For this morning, after breakfast, a general expedition had been
planned--a drive to a certain eminence, from which the Baron was
desirous of expounding to them all the arrangements for the forthcoming
man[oe]vres. Bertram had at the last moment made an excuse: much to his
regret, he sent Konski to say, that he had forgotten to write some
really important letters, and must needs stay at home to do so now.
Would the others, please, on no account give up their drive for his
sake.
"At first they would not go without you, sir," Konski reported; "but I
got them to do it, and they are getting the horses ready now; the
ladies are to drive, the gentlemen will go on horseback. So you may
stay quietly in bed and try to get another hour's sleep. I am afraid,
sir, you have had another awful night!"
And indeed it had been a worse night for Bertram than the preceding
one, and this time the morning had not improved him. That he had to
admit to himself when, after having first vainly endeavoured to follow
the faithful servant's advice, he had at length risen in very low
spirits and dressed, trying whether a stroll along the terrace
garden-walk would cool his fevered brow and refresh his weary heart.
He had no right to be wearied. He was bound, when they came back, to
meet them merrily and serenely; that belonged to his part. How could
they give their confidence to one who appeared to have none in himself,
in his own strength, his own courage?
And he would need all his courage to look, if it could be done, deeper
than hitherto into Erna's eyes, into Erna's heart: and he would need
all his strength if that look were to confirm what, yesterday, he had
deemed impossible, but what, during the awful night, had come to appear
to him as thoroughly possible, nay, as probable. If it were so, then
the whole elaborate plan which he had yesterday confided to his friend,
had therewith fallen to the ground. Otto's embarrassments were scarcely
as great as he had represented them; and even if he had not, according
to his wont, exaggerated things, what would be the use of delaying the
decision? On the contrary, the more swiftly it came, the better for
all. If the Baron was a man of honour; he would not withdraw on
learning that the maiden of his choice was not wealthy; if he had
influence at Court, if this influence really amounted to something
considerable, he would now try all the more to use it for his future
father-in-law. They might then make their own arrangements, as best
they could; and they would make arrangements; sacrifice some things on
both sides, give up some hopes. What would one not sacrifice, what
would one not give up, if one loved from one's very heart? But to have
to look on at such hearty love, love delighting in sacrifice--never! To
run away would be cowardly, no doubt. But then valour, like honesty, is
appropriate only when it is needed, and when it will be of some use. He
would have to think beforehand of some suitable pretext which should
render a sudden departure possible.
Thus lost in mournful thought, Bertram was pacing backward and forward
along the terrace-walk, now past sunny espaliers, along which ruddy
grapes were already commencing to shine through the dense clusters of
vine-leaves, anon between rows of beeches, which were entwined overhead
and formed dusky arbour-like groves.
Having reached the end of one of these groves, he paused as one
terrified. In front of him, on the platform where the terrace widened,
Erna was seated beneath the great plantain tree which overshadowed the
whole place with its broad branches. An open volume lay upon the
round table before her; she was writing busily, bending over a
blotting-book. The graceful form, the finely-chiselled features, stood
out in clearest profile against the green terrace above her. In this
subdued light the dainty cheek seemed even paler than usual; and as she
now paused, pen in hand, lifting a long eyelash and glancing
meditatively up at the leafy roof above, the great eyes shone like
those of an inspired Muse.
"One draught before I pass onward--on the shadeless remainder of my
dreary road," Bertram muttered to himself.
He might have stepped back without being noticed, but he did not do so;
his motionless eyes clung to the beautiful picture before him, as one
perishing of thirst might gaze upon a brimming cup, when, lo! she
turned.
"Uncle Bertram!"
She had said it quite calmly, and now, slowly, she laid down her pen
and closed her blotting-book, rising at the same time and holding out
her hand to him as he came up.
"I felt that somebody, was looking at me."
"And you wished, to remain unseen, or at least undisturbed. But could I
have guessed that I should find you here? Why are you not away with the
others?"
A smile flitted over her face.
"I had important letters to write, too."
"Well, you have written, anyhow."
"And have you not? For shame. If you make any excuses you should
yourself take them in earnest; then you will come to fancy afterwards
that the excuses were really valid."
"I'll remember this in future. But what makes you tell me to my face
that my important letters were but an excuse?"
"I thought that you did not care to go; and I think I know the reason
why."
"Indeed! I am curious to hear it from you."
"I will tell you. I wanted to say so last night already, for then I
noticed quite well how gladly you would have made an excuse, only you
could not at the moment think of a suitable one; but I could not have
said what I wished to say in a few words, and so I determined to try
and have an undisturbed talk with you. Shall we not sit down?"
They sat dawn, Erna with her blotting-book before her, Bertram on the
seat opposite. Her large eyes were lifted up to him. But a minute
before he had greatly longed to be able to see deep, deep into these
eyes, right to the innermost recess of her soul; and now, when it could
be, when it was to be, he shrank from it, he wished the time deferred.
He would in any case learn the secret all too soon.
"Uncle Bertram, I wanted to tell you that ..."
The dark eyelids had closed after all; well, she anyhow did not see the
breathless excitement with which he hung upon her lips. In his mind he
heard already the words--"that--I engaged myself last night to be
married to the Baron." The pause she made--of a second or two--seemed
to him an eternity.
"My dear child," he said in a voice well-nigh inaudible ...
"That ... you shall not for my sake lay upon yourself a burden which
you can no longer bear."
The large eyes were gazing firmly at him again, while he bent his own
in deadly confusion.