IDYLLIC.
"Are you well protected, Fraeulein Stella?" Rohritz asks his young
companion, after a long silence.
"Oh, yes," says Stella, contentedly wrapping herself in her shabby,
thin, twenty-franc water-proof and pulling the hood over her fair head,
"I am quite warm. It was a good thing that you gave us warning, or I
should certainly have left my water-proof at home."
"You see an 'old bore,' as Les called my barometer, can be of use under
certain circumstances."
"Indeed it can," Stella nods assent; "but it would have been a pity to
give up the picnic at the bidding of your weather-prophet, for, on the
whole, it was a great success."
"Are you serious?" Rohritz asks, surprised.
"Why should you doubt it?"
"Why, you have had less cause than any of us to enjoy the day. You have
cut your foot, have spoiled a very pretty gown, and are in danger, if
it goes on pouring thus, of being wet to the skin in spite of your
water-proof."
"That is of no consequence," she declares from out the brown hood, her
fair dripping face laughing up at him through the rain and the
gathering darkness. "Where is the harm in getting a little wet? It is
quite delightful."
He is silent. She is to be envied for her gay, happy temperament, and
she looks wonderfully pretty in spite of her grotesque wrap.
Not the faintest breath of wind diverts from the perpendicular the
downfall of rain. The road leads between two steep wooded heights,
whence are wafted woodland odours both sweet and acrid. Intense
peace--an unspeakably beneficent repose--reigns around; in grave
harmonious accord blend the rushing of the brook, the falling of the
rain, and the low whisper and murmur of the dripping leaves, informing
the silence with a sense of enjoyment.
"How beautiful! how wonderfully beautiful!" Stella exclaims; her soft
voice has a strange power to touch the heart, and in its gayest tones
there always trembles something like suppressed tears.
"Yes, it is beautiful," Rohritz admits, "but"--with a glance of
mistrust at the wretched hacks--"when we shall reach Wolfsegg heaven
alone knows!"
Is he so very anxious to reach Wolfsegg? To be frank, no! He feels
unreasonably comfortable in this rain-drenched solitude, beside
this pretty fair-haired child; he cannot help rejoicing in this
_tete-a-tete_. Since the day when Stella thanked him with perhaps
exaggerated warmth for returning her locket, she has never seemed so
much at her ease with him as now.
The desire assails him to probe her pure innocent nature without her
knowledge,--to learn something of her short past, of her true self.
Meanwhile, he repeats, "But it is beautiful,--wonderfully beautiful!"
The wretched horses drag along more and more laboriously. Rohritz has
much ado to prevent their drooping their gray noses to the ground to
crop the dripping grass that clothes each side of the road in emerald
luxuriance.
"Delightful task, the driving of these lame hacks!" he exclaims. "I can
imagine only one pleasure equal to it,--waltzing with a lame partner.
This last I know, of course, only from hearsay."
"Did you never dance?" asks Stella.
"No, never since I left the Academy. Have you been to many balls?"
"Never but to one, in Venice, at the Princess Giovanelli's," Stella
replies. "After the first waltz I became so ill that I would not run
the risk of fainting and making myself and my partner ridiculous. My
enjoyment then consisted in sitting for half an hour between two old
ladies on a sofa, and eating an ice to restore me. At twelve o'clock
punctually I hurried back, moreover, to the Britannia, for I knew that
my poor sick father would sit up to be regaled with an account of my
conquests. He was firmly convinced that I should make conquests. Poor
papa! You must not laugh at his delusion! The next day the other girls
in the hotel pitied me for not having had any partner for the cotillon;
they displayed their bouquets to me, as the Indians after a battle show
the scalps they have taken. They told me of their adorers, and of the
_passions funestes_ which they had inspired, and asked me what I had
achieved in that direction. And I could only cast down my eyes, and
reply, 'Nothing.' And to think that to-day, after all these years, I
must give the same answer to the same question,--'Nothing!'"
"You have never danced, then!" Rohritz says, thoughtfully.
Strange, how this fact attracts him. Stella seems to him like a fruit
not quite ripened by the sun, but gleaming among cool, overshadowing
foliage in absolute, untouched freshness. Such dewy-fresh fruit is
wonderfully inviting; he feels almost like stretching out his hand for
it. But no, it would be folly,--ridiculous; he is an old man, she a
child; it is impossible. And yet----
Both are so absorbed in their thoughts that they do not observe how
very dark it has grown, how threatening is the aspect of the skies.
Leaving the ravine, the road now leads along the bank of the Save. The
pools on each side grow deeper, the mud splashes from the wheels on
Stella's knees: she does not notice it.
"Your last remark was a little bold," Rohritz now says, bending towards
her.
"Bold?" Stella repeats, in dismay: 'bold,' for her, means pert,
aggressive,--in short, something terrible.
"Yes," he continues, smiling at her agitation; "you asserted something
that seems to me incredible,--that you never have inspired any one with
a----"
He hesitates.
A brilliant flash quivers in the sky; by its light they see the Save
foaming along in its narrow bed, swollen to overflowing by the recent
torrents of rain. Then all is dark as night; a loud peal of thunder
shakes the air, and the blast of the storm comes hissing as if with
repressed fury from the mountains.
The horses tremble, one of them stumbles and falls, the traces break,
and down goes the carriage.
"Now we are done for!" Rohritz exclaims, as he jumps down to
investigate the extent of the damage.
Further progress is out of the question. He succeeds by a violent
effort in dragging to his feet the exhausted horse, then unharnesses
both animals and ties them as well as he can to a picket-fence, the
accident having occurred close to an isolated cottage with an adjacent
garden. Rohritz knocks at its doors and windows in vain; no one
appears. In the deep recess of one of the doors is a step affording a
tolerable seat. He spreads a plaid over it, and then, going to Stella,
he says, "Allow me to lift you down; I must drag the carriage aside
from the road. There! you are not quite sheltered yet from the rain;
move a little farther into the corner,--so."
"Oh, I don't in the least mind getting wet," Stella assures him; "but
what shall we do? We cannot sit here all night long in hopes that some
chance passers-by may fish us out of the wet."
"If you could walk, there would be no difficulty. The inn this side of
the ferry is only a quarter of a mile off, and we could easily hire a
couple of horses there. Can you stand on your foot?"
"It gives me a great deal of pain to stand, and, since Uncle Jack has
my other shoe in his pocket, how am I to walk?"
"That is indeed unfortunate."
"You had better go for help to the inn of which you speak," Stella
proposes.
"Then I should have to leave you here alone," says Rohritz, shaking his
head.
"I am not afraid," she declares, with the hardihood of utter
inexperience.
"But I am afraid for you; I cannot endure the thought of leaving you
here alone on Sunday, when all the men about are intoxicated. One of
the roughest of them might chance to pass by."
"In all probability no one will pass," says Stella. "Go as quickly as
you can, that we may get away from here."
"In fact, she is right," Edgar says to himself. He turns to go, then
returns once more, and, taking his mackintosh from his shoulders, wraps
it about her.
He is gone. How slowly time passes when one is waiting in the dark!
With monotonous force, in a kind of grand rhythmical cadence the rain
pours down to the accompaniment of the swirling Save. No other sound is
to be heard. Stella looks round at the horses, which she can dimly
discern. One is lying, all four legs stretched out, in the mud, in the
position in which artists are wont to portray horses killed on a
battle-field; the other is nibbling with apparent relish at some
greenery that has grown across the garden fence. From time to time a
flash of lightning illumines the darkness. Stella takes out her watch
to note the time by one of these momentary illuminations. It must have
stopped,--no, it is actually only a quarter of an hour since Edgar's
departure.
Hark! the rolling of wheels mingles with the rush of the Save and the
plash of the rain. The sound of a human voice falls upon the girl's
ear. She listens, delighted. Is it Rohritz? No, that is not his voice:
there are several voices, suspiciously rough, peasants rolling past in
a small basket-wagon, trolling some monotonous Slav melody. By a red
flash of lightning the rude company is revealed, the driver mercilessly
plying his whip upon the back of a very small horse, that is galloping
through the mire with distended nostrils and fluttering mane.
Stella's heart beats, her boasted courage shrivels up to nothing. A few
more minutes pass, and now she hears steps. Is he coming? No; the steps
approach from the opposite direction, stumbling, dragging steps,--those
of a drunkard.
A nameless, unreasoning dread takes possession of her. Ah! she hears
the quick firm rhythm of an elastic tread.
"Baron Rohritz!" she screams, as loud as she can. "Baron Rohritz!"
The step quickens into a run, and a moment later Rohritz is beside her.
"For God's sake, what is the matter?" he says, much distressed.
"Oh, nothing, nothing,--only a drunken man. My courage oozed away
pitifully. Heaven knows whether, if you had not appeared, I might not
have plunged into the Save from sheer cowardice. But all is well now.
Is a vehicle coming?"
"Unfortunately, there was none to be had. I could only get a
peasant-lad to take care of the horses. If there was the slightest
dependence to be placed upon these confounded brutes I could put you on
the least broken-down of them and lead him slowly to the inn. But,
unfortunately, I am convinced that the beast could not carry you: he
would fall with you in the first pool in the road. With all the desire
in the world to help you, I cannot. You must try to walk as far as the
inn. I have brought you one of the ferryman's wife's shoes."
And while Stella is putting the huge patent-leather shoe on her
bandaged foot, Rohritz directs the peasant-lad to fish his plaid and
rugs out of the mud and to lead the horses slowly to the inn. As he
walks away with Stella they hear the boy's loud drawling 'Hey!' 'Get
up,' with which he seeks to inspirit the miserable brutes.
Leaning on the arm of her escort, Stella does her best to proceed
without yielding to the pain which every minute increases, but her
movements grow slower and more laboured, and finally a low moan escapes
her lips.
"Let me rest just one moment," she entreats, piteously, ashamed of a
helplessness of which a normally constituted woman would have made
capital.
"Do not walk any farther," he rejoins, and, bending over her, he says,
with decision, "I pray you put your right arm around my neck, clasp it
well: treat me absolutely as a _porte-faix_."
"But, Baron----"
"Do not oppose me, I entreat: at present _I_ am in command." His tone
is very kind, but also very authoritative.
She obeys, half mechanically. He carries her firmly and securely,
without stumbling, without betraying the slightest fatigue. At first
her sensations are distressing; then slowly, gradually, a pleasant
sense of being shielded and cared for overcomes her: her thoughts stray
far, far into the past,--back to the time when her father hid her
against his breast beneath his cavalry cloak, and she looked out
between its folds from the warm darkness upon the world outside. The
minutes fly.
"We are here!" Rohritz says, very hoarsely.
She looks up. A reddish light is streaming out into the darkness from
the windows of a low, clumsy building. He puts her down on the
threshold of the inn.
"Thanks!" she murmurs, without looking at him. He is silent.
The inn parlour is empty. A bright fire is burning in the huge tiled
stove; the fragrance of cedar-berries slowly scorching on its ledge
neutralizes in part the odour of old cheese, beer, and cheap tobacco
plainly to be perceived in spite of the open window. In a broad cabinet
with glazed doors are to be seen among various monstrosities of glass
and porcelain two battered sugar ships with paper pennons, and a bridal
wreath with crumpled white muslin blossoms and arsenic-green leaves.
The portraits of their Majesties, very youthful in appearance, dating
from their coronation, hang on each side of this piece of furniture.
Among the various tables covered with black oil-cloth there is one of
rustic neatness provided with a red-flowered cover, and set with
greenish glasses, blue-rimmed plates, and iron knives and forks with
wooden handles.
The hostess, a colossal dame, who looks like a meal-sack with a string
tied around its middle, makes her appearance, to receive the
unfortunates and to place her entire wardrobe at Stella's disposal.
"Can we not go on, then?" Stella asks, in dismay.
"Unfortunately, no. I have sent to the nearest village for some sort of
conveyance, and my messenger cannot possibly return in less than an
hour. And I must prepare you for another unfortunate circumstance: we
shall be forced to go by a very long and roundabout road; the Groeblach
bridge is carried away, and the Save is whirling along in its current
the pillars and ruins, making the ferry impracticable for the present."
"Oh, good heavens!" sighs Stella, who has meanwhile taken off her
dripping water-proof and wrapped about her shoulders a thick red shawl
loaned her by the hostess. "Well, at least we are under shelter."
Thereupon the hostess brings in a grass-green waiter on which are
placed a dish of ham and eggs and a can of beer.
"I ordered a little supper, but I cannot vouch for the excellence of
the viands," Rohritz says, in French, to Stella. "I should be glad if
you would consent to eat something warm. It is the best preventive
against cold."
Stella shows no disposition to criticise what is thus set before her.
"How pleasant!" she exclaims, gaily, taking her seat at the table. "I
am terribly hungry, and I had not ventured to hope for anything to eat
before midnight."
It is a pleasure to him to sit opposite to her, looking at her pretty,
cheerful face,--a pleasure to laugh at her gay sallies.
Would it not be charming to sit opposite to her thus daily at his own
table,--to lavish care and tenderness upon the poor child who had been
so neglected and thrust out into the world,--to spoil and pet her to
his heart's content? "Grasp your chance,--grasp it!" the heart in his
bosom cries out: "her lot is hard, she is grateful for a little
sympathy, will she not smile on you in spite of your gray hair?" But
reason admonishes: "Forbear! she is only a child. To be sure, if, as
she has avowed, her heart be really untouched, why then----"
Whilst he, absorbed in such careful musings, grows more and more
taciturn, she chatters away gaily upon every conceivable topic,
devouring with an appetite to be envied the frugal refection he has
provided.
"It is delightful, our improvised supper," she declares, "almost as
charming as the little suppers at the Britannia which papa used to have
ready for me when I came home from parties in Venice, as terribly
hungry as one always is on returning from a Venetian soiree, where one
is delightfully entertained but gets nothing to eat."
"It seems, then, that the Giovanelli ball was not your only glimpse of
Venetian society?" Rohritz remarks, with a glance that is well-nigh
indiscreetly searching.
"Before papa grew so much worse I very often went out: papa insisted
upon it. The Countess L---- chaperoned me. And at Lady Stair's evenings
in especial I enjoyed myself almost as much as I was bored at the
Giovanelli ball. I cannot, 'tis true, dance; but talk,"--she laughs
somewhat shyly, as if in ridicule of her talkativeness,--"I _can_
talk."
"That there is nothing to eat at a Venetian soiree I know from
experience," Rohritz says, rather ill-humouredly, "but how one can find
any enjoyment there I am absolutely unable to understand. Venetian
society is terrible: the men especially are intolerable."
"I did not find it so," Stella declares, shaking her head with her
usual grave simplicity in asserting her opinion; "not at all."
"But you must confess that Italians are usually low-toned; that----"
"But I did not meet Italians exclusively; I met Austrians, English,
Russians; although in fact"--she pauses reflectively, then says, with
conviction--"the nicest of all, my very particular friend, was an
Italian, Prince Zino Capito."
"He calls himself an Austrian," Rohritz interposes.
"He was born in Rome," Stella rejoins.
"I see you know all about him," Rohritz observes.
"We saw a great deal of each other," Stella chatters on easily. "We
were in the same hotel, papa and I, and the Prince. His place at table
was next to mine, and in fine weather he used to take us to sail in his
cutter. He often came in the evenings to play bezique with papa. He was
very kind to papa."
"Evidently," Rohritz observes.
"You seem to dislike him!" Stella says, in some surprise.
"Not at all. We always got along very well together," Rohritz coldly
assures her. "I know him intimately; my oldest brother married his
sister Therese."
"Ah! is she as handsome as he?" Stella asks, innocently.
"Very graceful and distinguished in appearance; she does not resemble
him at all." And with a growing sharpness in his tone Rohritz adds,--
"Do you think him so very handsome?"
The hostess interrupts them by bringing in a dish of inviting
strawberries. Stella thanks her kindly for her excellent supper, the
woman says something to Rohritz in the peasant patois, which Stella
does not understand, and he fastens his eye-glass in his eye, a sign
with him of a momentary access of ill humour.
After the woman has withdrawn he remarks, with an odd twinkle of his
eyes, "How many years too young did you say I was, Baroness Stella, to
be your father? four or five, was it not? _Eh bien_, our hostess thinks
differently: she has just congratulated me upon my charming daughter."
But Stella has no time to make reply: her eyes are riveted in horror
upon the clock against the wall. "Is it really half-past ten?" she
exclaims. "No, thank heaven; the clock has stopped. What o'clock is it,
Baron Rohritz?"
"A quarter after eleven," he says, startled himself, and rather
uncomfortable. "I do not understand why the messenger is not here with
the conveyance."
"Good heavens!" Stella cries, in utter dismay. "What will mamma say?"
"Be reasonable. Your mother cannot blame you in this case; she must be
informed that it was impossible to cross the ferry," he says, anxious
himself about the matter, however.
"Certainly; but while she does not know of our break-down she will
think we have had plenty of time to reach Wolfsegg by the longest way
round. You certainly acted for the best, but it would have been better,
much better, if Uncle Jack had stayed with me. He knows all about the
country, and he has a decided way of making these lazy peasants do as
he pleases."
"I do not believe that with all his knowledge of the country, and his
decision of character, he could have succeeded in procuring you a
conveyance," Rohritz says, with growing irritation.
"If the ferry is useless, perhaps we might cross in a skiff," Stella
says, almost in tears.
"I will see what is to be done," he rejoins. "At all events it shall
not be my fault if your mother's anxiety is not fully appeased in the
course of the next half-hour."
With this he leaves the room. Shortly afterwards the hostess makes her
appearance.
"Where has the Herr Papa gone?" she asks.
"He has gone out to see if we cannot cross the Save in a boat."
"He cannot do it to-night," the woman asserts. "He would surely not
think of----" Without finishing her sentence she puts down the plate of
cheese she has just brought, and hurries away.
Stella is perplexed. What does he mean to do? What is the hostess so
foolishly afraid of? She limps to the open window, and sees Rohritz on
the bank of the stream, talking in the Slavonic dialect, which she does
not understand, with a rough-looking man. The rain has ceased, the
clouds are rent and flying, and from among them the moon shines with a
bluish lustre, strewing silver gleams upon the quiet road with its
net-work of pools and ruts, upon the wildly-rushing Save with its
foaming billows, upon the black roof of the hut which serves as a
shelter for the ferrymen, and upon a rocking skiff which is fastened to
the shore. A sudden dread seizes upon Stella, a dread stronger by far
than her childish fear of her mother's harsh words. The hostess enters.
"Not a bit will the gentleman heed,--stiff-necked he is, the water
boiling, and not a man will risk the rowing him: he be's to sail alone
to Wolfsegg, and ne'er a one can hinder him."
Stella sees Rohritz get into the skiff, sees the fisherman take hold of
the chain that fastens it to the shore. Not even conscious of the pain
in her wounded foot, she rushes out, and across the muddy road to the
bank, where the fisherman has already unfastened the chain and is
preparing to push the boat out of the swamp into the rushing current.
"Good heavens! are you mad?" she calls aloud to Rohritz. "What are you
about?"
Rohritz turns hastily; their eyes meet in the moonlight. "After what
you said to me there is nothing for me to do save to shield your
reputation at all hazards.--Push off!" he orders the fisherman.
"No," she calls: "it never occurred to me to consider my reputation. I
was only a coward, and afraid of mamma."
The fisherman hesitates. Rohritz takes the oars. "Push off!" he orders,
angrily.
"Do so, if you choose," Stella cries, "but you will take me with you!"
Whereupon she jumps into the boat, and, striking her poor wounded foot
against a seat, utterly breaks down with the pain. "I was a coward;
yes, yes, I was afraid of mamma; but I would rather have her refuse to
speak to me than have you drowned," she sobs.
Her streaming eyes are riveted in great distress upon his face, and her
soft, trembling hands try to clasp his arm. About the skiff the waves
plash, "Grasp it, grasp it; your happiness lies at your feet!"
His whole frame is thrilled. He stoops and lifts her up. "But, Stella,
my poor foolish angel----" he begins.
At this moment there is a rattle of wheels, and then the captain's
voice: "Rohritz! Rohritz!"
"All's right now!" says Rohritz, drawing a deep breath.
As it now appears, the captain has come by the long roundabout road,
with a borrowed vehicle, to the relief of the unfortunates. The
general, who, whatever disagreeable qualities he may possess, is a
'gentleman coachman' of renown, has declared himself quite ready to
conduct the landau with its spirited span of horses to Erlach Court.
"What have you been about? What has happened to you?" the captain
repeats, and he shakes his head, claps his hands, and laughs by turns,
as with mutual interruptions and explanations the tale of disaster is
unfolded to him.
Then Stella is packed inside the little vehicle, Rohritz takes his
place beside her, and the captain is squeezed up on the front seat.
Before fifteen minutes are over Stella is sound asleep. Rohritz wraps
his plaid about her shoulders without her knowledge.
"She is tired out," he whispers. "I only hope her foot is not going to
give her trouble. Were you very anxious?"
"My wife was almost beside herself. My sister took the matter, on the
contrary, very quietly, until finally Stasy put some ridiculous ideas
of impropriety into her head, and then she talked nonsense, alternately
scolding you and the child, marching up and down the common room at the
Wolfsegg inn like a bear in a cage, until I could bear it no longer,
but left the entire party on the general's shoulders to be driven home,
and set out in search of you. How did Stella behave herself? Did she
give you any trouble?"
"No; she was very quiet."
"She is a dear girl, is she not? Poor child! she really has had too
much to bear. Of course I would not confess it to Stasy, but it is a
fact that if any other man had been in your place I should have been
excessively annoyed."
"My gray hair has been of immense advantage to your niece," Rohritz
assured him. "The hostess at the ferry persisted in taking me for her
father."
"Nonsense!"
"Nonsense which at least showed me at the right moment precisely where
I stood," Rohritz murmured. "And, between ourselves,--never allude to
it again,--it was necessary."
* * * * *
The captain, who naturally enough sees nothing in his friend's words
but an allusion to his altered circumstances, sighs, and thinks, "What
a pity!"