It was a day of tremendous excitement for all the in habitants of
Rinstedt. True, the arrival of the soldiers was not to occur before
four o'clock in the afternoon, but it was known that the corps to which
the 99th belonged had been on the march from the north since four
o'clock in the morning, in order to take possession of certain
positions whence they were to operate against the fortress. And that
might turn out an awkward job, for not only was the fortress strongly
manned, but there was also approaching from the west, in forced
marches, a large hostile corps, and against them the 99th would have to
be on their guard, if they did not mean to get wedged in between them
and the garrison, who were simply awaiting the moment for making a
sally. Thus the attacking party being themselves attacked, might get
into desperate straits.
The village-mayor had expounded this situation to the farmers,
and he ought to know. He had been only three days ago to see his
brother-in-law, who was employed in the War-Office branch at Erfurt. He
had himself served in the French war as sergeant, and in that capacity
he had, during the fighting about Orleans, been in command of a
company, every officer of which was dead or _hors de combat_. And as
almost half his auditory consisted of men who had served in the army,
and who only required to draw upon the ample treasury of their
experiences and reminiscences, in order to confirm or contradict the
assertions of their chief, there had been no lack of eager discussion
in the village inn. But from the very beginning the opposition had not
been strong, and ultimately it was almost completely silenced. The
whole village now stood like one man on the side of the attacking
party, and the 99th was only spoken of as "Our Regiment." Their arrival
was looked forward to with the utmost impatience, as though they were
bringing relief and release from some yoke long borne.
My Lady's urgent appeal to give "Our Regiment" a brilliant reception,
and to let nothing be wanting, had met with the readier a response,
since she had not only, with customary liberality, taken upon herself
the cost of any "extraordinaria," to use the expression of the
village-mayor, but in the case of the poorer inhabitants in whose
houses accommodation and larder were not of the best, had specially
promised to pay for anything and everything, and had actually freely
distributed money beforehand. The mansion-house was moreover setting
the village a capital example. The long winding road up to the house
was transformed into a _via triumphalis_ with towering poles, from
which fluttered the German and Thuringian flags, with garlands of
fir-branches stretching from pole to pole all the way up the hill, up
to the richly-decorated portals which opened upon the equally
decked-out great courtyard. And at night a ball in the mansion-house,
and fireworks on the village-common in front of the lowest flight of
the terrace-steps, with blue-lights and what not!--No wonder that the
young barbarians of the village, down to the tiniest lads and lasses,
were only kept from breaking out into frantic disorder by being
employed, for days beforehand, in lending a hand in the preparation of
all these glories.
And yet, much to Hildegard's dismay, it seemed doubtful whether
everything would be ready in time. Her own attention was fully absorbed
indoors by the preparations for banquet and ball; and now, at the last
moment, the Baron had to go to town on business that brooked no delay,
and she had to entrust the supreme command of the department of the
exterior to new hands: fortunately Herr von Busche, the young gentleman
from the Forests and Woods' Office, was willing to take the Baron's
place.
But yesterday Hildegard would, under no circumstances, have allowed the
Baron to go, for then his star was still in the ascendant, whilst now
it was sinking rapidly. For the Princess he no longer existed, after
she had given her judgment upon him last night; she had not observed
his entry into the breakfast room, had not returned his bow, just as
though the not inconsiderable space filled by his presence had been
vacant. And the Grand Duke had a certain antipathy to this man; and
even his father's old friend, the influential Court-marshal, did not
dare to stand up for him energetically. No one seemed to favour him at
Court, except Princess Amelia, whose caprices, it was notorious, were
frequently as changing as the phases of the moon. And then that ugly
Monaco story! It was, of course, not possible that Lotter could be the
man--gracious goodness, no! Nor had Alexandra said so! But--one ought
not to have an awkward likeness to people who figure so unpleasantly in
the memory of distinguished visitors; and then--and this made the
matter peculiarly unpleasant for Hildegard--she was aware that the
Baron, even if he was no gambler, was very fond of high play. Up to
last night this had been one of his gentlemanly foibles, now it was a
wicked passion which he who was wooing Erna had no right to indulge in!
It was nearly eleven o'clock when the Baron went to find Otto, to ask
for a carriage to take him to town, and to tell him at the same time
the drift of the disagreeable news which he had received from home. A
younger brother, in the army of course, had contracted debts, and was
on the point of being cashiered if those debts--in the contracting of
which there would seem to have been some discreditable element or
other--were not forthwith paid. His relatives, poor people every one of
them, were incapable of helping the young man; as a last refuge they
had applied to him, the elder brother, who, though not likely to be
himself possessed of the necessary means, might yet probably be able to
obtain the money on loan from the wealthy friends with whom he was on
such good terms. Could Otto help him in an embarrassment that was
weighing more heavily upon him than any one of his own making had ever
done? It was not a big sum which he required--a mere miserable three
thousand thalers!
Otto was quite distressed. His stock of cash was exhausted by the
incessant demands that Hildegard had made upon him during the last few
days, and to-morrow he would have to redeem that mortgage of five
thousand thalers which he had mentioned to Bertram, without as yet
knowing where to lay his hands on the money. The moment, of which
Bertram had said that it would very surely come, was at hand, had, in
fact, virtually come already; the terrible moment when he must discover
his situation to his wife. And yet his wife could parry the first
thrust for him. He had in the course of years given her, on different
occasions, considerable sums of money as special donations, and all
this was invested in excellent securities, though she was for ever
spending the interest beforehand. He loathed the idea of claiming back
a portion of the money from her, and he had vowed that he would not do
so, come what might. But still a man will do for a friend what he would
not have the courage to do for himself; and so he told the Baron that,
being for the moment unable to oblige him himself, he would ask
Hildegard to do so, and he felt sure that she would willingly render
this small service to her _protege_. The Baron hesitated for a moment,
but opined that one could not discuss such things with women; he would
find help some other way. He then begged Otto to make his excuses to
the ladies--who were not to be found, and promised to return, if not
for dinner, at the latest before the beginning of the ball; managed to
see Lydia, and so drove off.
Otto would have liked nothing better than to have gone with him. The
ground beneath him seemed to be on fire. To-day the all-important
debate in Parliament was coming off. If the vote was in his favour, he
really might, without being too sanguine, expect his factories to rise
so greatly in value as to enable him, after all, to weather the
threatening storm. But, with an adverse vote, he knew he was ruined,
and he kept repeating this to himself, unless he would take the extreme
step of requesting Bertram's assistance. Bertram certainly would not
refuse it, but, as assuredly, he could not ask for it, considering the
awkward relations now subsisting between his wife and his friend.
After considerable hesitation, Hildegard had the day before yesterday
communicated to him her suspicions that no one but Bertram was standing
in the way of the alliance upon which she had set her heart. She wisely
refrained from mentioning the impure source from which she had drawn
her suspicions--though it was not of a suspicion that she spoke to her
husband, but of a fact. Poor Otto naturally had to express the utmost
horror, though at heart he was anything but dissatisfied. He would
certainly have liked Erna to have a younger husband, but he himself
loved and admired the friend of his youth sincerely, and if Erna loved
him in her own way, why she had always had a taste of her own; he had
never comprehended her; she would herself know best how it stood with
her heart; and then if Bertram, as friend, would gladly have helped
him, as son-in-law he would very surely have done so, and in that case,
he too would get over the shrinking which he felt now. But it was not
to be. Hildegard would never sanction it, and yet, how strange, just as
he was returning to the house after seeing the Baron off, here was
Hildegard coming to explain that she had been absolutely mistaken about
Bertram, that Bertram was completely innocent, that she had to crave
his forgiveness for much, and that she would be truly disconsolate if
Bertram were to go away after all, as she concluded from some hints of
Konski's. Would Otto please go up to him at once and make sure of his
staying? She would do so herself, but she really had not a moment to
spare, for, he could judge for himself, the Princess did not leave her
alone for a minute.
Otto knew not whether to rejoice or to grieve over the new turn of
events. He had, suffered intensely from the tension between his wife
and his friend; and that things were right once more and better than
ever, was of course very nice and pleasant. But with Hildegard's
assurance that Bertram was not thinking of marrying Erna, there
vanished the last ray of hope that help in his need would come from
that quarter. Moreover, he said to himself that Bertram would never
dream of going without speaking once more, for the last time, of his
money difficulties and repeating the previous offer; and Otto was
afraid of himself, afraid he might be weak enough to close with the
offer. So he promised Hildegard that he would at once go to Bertram and
try every means in his power to induce him to stay, but he did not go.
There really seemed no need for all this hurry. Bertram could not leave
without asking for a carriage too. And that had not yet been done.
Perhaps it would not be done at all, and in that case, why needlessly
bring such terrible excitement on one's self? And again, Herr von
Busche was sure not to get on with the decoration of the portals unless
he went to help him. Hildegard had been saying all along that the old
Gothic structure, being the termination of the _via triumphalis_, must
also be the chief point of splendour. Hildegard should be really
pleased.
And five minutes later Otto was waging furious war with Herr Von
Busche, who wanted the flag of the country to float from the left-hand
balcony, whilst Hildegard had given express orders that it should float
from the right-hand one.
Hildegard had meanwhile hurried to rejoin the Princess; she had not
exaggerated,--Alexandra really would scarce leave her for a moment. She
was bent upon knowing how, on such an occasion, things were managed in
a German household. She could not, she said, form any idea of it,
because in Russia all these things were left to the steward and other
officials, and the hostess, like her guests, was simply among the
spectators. It would be such a pleasure to her to be allowed to peep
behind the scenes for once; if Hildegard was really fond of her, if
ever so little, she should not deny her the treat. Hildegard did not
find it too difficult to overcome the first shyness which she felt at
such an odd request being made. The arrangements about her kitchens,
pantries, and store-rooms were as splendid and in as grand a style as
in any princely palace, quite in keeping with the colossal preparations
for the entertainment; she could modestly accept the many exclamations
of amazement and admiration which the young Princess indulged in
lavishly, as a fit and proper tribute. But mere idle admiration did not
satisfy Alexandra; she insisted upon lending a helping hand, and
pushing back her rich lace sleeves from her fair white arms, she seized
a big wooden spoon, and, to the delight of all the servants employed
about the kitchen, she set to work stirring up a pudding. With all this
exuberance of good-humour she was so charmingly amiable, so utterly
free from all affectation, and the wildest nonsense she indulged in
suited her so quaintly and funnily, that Hildegard was positively
enchanted, and called upon Lydia in passing, to study in the appearance
and demeanour of the Princess the mighty difference which existed
between a really gifted woman and one who merely affected to be clever,
and who thereby only provoked the scornful laughter of really clever
people.
These cruel words were the first she had addressed to Lydia since last
night.
It was impossible for the Baron to fall so suddenly into dire disgrace
without involving Lydia in his fall; nay, in Hildegard's eyes she was,
if possible, the guiltier of the two. Had she not been incessantly
singing the Baron's praises, giving the most glowing testimony to him,
been scarcely able to paint the great position he enjoyed at Court in
sufficiently bright colours; and all this, of course, solely to beguile
her unsuspecting hostess and to deceive her in reference to her own
intentions as to Bertram. Serve her right, the story-teller, if she was
completely foiled in her intentions! And now, as though the measure of
her iniquity had not been already abundantly full, she must actually
bring these terrible charges against poor innocent Bertram; must needs,
to confirm and apparently substantiate these charges, commit a theft,
and make her--a mother--an accomplice, forcing that miserable letter
upon her, which, as it turned out now, had been nothing more than the
harmless enough effusion of a somewhat overstrained imagination that
the child had indulged in--well, well, the time would come when she
could show the intriguing old maid this long list of offences;
meanwhile, silent contempt should be her well-deserved, only far too
lenient, chastisement.
Now, it is true she had broken through her contemptuous silence, but
poor Lydia knew her friend quite well enough to be aware of the evil
plight into which she had fallen. And had she been still able to have
any doubt on the subject, the reproaches with which the Baron had
overwhelmed her would certainly have enlightened her. Last night, even,
he had ventilated his bad humour by all sorts of bitter and scornful
utterances; but to-day, when he had sought Lydia in the garden after
his conversation with Otto, and before he hurried off to town, his
wrath knew no bounds. This, then, he sneered, was his boasted firm
position in the house! A casual adventuress could come and deprive him
in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, of the good graces of the
mother--in those of her daughter he had long since ceased to believe
anyhow--rob him of the father's friendship, and expose him to a
treatment no commercial traveller would put up with! And he would not
put up with it, not he; Lydia might be sure--quite sure of that! He
would prove it to the miserable toady and sycophant who changed her
friends as readily as her gloves; to the poor henpecked husband, the
miser who could not even spare a few dirty thousands to a friend in
need of help; he would prove to them that a Lotter-Vippach was not to
be insulted with impunity. And, above all, that conceited amorous old
pedant should suffer for it, for he, of course, had set the whole train
going against him! If Lydia,--if the others, could not or would not
see, he kept his eyes open, and was not to be taken in; he knew what
was what, and ... but they should see. And to-night, to the sorrow and
annoyance of his so-called friends, who would wish him far enough, he
would make a point of turning up in good time. Would Fraeulein Lydia be
gracious enough to reserve the first Lancers for her obedient servant?
So, with a mocking bow, he had hurried away, leaving Lydia in sorrow
and terror. But the terror was greater than the sorrow. She had never
seen the Baron like this, never dreamed that he could be like this.
What if he carried out his threats! His eyes had been bloodshot and had
a glassy kind of stare; and then his laugh had been awful; and he was a
great strong man, assuredly in physical strength ever so much the
superior of poor delicate Bertram. What if the Baron were to-night to
bring about a scene, have recourse to actual violence! What will men
not do in rage and despair!
Her old love for Bertram, which after all she had felt in her own way,
and which long ago she had sacrificed to her vanity and worldliness,
was stirring again. Lydia felt it, and was enraptured. True, she had
been lying and cheating to reach a certain goal that pure calculation
had fixed. Still, she was a better woman than she had thought herself.
She had thought that she was following the dictates of her reason only,
and lo! she had unconsciously remained faithful to her own heart. She
knew it now, at the moment when a serious danger was threatening the
loved one. And, curiously, although during the last few days she had
positively given up all hope of regaining the loved one, and had in
envy and anger seen him in the bonds of affection for a fair young
rival--an affection which, moreover, was warmly reciprocated; yet she
suddenly began to doubt the justice of her observations; the old dreams
were coming back and asserted that they were a reality, and that
everything else was but a chimera. All, all would yet come right.
Falsehood and hypocrisy had been powerless; truth and love, however,
would be omnipotent!
Then she began to rehearse in her mind that unfortunate letter which
she had purloined in order to gain a clear insight into Erna's
sentiments, now endeavouring to give the gentlest interpretation to
every word that referred to Bertram; she remembered, too, the passage
which seemed to refer to a former love affair of Erna's. But she and
Hildegard, eager only to discover what they most, or rather what they
only, feared, namely, an attachment to Bertram, had added no weight to
the brief allusion in question. Some childish "dancing-lesson
fondness," Hildegard had said, and she had assented to it, partly to
guard against the possibility of the reproach that she, in her
responsible position as Erna's educator and second mother, had
overlooked or actually allowed any serious attachment on her part.
"Betrayed"--that surely was plain enough, and made many things clear,
even though in itself it was hard to understand, was, in fact, all but
absolutely incomprehensible. Such a charming creature as Erna no one is
likely to betray, no one at least who is in possession of his five
senses, as young gentlemen generally are. If the thing was anything
more than a passing fancy--and that one had to assume, considering how
averse from anything frivolous Erna was--then her easily-wounded pride
must have brought the rupture about, and it might yet be healed; and if
it were healed, would turn the child from her caprice for Bertram,
would set Bertram free again, if indeed he had allowed himself to be
captivated by Erna's unconcealed admiration for him, set him free for
herself, his first, his true, his only love!
With fancies like these, Lydia, now banished from the favour and the
presence of Hildegard, was wandering along the garden-terraces, now
dissolved in tears and lamenting her bitter lot, now smiling
complacently and congratulating herself upon a happiness which was all
the more precious the longer she had been compelled to wait for it. If
she were now to meet Erna, if she could have an explanation with her,
become reconciled to her, prove to her in very truth how well she meant
by her! She was in the very mood for this, and here was Erna coming
along! The shrinking which she often felt in the presence of the proud
and self-willed girl was making itself perceptible again, but one swift
glance showed her that Erna had been weeping quite recently, and that
she could risk it now.
Erna had been weeping quite recently, and so indeed she had done ever
since last night, whenever she felt sure that no one was looking upon
her despair. For the gentle creature was in despair. All through the
long sleepless night she had seemed to hear Agatha's whispered
question, "What will you do if it comes out that Kurt is innocent?" She
had seemed to hear it like the voice of a warning angel, and neither
head nor heart had been able to reply anything but, again and again:
"In that case I have betrayed him, and I have made him unhappy." Could
he be innocent? She had struggled so long against the belief in Kurt's
guilt, and had only accepted it when he declared that he could not
explain his relations to the Russian lady; no, not even to her, from
whom, for the sake of their love, he was to expect entire confidence;
for confidence was the very soul and at the same time the touchstone of
love. Alas, she knew yet another and a more terrible touchstone, and
that was the jealousy which she had cherished in secret towards the
unknown lady, and which had blazed up brightly when yesterday she
beheld her, the hated temptress, in the splendour of her youth, beauty,
and grace. In vain did she struggle against the charm which the lady
seemed to radiate; in vain did she declare everything about her to be
unreal, except her diamonds perhaps; with every furtive glance at her
rival she felt herself more and more fascinated, allured, beguiled,
and, in equal measure, conquered, and at last crushed.
It was a terrible state which wrapped her poor fluttering heart in
absolute night, and yet even then there was something like a faint
glimmering of the star of hope. If Kurt had ever loved her--and he
had--he had done so once--how could he love another woman, who, however
charming and seductive, was yet in all things the very opposite of
herself? Kurt, who had so often assured her that he hated all display
and all vanity, that he loved her because there was nothing of display,
nothing, of vanity about her, because she was his own rose, which, in
its dewy freshness, he would not exchange for a world of brilliant
exotics!
And his large brown eyes had shone down upon her so gravely and
lovingly as he spoke, and his lips had trembled with genuine
emotion--and had all this been naught but lies on the part of him whom
she in her turn had loved, because he had appeared to her as a lofty
and lordly image of truthfulness and fidelity?
It could not be.
But then, again, what had she done? What was she to do when the other
one, that good and noble man, to whom--so Agatha said, and her own
heart could not but confirm it--she had given such unequivocal proof of
her affection, when he came into her presence and said: "I have come to
take you at your word. Not all the Flavios in the world would have kept
Hilarie from loving her uncle, had she been convinced that he truly
loved her. And you know it: I love you!" What could she do, but, with
Hilarie, say: "I am yours for ever"? He would not fall at her feet
and exclaim: "You make me the happiest man beneath the sun," but she
knew,--she knew that he would be happy!
Ah me!--why had she not obeyed the voice which called to her that first
evening when she met him in the wood, and he laid his heart open to
her: "Open thy heart to him too," the voice had said, "tell him all."
That would have been the time, the only right time. For the very next
day she had read in his eyes what now made her so proud--so happy. So
happy? Gracious heavens!
This was happiness, was it, that she now desired nothing better than
death, swift death, to escape from the torments that tore her heart to
pieces?
Did he divine nothing of these torments! Why had he not come to her
last night? He might surely have spared her a minute--he had given the
Princess a full hour. It was, perhaps, a relief, a sort of recreation,
for him, seeing he had so long had to dispense with any intellectual
conversation. Was she perchance the beautiful widow in the novelette
who consoled the uncle for the loss of Hilarie? And had Hilarie already
got to the point of wishing and longing for such consolation for her
uncle?
Her shamefaced gaze wandered up to Bertram's windows, under which she
had arrived--not quite unintentionally. What if he were to appear
above--signalling: "Wait, I am coming down!"
Like a startled fawn she flitted away to one of the terrace-walks,
behind whose protecting wall she could not be seen from those windows
of his, and burst into tears, as she became conscious of her cowardice.
Lydia appeared at the opposite entrance; she could not avoid Lydia now;
she bent toward the espalier, to dry her eyes unobserved, and lo! there
was Lydia at her side, at her feet, clasping Erna's knees, pressing her
face against Erna's robe, sobbing.
It was a theatrical display, such as Lydia employed on all possible
occasions, suitable or otherwise; Erna knew that well enough. But she
had not the courage to tear herself away; never a harsh or ironical
expression came forth from her to-day; nay, she all but envied a human
being that found such expression for its feelings, whatever they might
be. She endeavoured to raise the kneeling lady.
"I must remain on my knees until you have pardoned me," murmured Lydia.
"I'll do anything you wish--but rise, rise, I entreat you!"
She had drawn Lydia up and away into a niche in the wall, thus gaining
at least some shelter from the eyes of the servants, many of whom were
still busy everywhere up and down the terraces with the preparations
for the illumination. There was a stone bench with a stone table in
front inside the niche. Lydia sank down upon the bench, laid her face,
covered by her hands, against the edge of the table, and murmured her
miserable confession of guilt in a voice which was scarcely audible,
owing to her constant weeping and sobbing. She had, she whined out,
found out by questioning the servants that the letter had not been
sent, which Erna had on the morning in question written beneath the
plantain tree, and which, she assumed, was certainly addressed to
Agatha; and she had, moreover, learned from Agatha--who evidently
suspected nothing--that she had received no letter just before her
departure from home. Then, passing through Erna's rooms, she had seen
her blotting-book lying about, unlocked, as she had been astonished to
notice. Then she had been unable to resist the temptation of trying if
the letter was still there. The letter had been there--a sort of
dizziness had come over her, and--
"I said to myself," she went on, "that you have no secrets from Agatha,
that you were likely to have written to her what you felt towards
Bertram, whether you loved him--I required to know it--my future, my
happiness, my salvation--all, all depended upon that one question. Have
pity on a poor wretched woman whom jealousy made a criminal--against
her own child, too! for I have ever loved you as my own child, ever,
and would gladly have sacrificed all for you, all, only not this--the
trial was too much for my strength."
Then Lydia in her self-abasement and grief wept bitterly. Again Erna
felt it strange that she did not spring up from her place beside the
weeping old woman, did not leave her alone with her silliness and her
lies; that she could listen to her exaggerated and sentimental twaddle
without positive disgust. There was something stirring within her that
she was frightened at herself--something almost like a wish that, this
time, Lydia might not be lying.
Lydia noticed through the veil of tears in which she had wrapt herself
that Erna was accepting her confession much more favourably than she
had dared to hope. This gave her courage enough to pursue to the utmost
the advantage thus already gained.
"I cannot and will not try to prove that I have been quite free from
blame," she cried. "I have been vain and frivolous. I did yield to the
temptation of becoming Countess of Finkenburg! Many more would have
yielded who cannot retrace, like one of the family of von Aschhof, the
long line of their ancestors to the time of the Crusaders, and who do
not, as we do, have Moors' heads in their escutcheons! But vanity and
frivolity alone did not make me do it. I was honestly convinced that
this alliance with a poor lady of high lineage, who would bring him no
other dower but her many claims and wants, could be nought but a
hindrance to Bertram; that he might have made, and probably thereafter
would make, a better and a more suitable choice if I released him from
his engagement. Indeed, indeed; if I could but have divined how he
would take it to heart, nothing in the world would have made me act as
I did. And now I would give everything in the world to atone, as far as
I still may, for what I did. Must it really be out of the question,
dearest? Look here. He is about fifty years of age, and how long will
it be before he is an old man? He is very delicate too. His servant
tells me that he suffers from palpitation of the heart, and from
insomnia, and that his Berlin doctor has enjoined upon him no end of
precautions and care for these travels of his. Why then, he really
needs some one who will nurse him and who will patiently bear with all
his sickly caprices--all sick folk are capricious, don't you know? I
know it but too well; I saw it in the case of my own uncle, the
Minister of State, whom every one thought a very lamb in the way of
kind, gentle equanimity, and who was so until one of his asthmatic
attacks came upon him; and then never a living soul could bear to stay
near him. Yes, yes, one must have gone through these things to know;
and may God in His mercy keep you, my own dear, sweet, good child, from
ever knowing it, from mourning away your sweet young life by the side
of a broken-down man who has no passion left, save his books and his
politics. If his politics call him he must needs follow, and poor
Konski must pack the trunks. Poor fellow, Konski! I spoke to him a
little while ago; he'd like to stay and see all the fun that is coming
now with these man[oe]vres here, and what not. Besides, I rather think
he is in love with Aurora. But he says there is no help for it, and off
they go to-morrow, his master and he. Perhaps it is right enough, for
the Baron is furious with him, and I really know not what the Baron
will do, unless you convince him that he has been mistaken, like the
rest of us. Oh, that we had! My own sweet child, you would be restoring
peace and happiness to us all, and I would never weary of kissing your
dear hands, nay, the very hem of your garment!"
She covered Erna's hands and robe with kisses. Erna let her have her
way, she paid no heed to what Lydia was saying and doing; there she sat
gazing fixedly across the gardens and across the village on the
mountain slope, where a portion of the high road was visible which led
from the north across the hills to Rinstedt. Lydia, following the
direction of Erna's gaze, saw what Erna saw--a great cloud of dust,
with occasional flashes of bright arms, winding down the high road, and
now there came, softened by the great distance but still distinctly
audible, the sound of the drum; and below, at the entrance to the
village, they fired a cannon as a signal that the regiment was coming
up.
Erna started as though the shot had gone through her heart!
"For goodness sake, child, what ails you?" exclaimed Lydia, terrified
on noticing the pallor of her cheek and her fixed rigid look.
And again she was terrified when Erna suddenly flung herself into her
arms as seeking help from a threatening danger, and then with equal
suddenness tore herself away, hurried up the walk and straightway
vanished behind a projecting portion of the wall.
"What does it all mean?" Lydia asked herself.
As if in answer, there came across the garden, now more distinctly, the
sound of the drum.
"Ah!" said Lydia, and a meaning smile flitted over her face. "It would
not be impossible," she murmured, "and if it is the case, I'll find it
out!"
She turned to enter the mansion house just as the big flag was being
hoisted upon the turret as a salute to "Our Regiment," at the moment
when the soldiers set foot upon the village road.