If Erika could have known anything of the unpleasant scene in
Charlottenburg Avenue, her warm-hearted indignation would immediately
have developed into vigour the germ of affection for Goswyn that
already, unknown to herself, slumbered in her heart. She would
certainly have committed some exaggerated, irresponsible act, which
would have overthrown at a blow Goswyn's rudely-aroused, tormenting
pride. She never could have borne to have another inflict upon him pain
or humiliation. The entire disagreeable complication would have come to
a crisis in a most touching scene, and in the end two people absolutely
made for each other would have been sitting hand clasped in hand on the
lounge beneath the fan-palms in Countess Lenzdorff's drawing-room,
conversing in low tones, and Erika would have arrived at the sensible
and agreeable conviction that there could be nothing better in the
world than to share the life of a strong, noble husband to whom she
could implicitly confide her happiness. The problem of her life would
have found its solution, and she would have been spared the perilous
errors and hard trials awaiting her in the future.
But the ugly story never reached her. The three men who had been
auditors of Dorothea's coarse cruelty would have considered as a breach
of honour any report of it, and the Princess Dorothea contented herself
with a giggling declaration to all who chose to listen that her
brother-in-law Goswyn had had the mitten from Erika Lenzdorff, without
referring to the way in which her information had been procured.
Thus Erika passed the rest of the day with a rather sore, compassionate
feeling in her heart, never doubting that she should have her usual
ride with Goswyn the next morning, when she promised herself to be
particularly amiable. All would come right, she said to herself.
But that same evening, when she was taking tea with her grandmother,
old Luedecke brought his mistress a letter which she read with evident
surprise and then laid down beside her plate. She did not eat another
morsel, and scarcely spoke during the meal. Observing that Erika,
distressed by her silence, had also ceased eating and was anxiously
glancing towards her grandmother from time to time, she asked, "Have
you finished?" Her voice was unusually stern. Erika was startled.
"Yes," she stammered, and, trembling in every limb, she followed her
grandmother out of the dining-room and into the Countess's cheerful,
cosey boudoir. There the old lady began to pace thoughtfully to and
fro: she looked very dignified and awe-inspiring. Erika had never
before seen her thus, walking with short impatient steps, frowning
brow, and a face that seemed hewn out of marble. She began to be
frightfully uncomfortable in the presence of the angry old woman, and
was trying to slip away unobserved, when her grandmother barred her way
and said, harshly, "Stay here: I have something to say to you, Erika."
"Yes, grandmother."
"Sit down."
Erika obeyed.
The room looked very pleasant, with its light furniture revealed in the
shaded brilliancy of coloured hanging lamps. One window was open; a low
rustle of leaves was wafted in through the pale-green silken curtains
upon the warm languorous breath of the spring night. Her grandmother
seated herself in her favourite arm-chair beside her reading-table,
with Erika opposite her on a frail-looking little chair, bolt upright,
with her hands in her lap, and a very distressed expression of
countenance.
"This letter is from Goswyn," the old lady began, tapping the letter in
her lap.
"Yes, grandmother," murmured Erika.
"You guessed it?" the old lady asked, in a hard, unnatural voice, and
with an exaggerated distinctness of utterance, which were very strange
to her granddaughter.
"I know his handwriting."
"H'm! You know what is in the letter?"
"How should I?" Erika's pale cheeks flushed crimson.
"How should you? Well, then, I must tell you"--she smoothed down her
dress with an impatient gesture--"that you refused his offer to-day:
that is what the letter contains. Surely you should know it. Such
things are not done in sleep."
"Ah, yes, I know that," Erika murmured, beginning to be irritated in
her turn; "but how was I to suppose that he would write it to you? I
cannot see what he does it for?"
"What for? He informs me that he must deprive himself of all
intercourse with us for a time, that he has obtained leave of absence
and is going away from Berlin."
"But why?" exclaimed Erika. "This is perfect nonsense! It was settled
that we should ride together to-morrow as usual."
"Indeed! You expected him to ride with you after you had rejected him?"
"He was perfectly agreed," Erika eagerly declared: "we parted the best
of friends. I do not want to marry him, but I prize his friendship
immensely. I told him so. He has surely put that in the letter. He is
never unjust; he must have told you that I was nice to him. How could I
help being so, when I pitied him so much?" The girl's voice trembled.
"You have missed something in the letter; you must have missed
something," she persisted.
Her grandmother opened the letter again, and read, first in an
undertone, then aloud: "Yes, here it is: 'Never was man rejected more
charmingly, with greater sweetness, than I by the Countess Erika; but
it did me no good. I only thought her more bewitching than ever before
in her tender kindliness,--yes, even in all her dear, child-like,
awkward attempts to reconcile what in the very nature of things is
irreconcilable.
"'For a while I shall be very wretched; but you know me well enough to
feel sure that I shall not go through life hanging my head, any more
than I shall now butt that same head against the wall. I trust that the
time will come when I shall be of some use to you, my dear old friend,
and, it may be, to _her_; but at present I am good for nothing.
"'It is best that I should retire into the background. To-morrow I
leave Berlin. Forgive me for finding it impossible to take leave of you
in person, and believe in the faithful devotion of yours always,
"'G. Von Sydow.'"
After the old lady had finished the reading of the letter, not without
a certain pathetic emphasis, she looked up. Erika's face was bathed in
tears. Her grandmother was dismayed, and after a pause began again, but
in a very different and a very gentle tone.
"This affair annoys me excessively, Erika."
The girl nodded.
"The fact is,"--the grandmother laid her hand on Erika's arm,--"you are
very inexperienced in such affairs. Another time you must not let
matters go so far. One must do everything in one's power to spare an
honourable gentleman such a humiliation. Your conduct would have given
the most modest of men reason to suppose you cared for him. You misled
me completely."
"Misled!--cared for him!" Erika repeated, tapping the carpet nervously
with her foot. "But I do like him very much."
Her grandmother all but smiled. "My dear child, I do not quite
understand you. Consider! Shall I write and tell Goswyn that you were a
little unprepared, and that you are sorry,--there's no disgrace in
admitting that,--and--Heaven knows I shall be glad enough to write the
letter!" She rose to go to her writing-table, but Erika detained her,
nervously clutching at her skirts.
"No! no! oh, no, grandmother!" she almost screamed. "I do like him; I
know how good he is; but I do not want to marry him, I am still so
young. For God's sake do not force me to do so!" She had grown deadly
pale, as she clasped her hands in entreaty.
Her grandmother looked at her with a grave shake of the head. "As you
please," she said, no longer stern, but depressed, worried,--a mood
very rare with her. "Now go and lie down: rest will do you good; and I
should like to be alone for a while."
Far into the night did the old Countess pace restlessly to and fro in
her boudoir, amidst all the graceful works of art which she had
collected about her with such satisfaction and which gave her none at
present. At last she seated herself at her writing-table, and before
Goswyn left Berlin the next day he received the following letter:
"My Dear Boy,--
"This matter affects me more than you would think. I was so sure of my
case. At first I was disposed to scold the girl; but there turned out
to be no reason for doing so. Not a trace did she show of vulgar love
of admiration, nor even of heartless thoughtlessness. Everything that
she said to you is true: she likes you very much. I tried to set her
right,--in vain! For the present there is nothing to be done with her.
"In the course of conversation I perceived that there was nothing for
which the child was to blame; the fault was all mine. Can you forgive
me?
"But that is a mere phrase. I know that it never will occur to you to
blame me.
"My words will not come as readily as usual, and I am very
uncomfortable. I am writing to you not only to tell you how much I pity
you, but also to relieve my anxiety somewhat by talking it over with
you.
"I have come to see that my grandchild, whom I so wrongly
neglected--the words are not a mere phrase--for so long, and for whom I
now have an affection such as I have never felt for any one in my life
hitherto, will give me many an unhappy hour.
"Her sad, dreary youth has left its shadow on her soul, and has
exaggerated in her a perilous inborn sensitiveness.
"There are depths in her character which I cannot fathom. She is good,
tender-hearted, noble, beautiful, and rarely gifted; but there is with
her in everything a tendency to exaggeration that frightens me. I
forebode now that my long neglect of the child from mere selfish love
of ease will be bitterly avenged upon me.
"If I had watched her from childhood, I should now know her; but,
fondly as I love her, I cannot but feel that I do not understand her,
and the great difference in our ages makes any perfect intimacy between
us impossible. Moreover, in spite of my trifle of sagacity, of which I
have availed myself for my own pleasure and never for the benefit of
others, I am an unpractical person, and shall make many a stupid
mistake in my treatment of the child. And it is a pity; for I do not
over-estimate her: she is bewitching!
"Yet, withal, I cannot help thinking that you have not acted as wisely
as I should have expected you to,--that with a little more heartfelt
insistence you might have prevailed where my persuasion failed. In
especial your sudden flight is a perfect riddle to me. I looked for
more perseverance from you. But this is your affair.
"I am very sorry not to see you again before your hurried departure. I
shall miss you terribly, my dear boy, I have become so accustomed to
refer to you in all my small perplexities. Still hoping, in spite of
everything, that sooner or later all may be as it should be between
Erika and yourself, I am your affectionate old friend,
"Anna Lenzdorff."
Chafed and sore in heart as Goswyn was at the time, this letter did him
good. After reading it through he murmured, "When she thus reveals her
inmost soul, it is easy to understand how, with all her faults and
follies, one cannot help loving the old Countess."