Meanwhile, the sky had become overcast; a keen wind began to blow, and
large drops of rain were falling before Erika reached the door of the
lodgings in Maximilian Street.
As she mounted the staircase she heard her grandmother's voice in the
drawing-room and recognized the cordial tone which she used when
speaking to the few people in the world with whom she was in genuine
sympathy. Nevertheless, agitated by her late interview, Erika inwardly
deplored the arrangement of their apartments which made it impossible
that she should reach her bedroom without passing through the
drawing-room. She opened the door: her grandmother was seated on the
sofa, and near her, in an arm-chair, with his back to the casement
window, was a man in civilian's dress. He arose, looking so tall that
it seemed to Erika he must strike his head against the low ceiling of
the room. She did not instantly recognize him, as he stood with his
back to the light, but before he had advanced a step she exclaimed,
"Goswyn!" and ran to him with both hands extended. When, with rather
formal courtesy, he kissed one of the hands thus held out as if seeking
succour, and then dropped it without any very cordial pressure, she was
assailed by a certain embarrassment: she remembered that she should
have called him Herr von Sydow, and that it became her to receive
her rejected suitor with a more measured dignity. But she was not
self-possessed today. The shock of meeting her step-father had unstrung
her nerves; the numbness which had of late paralyzed sensation began to
depart; her youthful heart throbbed almost as loudly as it had done
when she had first ascended the thickly-carpeted staircase in Bellevue
Street, as strongly as upon that brilliant Thursday at the Countess
Brock's, when, suddenly overcome by the memory of her unhappy mother,
she had fled from the crowd of her admirers to sob out her misery in
some lonely corner.
Lord Langley's worldly-wise, self-possessed betrothed had vanished, and
in her stead was a shy, emotional young person, oppressed by a sense of
her exaggerated cordiality towards the guest. She now seated herself as
far as possible from him in one of the red plush arm-chairs.
"How long have you been in Bayreuth, Herr von Sydow?" she asked, in a
timid little voice, which thrilled the young officer's heart like an
echo of by-gone times.
Erika, whose eyes had become accustomed to the darkened light of the
room, noted that he smiled,--his old kind smile. His features looked
more sharply chiselled than formerly; he had grown very thin, and had
lost every trace of the slight clumsiness which had once characterized
him.
"I came several days ago: my musical feast is already a thing of the
past," he replied.
"Indeed! And what then keeps you in Bayreuth?" Erika asked.
He laughed a little forced laugh, and then blushed after his old
fashion, but replied, very quietly, "I learned from your factotum
Luedecke, whom I met the day before yesterday, that you were coming, and
so I determined to await your arrival."
She longed to say something cordial and kind to him, but the words
would not come. Instead her grandmother spoke.
"It was kind of you to stay in this tiresome old hole just to see us. I
call it very kind," she assured him, and Erika added, meekly, "So do
I."
A pause ensued, broken finally by Goswyn: "Let me offer you my best
wishes on the occasion of your betrothal, Countess Erika." He uttered
the words very bravely, but Erika could not respond: she suddenly felt
that she had cause to be ashamed of herself, although what that cause
was she did not know.
"Are you acquainted with Lord Langley, Goswyn?" the old Countess asked,
in the icy tone which she always assumed when any allusion was made to
her grand-daughter's engagement.
"No. You can imagine how eager I am to hear about him."
"He is one of the most entertaining Englishmen I have ever met,--a very
clever man," the Countess declared, as if discussing some one in whom
she took no personal interest.
"It was not to be supposed that the Countess Erika would sacrifice
her freedom to any ordinary individual," said Goswyn, with admirable
self-control.
For all reply the Countess raised the clumsy teacup before her to her
lips.
With every word thus spoken Erika's sense of shame deepened, and she
was seized with an intense desire to be frank with Goswyn, and to
dispel any illusion he might entertain as to her betrothal. "Lord
Langley is no longer young," she said, hurriedly. "I will show you his
photograph."
She went into the adjoining room and brought thence the photograph in
its case, which she opened herself before handing it to Goswyn. He
looked at the picture, then at her, and then again at the picture. His
broad shoulders twitched; without a word he closed the case, and put it
upon a table, beside which Erika had taken her seat.
An embarrassing silence ensued. The sound of rolling vehicles was heard
distinctly from below, and one stopped before the dark door-way. Soon
afterwards the staircase creaked beneath a heavy tread. Luedecke opened
the low door of the old-fashioned apartment, and announced, "Frau
Countess Brock."
The 'wicked fairy' unconsciously had a novel experience: her appearance
was a relief.
As usual, she bowed and nodded on all sides, but, as she was unable for
the moment to find her eye-glass, she saw nobody, and fell into the
error of supposing a tall india-rubber tree in a tub before a window to
be her particular friend the chamberlain Langefeld. Not until Goswyn
discovered the eye-glass hanging by its slender cord among the jet
ornaments and fringes with which her mantle was trimmed and humanely
handed it to her, did she find out her mistake. Goswyn was about to
withdraw after having rendered her this service, but she tapped him
reproachfully on the shoulder and begged him to stay a moment with his
old aunt. He might have resisted her request; but when Countess
Lenzdorff added that he would please her by remaining, he complied, and
seated himself again, although with something of the awkwardness apt to
be shown by an officer when in civilian's dress.
The 'wicked fairy' established herself beside the Countess Anna upon
the sofa behind the round table, and accepted from Erika's hand a cup
of tea, which she drank in affected little sips. She was clad, as
usual, in trailing mourning robes, although no one could have told for
whom she wore them, and the Countess Anna's first question was, "Do you
not dislike wandering about Bayreuth as the Queen of Night?"
"On the contrary," replied the 'wicked fairy,' rubbing her hands,
"I like it. Awhile ago one of my friends declared that I appeared
in Bayreuth as the mourning ghost of classic music. Was it not
charming?--but not at all appropriate, for I adore Wagner!" And she
began to hum the air of the flower-girl scene, "trililili lilili----"
"What do you think of 'Parsifal'?" Countess Anna asked, turning to
Goswyn. "One of the greatest humbugs of the century, eh? They howl as
if possessed by an evil spirit, and call it joy,--call it song!"
"At the risk of falling greatly in your esteem, I must confess that
'Parsifal' made a profound impression upon me, Countess," Goswyn
replied.
"Et tu, Brute!" his old friend exclaimed.
"I do not entirely approve of it, if that is anything in my favour," he
rejoined.
"Ah, there is nothing like Wagner! there is but one God,--and one
Wagner!" The 'wicked fairy' went on humming, closing her eyes, and
waving her hands affectedly in the air.
"The scene containing the air which you are humming is not one of my
favourites," Goswyn remarked.
"Oh, it charmed us most of all,--Dorothea and me," the 'wicked fairy'
declared. "Those hovering little temptresses, so seductive, and
Parsifal, the chaste, in their midst!" She clasped her hands in an
ecstasy. "The other evening at Frau Wagner's we met Van Dyck. He is
rather strong in his mode of speech. Dorothea seemed much entertained
by him, but afterwards she thought him shocking."
"Your niece seems to have a positive mania just now for thinking
everything 'shocking,'" Countess Anna said, dryly. "She sings no more
music-hall ditties, and casts down her eyes modestly when she sees a
French novel in a book-shop. Such a transformation is, to say the
least, startling. Oh, I beg pardon, Goswyn; I always forget that
Dorothea is your sister-in-law."
"No need to remember it while we are among ourselves," Goswyn rejoined.
"_Coram publico_, I would beg you to modify your expressions, for my
poor brother's sake."
"He cannot endure Thea," Countess Brock said, laughing, as she shook
her forefinger at him; "but I know why that is so. Look how he
blushes!" In fact, Goswyn had changed colour. "He fell in love with her
in Florence. She told me all about it--aha!"
"Does she really fancy so, or has she invented the story for her own
amusement?" Goswyn murmured, as if to himself.
The 'fairy' continued to giggle and writhe about in the corner of the
sofa.
"You must have been much with Dorothea of late," the Countess Anna
remarked, quietly: "you have acquired all her airs and graces. Is the
lady in question in Bayreuth at present?"
"No; she left early this morning, for Berlin, where she has various
matters to attend to before she goes to Heiligendamm. But we have been
together for some time. We were in Schlangenbad for six weeks. Oh, we
enjoyed ourselves excessively,--made all sorts of acquaintances whom we
should never have spoken to at home. But--I came to see you, Anna,
for a special purpose,--two purposes, I might say. One concerns
Hedwig Norbin's birthday,--her seventieth,--and the other--yes, the
other--guess whom I met in Schlangenbad?" She threw back her head and
folded her arms across her breast, the very impersonation of
anticipated enjoyment in a disagreeable announcement.
"How can I?"
"Your grand-daughter's step-father: yes," nodding emphatically.
Erika started. Countess Lenzdorff said, calmly, "Indeed! I pity you
from my heart; but, since I had no share in bringing such a misfortune
upon you, I owe you no further reparation."
"H'm! you need not pity me. He interested me extremely. You and your
grand-daughter have seen fit simply to ignore him; but you do not know
what people say."
"Nor does it interest me in the least."
"Well, you may not care about the verdict of society, but it is
comfortable to stand well with one's conscience, as Dorothea said to me
the other day."
"Indeed! did she say that to you?" Countess Anna murmured in an
undertone.
"Yes, and she was indignant at the way in which you have treated the
poor man."
"Is it any affair of hers?" Countess Lenzdorff asked, sharply.
"Oh, she is quite right; I am entirely of her opinion," the 'fairy'
went on; then, turning to Erika, "I cannot help remonstrating with you.
He certainly cared for you like a father until you were seventeen. He
was a man whom your mother loved passionately."
Erika sat as if turned to marble: every word spoken by the old 'fairy'
was like a blow in the face to her.
The Countess Lenzdorff's eyes flashed angrily. "Do not meddle with what
you do not in the least understand, Elise!" she exclaimed. "As for my
daughter-in-law's passion for that stupid weakling, it was made up of
pity on the one hand for a man whom she came to know wounded and ill,
and on the other hand of antagonism towards me. The fact is, I provoked
her; the marriage would never have taken place if I had not most
injudiciously set myself in opposition to Emma's betrothal to the Pole.
Her second marriage was a tragedy, the result of obstinacy, not of
love."
"My dearest Anna, that is entirely your own idea," the Countess Brock
asserted. "Every one knows that you cannot appreciate any tenderness of
affection because your own heart is clad in armour, but you can never
convince me that your daughter-in-law did not love the Pole
passionately. In the first place, her passion for him was the only
possible motive for her marriage; how else could it have occurred to
her?--bah!--nonsense! and in the second place, Strachinsky read me her
letters,--letters written soon after their marriage. He carries these
proofs everywhere with him: his devotion to his dead wife is most
touching. Poor man! he wept when he read the letters to us, and we wept
too. I had invited a few friends, and he spent two evenings in reading
them aloud to us. When he had finished he kissed the letters, and said,
with a deep sigh, 'This is all that is left to me of my poor, adored
Emma,' and then he told us of the tender relations that had existed
between himself and his step-daughter, until she, when a brilliant lot
fell to her share, had cast him aside--like an old shoe-string, as he
expressed it. I do not say that such a connection is the most
desirable, but _on choisit ses amis, on subit ses parents_. Certain
duties must be conscientiously fulfilled, and, my dear Erika, be sure
that I advise you for your good when I beg you to be friends with your
step-father: you owe him a certain amount of filial affection. He is
here in Bayreuth, and has requested me to effect a reconciliation
between you and him."
Erika made no reply. She sat motionless, speechless. The 'fairy' played
her last trump. "People are talking about your unjustifiable treatment
of him," she said; "but that can all be arranged. May I tell him that
you are ready to receive him, Anna?"
The Countess Lenzdorff rose to her feet. "Indeed!" she exclaimed, with
an outburst of indignation; "you wish me to receive a man who, for the
sake of exciting sympathy, reads aloud to your invited guests the
letters of his dead wife? What do you take me for? I will have him
turned out of doors if he dares to show his face here! And I have no
more time at present to listen to you, Elise: I am going to pay a visit
to Hedwig Norbin. Will you come with me?"
"With the greatest pleasure!" cried the 'wicked fairy,' decidedly
cowed.
"Bring me my bonnet and gloves from my room, my child," her grandmother
said to Erika, and when the girl brought them to her she kissed her on
the cheek.
Goswyn had risen to depart with the two ladies. Erika looked after him
dully as, after taking a formal leave of her, he had reached the door
of the room. Then she suddenly followed him. "Goswyn," she murmured,
"stay for one moment!"
He stayed; the door closed after the others, and they were alone.
What did she want of him? He did not know: she herself did not know. He
would advise her, rid her of the weight upon her heart: her old habit
of appealing to him in all difficulties returned to her in full force.
The time was past for her when she could relieve herself in any
distressing agitation by a burst of tears: she sat there white and
silent, plucking at the folds of her black lace dress.
At last, passing her hand across her forehead once or twice, she began
in a forced monotone, "You know that I idolized my mother; I have told
you about her; perhaps you remember----"
"I do not think I have forgotten much that you have ever told me," he
interrupted her.
The words were kind, but something in his tone pained her. Something
interposed between them. It had seemed so natural to turn to him for
sympathy, but she suddenly felt shy. What was her distress to him?
"Forgive me," she murmured. "I longed to pour out my heart to some one.
I have no one to go to, and I suffer so! You cannot imagine what this
last quarter of an hour has been to me. My poor mother's marriage was a
tragedy; my grandmother was right. No one who did not live with her can
dream of all that she suffered for years. Her last request to me when
she was dying was that I would not let him come to her. And now that
wretch is boasting to strangers--oh, I cannot endure it! Can you
understand what it all is to me? Can you understand?"
The question was superfluous. She knew very well that he understood,
but she repeated the words mechanically again and again. Why did he sit
there so straight and silent? She was pouring out her soul to him,
revealing to him all that was most sacred, and he had not one word of
sympathy for her. A kind of anger took possession of her, and, with all
the self-control which she could summon up, she said, more calmly, "I
know I have no right to burden you with my misery----"
"Countess Erika!" he exclaimed, with a sudden unconscious movement of
his hand, which chanced to strike the case containing Lord Langley's
photograph. It fell on the floor; Goswyn picked it up and tossed it
contemptuously upon the table, while his face grew hard and stern.
He was the first to break the silence that followed. "Is this
Strachinsky staying in Bayreuth?"
"Yes. I met him to-day."
"Do you know his address?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"For the simplest reason in the world: I wish to procure your mother's
letters for you."
"The letters!" she exclaimed. "Oh, if that were possible! But upon what
pretext could you demand them of him? they belong to him; we have no
right to them."
"Might is right with such a fellow as that," Goswyn said, as he rose to
go.
She offered him her hand; he took it courteously, but there was no
cordial pressure on his part, nor did he carry it to his lips.
In a moment he was gone. She stood gazing as if spell-bound at the door
which closed behind him. She did not understand. He was the same, but
in his eyes she was no longer what she had been. This conviction
flashed upon her. He was, as ever, ready to help her, but the tender
warmth of sympathy of former days had gone, as had the reverence with
which the strong man had been wont to regard her weakness: she was
neither so dear nor so sacred to him as she had been.
In the midst of the pain caused her by the 'wicked fairy's' malicious
speeches she was aware of a paralyzing consciousness that she had sunk
in the esteem of the one human being in the world whom she prized most
highly.
When the Countess Lenzdorff returned at the end of an hour, her
grand-daughter was still sitting where she had left her, in the dark.
When Erika heard her grandmother coming, she slipped into her own room.