Veitel Itzig was in the highest excitement. After many consultations
with his adviser Hippus, many nightly calculations as to the state of
his purse, he had ventured upon a bold stroke of business, and had
succeeded in it. He had wormed himself into a not very creditable
secret, and had sold it for eight thousand dollars. The happy day had at
length arrived when he was to carry home this large capital. After his
long endeavor to appear calm, while his heart was beating with anxious
suspense like a smith's hammer, he was now happy as a child; he jumped
round the room, laughed with pleasure, and asked Hippus what sort of
wine he would like to drink to-day. "Wine alone will not do," replied
Hippus, ominously. "However, it is long since I have tasted any
Hungarian. Get a bottle of old Upper Hungarian; or, stay, it is dark
enough, I will go for it myself."
"How much does it cost?"
"Two dollars."
"That is a good deal, but 'tis all one; here they are;" and he threw
them on the table.
"All right," said Hippus, snatching at them. "But this alone will not
do, I must have my percentage. However, as we are old acquaintances, I
will be satisfied with only five per cent. of what you have made
to-day."
Veitel stood petrified.
"Not a word against it," continued Hippus, with a wicked glance at him
over his spectacles; "we know each other. I was the means of your
getting the money, and I alone. You make use of me, and you see that I
can make use of you. Give me four hundred of your eight thousand at
once."
Veitel tried to speak.
"Not a word," repeated Hippus, rapping the table with the dollars in his
hand; "give me the money."
Veitel looked at him, felt in the pocket of his coat, and laid down two
notes.
"Now two more," said Hippus, in the same tone. Veitel added another.
"And now for the last, my son," nodded he, encouragingly.
Veitel delayed a moment and looked hard at the old man's face, on which
a malevolent pleasure was visible. There was no comfort there, however;
so he laid down the fourth note, saying, in a stifled voice, "I have
been mistaken in you, Hippus;" and, turning away, he wiped his eyes.
"Do not take it to heart, you booby," said his instructor; "if I die
before you, you shall be my heir. And now I am off to taste the wine,
and I will make a point of drinking your health, you sensitive Itzig;"
and, so saying, he crept out of the door.
Veitel once more wiped away a bitter tear that rolled down his cheeks.
His pleasure in his winnings was gone. It was a complex sort of feeling,
this grief of his. True, he mourned the lost notes, but he had lost
something more. The only man in the world for whom he felt any degree of
attachment had behaved unkindly and selfishly toward him. It was all
over henceforth between him and Hippus. He could not, indeed, do without
him, but he hated him from this hour. The old man had made him more
solitary and unscrupulous than before. Such is the curse of bad men;
they are rendered wretched not only by their crimes, but even their best
feelings turn to gall.
However, this melancholy mood did not long continue. He took out his
remaining treasure, counted it over, felt cheered thereby, and turned
his thoughts to the future. His social position had been changed at a
stroke. As the possessor of eight thousand dollars--alas! there were but
seven thousand six hundred--he was a small Croesus among men of his
class: many carried on transactions involving hundreds of thousands
without as much capital as he had; in short, the world was his oyster,
and he had but to bethink himself with what lever he should open it--how
invest his capital--how double it--how increase it tenfold. There were
many ways before him: he might continue to lend money on high interest,
he might speculate, or carry on some regular business; but each of these
involved his beloved capital in some degree of risk; he might win,
indeed, but then he might lose all, and the very thought so terrified
him that he relinquished one scheme after another.
There was, indeed, one way in which a keen-witted man might possibly
make much without great danger of loss.
Veitel had been accustomed, as a dealer in old clothes, to visit the
different seats of landed proprietors; at the wool market he was in the
habit of offering his services to gentlemen with mustaches and orders of
merit; in his master's office he was constantly occupied with the means
and affairs of the nobility. How intimately he knew old Ehrenthal's
secret desire to become the possessor of a certain estate! And how came
it that in the midst of his annoyance with Hippus, the thought of his
schoolfellow Anton suddenly flashed across him, and of the day when he
had walked with him last? That very morning he had walked about the
baron's estate, and lounged by the cow-house, counting the double row of
horns within, till the dairy-maid ordered him away. Now the thought
passed like lightning through his brain that he might as well become the
owner of that estate as Ehrenthal, and drive with a pair of horses into
the town. From that moment he had a fixed plan, and began to carry it
out.
And he speculated cunningly too. He determined to acquire a claim upon
the baron's property by a mortgage; thus he would safely invest his
capital, and work on quietly till the day came when he could get hold of
the property itself. At all events, if he did not succeed in that, his
money would be safe. Meanwhile, he would become an agent and
commissioner, buy and sell, and do many clever things besides. Also, he
must remain Ehrenthal's factotum as long as it suited him. Rosalie was
handsome and rich, for Bernhard would not live to inherit his father's
wealth. Perhaps he might desire to become Ehrenthal's son-in-law,
perhaps not; at all events, there was no hurry about that. There was one
other whom he must get on a secure footing--the little black man now
drinking that expensive wine down stairs. Henceforth he would pay him
for whatever he did for him, but he would not confide in him.
These were the resolves of Veitel Itzig; and, having concocted his
plans, he locked his door, threw himself down exhausted on his hard bed,
the imaginary possessor of Baron Rothsattel's fair property.
That evening the baroness and her daughter sat together in the
conservatory, and both were silent; the baroness intently watching a
bright moth, which was bent upon flying into the lamp, and came knocking
its thick little body over and over against the glass which saved its
life.
Lenore bent over her book, but often cast an inquiring glance at her
mother's thoughtful face.
There came a quick step along the gravel, and the old bailiff, cap in
hand, asked for the master.
"What do you want?" said Lenore; "has any thing happened?"
"It's all over with the old black horse," said the bailiff, in great
concern; "he has been biting and kicking like mad, and now he is gasping
his last."
Lenore sprang up with an exclamation for which her mother chid her.
"I will come and see to him myself," said she, and hurried off with the
old man.
The sick horse lay on his straw, with the sweat running down, and his
sides heaving violently. The stable-boys stood around, looking at him
phlegmatically. When Lenore entered, the horse turned his head toward
her as if asking help.
"He knows me yet," cried she. Then turning to the head groom, "Ride off
instantly for a veterinary surgeon."
The man did not like the thought of a long ride at night, and replied,
"The doctor is never at home, and the horse will be dead before he can
come."
"Go at once!" commanded Lenore, pointing to the door.
"What is the matter with the groom?" asked Lenore, as they left the
stable.
"He is grown good for nothing, and ought to be sent off, as I have often
told my master; but the lout is as obedient to him as possible--he knows
the length of his foot--while to every one else he is cross-grained, and
gives me daily trouble."
"I will speak to my father," replied Lenore, with a slight frown.
The old servant continued: "Ah! dear young lady, if you would but look
after things a little, it would be a good thing for the property. I am
not satisfied with the dairy either: the new housekeeper does not know
how to manage the maids; she is too smart by half--ribbons before and
behind. Things used to go on better; the baron used to come and look at
the butter-casks, now he is busy with other things; and when the master
grows careless, servants soon snap their fingers at the bailiff. You can
be sharp enough with people; it's a thousand pities you are not a
gentleman."
"You are right; it is a thousand pities," said Lenore, approvingly; "but
there's no help for it. However, I will see to the butter from this very
day. How is corn now? You have been buying some lately?"
"Yes," said the old man, dejectedly, "my master would have it so. I
don't know what's come to him: he sold the whole granary full to that
Ehrenthal in winter."
Lenore listened sympathizingly, with her hands behind her.
"Do not fret about it, my old friend," said she; "whenever papa is not
at home, I will go about the fields with you, and you shall smoke your
pipe all the same. How do you like the new one I brought you?"
"It has a beautiful color already," said the bailiff, chuckling, and
drawing it out of his pocket. "But to return to the black horse; the
baron will be very angry when he hears of it, and we could not help it
either."
"Well, then," said Lenore, "if it could not be helped, it must be
endured. Good-night. Go back now to the horse."
"I will, dear young lady; and good-night to you too," said the bailiff.
The baroness had remained in the conservatory, thinking of her husband,
who formerly would have been by her side on an evening like this. Yes,
there was a change in him: kind and affectionate toward her as ever, he
was often absent and preoccupied, and more easily irritated by trifles;
his cheerfulness was of a more boisterous character, and his love for
men's society increasing; and she mournfully asked herself whether it
were the fading of her youth that accounted for this.
"Is not my father yet returned?" asked Lenore, as she entered.
"No, my child, he has much to do in town; perhaps he will not be back
till to-morrow morning."
"I do not like papa being so much away," said Lenore; "it is long since
he has read aloud to us in the evening, as he used to do."
"He means you to be my reader," said her mother, with a smile; "so take
your book, and sit down quietly by me, you impetuous child."
Lenore pouted, and instead of taking up the book, threw her arms round
her mother, and said, "Darling, you too are sad and anxious about my
father. Things are no longer as they used to be. I am no child now; tell
me what he is doing."
"Nonsense," calmly replied the baroness. "I am keeping nothing back from
you. If there really be any reason for your father's frequent absence,
it is our duty to wait till he chooses to communicate it; and this is
not difficult to those who love and trust him as we do."
"And yet your eyes are tearful, and you do seek to hide your anxiety
from me. If you will not, I will ask my father myself."
"No, you shall not," said the baroness, in a tone of decision.
"My father!" cried Lenore; "I hear his step."
The stately form came rapidly toward them. "Good-evening, my home
treasures!" he called out. Then clasping wife and daughter at once in
his arms, he looked so cheerfully at them that the baroness forgot her
anxiety and Lenore her question. The baron sat down between them, and
asked whether they saw any thing unusual about him.
"You are cheerful," said his wife, fondly, "as you always are."
"You have been paying visits," said Lenore; "I know that by your white
cravat."
"Right," replied the baron; "but there's something more: the king has
been graciously pleased to give me the Order my father and grandfather
have both worn, and I am much pleased that the cross should thus become,
as it were, hereditary in our family. And with the Order came a most
gracious letter from the prince."
"How charming!" cried his wife, throwing her arms around him; "I have
longed for this star for some years past. We will put on the
decoration;" and, having done so, she loyally kissed, first her husband,
and then the cross.
"We know indeed," said the baron, "how such things are rated in our
days, and yet I confess that the rank implied by such a decoration is
intensely precious to me. Our family is one of the oldest in the
kingdom, and there has never been a _mésalliance_ among us. However, at
the present time, money is beginning to replace our former privileges,
and even we nobles must take thought for it if we wish to preserve our
families in the same position as ourselves. I must provide for you,
Lenore, and your brother."
"As for me," said Lenore, crossing her arms, "I can do nothing for the
honor of the family. If I marry, which I have, however, no inclination
to do, I must take some other name; and little will my old ancestors, in
armor yonder in the hall, care whom I choose for master. I can not
remain a Rothsattel."
The father drew her toward him laughingly. "If I could only find out how
my child has got these heretical notions!" said he.
"She has always had them," said her mother.
"They will pass," answered the baron, kissing his daughter's brow. "And
now read the prince's letter, while I go and look after the black
horse."
"I will go with you," said Lenore.
The order, a memorial of the chivalrous past, was a source of still more
satisfaction to the baron than he cared to avow. The congratulations of
his numerous acquaintance pleased him, and he felt it a prop to his
self-respect, which it often needed. A week later, Ehrenthal came on his
way to the neighboring village to offer his congratulations too, and
just as he was making his final bow he said, "You had once a notion,
baron, of setting up a beet-root-sugar factory. I find that a company is
about to be formed to build one in your neighborhood. I have been asked
to take shares, but first of all I thought I would ascertain your
views."
This intelligence was very unwelcome; for though, after much
deliberation and consultation, he had resolved, for the present, to
postpone the project, the baron did not like it to be hopelessly
interfered with by a rival factory.
In a tone of vexation, he exclaimed, "Just now, when I have, for a time,
that capital to dispose of!"
"Baron," said Ehrenthal, heartily, "you are a rich man, and much
respected. Give out that you mean to set up a factory yourself and the
company will be dispersed in a few days."
"You know I can not do so at present," said the baron, reluctantly.
"You can, gracious sir, if you choose. I am not the man to urge you to
it. What do you want with money-making? But if you say to me,
'Ehrenthal, I will set up a factory,' why, I have capital for you as
much as you like. I myself have a sum of ten thousand dollars ready; you
may have it any day. And now I will make a proposal. I will get you the
money you want, at a moderate rate of interest; and for the money I
myself advance, you shall give me a share of the business until you are
able to repay the sum. Should you require further money, you must take a
mortgage on your property until you can replace the whole."
The proposal appeared disinterested and friendly, but the baron felt a
certain misgiving, and declined it.
Accordingly, Ehrenthal had to retire, saying, "You can think the matter
over; I shall, at all events, put off the forming of the company for a
month."
From that day forth the baron was deluged with letters, notes, and
messages. First Ehrenthal wrote to say he had got the month's delay;
then Herr Karfunkelstein, one of the projected company, wrote to say he
resigned his pretensions; then Ehrenthal wrote again, inclosing the
yearly accounts of a similar factory, that the profits might be judged
of. Then a Herr Wolfsdorf wrote to offer capital at a low rate of
interest. Then, lastly, an unknown person of the name of Itzigveit wrote
to beg that at least the baron would not enter into partnership with
Ehrenthal, as was rumored in the town, for, though a rich, he was a very
selfish man, and that the writer could advance capital on much better
terms; whereupon Ehrenthal wrote again that some of his enemies were, he
knew, intriguing against him, and wishing to make money themselves in
the baron's promising undertaking, but that the baron must please
himself; that, for his part, he was an honorable man, and did not wish
to push himself forward.
The consequence of all these communications was, that the baron grew
familiar with the thought of building his factory with borrowed money.
However, there was one thing that offended his pride, and that was the
thought of Ehrenthal as a shareholder; so far the letter of the unknown
Itzigveit had taken effect.
During the next month he was the prey of a miserable irresolution, and
his wife, in silent sorrow, observed his excitement. He often went to
town, and often inspected similar factories. True, the evidence thus
collected was not encouraging, but this he attributed to dread of his
competition, or to unfavorable details of site or management.
The month was over, and a letter came from Ehrenthal to beg for a
decision, as some members of the company were impatient of further
delay.
It was on the evening of a hot day that the baron wandered restlessly
over his grounds. Heavy black, clouds gathered over an arch of yellow
sky. The grasshoppers chirped far louder than their wont. The little
birds twittered as if in apprehension of some coming evil. The swallows
flew low, and darted by close to the baron, as if they did not see him.
The wild flowers along the road hung down covered with dust. The
shepherd who passed him looked gray and spectral in the lurid light.
The baron strolled on to the other side of the lake whence Anton had
taken his last look of the lordly home. The castle now stood before him
in a crimson glow; every window-pane seemed on fire, and the red roses
lay like drops of blood upon the dark green climbers beneath. And nearer
and nearer rolled on the black clouds, as if to shroud the bright pile
from sight. Not a leaf stirred, not a ripple curled the water. The baron
looked down into the water for some living thing, a spider, a
dragon-fly, and started back from the pale face that met him, and which
at first he did not recognize as his own. There was a sultry, boding,
listless gloom over his heart, as over all nature.
Suddenly a strange shivering sound in the tree-tops--a signal to the
storm. Again a pause, and then down rushed the mighty wind, bending the
trees, curling the lake, driving the dust in wild whirls along. The
bright light faded from the castle, and all the landscape toned down
into bluish gray. Then forked lightning, and a long and solemn peal.
The baron drew himself up to his full height, and turned to meet the
storm. Leaves and branches flew round him, big drops fell on his head,
but he kept looking up at the clouds, and at the lightning that flashed
from them, as though expecting a decision from on high.
Then came the galloping of a horse's feet, and a gay voice cried out,
"Father!" A young cavalry officer had drawn up beside him.
"My son! my beloved son!" cried the baron, with a quivering voice; "you
are come at the right time;" and he clasped the youth to his heart, and
then held his hands and looked long into his face. All indecision, all
mournful forebodings were over; he felt again as the head of his house
should feel. Before him stood, blooming in youth and health, the future
of his family. He took it as an omen, as the voice of fate to him in the
hour of decision. "And now," said he, "come home; there is no further
need for our remaining in the rain."
While the baroness drew her son down by her on the sofa, and never
wearied of looking at and admiring him, the baron sat at the window and
watched the torrents of rain. Brighter grew the flashes, and shorter the
interval between them and the thunder's roll.
"Shut the window," said she; "the storm comes this way."
"It will do our house no harm," replied her husband, encouragingly. "The
conductor stands firm on the roof, and shines through the clouds. And
now look there where the clouds are blackest, behind those bright green
ash-trees."
"I see the spot," returned she.
"Make up your mind," continued he, smiling, "always to have your beloved
blue sky covered with gray smoke in that direction. Above those trees
will rise the factory chimney."
"You mean to build?" inquired the baroness, anxiously.
"I do," was the reply. "The undertaking will involve much that will be
disagreeable to you and me, and will require all my energies. If I
venture upon it, it is not for our own sake, but our children's. I wish
to secure this property to our family, and so to increase its return
that the owner may be able amply to provide for the rest of his
children, and yet leave the estate to the eldest son. After much painful
deliberation, I have this day taken my resolve."