Meanwhile preparations were being made up at the great house for the
grand dinner which was to take place that day. Servants ran up and down
stairs, cooks and maids bustled about the kitchens and pantries. There
was everywhere something to be attended to, some alteration to be made,
and the whole house offered that appearance of busy unrest which
usually precedes a festivity.
The quiet reigning in young Berkow's rooms seemed even greater by the
contrast. The curtains were let down, the _portieres_ closed, and in
the adjoining apartments, the servants glided noiselessly about over
the thick carpets, putting everything in order. Their master was
accustomed to dream away the greater part of the day, lying at full
length on his sofa, and he did not care to be disturbed by even the
slightest noise.
The young heir lay, with half-closed eyes, stretched on a divan. He
held a book in his hand, which he was, or rather had been, reading, for
the same page had remained long open before him; probably he had found
the trouble of turning the leaves too great. Presently, the book fell
from his negligent hold, and slipped from his long delicate fingers on
to the floor. It would not have been a great exertion to stoop and pick
it up, still less to call for that purpose the busy servants near at
hand, but he did neither. The book lay on the carpet, and Arthur passed
the next quarter of an hour without changing his position or moving in
the slightest degree. His face showed sufficiently that he was not
meditating on what he had read, he was not even day-dreaming; he was
simply feeling himself unutterably bored.
The somewhat ruthless opening of a door which led from the corridor
into the neighbouring room, and the sound of a loud imperious voice
within, put an end to this interesting state of things. The elder
Berkow asked if his son were still there, and, on receiving a reply in
the affirmative, he sent the servant away, pushed back the heavy
_portieres_, and entered the inner room. His countenance was flushed as
though from vexation or anger, and the cloud resting on his brow grew
darker as he caught sight of Arthur.
"So you are still lying on that sofa, just as you were three hours
ago!"
Arthur was not accustomed, it seemed, to show his father even the
outward forms of respect. He had taken no notice of his entrance, and
it did not now occur to him to modify the extreme negligence of his
attitude.
The lines on his father's brow grew deeper still.
"Your apathy and indolence really begin to pass belief. It is even
worse here than in town. I hoped you would conform to my wishes, and
take some interest in the success of a concern which was started solely
on your account, but"----
"Good Heavens, sir!" said the young man, "you do not want me to trouble
myself about workmen and machinery and such things, do you? I never
have done so, and I can't, for my life, comprehend why you should have
sent us here of all places. I am nearly bored to death in this
wilderness."
He spoke languidly, but quite in the tone of a spoilt darling,
accustomed everywhere, and under all circumstances, to see his caprices
taken into account, and to whom even the suggestion of anything
unpleasant was an offence. Something must have happened, however, to
irritate his father too much for him to yield this time, as was his
custom. He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"I am pretty well used to your being bored to death in every place and
in all company, whilst I have to bear all the care and burden alone.
Just now, worries are coming in upon me on all sides. It cost
sacrifices enough to free the Windegs from their obligations, and here
I find nothing but vexation and disagreeables without end. I have had a
meeting this morning of all the superior officials with the Director at
their head, and I was forced to listen to complaints, and nothing but
complaints. Extensive repairs in the shafts--increase of wages--new
ventilators. Nonsense! as if I had time and money for that now!"
Arthur listened without any show of sympathy; if his face expressed
anything, it was the desire he felt that his father would go away. But
the latter was not so obliging; he began to pace up and down the room.
"This comes of trusting to one's agents and their reports! For the last
six months I have not been here in person, and everything is going to
the deuce. They talk of a ferment of discontent among the hands, of
grave symptoms and danger threatening, as if they had not full
authority to draw the reins as tight as they choose. A certain Hartmann
is pointed out to me as chief agitator. He is looked upon by the other
miners as a sort of Messiah, and he is secretly stirring up the whole
works to revolt. When I ask why, in Heaven's name, they have not sent
the fellow about his business long ago, what answer do I get? They dare
not! So far, he has given no grounds for dissatisfaction on the score
of his work, and his comrades fairly worship him. There would be a
strike on the works if he were sent away without sufficient motive. I
took the liberty of telling these gentlemen that they were a set of
timid hares, and that I would take the thing into hand myself. The
shafts will remain as they are, and as to the question of wages, not an
iota of difference shall be made in them. The least attempt at a
rising will be met with the utmost severity, and I shall dismiss the
plotter-in-chief myself this very day."
"You can't do that, sir!" said Arthur suddenly, half raising himself on
the sofa.
Berkow stood still in surprise.
"Why not?"
"Because it was precisely this Hartmann who stopped our horses and
saved us from certain death."
His father uttered an exclamation of suppressed wrath.
"The devil! it must just be that fellow! No, then, certainly we cannot
send him off at a minute's notice, we must wait for an opportunity. By
the by, Arthur," with a displeased look at his son, "it was rather too
bad that I should have to hear of that accident from a stranger. You
did not think it worth while to write a syllable to me about it."
"Why should I?" returned the young man, resting his head wearily on his
hand. "The thing was happily over, and, besides, they have nearly worn
the life out of us up here with their sympathy, their congratulations,
their questions, and their palaver about it. I do not think one's life
is so valuable it is worth making such a fuss about its being saved."
"You don't think it is?" said the father, looking keenly at him. "I
should have thought, as you were only married the day before"----
Arthur answered only with a shrug. Berkow's eyes rested on him with a
still more searching gaze.
"As we are on the subject--what is all this between you and your wife?"
asked he, all at once, without anything by way of preface.
"Between me and my wife?" repeated Arthur, as though trying to remember
who was meant.
"Yes, between you two. I expect to take by surprise a newly-married
pair in their honeymoon, and I find a state of things here which I
should never have supposed possible. You ride out alone, and she drives
alone. You never go near each other's rooms, and when you are together,
you have not half-a-dozen words to say to one another. What does it all
mean?"
The younger man had risen now, and was standing opposite his father,
but he had not thrown off his sleepy look.
"You seem to have mastered the details thoroughly, sir," said he. "You
could hardly have learnt them all in the half-hour we spent together
yesterday evening. Have you been questioning the servants?"
"Arthur!" Berkow's anger was breaking forth, but the habit of
indulgence towards his son made him overlook this great offence. He
forced himself to be calm.
"It appears you are not accustomed up here to the fashionable way of
doing things," continued Arthur, quite undisturbed. "Now, in regard to
this, we are eminently aristocratic. You know, sir, you are so fond of
all that is aristocratic!"
"Leave your jests!" said Berkow, impatiently. "Is it your pleasure,
too, that your wife should allow herself to ignore you in a way which
is already the talk of the whole place?"
"I leave her free, that is, to do as she likes, just as I intend to do
myself."
Berkow started up from his seat
"This is really going too far! Arthur, you are"----
"Not like you, sir!" interrupted the young man. "I, at least, should
never have forced a girl into giving her consent by threatening her
with her father's recognisances."
The colour faded suddenly from Berkow's face, and he stepped back
involuntarily, asking in an unsteady voice,
"What--what do you mean?"
Arthur drew himself up erect, and some animation came into his eyes as
he fixed them on his father.
"Baron Windeg was ruined, that every one knew. Who ruined him?"
"How should I know?" asked Berkow, ironically. "His extravagance, his
love of playing the grand seigneur when he was head over ears in debt,
was cause enough. He would have been lost without my help."
"Indeed? So you had no ulterior object in view when you gave him your
help? The Baron was never offered the alternative of surrendering his
daughter, or of preparing to meet the worst? He decided voluntarily
upon this marriage?"
Berkow laughed, but his laughter was forced.
"Of course. Who has been telling you anything to the contrary?" But, in
spite of his tone of assurance, his look fell. This man had probably
never yet lowered his eyes when reproached with an unscrupulous act,
but he could not meet his son's gaze on this occasion. A bitter
expression passed over the young man's face; if he had had any doubt
hitherto, he knew enough now.
After the pause of a second, he renewed the conversation.
"You know that I never had any inclination for marrying, that I only
yielded to your incessant persuasion. Eugenie Windeg was as indifferent
to me as any other woman. I did not even know her, but she was not the
first who had been willing to give up her old name in exchange for
wealth. At least, that was how I interpreted her consent, and that of
her father. You never thought fit to inform me of that which preceded
and followed my proposal. I had to hear of the barter that had been
made of us both from Eugenie's mouth. We will let that be. The thing is
done, and cannot be undone; but you can understand now that I shall
avoid exposing myself to fresh humiliations. I have no wish to stand a
second time before my wife, as I had to do the other evening, while she
poured out all her contempt for me and my father, and I--I could but
listen in silence."
Berkow had been dumb so far, and had half turned away, but at these
last words he looked round at his son quickly with some astonishment.
"I should not have believed that anything could irritate you so much,"
said he slowly.
"Irritate? Me? You are mistaken, we did not reach the pitch of
irritation. My lady-wife deigned from the first to mount on the high
pedestal of her exalted virtues and of her noble descent, and I, who,
in both respects, am equally unworthy, preferred to admire her only
from a distance. I should seriously advise you to do the same, that is,
if ever you attain to the happiness of her society."
He threw himself down on the sofa again with an air of contemptuous
indifference, but even in his sneer there was a touch of that
irritation his father had noticed. Berkow shook his head, but the
subject was too embarrassing, and the role he played towards his son in
this business too painful for him not to seize the first opportunity of
putting an end to the discussion.
"We will talk it over again at a fitting time," said he, taking out his
watch hastily. "Let us have done for to-day. There are yet two good
hours before the people arrive; I am going over to the upper works. You
will not come with me?"
"No," said Arthur, relapsing into indolence.
Berkow made no attempt to use his authority. Perhaps, after such an
interview, the refusal was not disagreeable to him. He went away,
leaving the young man alone once more, and, with the renewed stillness,
all the latter's apathy seemed to return to him.
While the first bright spring day smiled on the world without, while
the woods lay bathed in sunshine, and the sweet scent of the pines rose
up from the hills, Arthur Berkow lay within in the darkened room, where
the curtains were so carefully lowered, the _portieres_ so closely
drawn, as though he alone were not created to enjoy the free mountain
air and the bright light of day. The air was too keen for him, the sun
too dazzling. It blinded him to look out, and he said to himself that
his nervous system was shaken beyond all description. The young heir,
who had at his disposal all that life and this world can give, thought,
as he had often thought before, that after all both the world and life
are horribly empty, and that it is assuredly not worth while to have
been born at all.