The morning broke clear and sunny. At breakfast Count Arnau and Herr
von Reinert were missing, they had gone for a ride very early with
several other gentlemen, which had only been settled late the evening
before. No one thought of attributing any importance to this
circumstance, but, on the other hand, Baronin von Sternfeld was greatly
displeased that Mademoiselle Walter had also excused herself, on the
plea of feeling very unwell. The good lady found this sudden
indisposition of the _gouvernante_ very inconvenient, for she was
necessitated thereby to look after the children personally the whole
day, the _bonne_ and lady's maid being fully occupied with preparations
for the next day's journey.
In her room, the windows of which looked out towards the fields,
Gertrud paced restlessly up and down.
There was a limit even to _her_ self-command; she had not felt able to
appear at breakfast to-day, and to hear the talk over the "early ride,"
the meaning of which she alone knew. Yes, it was, indeed, a fearful
task, to be silent and tremble in the full consciousness of what the
next hour might bring, to remain here inactive, whilst over yonder the
bloody decision was made; it was almost beyond her strength. She had
kept the promise wrung from her, no word had passed her lips, but what
this silence cost her, that she alone knew.
One could see that no sleep had closed the girl's eyes, which rested
upon the window with an expression of the most painful suspense.
Cheerful and golden the sunshine lay upon the fields around, over the
woods, still enveloped in a blue mist. The corn waved gently in the
morning breeze, and high up in the clear heavens the swallows shot
backwards and forwards in rapid flight. But the road which led to the
woods remained empty, not a single rider would appear.
Gertrud's pride and self-command seemed over. What, during the whole
time, she _would_ not confess to herself, what even yesterday evening
she had tried to deny, she had been forced to recognise in the fearful
anxiety of the previous night. "He shall not atone for his folly with
his life, though I cannot hope for the same generosity from him!"
The words would not be put out of her memory. Eugen would not show any
generosity; she knew that he was revengeful, like all weak people, and
seized the opportunity gladly to revenge himself upon the man whose
intellectual superiority had so often oppressed and embittered him, and
_he_, too, was sure of his weapon, and seldom failed in his mark.
She fell down on her knees, and in speechless anxiety raised her folded
hands. She knew now for whom this prayer was offered, and had known
yesterday, when that grave, hard voice had asked so gently, "Gertrud,
why do you hate me?" Though she had gathered together all her strength
for the last despairing resistance, though she had possessed cruel
courage to refuse him the one single word which he begged for, it was
in vain now. Now she would like to have called him back, now, when it
was too late. How icily cold his farewell had sounded--perhaps it was
the last. Then suddenly a sound of hoofs was heard in the distance.
Gertrud hurried to the window, as she had so often done before in vain,
when she had heard any sound, but this time it was no disappointment.
Her eyes had recognised the rider, though he was still far off on the
edge of the wood; followed by his groom, Count Arnau rode towards the
house.
The rebound was too great; the sudden appearance of him whom she had
feared lost, decided all. In the cry of boundless delight, which
unconsciously burst from her lips, in the expression of her face, lay
the secret revealed. She flew to the door, reflection and reason for
the moment gone; she must and would meet him!
A heavy, dull blow, then a cracking sound followed--she stopped
suddenly, and looked back alarmed. One of her travelling boxes, which
she had brought out yesterday, and partly packed, had been thrust out
of its place by her sudden rush to the door. A simple, easily explained
circumstance, but the girl's feverishly reddened cheek had become
suddenly white. Slowly she again closed the door, and hesitatingly,
step by step, approached the corner by the window. There was a strange
expression in her face, a shrinking, as if before something
supernatural, and with a timidity, as if she were really about to meet
with some spirit, she bent down to examine the injury.
It was a small, unimportant little box, an old fashioned, insignificant
piece of goods, which had belonged to her father, and which only a
feeling of filial respect hindered the daughter from parting with. This
legacy, almost the only one, which the orphan possessed, had hitherto
accompanied her on every journey, and now it all at once fell over and
broke, just at the moment when she was on the point of--Gertrud did not
dare to complete the thought, but hastily pushed aside the books which
had fallen out, and lifted the lid.
The back of the box had burst in two, and out of the crack, squeezed in
between the wood and the leather lining, gleamed a piece of white
paper. Gertrud mechanically pulled it out, and was about to lay it
aside, when her eyes suddenly fell upon a word, an autograph--she
passed her hand hastily across her eyes--surely it must be some vision,
that she always and everywhere should come upon the name that just now
filled all her thoughts, but at the second glance she saw that her eyes
had not deceived her. "Hermann Count Arnau" stood there in faded ink,
but in clear, plain handwriting--stood there on the old fashioned
paper, which had been long years in its hiding place, where it must
have fallen from a hole in the inner pocket, through a hasty opening of
the box. Gertrud's head seemed to swim, incapable of comprehending the
facts connected with it--still half stunned from her previous agitation
she unfolded the paper.
It contained only a few lines, apparently very hurriedly put together,
but in a business like form. The effect, however, upon the girl was
like a lightning flash. She sprang up; her face, a moment since so
pale, bathed in a deep flush, her eyes shining in passionate triumph,
she pressed the new found paper with both hands against her breast, as
if some one would tear it away, and her bosom heaved deeply--deeply, as
if the weight of a whole life had been removed from it.
But it was only for a moment, in the next she started at some
remembrance, which laid an icy hand on her heart, the fateful paper
sank from her trembling hands, she stared at it despairingly, and then
raised her eyes with a bitter cry to Heaven. On this paper had once
hung the honour and happiness of a whole family--then a mischievous
chance had allowed it to disappear.
Twice ten years had passed--two people had perished through its loss,
and now chance had given back what was lost.
"O, God, why, just in my hand? And why now, just now?"
No answer came to this despairing question, and no sound from Gertrud's
lips; mutely she fought out the conflict, the hardest in her life. How
terrible it was, the convulsively wrung hands bore witness, but the
lips were silent against the pain. She believed that in the past night
she had known the fullest measure of tormenting anxiety, and yet, the
despair of that hour compared with this moment! Now, with her own hand
she must strike the threatening blow, it would be a deadly one, she
knew, and this time more was at stake than life alone.
Only few, in face of such a choice, would have possessed the courage
for conflict; they would have succumbed to swoons or tears, only
listening to the voice of the heart, and turning away from the fateful
decision. For her own unhappiness Gertrud was not one of the weak ones.
A lonely, sad youth, containing bitter experiences enough for a whole
life, had steeled her to endurance, but also given her that hardness,
which happy people know nothing of. The iron law of duty, hitherto the
single principle of her life, here, too, silenced every other voice,
and, silently, and warningly came back the remembrances of the past,
still sleeping unforgotten in her inmost soul. Every bitter hour in
which her childhood had been so rich, every tear which she had shed,
every humiliation she had endured, the mother's dying bed, the picture
of her never known, but yet passionately loved father--all, all passed
vividly before her, and as these remembrances poured upon her, the
girl's features grew hard and cold, till at last, with dark decision
she arose. The conflict was at an end; she laid her right hand as if
with an oath, upon the fateful paper.
"The warning came at the right time! I was on the point of treason to
myself and to my whole past. My poor sacrificed parents, the daughter
will know how to guard your rights--even though she should perish in
the act!"
Meanwhile, the other inhabitants of the house sat, as usual, after
breakfast, in the garden house. Baron Sternfeld read aloud to his
mother from the newspaper, but the political news, which she followed
with such attention, seemed to weary the Baronin as well as Frau von
Reinert; the former divided her attention between her embroidery and
her two little daughters, who were playing outside on the terrace, and
the latter yawned again and again behind her handkerchief.
The seven years had left their trace clearly enough upon Antonie. She
was no longer that charming, poetical being, who knew so well how to
inspire the young artist, that he forgot all else in his passion for
her. Her beauty was of that delicate, but passing kind, which only
lasts so long as the bloom and freshness of youth remains, and then
vanishes, leaving scarcely a trace of its former reign. There were no
firm, noble lines, no characteristic expression, no _soul_, in fact, to
make up for these fleeting charms. The former enthusiastic fire in the
dark eyes was extinguished, lost in that expression of weariness and
languor, as plainly to be read in her features as in her husband's. The
Graefin Arnau, at twenty, had been wonderfully beautiful, Frau von
Reinert, now thirty, was already faded, and all the magic arts of her
toilette could not make up for what was lost.
Hermann's entrance put an end both to the Baron's reading and the
weariness of the ladies. After a short morning greeting, including all,
he went up to the Praesidentin's chair, and with a few words, excused
his absence at breakfast.
"Where is Eugen?" asked Baron Sternfeld, surprised.
"Eugen has had a slight accident during our ride, and hurt his arm a
little, he remained behind at the gamekeeper's, and I have given orders
for the carriage to be sent to him. It is not at all a dangerous
affair. Dr. Boerner, who was one of our party, assured us so, and he put
on a bandage at once."
No one thought of doubting this explanation, given in the calmest tone.
The Baronin made an exclamation of concern, but Antonie cried hastily--
"That wild riding! I have prophesied over and over again to Eugen that
he would have an accident some day, but he never listens to my
warnings!"
There was not the slightest trace of anxiety or tenderness in this
tone, only an unmistakable vexation. The Praesidentin's face certainly
did not show any great concern or sympathy, but, nevertheless, she said
gravely--
"Will you not at least go to your husband?"
"What need is there, grandmother? You hear that it is not in the least
dangerous, and Eugen will be back in an hour in any case."
So saying, she leaned back in her chair with the most perfect
indifference. The Praesidentin was silent, but her face betrayed what
she thought of this answer--so this was the end of that unspeakable,
glowing passion, which had once torn away the Graefin Arnau from all the
bounds of reason and sense! Hermann well understood his grandmother's
look and shrug of the shoulders; was it not he who had favoured the
match? It is always painful to have to confess to an error, and today
the Count seemed little in the humour for it. As he came in, his eyes
had flown restlessly and searchingly through the room, and the cloud
which already lay on his brow had become darker. Now his unrest seemed
to increase every moment; he became monosyllabic, and absent, and
hardly took any part in the conversation.
"Is there no one to take charge of the children to-day?" asked he
suddenly, looking towards the little girls, who were chasing each other
up and down the terrace, and becoming rather noisy.
"No!" sighed the Baronin. "Mademoiselle Walter gave me the pleasure of
excusing herself this morning on the plea of illness, just now, when we
want to be off!"
"Ah, so!"
The Count's lips pressed themselves together in fierce anger, whilst
the Baronin continued to complain of the great inconvenience of her
_gouvernante's_ illness just now, which might possibly even put off
their journey.
"That is hardly to be feared, I think!" put in Antonie sarcastically.
"I should imagine Mademoiselle Walter's evening walk yesterday has
given her a cold, which cannot be of much importance."
"What evening walk?" asked the Baronin, becoming attentive.
"Well, she came back from the park pretty late yesterday evening, and a
short time before a gentleman had left her. I could not recognize him,
as it was already too dark, but from his appearance and walk I should
not imagine that he was either a workman or a servant. Dear me, why
not? All the gentlemen of the neighbourhood are unanimous in admiration
of mademoiselle's beauty. It would be certainly no wonder if she
listened to one of these inspired adorers, and consented to a little
rendezvous--"
The Praesidentin knitted her brow; in spite of her antipathy to Gertrud,
she was strictly just, and would suffer no calumnies in her presence.
"You ought first to prove that, Antonie," she interrupted in a grave,
reproving tone, "as far as I can judge the girl, this accusation is the
last that could be made against her, and hitherto Bertha has not found
the slightest cause for complaint in her."
"I should also advise you to wait for an explanation of the matter,
_liebe Toni_," continued Hermann coldly.
He still stood by his grandmother's chair, upon which he leaned with
folded arms, and looked stedfastly at his cousin, with a peculiar
expression. There was something half compassionate, half scornful in
his look, and his lips already curled with the old, much feared
sarcasm, which he poured unsparingly upon all around him, when
irritated by some untoward circumstance.
"It was only a supposition," said Antonie, throwing back her head
pettishly at the reproof. "But I had intended some time ago to give
Bertha a hint with regard to Mademoiselle Walter; what I have found out
lately about her is decidedly not to her credit."
Hermann smiled with unconcealed irony.
"Something you have found out _lately_? Really!"
Antonie looked questioningly at him.
"What do you mean? I don't understand you."
"Oh, I only meant, that what is not in the young lady's favour, namely,
her outward appearance, you must have found out at the first moment."
Antonie flushed deeply at this malice of Hermann's, which,
unfortunately, was only too true, and she did not make any denial.
She knew her cousin well enough to know that in a dispute she always
got the worst of it, and that when he looked, as he did at this moment,
not the slightest consideration need be expected from him. She
contented herself, therefore, with darting an angry look at him, and
completely ignoring the speech, turned to the Baronin, who now
exclaimed suspiciously--
"But what is this you have found out about her?"
Antonie took a rose from the vase before her, and began to pluck it to
pieces.
"Well, my information does not concern her so much as her family. I
suppose you do not know that 'mademoiselle' has no right to the name of
'Walter.' It is her mother's family name, which the latter re-assumed,
or rather was obliged to do so, because her husband's name called forth
very unpleasant remembrances."
The sarcastic calmness with which Hermann had listened hitherto,
suddenly disappeared and gave place to a deathly paleness. He bent
forward in the deepest attention, and followed the conversation in
visible suspense.
"A false name!" cried Baron Sternfeld, also coming nearer, "why, that
is evident deception! How do you know it, Antonie? And why have you not
mentioned it before?"
"Because I only found it out myself yesterday. My maid visited
W---- some years since, and got to know something of Mademoiselle
Gertrud, whose mother was still living at that time. Therese was not a
little astonished to find in this Madame Walter the wife of Brand,
formerly steward to the Prince in N----."
Here the Praesidentin suddenly laid her hand on her grandson's arm, and
the warning was needed. He had started violently at the name, as if
struck by a shot, now he slowly turned towards his grandmother, she
exchanged a deep glance with him, whilst he seized her hand
convulsively. But the warning was in time, he succeeded in keeping
command over his features.
The others were all too much occupied with Antonie's disclosure to
notice the Count.
"Brand--Brand!" said the Baron, thoughtfully, "I seem to have heard the
name before somewhere. Who was he, did you say, and what do you know of
him?"
"Not much to his credit. He embezzled money entrusted to him, belonging
to the Prince, and finally, when he found his crime discovered, had the
atrocity to shoot himself in Uncle Arnau's business room, before his
eyes. I was but a child then, but I know the affair was much talked
about, and made a great stir. Hermann must remember it well enough, for
the shock almost cost his poor mother her life."
Count Arnau appeared not to have heard the indirect question, at least
he gave no answer. His hand lay icy cold in the Praesidentin's, she must
have felt by this how it stood with him, for she suddenly looked up
anxiously, his face still remained immovable.
The Baronin was in the greatest indignation. "Abominable! The daughter
of a thief, of a cheat in my house! And she has dared to be silent
towards me, to be taken into my house under a false name!"
Antonie smiled maliciously. "Good gracious, Bertha, do you think it
likely she would do otherwise? It would have been simply impossible for
her to obtain a respectable situation if she had openly confessed her
antecedents."
"No matter, _I_ cannot suffer such a deception, cannot entrust the
education of my children to the hands of a person who comes of _such_ a
family. I shall speak to her to-day and demand an explanation of her."
"You will not do that, Bertha," interrupted the Praesidentin, in her
sharpest tone. "How do you even know whether the girl knows her
father's history? I doubt it, and even if she did, the children are not
responsible for the sins of their parents, in which they have had no
part. If you wish to dismiss the young lady, do it at least as
considerately as possible; in any case, I beg that you will take no
steps in the affair without once more considering the matter with me."
The old lady had risen and stood so imposingly before her
daughter-in-law, that neither she nor her husband ventured a
remonstrance, indeed, they were accustomed to bow to the mother's
authority unconditionally, though her sudden taking of the
_gouvernante's_ part had somewhat surprised them.
The Praesidentin turned to her grandson. "Have the goodness, Hermann, to
lead me to my room, I feel somewhat tired. I should advise you,
Antonie, to get into the carriage and drive down to your husband. If
his hurt is so indifferent to you, propriety nevertheless demands, that
you (at least, in the eyes of others) trouble yourself somewhat about
it. The carriage is just driving up, I see."
This advice, given in the tone of a decided command, was evidently as
unpalatable to Frau von Reinert as the former to the Baronin, but she,
too, did not gainsay it. In the worst of tempers, she rang for her maid
to fetch hat and shawl, whilst the Praesidentin left the saloon,
supported on Hermann's arm.