The freshness of the morning was over, and the heat of a midday sun in
June brooded over the village, which lay about half-an-hour's distance
from the Schloss, where Count Arnau and Eugen Reinert were at present
guests. The stage coach, which had passed through an hour ago, had put
down travellers, an old gentleman and a young girl. The narrow, close,
room of the inn seemed oppressive to both alike; the old man sat in the
little garden behind the house, whilst his companion had sauntered to
the front, and was now thoughtfully contemplating the scene around her.
The village lay almost as still as death, the people were nearly all at
work in the fields. No one was to be seen, save a group of children,
playing in the broad village street, untroubled by the hot sunshine.
Suddenly the distant rumble of a carriage was heard, and a moment after
an elegant conveyance came in sight. The groom sat behind, and a
gentleman himself managed the spirited black horses;--there was no
doubt that he saw the children, but he seemed to imagine that they must
also see him, and would move out of the way in time, for he drove
straight through the village at the sharpest pace, though in such a
broad street, it would have been quite easy to have turned out of the
way. The little group of children flew right and left as he approached;
only one, a little fellow, perhaps two years old, sat still, quite
unconscious of his danger, and when the frightened children at last
roused him by their cries, the carriage was already almost upon him. He
now, at last, attempted to get up, but stunned, and unaccustomed to
run, he stumbled at the first step, and fell down right in front of the
horses. The driver of the carriage, only perceiving the child at that
instant, drew them up with all his strength, but they were in full
trot, and very spirited animals, so that he did not succeed in stopping
them at once, and the boy seemed lost. Then the young girl suddenly
flew towards the child, and, quick as lightning, tore him away almost
from under the hoofs of the horses, took him in her arms and sprang
aside. An instant later would have been fatal to him! A moment after
the driver had succeeded in pulling up the fiery animals, but their
hoofs stamped the place where the child lay a few seconds since, and
he, quiet enough from fright in the moment of danger, now that he found
himself safe, burst into a loud scream.
Count Arnau gave the reins to his groom, sprang from the carriage, and
approached the two.
"Is any one hurt?" asked he, hastily.
"I am not, but the child--"
Without answering a word, Hermann took the little one from her arms,
felt and examined him rather roughly, but very thoroughly, on all
sides, and soon convinced himself that he was not the least injured.
"It is nothing," said he calmly. "He was only frightened; come,
cry-baby, you are all right enough!"
So saying, he carelessly put down the child, who, intimidated by the
rough tone, was now silent and looked up at him anxiously with great
eyes, still full of tears. The Count then turned politely to the young
girl who had saved him.
"You showed great courage, _mein Fraeulein_. It was impossible to stop
the horses so quickly, and the little fellow would have been lost but
for you."
His eyes looked over the girl quickly and sharply during this speech.
She was still very youthful looking, as she stood there before him,
certainly not more than seventeen years of age, with a slender, refined
figure. Her dress was extremely simple. During the hasty movement which
she made to save the child, her round straw hat had slipped off, and
hung loosely on her neck, so that the full, warm, midday sun lit up her
face, and the shining golden hair which surrounded it, the latter
simply parted in front, and wound round the back of her head in heavy
coils. Perhaps the blinding illumination of the sun made her look
particularly charming at this moment, else her face was not actually
beautiful, at least, not yet, though the lines of future beauty might
already be traced in her features. At present they were still unformed
and childish; the only characteristic which gave the face a particular
charm were the great, deep, blue eyes, with their unusual, almost
mysterious expression. There lay an earnestness beyond her years in
these eyes, something more even than that, a shade, such as a life of
care, suffering, and oppression, which cannot be fled from, will
imprint upon a human countenance. Certainly the young face showed no
trace of this, except in the one feature, the childish brow showed no
furrow, the mouth no hard lines, but only in the eyes this shade lay
deeply, as she lifted them, now, full of gravity and reproach.
"A human life does not seem worth much in your eyes, or surely you
would have given more thought to his danger."
Count Arnau looked greatly astonished at this reprimand, and measured
the youthful admonitress with a long, surprised glance.
"The child is all right!" said he, in an off-hand tone, "he cried for
pleasure, I suppose."
"But a moment later, and he would have been run over."
Hermann shrugged his shoulders. "Would have been!--Yes, if we always
troubled ourselves about what might have happened, the day would not be
long enough for every one's complaints. Fortunately all is well in this
case, your courageous interference saved me from a disagreeable
responsibility. I greatly regret having frightened you."
"I was not frightened."
Her words sounded cold and repellant, the way in which the Count
treated the whole matter appeared to hurt the young girl. She knelt
down by the boy, and busied herself in rubbing off the sand with which
his little face and hands were covered, fortunately the only trace
which the accident had left.
Hermann remained where he was, watching her. Hitherto, he had always
stoutly maintained, that, with the exception of his grandmother, who,
in consequence of her energetic, masculine character, he hardly
reckoned as belonging to the feminine race, every woman either went
into hysterics or fainted at the sight of danger, and was greatly
astonished to find a second exception here. "I was not frightened," she
had declared, and, indeed, she had not been. Her face had retained its
usual colour, her hands did not tremble, as she went gently and deftly
to work, the young girl showed just as much calmness now as she had
just before shown presence of mind.
The door of the neighbouring house now opened, and a woman, poorly and
untidily dressed, with rough hair, and a dull, expressionless face,
came hurriedly out to take the boy from a stranger's arms, the Count
felt in his pocket.
"The child was almost run over by my carriage, take more care of it in
future. Here is something for the fright he got."
The dull features of the woman, which had hitherto hardly shown any
concern, lighted up at sight of the shining thalers which he held out
to her in his haughty, indifferent way. She curtseyed low, and thanked
the Gnaedigen Herrn Grafen[4] for his kindness. The young girl had half
risen, her large eyes travelling slowly from the mother to the child,
and then back to the money, which the former held in her hand. She
stood up suddenly, turned her back upon the group, and without saying a
word, went towards the inn.
With quick steps Hermann overtook her.
"You see the fright was soon atoned for. The woman will bless the
chance which has thrown her day's wages for three weeks into her
hands."
The words sounded half mocking, and half like a sort of excuse. The
girl pressed her lips together.
"I did not think it possible that a mother could possess so little
self-respect as to let anxiety for her child's safety be bought off in
that way."
Hermann smiled sarcastically.
"Self respect! In a village woman? Pardon me, Fraeulein, you must come
from a town, and cannot know our country folks."
"One can make acquaintance with poverty in the town too, especially
when no very great depth separates one from it, Herr Graf."
Hermann bit his lips.
"I meant," said he sharply, "that the education, which separates you
from those people, is quite as wide a cleft. Have you really such
sympathy for these dull-witted, degraded people?"
"I sympathise with any one who is oppressed and miserable."
"Really?"
Meanwhile they had reached the inn, the young girl bowed slightly, and
laid her hand upon the latch, but Hermann anticipated her. He opened
the door for her, and followed her into the inn.
She stopped and looked at him repellantly and with surprise, it was
easy to see she did not wish to continue the conversation. But in spite
of this the Count went on.
"Really?" repeated he, and added in rather an irritated tone, "it seems
to me that you imply that I am one of the oppressors. I hope you don't
credit me with having seen the child, and purposely driven on."
"No, but you must have seen all the children. Why did you not turn out
of the way for them?"
"For the village children!" cried the young Count, with such
unconcealed astonishment that one could see the thought had never
entered his head. "I ought to drive out of the way of my uncle's
labouring people?"
The proposal seemed to him evidently unheard of, and the young stranger
was on the point of answering, but suddenly stopped and leaned forward,
listening attentively. A half stifled cry of delight escaped her lips;
she involuntarily raised her arms, and was on the point of hurrying
away, when she suddenly remembered Hermann's presence. A deep flush
suffused her countenance, she let her arms fall and remained where she
was, as if rooted to the ground. The Count had followed the direction
of her eyes, and now saw the cause of this sudden change. Eugen
Reinert, who, after a hasty question in the passage, strode hastily
into the room without observing his friend.
"Gertrud! _Um Gotteswillen_, you here!"
She flew towards him, holding out both hands, with a beaming smile,
which transformed and glorified her youthful face, but she appeared at
the same time, by a whispered word to draw his attention to the fact
that they were not alone. Eugen looked up and almost started.
"Oh, Hermann, is it you?"
A minute's oppressive pause followed. Gertrud looked surprised and
questioningly at Eugen, who, pale and visibly disturbed, held fast her
hand without speaking a word.
Count Hermann leaned silently against the table with folded arms, and
contemplated the pair steadfastly; the hard hostile look his features
sometimes wore, almost alarmingly visible at this moment.
"Pardon me, Gertrud," began Eugen at last, "I expected to find you
alone. You know--?"
"No," interrupted she quickly. "I met with this gentleman by chance."
It seemed to cost Eugen a tremendous effort to make known his _fiancee_
to Count Arnau, but he took her hand and led her towards him.
"My--my _braut_,[5] Hermann! Gertrud, my nearest and best friend, Graf
Arnau."
Gertrud was on the point of returning Hermann's cold and very measured
bow, in the same manner, but at the mention of his name, she gave a
sudden start. Her face, so beaming a moment since, became deathly pale,
and her widely opened eyes fixed themselves upon the young Count with
an expression which startled Eugen, although he could not in the least
account for it.
"What is the matter, Gertrud? What is it?"
"Nothing! nothing!"
She strove visibly to command herself, and succeeded in doing so
somewhat, but the strange look did not leave her eyes, and she
involuntarily retreated gradually, drawing Eugen with her almost by
force.
Hermann turned away quickly.
"I will not disturb your first meeting with your _braut_," said he,
laying a sharp, sarcastic accent upon the word. "I am going to drive
back to the Castle. _Au revoir!_"
With a hurried bow he left the room and gained the outer door.
So that was Gertrud Walter, Eugen's betrothed, the "little
Buergermaedchen," who had appeared so distasteful to his haughty friend,
because she "stood in the way of a man's career, and would draw him
down to her own narrow sphere." Yes, to be sure, he had pictured her
differently, but what a strange contradiction between her childish
appearance and the very unchildish answers which she knew how to give.
Neither met with the Count's approval; on the contrary, he was vexed
that he had allowed himself to be the least impressed by this girl. And
then--why did she hate him? Hermann was a closer observer than his
passionate friend, he knew very well that it was not fright nor fear,
but actual hate, a glowing, energetic hate, which he had seen in her
eyes at the mention of his name, such as he had never before seen in
any woman's countenance. For what reason did she hate him?
"Bah, I know how it is, Eugen must have betrayed to her in his letters,
that it is I who always urge him against this match, and Mademoiselle
Walter sees in me the hostile element which threatens her happiness,
and therefore honours me with her hate. A pity she wastes her energies
on such a small matter!"
The Count's lips curled scornfully, and he mounted to the box in very
bad humour, took the reins from the groom, and drove away at a sharp
pace. There was a dark, defiant look in his face, as he drove the
horses almost recklessly before him; but when, at the end of the
village, he met two old women by the wayside, who were on the point of
turning out of the way for the Count's equipage in a great hurry, they
observed, to their great astonishment, that the Count drove aside and
flew past, at some little distance from them.