THE BARON'S AID.
The Baron never liked to postpone what he had to do; it was against his
principles and his nature. The matter must be attended to at once. As
soon as the mid-day meal was over, he had the carriage brought, put on
a black coat, and set out for Dobrotschau.
The fountain plashed dreamily as he drove into the castle court-yard.
The afternoon sun glittered on the water, and a great dog came towards
him as he alighted, and thrust his nose into his hand. He knew the old
dog.
"How are you, old friend? how does the new _regime_ suit you?" he said,
patting the animal's head. Two footmen hurried forward in drab breeches
and striped vests. To one of them Baron Karl gave his card, and then
awaited the mistress of the mansion in the spacious and rather dark
drawing-room into which he had been shown.
He looked about him, and was very well pleased. The tall windows of the
room were draped with pale-green silk; the furniture, various in shape
and style, was all convenient and handsome; vases filled with flowers
stood here and there on stands and tables; and in a black ebony
cabinet, behind glass doors, there was a fine collection of old
porcelain. The Baron was a connoisseur in old porcelain, and had just
risen to examine these specimens, when the servant returned to conduct
him to the Baroness's presence.
Baron Karl's heart throbbed a little fast at the thought of his
mission, and he privately anathematized "the stupid boy" who had been
the cause of it.
"Since he got himself into the scrape, he might have got himself out of
it," he thought, as he followed the lackey, who showed him into a small
but charming boudoir, fitted up after a rural fashion with light
cretonne.
"I'm in for it," the Baron thought, in English. He liked to sprinkle
his soliloquies with English phrases, having a great preference for
England, whence he imported his clothes, his soap, and his political
ideas of reform _en gros_. In the Reichsrath they called him "Old
England."
As he entered the pretty room, a lady rose from a low lounge and came
towards him with outstretched hands. Those hands were small, soft, and
shapely, and the rings adorning the third finger of one of them--a ruby
and a large diamond, both very simply set--became them well. Baron Karl
could not help carrying one of them to his lips; thus much, he thought,
he owed the poor woman in view of the pain he was about to inflict upon
her. Frau von Harfink said a few pleasant words of welcome, to which he
replied courteously, and then, having taken his seat in a comfortable
arm-chair near her favourite lounge, the conversation came to a
stand-still. The Baron looked in some confusion at his hostess. There
was no denying that, in spite of her fifty years, she was a pretty
woman. Her features were regular, her teeth dazzling, and if there was
a touch of rouge on her cheeks, that was her affair; it did not affect
her general appearance. The fair hair that was parted to lie in smooth
waves above her brow was still thick, and the little lace cap was very
becoming. Her short, full figure was not without charm, and her gown of
black _crepe de Chine_ fitted faultlessly. The Baron could not help
thinking that it would be easier to give her pain if she were ugly.
There was really no objection to make to her. He had hoped she would
resemble his friend Doctor Gruenbart, but she did not resemble him.
While he pondered thus, Frau von Harfink stretched out her hand to the
bell-rope.
"My daughters are both out in the park; they will be extremely glad to
see you, especially Paula, who has been most impatient to know you. I
will send for them immediately."
Karl Leskjewitsch prevented her from ringing. "One moment, first," he
begged; "I--I am here upon very serious business."
Her eyes scanned his face keenly. Did she guess? did she choose not to
understand him? Who can tell? Certain it is that no woman could have
made what he had come to say more difficult to utter.
"Oh, let 'serious business' go for the present!" she exclaimed; "there
is time enough for that. A mother's heart of course is full----"
In his confusion the Baron had picked up a pamphlet lying on the table
between Frau von Harfink and himself. Imagine his sensations when, upon
looking at it closely, he recognized his own work,--a pamphlet upon
"Servility among Liberals,"--a piece of political bravado upon which
the author had prided himself not a little at the time of its
publication, but which, like many another masterpiece, had vanished
without a trace in the yearly torrent of such literature. Not only were
the leaves of this pamphlet cut, but as the Baron glanced through it he
saw that various passages were underscored with pencil-marks.
"You see how well known you are here, my dear Baron," said Frau von
Harfink, and then, taking his hat from him, she went on, "I cannot have
you pay us a formal visit: you will stay and have a cup of tea, will
you not? Do you know that I am a little embarrassed in the presence of
the author of that masterpiece?"
"Ah, pray, madame!"--the democrat _par excellence_ could not exactly
bring himself to an acknowledgment of Frau von Harfink's brand-new
patent of nobility,--"ah, madame, the merest trifle, a political
_capriccio_ with which I beguiled an idle hour; not worth mentioning."
"Great in small things, my dear Baron, great in small things," she
rejoined. "No one since Schopenhauer has understood how to use the
German language as you do. So admirable a style!--precise, transparent,
and elegant as finely-cut glass. And what a wealth of original
aphorisms! You are a little sharp here and there, almost cruel,"--she
shook her forefinger at him archly,--"but the truth is always cruel."
"A remarkably clever woman!" thought Baron Karl. Of course he could not
refrain from returning such courtesy. "This summer, in a little trip to
the North Cape"--Leskjewitsch was wont always to refer to his travels
as little trips; a journey to California he would have liked to call a
picnic--"in a little trip to the North Cape, I had the pleasure of
meeting your brother, Baroness," he cleared his throat before uttering
the word, but he accomplished it. "We had known each other politically
in the Reichsrath, but in those northern regions our acquaintance
quickly ripened into friendship."
"I have heard all about it already," said the Baroness: "it was my
brother who called my attention to this pearl." She pointed to the
pamphlet. "Of course he had no idea of the closer relations which we
are to hold with each other; he simply described to me the impression
you made upon him. Ah, I must read you one of his letters."
She opened a drawer in her writing-table, and unfolded a long letter,
from which she began to read, then interrupted herself, turned the
sheet, and finally found the place for which she was looking:
"Baron Karl Leskjewitsch is an extremely clever individual, brilliantly
gifted by nature. His misfortune has been that in forsaking the
Conservatives he has failed to win the entire confidence of the
Liberals. Now that I know him well, I am ready to use all my influence
to support him in his career, and I do not doubt that I shall succeed
in securing for him the distinguished position for which he is fitted.
I see in him the future Austrian Minister of Foreign Affairs."
A few minutes previously Baron Karl had been conscious of some
discomfort; every trace of it had now vanished. He was fairly
intoxicated. He saw himself a great statesman, and was already
pondering upon what to say in his first important conference with the
Chancellor of the realm.
"Pray, give my warm regards to Doctor Gruenbart when you next write to
him," he began, not without condescension, when suddenly a young lady
hurried into the room,--tall, stout, with Titian hair and a dazzling
complexion, her chest heaving, her eyes sparkling. In the Baron's
present mood she seemed to him beautiful as a young goddess. "By Jove!
the boy has made a hit," he thought to himself. The vague sense of
discomfort returned for a moment, but vanished when Paula advanced
towards him with outstretched hands. He drew her to him, and imprinted
a paternal kiss upon her forehead. Selina and Fainacky now made their
appearance. It was quite a domestic scene.
The Baroness rang, and the tea-equipage was brought in for afternoon
tea. Olga made her appearance, but Treurenberg was absent; Selina
remarked, crossly, that he was again spending the afternoon with the
officers at X----. Baron Karl was throned upon roses and inhaling sweet
incense, when finally the Baroness, lightly touching his arm, asked
before all present,--
"And the 'serious business' you came to consult me about?" He started,
and was mute, while the lady went on, archly, "What if I guess its
import? You came in Harry's behalf, did you not?"
Baron Karl bowed his head in assent.
"To arrange the day, was it not?"
What could the poor man do? Before he had time to reflect, the
Baroness said, "We have considered the matter already; we must be in no
hurry,--no hurry. It always is a sore subject for a mother, the
appointing a definite time for her separation from her daughter, and
every girl, however much in love she may be,"--here the Baroness
glanced at her stout Paula, who did her best to assume an air of
maidenly reserve, "would like to postpone the marriage-day. But men do
not like to wait; therefore, all things considered, I have thought of
the 19th of October as the day. Tell Harry so from me, and scold him
well for not doing his errand himself. His delicacy of sentiment is
really exaggerated! An old woman may be pardoned for a little
enthusiasm for a future son-in-law, may she not?"
Shortly afterwards Baron Leskjewitsch was driving home along the road
by which he had come. The shadows had lengthened; a cold air ascended
from the earth. Gradually the Baron's consciousness, drugged by the
flattery he had received, awoke, and he felt extremely uncomfortable.
What had he effected? He was going home after a fruitless visit,--no,
not fruitless. Harry's affairs were in a worse condition than before.
He had absolutely placed the official seal upon his son's betrothal.
What else could he have done? He could not have made a quarrel. He
could not alienate Doctor Gruenbart's sister. The welfare of the
government might depend upon his friendly alliance with the leader of
the democratic party. His fancy spread its wings and took its flight to
higher spheres,--he really had no time to trouble himself about his
son's petty destiny. His ambition soared high: he saw himself about to
reform the monarchy with the aid of Doctor Gruenbart, whose importance,
however, decreased as his own waxed great.
He drove through the ruinous archway into the courtyard. A light wagon
was standing before the house. When he asked whose it was, he was told
that it had come from Zirkow to take home the Baroness Zdena. He went
to the dining-room, whence came the sound of gay voices and laughter.
They were all at supper, and seemed very merry, so merry that they had
not heard him arrive.
Twilight was already darkening the room when the Baron entered by one
door at the same moment that Blasius with the lamp made his appearance
at the other. The lamplight fell full upon the group about the table,
and Baron Karl's eyes encountered those of his son, beaming with
delight. Poor fellow! He had not entertained a doubt that everything
would turn out well. Zdena, too, looked up; her lips were redder than
usual, and there was a particularly tender, touching expression about
her mouth, while in her eyes there was a shy delight. There was no
denying it, the girl was exquisitely beautiful.
She had guessed Baron Karl's errand to Dobrotschau. She divined----
Pshaw! The Baron felt dizzy for a moment,--but, after all, such things
must be borne. Such trifles must not influence the future 'Canning' of
Austria.
Blasius set down the lamp. How comfortable and home-like the
well-spread table looked, at the head the little army of cream-pitchers
and jugs, over which the Countess Zriny was presiding.
"A cup of coffee?" the old canoness asked the newcomer.
"No, no, thanks," he said. Something in his voice told Harry
everything.
The Baron tried to take his place at table, that the moment for
explanation might be postponed, but Harry could not wait.
"Something has occurred to-day upon the farm about which I want to
consult you, sir," he said. "Will you not come with me for a moment?"
And he made a miserably unsuccessful attempt to look as if it were a
matter of small importance. The two men went into the next room, where
it was already so dark that they could not see each other's faces
distinctly. Harry lit a candle, and placed it on the table between his
father and himself.
"Well, father?"
"My dear boy, there was nothing to be done," the Baron replied,
hesitating. For a moment the young man's misery made an impression upon
him, but then his invincible loquacity burst forth. "There was nothing
to be done, Harry," he repeated. And, with a wave of his hand implying
true nobility of sentiment, he went on: "A betrothal is a contract
sealed by a promise. From a promise one may be released; it cannot be
broken. When the Harfinks refused to see the drift of my hints, and
release you from your promise, there was nothing left for me save to
acquiesce. As a man of honour, a gentleman, I could do no less; I could
not possibly demand your release."
Baron Karl looked apprehensively at his son, with whose quick temper he
was familiar, expecting to be overwhelmed by a torrent of reproaches,
of bitter, provoking words, sure that the young man would be led into
some display of violence; but nothing of the kind ensued. Harry stood
perfectly quiet opposite his father, one hand leaning upon the table
where burned the candle. His head drooped a little, and he was very
pale, but not a finger moved when his father added, "You understand
that I could do nothing further?"
He murmured, merely, "Yes, I understand." His voice sounded thin and
hoarse, like the voice of a sick child; and then he fell silent again.
After a pause, he said, in a still lower tone, "Uncle Paul has sent the
wagon for Zdena, with a note asking me to drive her back to Zirkow. It
has been waiting for an hour and a half, because Zdena did not want to
leave before your return. Pray, do me the favour to drive her home in
my place: I cannot."
Then the young fellow turned away and went to a window, outside of
which the old apricot-trees rustled and sighed.
Baron Karl was very sorry for his son, but what else could he have
done? Surely his case was a hard one. He seemed to himself a very
Junius Brutus, sacrificing his son to his country. And having succeeded
finally in regarding in this magnanimous light the part he had played,
he felt perfectly at peace with himself again.
He left the room, promising to attend to Zdena's return to Zirkow. But
Harry remained standing by the window, gazing out into the gathering
gloom. The very heart within his breast seemed turning to stone. He
knew now that what he had at first held to be merely a ridiculous
annoyance had come to be bitter earnest,--yes, terrible earnest! No
escape was possible; he could see no hope of rescue; a miracle would
have to occur to release him, and he did not believe in miracles.