A SLEEPLESS NIGHT.
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."