Meanwhile Bertram, had already crossed the bridge which spanned the
brook at the bottom of the garden terrace, and was hurrying along to
the village along the line of meadows. His hostess, Hildegard, had said
at dinner that she meant to-day, like every Thursday afternoon, to
visit her newly-founded Kindergarten; so he thought there would be no
difficulty in finding her. He had been a frequent visitor at Rinstedt,
and knew every lane in the village; and the Kindergarten, they said,
was on the main road, not far from the parsonage. Well, and what did he
mean to say to Hildegard when he met her? First, of course, make sure
of the facts. But there was little need for that. Konski was a smart
fellow, who was not likely to have made a mistake; and then he was on
such excellent terms with the omniscient Mamsell Christine! He would
ask her what had induced her to break through the agreement to which
she had now adhered for the last twenty years. And yet--what a needless
question! Why, women are never consistent! And in such things they
always like to assist each other and work into each other's hands, even
if they are by no means specially fond of each other. And now it seemed
as if there were special fondness between these two. His beautiful
hostess had, quite contrary to her wont, sung Lydia's praises in every
possible variety of way! And then, take the fact that she had sent her
own daughter to Lydia's _pension_, and had left the girl there in the
small _Residenz_ for three years. Poor Erna! Fancy her for three years
under the care of that crazy woman! Poor Erna--the beautiful creature
with the great, deep, blue eyes! That should never have happened. It
was a positive insult to him. He had urged every argument against it;
had found out a supremely suitable place in Berlin for her; had offered
to undertake careful personal supervision; had urged them to confide
the child to his care, to give the child an opportunity of seeing
something of life under its larger, nobler aspect. And they had said
yes to everything; had thanked him so very much for his exertions, his
kindness; and at the last moment they had contentedly plumped back into
the beloved mire and stagnant waters of the pettiness of life in the
small _Residenz_. To be sure, My Lady herself had been brought up in
that social quagmire, and still cherished with plaintive delight
recollections of bygone splendour, and mourned in secret over her own
hard fate which had not permitted her, like Lydia, to sun herself all
the days of her life in the immediate rays of princely favour, but had
doomed her to marry a man who was not nobly born--a man rich enough,
forsooth, but bearing the unaristocratic name of Bermer, and having
friends of similarly unaristocratic names, to whom, for all that, one
had to be civil. Yes, a real Baron--a Baron von Lotter-Vippach--would,
of course, be infinitely preferable! And fancy her, fancy My Lady
forcing the Baron's company upon him after he had expressly urged that,
being only half convalescent, he needed perfect repose; and would, if
they were to have company in the house, rather in the meanwhile deny
himself the delight of seeing his old friends, and would come to them
in spring instead on his return from Italy!
Yes, something like this he would say to his beautiful hostess, in
perfect calmness and good temper, of course, only tinged with a touch
of finest irony.... And this new building by his side--why, it must
surely be the Kindergarten!
So it was. But the girl who was in charge of the children who were
playing on the garden-plot in front of the building, said to him, in
answer to his question, that My Lady had left half an hour ago; had
gone to the parsonage, she thought. A couple of boys who were running
about told him My Lady had gone to the village-mayor along with the
parson.
The mayor's farm was situated at the opposite end of the village.
Bertram started off in that direction, but before he had got half way
he bethought himself that the parson would probably walk back with
Hildegard, and that in that case he would of course have no opportunity
of speaking plainly to her. So he turned back, determined to wait for
her near the parsonage, which she was bound to pass on her way home.
And yet, how could he wait? He could not tell whether he would have
time left to carry out his intended flight; nay, every moment brought
Lydia nearer, every moment he must expect to see the carriage whirl her
past him where he stood. What? was he to stand here like this, and be
compelled to bow to her? Never! To the left a narrow lane led direct to
the forest, which, higher up, almost bordered on the mansion-house.
This road back was somewhat longer than the one he had come by, and was
steeper too; but anyhow it was much shorter than the carriage-drive,
for that branched off from the high road in the main valley at the
entrance to the side valley, thus intersecting the whole length of the
village, and ultimately wound its long serpentine road up the high hill
crowned by his friend's stately mansion. This way he would gain an
advance of a good half-hour anyhow. It was to be hoped that his friend
and host, Otto Bermer, had meanwhile returned from the coal mines; they
lay in the opposite direction. He'd make a clean breast of it to Otto,
and make Otto take his farewell compliments to My Lady. Poor Otto! "The
grey mare was the better horse," no doubt; and poor Otto would not
relish the task; but what was to be done? And did not he, Bertram,
anyhow enjoy the doubtful reputation of being selfishness incarnate!
Well, then, this done, they would swiftly get some conveyance or other
ready for him. If required, Konski could stay behind with boxes and
such-like impedimenta; and in two or three hours' driving, first
through the forest, to avoid the danger of meeting her, then along the
high road, he would reach Fichtenau. He was fond of Fichtenau. There he
would rest in that evergreen dale for a few days, and recover from the
fatigue of the journey and from this day's manifold annoyances. Anyhow,
he would have escaped from Lydia, have broken away from the snare which
those women had set for him! He owed this satisfaction to himself, and
perhaps the reflection would smooth the rough forest path he had now
entered upon.
For it was rough, was that path; much more so than he remembered it
being formerly. Much rougher and much steeper too; in fact, most,
most--abominably steep. Never mind; by following the tiny brooklet
which was murmuring in the glen by his side, and which fell into the
big brook in the valley below, he must speedily reach the little bridge
leading to the opposite side; and then a smooth, or at least a fairly
smooth, path would lead him on to the mansion.
What on earth could she have to do, she and the parson, at the mayor's?
Something, probably, about getting appropriate quarters for those who
were coming to the man[oe]vres; to be sure, My Lady, never idle, must
needs take an interest in everything! Or perchance it was some
charitable purpose, something for the sick, for the poor; in the
pursuit of such noble aims My Lady never spared herself now, that is
never since Royalty had set the example, and made it fashionable! And
anyhow, it was hardly polite, in one so uniformly polite as My Lady, to
leave the house and walk right away to the far end of the village with
one guest already in the house, and with other guests expected every
minute. Possibly--possibly My Lady was not unwilling to avoid the one
guest; and the others, to be sure, must needs drive past the mayor's
house. What more natural than, in such a case, to enter the carriage
that brought the new guests; whilst driving with them through the
village, what more simple than to give a confidential hint or two, just
the merest suggestion, as to the treatment of the bird which she had
captured--oh, so cleverly! No, no, My Lady--not captured yet ... not
yet!
But where was the little bridge? It ought to have appeared long ere
this. What! Climb down the steep glen, get your feet wet in the brook
below, and climb up again the opposite side? Perish the thought! Why,
everything seemed to go against him to-day!
At last. And a broad new bridge too. And pair fully rustic, with
elaborate rustic ornaments of curiously entwined and intertwisted tree
branches. And, worst of all, such a confounded bit higher up the stream
than where the old bridge had been.
And the path on the opposite side, too; new, new like the bridge, new
and fashionable, a regular promenade path; belonging, no doubt, to the
elaborate system of paths which his noble and beautiful hostess had for
years woven, like a complicated network, through the woods around. Of
course, like Charlotte in the "Elective Affinities," the fair
chatelaine must needs have that passion for beautifying everything;
like Charlotte, but not, oh dear! no, with any tender _penchant_ for
her husband's well-born friends. Well, well! He himself had never
doubted the unapproachable virtue of My Lady: what if she now, tried
her gentle hand ever so little at this, surely it was only the outcome
of the excessive goodness of her chaste, and cool, and philanthropic
heart.... Heart! ... And oh the wretched pain, the horrid, horrid
sensation in my own heart. Who the mischief could be philanthropical if
he felt like this? Perhaps this insane running and climbing has brought
on a relapse. The story might then close where it began, and fair Lydia
would come just in the nick of time to see that when people talk of a
broken heart, they are not necessarily talking nonsense.... What
rubbish, though! If my heart breaks, it will be because it has got some
organic fault, and because I took champagne when I should not have done
so.
He had dropped upon a bench by, the wayside, and there he crouched,
almost bent double, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth, to prevent
his moans from being heard in the silence of the darkening woods.
The attack passed away. Gradually the agonising pains grew less. With
the physical anguish much of the fierce passion into which he had
worked himself passed away too. In its stead he felt a terrible
heaviness, a dull languor in all his limbs, and there was a sort of
stupor about his brain.
Supposing it had given way, he mused. Fancy, sitting alone here in the
wood, a dead man, for goodness knows how long, and then terrifying a
poor wretch who chanced to pass this way first! This was not a pleasing
thought. But this anyhow would have been the worst. Death in itself he
did not dread. Why should he? Death was but the end of life. And life?
His life? If he could say that his living harmed no one, except perhaps
poor Konski whom he sometimes tormented by his wayward moods--yet, on
the other hand, it gladdened no one, least of all himself. The few poor
students or struggling artists would have their allowances paid out to
them for the time fixed, whether he lived on or not, and a few public
institutions were welcome to divide the residue between them. All that
would be settled in the shortest and most business-like manner. Never a
tear would be shed by any human being, unless perchance by old Konski.
But no; it was impossible to think of the good, easy-going fellow in
tears.
He was sitting at the foot of a spreading beech tree. A crow, perched
on the top, uttered a shriek.
Bertram looked up with a grim smile. "Patience!" he said.
But it was not on his account that the crow had uttered that cry, but
probably because somebody was approaching. He saw a lady coming down
the side-path which led from the forest direct to his bench. Again,
this convulsive pain at the heart! But he forced himself to look again;
and no, it was not Lydia. Lydia was taller, and her blonde hair was of
ashen hue; this lady's hair was dark, very dark. And the style of
walking, too, was different, very different: an easy, even, step,
making it appear as if she were floating down the somewhat steep path,
although he could see the movement of the feet beneath the light summer
dress. And now she had come quite close to him. She gave a little
start, for, gazing up to the shrieking crow, she had not noticed him,
and he had sprung up somewhat abruptly from the bench. But in a moment
she was collected again, and the flush faded as quickly from her cheek
as it had spread.
"Is, it possible?--Erna!"
"Uncle Bertram!"
There was something wondrously melodious in the voice, but not the
slightest trace of the glad emotion which he himself had experienced
which he himself had experienced on seeing his darling. His heart
contracted; he would fain have said: "You were wont to give me a
different reception;" but he blushed to face the young beauty as a
beggar, and letting, go her hands, he only said--
"You did not expect to find me here?"
"How could I?" was her reply.
"To be sure!" thought Bertram. "How could she? What a silly question of
mine!"
He knew not what next to say, and, in some embarrassment, he stood
silent. The crow above had been silent during the last half-minute or
so, and now commenced to croak, abominably. Both had involuntarily
gazed up; now they were, walking silently side by side along the path.