CONSOLATION.
"What is the matter? What is it?" Treurenberg asks, solicitously.
"Nothing, nothing," Olga replies; "nothing at which I ought to take
offence." Then, after a short pause, she adds, "On the contrary, he did
me the honour to offer to make me Countess Fainacky. The idea, it is
true, seemed to occur to him rather tardily, after conducting himself
impertinently."
Lato twirls his moustache nervously, and murmurs, in a dull,
constrained voice, "Well, and could you not bring yourself to consent?"
"Lato!" the girl exclaims, indignantly.
The bitter expression on Lato's face makes him look quite unlike
himself as he says, "A girl who sets out to marry must not be too nice,
you see!"
His head is turned away from her; silence reigns around; the sultry
quiet lies like a spell upon everything.
He hears a half-suppressed ejaculation, the rustle of a robe, short,
quick steps, and, looking round, sees her tall figure walking rapidly
away from him, offended pride and wounded feeling expressed in its
every motion. He ought to let her go, but he cannot, and he hurries
after her; almost before she is aware of his presence, he lightly
touches her on the arm.
"Olga, my poor Olga, I did not mean this!" he exclaims, gently. "Be
reasonable, my child; I did not mean to wound you, but to give you a
common-sense view of the affair."
She looks away from him, and suddenly bursts into irrepressible sobs.
"You poor child! Hush, I pray you! I cannot bear this! Have I really
grieved you--I--why, 'tis ridiculous--I, who would have my hand cut off
to serve you? Come, be calm." And he draws her down upon a rustic bench
and takes a seat beside her.
Her chest heaves as does that of a child who, although the cause of its
grief has been removed, cannot stop crying at once. He takes her hand
in his and strokes it gently.
A delightful sensation of content, even of happiness, steals upon him,
but mingling with it comes a tormenting unrest, the dawning
consciousness that he is entering upon a crooked path, that he is in
danger of doing a wrong, and yet he goes on holding the girl's hand in
his and gazing into her eyes.
"Why are you not always kind to me?" she asks him simply.
He is confused, and drops her hand.
"For a whole week past you have seemed scarcely to see me," she says,
reproachfully. "Have you been vexed with me? Did I do anything to
displease you?"
"I have had so much to worry me," he murmurs.
"Poor Lato! I thought so. If you only knew how my heart aches for
you! Can you not tell me some of your troubles? They are so much easier
to bear when shared with another."
And before he can reply she takes his hand in both of hers, and presses
it against her cheek.
Just at that moment he sees the Pole, who has paused in departing and
turned towards the pair; the man's sallow face, seen in the distance
above Olga's dark head, seems to wear a singularly malevolent
expression.
As soon, however, as he becomes aware that Treurenberg has perceived
him, he vanishes again.
Lato's confusion increases; he rises, saying, "And now be good, Olga;
go home and bathe your eyes, that no one may see that you have been
crying."
"Oh, no one will take any notice, and there is plenty of time before
dinner. Take a walk with me in the park; it is not so warm as it was."
"I cannot, my child; I have a letter to write."
"As you please;" and she adds, in an undertone, "You are changed
towards me."
Before he can reply, she is gone.
The path along which she has disappeared is flecked with crimson,--the
petals of the rose that she had worn in her girdle.
Lato feels as if rudely awakened from unconsciousness. He walks
unsteadily, and covers his eyes with his hand as if dazzled by even the
tempered light of the afternoon. The terrible bliss for which he longs,
of which he is afraid, seems so near that he has but to reach out his
hand and grasp it. He stamps his foot in horror of himself. What! a
pure young girl! his wife's relative! The very thought is impossible!
He is tormented by the feverish fancies of overwrought nerves. He
shakes himself as if to be rid of a burden, then turns and walks
rapidly along a path leading in an opposite direction from where the
scattered rose-leaves are lying on the ground.
As he passes on with eyes downcast, he almost runs against the Pole.
The glances of the two men meet; involuntarily Lato averts his from
Fainacky's face, and as he does so he is conscious of a slight
embarrassment, which the other takes a malicious delight in noticing.
"Aha!" he begins; "your long interview with the fair Olga seems to have
had a less agreeable effect upon your mood than I had anticipated."
Such a remark would usually have called forth from Lato a sharp
rejoinder; to-day he would fain choose his words, to excuse himself, as
it were.
"She was much agitated," he murmurs. "I had some trouble in
soothing her. She--she is nervous and sensitive; her position in my
mother-in-law's household is not a very pleasant one."
"Well, you certainly do your best to improve it," Fainacky says,
hypocritically.
"And you to make it impossible!" Lato exclaims, angrily.
"Did the fair Olga complain of me, then?" drawls the other.
"There was no need that she should," Treurenberg goes on to say. "Do
you suppose that I need anything more than eyes in my head to see how
you follow her about and stare at her?"
Fainacky gives him a lowering look, and then laughs softly.
"Well, yes, I confess, I have paid her some attention; she pleases me.
Yes, yes, I do not deny my sensibility to female charms. I never played
the saint!"
"Indeed! At least you seem to have made an effort to-day to justify
your importunity," Treurenberg rejoins, filled with contempt for the
simpering specimen of humanity before him. "You have offered her your
hand."
Scarcely have the words left his lips when Treurenberg is conscious
that he has committed a folly in thus irritating the man.
Fainacky turns pale to the lips, and his expression is one of intense
malice.
"It is true," he says, "that I so far forgot myself for a moment as to
offer your youthful _protegee_ my hand. Good heavens! I am not the
first man of rank who, in a moment of enthusiasm and to soothe the
irritated nerves of a shy beauty, has offered to marry a girl of low
extraction. The obstacle, however, which bars my way to her heart
appears to be of so serious a nature that I shall make no attempt to
remove it."
He utters the words with a provoking smile and most malicious emphasis.
"To what obstacle do you refer?" Lato exclaims, in increasing anger.
"Can you seriously ask me that question?" the Pole murmurs, in a low
voice like the hiss of a serpent.
Transported with anger, Treurenberg lifts his hand; the Pole scans him
quietly.
"If you wish for a duel, there is no need to resort to so drastic a
measure to provoke it. But do you seriously think it would be well for
the fair fame of your--your lovely _protegee_ that you should fight for
her?" And, turning on his heel, Fainacky walks towards the castle.
Lato stands as if rooted to the spot, his gaze riveted on the ground.