Erika's betrothal to Lord Langley had produced a sensation in society,
but it had been regarded as a very sensible arrangement. The girl had
been envied, and all had declared that her ambition had achieved its
aim in a marriage with an English peer. Malice had not been silent: she
had been credited with heartlessness,--but then she had done vastly
well for herself. The announcement that the engagement was dissolved
gave rise to all sorts of reports. No one knew the real reason of the
breach, and had it been known it would not have been credited.
The belief steadily gained ground that Lord Langley had been the first
to withdraw, dismayed by the discovery of Erika's objectionable
relative Strachinsky, and shocked by the girl's heartless treatment of
him.
Countess Brock furnished the material for this report, the Princess
Dorothea detailed it with various additions, and in the eyes of Berlin
society Erika was nothing more than an ambitious blunderer who had
experienced a tremendous rebuff. It was edifying to hear Dorothea
descant upon this theme, winding up her remarks with, "I do not pity
Erika,--I never liked her,--but poor old Countess Lenzdorff. She has
always been one of Aunt Brock's friends."
There had been an apparent change in the Princess Dorothea from the day
when she had publicly insulted Goswyn von Sydow in Charlottenburg
Avenue. The story had been told greatly to her discredit, and not only
had her cousin Prince Helmy forsworn his allegiance to her, but the
other men who had been present at that memorable interview had since
held aloof from her. She found herself compelled to attract a fresh
circle of admirers,--which she did at the sacrifice of every remnant of
good taste which she yet possessed.
After this for a while she pursued her madly gay career; but for a year
past there had been a change. The number of her admirers had greatly
diminished,--was reduced, indeed, to a Prince Orbanoff, who was now her
shadow. She boasted of her good resolutions, went to church every
Sunday, was shocked at the women who read French novels, and was
altogether rather a prudish character.
Society held itself on the defensive, and did not put much faith in her
boasted virtue. But when she calumniated Erika society believed her; at
least this was the case with the society of envious young beauties whom
she met every Friday at the 'wicked fairy's,' where they made clothes
for the poor.
When, late in the autumn, the Lenzdorffs returned to Berlin, supposing
that the little episode of Erika's betrothal was already forgotten by
society, they were met on all sides by a malicious show of sympathy.
Erika regarded all this with utter indifference, and withdrew from all
gaiety as far as she could, but the old Countess fretted and fumed with
indignation.
She could not comprehend why all the world could not view Erika from
her own point of view; and her exaggerated defence of the girl
contributed to make Erika's position still more disagreeable. Moreover,
age was beginning to cast its first shadows over the Countess's clear
mind. She was especially annoyed, also, by Goswyn's holding aloof. He
had replied courteously, but with extreme reserve, to the Countess's
letter informing him, not without exultation, of the breaking of
Erika's engagement. This was as it should be; but when the answer to a
second letter written much later was quite as reserved, the old
Countess was vexed and impatient. Erika insisted upon reading this
second epistle herself. Her hands trembled as she held it, and when she
had finished it she laid it on the table without a word, and left the
room as pale as ashes.
To the grandmother, whose heart was filled with tenderness, all the
more intense because it had been first aroused in her old age, her
grand-daughter's evident pain was intolerable. After a while she went
to her in her room. The girl was sitting at the window, erect and pale.
She had a book in her hand, and the Countess observed that she held it
upside down.
"Erika," she said, tenderly laying her hand on the girl's shoulder, "I
only wanted to tell you----"
Erika arose, cold and courteous. "You wanted to tell me--what?" she
asked, as she laid aside her book.
"That--that----" Erika's dry manner embarrassed her a little, but after
a pause she went on: "I wanted to tell you not to take any fancies into
your head with regard to Goswyn."
"Fancies? Of what kind?" Erika asked, calmly, becoming absorbed in the
contemplation of her almond-shaped nails.
"You would do him great injustice by supposing that his regard for you
is one whit less than it ever was."
"Indeed! I should do him injustice?" Erika questioned in the same
unnaturally quiet tone. "I think not. It is not my fashion to deceive
myself. I know perfectly well that--that I have sunk in Goswyn's
esteem; it is a very unpleasant conviction, I confess; and, to be
frank, I would rather you did not mention the subject again."
"But, Erika, if you would only listen," the old Countess persisted. "He
adores you. His pride alone keeps him from you: you are too wealthy;
your social position is too brilliant."
Erika waved aside this explanation of affairs. "Say no more," she
cried. "I know what I know! But you must not waste your pity upon me:
my vanity is wounded, not my heart. I value Goswyn highly, and it
troubles me that he no longer admires me as he did, but, I assure you,
I have not the slightest desire to marry him. I pray you to believe
this: at least it may prevent you, perhaps, from throwing me at his
head a second time, without my knowledge. If you do it, I declare to
you, I will reject him." As she uttered the last words, the girl's
self-command forsook her, her voice had a hard metallic ring in it, and
her eyes flashed angrily.
Her grandmother turned and left the room with bowed head.
Scarcely had the sound of her footsteps died away when Erika locked her
door, threw herself upon her bed, buried her face in the pillows, and
burst into tears.
What she had declared to her grandmother was in a measure true: she
herself supposed it to be entirely true. She really had no wish to
marry, and there was in her heart no trace of passionate sentiment for
Goswyn, but she was bruised and sore, and she longed for the tender
sympathy he had always shown her. At times she would fain have fled to
him from the cold judgment and scrutiny of the world.
After she had relieved herself by tears, she understood herself more
clearly. Sitting on the edge of her bed, her handkerchief crushed into
a ball in her hand, she said, half aloud, "I have lied to my
grandmother. If he had come I would have married him,--yes, without
loving him; but it would have been wrong: no one has a right to marry
such a man as Goswyn out of sheer despair because one does not know in
what direction to throw away one's life. But why think of it? He does
not care for me. Why, why did my grandmother write to him? I cannot
bear it!"