and singed hoofs comes from the smithy, and before it the
smith is examining the foot of the same horse, while a dozen village
children stand around gazing. The same dear old Komaritz!
"If only he might be there!"
With a sudden jolt the drag rolls through the picturesque, ruinous
archway of the court-yard. The chestnuts are reined in, the major's sly
smile broadens expressively, and Zdena's young pulses throb with
breathless delight.
Yes, he is there! standing in the door-way of the old house, an
embarrassed smile on his thin, tanned face as he offers his hand to
Zdena to help her down from her high seat.
"What a surprise! You here?" exclaims the old dragoon, with
poorly-feigned astonishment, in which there is a slight tinge of
ridicule. "I thought you would be miles away by this time. It is a good
thing that you were able to postpone your departure for a few days. No,
I can't stop; I must drive home again immediately. Adieu, children!"
Baron Paul turns his tired steeds, and, gaily waving his hand in token
of farewell, vanishes beneath the archway.
There they stand, she and he, alone in front of the house. The old
walnuts, lifting their stately crests into the blue skies along one
side of the court-yard, whisper all sorts of pleasant things to them,
but they have no words for each other.
At last Harry asks, taking the black leather travelling-bag from his
cousin's hand, "Is this all your luggage?"
"The milkman is to bring a small trunk," she replies, without looking
at him.
"We have had your old room made ready for you."
"Ah, my old room,--how delightful!"
They cross the threshold, when Harry suddenly stands still.
"Are you not going to give me your hand?" he asks, in a tone of
entreaty, whereupon she extends her hand, and then instantly withdraws
it. She seems to herself to be doing wrong. As matters stand, she must
not make the smallest advance to him,--no, not the smallest: she has
resolved upon that. In fact, she did not expect to see him here, and
she must show him that she is quite annoyed by his postponing his
departure.
Yap, yap, yap! the rabble of dachshunds, multiplied considerably in the
last twelve years, comes tumbling down the steps to leap about Zdena;
Harry's faithful hound Hector comes and puts his paws on her shoulder;
and, lastly, the ladies come down into the hall,--Heda, the Countess
Zriny, Fraeulein Laut,--and, surrounding Zdena, carry her off to her
room. Here they stay talking with her for a while; then they withdraw,
each to follow her own devices.
How glad the girl is to be alone! She is strangely moved, perplexed,
and yet unaccountably happy.
It is clear that Harry intends to dissolve the engagement into which so
mysterious a chain of circumstances has forced him. The difficulty of
doing this Zdena does not take into consideration. Paula must see that
he does not care for her; and then--then there will be nothing left for
her save to release him. Thus Zdena concludes, and the world looks very
bright to her.
Oh, the dear old room! she would not exchange it for a kingdom.
How home-like and comfortable!--so shady and cool, with its deep
window-recesses, where the sunshine filters in through the green,
rustling net-work of vines; with its stiff antiquated furniture forming
so odd a contrast to the wild luxuriance of extraordinary flowers with
which a travelling fresco-painter ages ago decorated walls and ceiling;
with its old-fashioned embroidered _prie-dieu_ beneath an ancient
bronze crucifix, and its little bed, so snowy white and cool, fragrant
with lavender and orris!
The floor, of plain deal planks, scrubbed to a milky whiteness, is
bare, except that beside the bed lies a rug upon which a very yellow
tiger is rolling, and gnashing his teeth, in a very green meadow, and
on the wall hangs one single picture,--a faded chromo, at which Zdena,
when a child, had almost stared her eyes out.
The picture represents a young lady gazing at her reflection in a
mirror. Her hair is worn in tasteless, high puffs and much powdered,
her waist is unnaturally long and slim, and her skirts are bunched up
about her hips. To the modern observer she is not attractive, but Zdena
hails her as an old acquaintance. Beneath the picture are the words
"_Lui plairai-je?_" The thing hangs in one of the window-embrasures,
above a marquetrie work-table, upon which has been placed a nosegay of
fresh, fragrant roses.
"Who has plucked and placed them there?" Zdena asks herself. Suddenly a
shrill bell rings, calling to table the inmates of Komaritz in house
and garden. Zdena hurriedly picks out of the nosegay the loveliest bud,
and puts it in her breast, then looks at herself in the glass,--a tall,
narrow glass in a smooth black frame with brass rosettes at the
corners,--and murmurs, smiling, "_Lui plairai-je?_" then blushes
violently and takes out the rose from her bosom. It is a sin even to
have such a thought,--under existing circumstances.