Evening had come, and throughout the house there was a feeling of
disquiet and much busy movement. Baron Windeg had had another and a
longer interview with his daughter in the afternoon, and directly
afterwards the lady's maid had received orders to pack up her
mistress's wardrobe. Herr Berkow had previously informed the servants
that his wife would leave in the morning with her father for a stay of
several weeks in the capital, and had desired that the necessary
preparations should be made.
Of course, this piece of news at once made the round of all the
officials' dwellings, and there, as at home, excited more uneasiness
than surprise. It was clear as day that the master was only sending
away her ladyship because he was convinced there would soon be "a row"
on the works. He wished to know that she was in safety, and had
probably himself sent for her father to fetch her away. Windeg was
right. The pretext was so plausible, it occurred to nobody to doubt it.
At first, the strangely cold relations between the young married pair
had been much discussed and commented on; but that had gradually
ceased. It was known that the marriage had not been one of inclination,
but as no quarrels or violent scenes were ever heard of--and, had there
been any such, they could hardly have escaped the servants' notice--as
Berkow was always politeness itself in his behaviour to his wife, and
Eugenie tranquillity itself in her manner towards him, it was concluded
that they must have become accustomed to and satisfied with each other:
the usual result of these marriages of convenience. Their peculiar way
of life seemed to be only what was practised in the great world.
In the higher circles of the capital it was usual to live thus apart
and on a politely cool footing, and it could therefore be a matter of
no surprise that the Baroness Windeg and the son of Berkow the
millionaire should adopt the same course. That this journey, which had
been preceded by no quarrel, should contain in it the germs of a final
separation, was suspected by no one, and it struck no one as strange
that the family did not spend that evening in company as usual.
Dinner was served for the two guests in the dining-room; her ladyship,
being unwell, ordered tea in her boudoir, and then, to her maid's
astonishment, left it untouched. As to Herr Berkow, he did not dine at
all, but retired to his study where he had "business" to attend to,
giving strict orders that he should not be disturbed.
Without all was pitch darkness, and here within the lamp on the
writing-table shed its light on a man who, for more than an hour,
had been pacing restlessly to and fro. Behind those closed doors the
mask of indifference he had worn so long, was thrown off at last,
and an outlet given to the storm silently raging within him. This
was no longer the blase young heir, nor the resolute leader whose
suddenly-aroused energy and presence of mind had impressed his
subordinates with respect and inspired the officials with courage.
In this man's face were visible traces of a great passion, the extent
of which had been unknown even to himself, until the moment when the
object of it was about to be lost to him. That moment had now come,
and, for a while, his passion claimed its right to be heard.
The pallor of his brow, his quivering lips and burning eyeballs told a
tale of what that day's interview had cost him, though the Baron had
asserted of it that he could not have supposed the matter would be so
easily arranged.
It had come at last then, that much-dreaded day of separation! and it
was well that another had stepped in and effected that which his will
lacked strength to undertake. How often during the last fortnight had
Arthur himself thought of using the pretext which the Baron now
suggested to him, and so of shortening the torture of this life under a
common roof; for that measured calm of exterior, belying at every
moment, as it did, the inward glow at his heart, could no longer be
sustained. It exceeded his powers of endurance! And yet he had taken no
step.
It is an indisputable truth that what is unavoidable had best be done
at once; but not every one who would, if necessary, courageously use
the knife to a poisoned bodily wound, can pluck up resolution to tear a
devouring passion from his breast. With it there comes irresistibly the
dread of losing the much loved object.
They had been long separated, these two, but, at least, he could still
behold that fair face with the dark, speaking eyes, and the proud and
delicate features which had grown so grave of late, and then there came
moments of bliss, fleeting as lightning, which made amends for whole
days and weeks of bitterness; such as that time in the forest the day
before yesterday, when, with evident anxiety, she had pressed her horse
close to his, when she had trembled in his arms as he lifted her from
her saddle.... It might be cowardly, but he could not voluntarily
renounce all this before it was demanded of him. And now the demand was
made!
The door was gently opened, and a servant appeared hesitating on the
threshold.
"What is it?" exclaimed Arthur. "Did I not give orders"----
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man timidly.
"I knew you did not wish to be disturbed, but as her ladyship
herself"----
"Who?"
"Her ladyship is here herself, and wishes"----
The man had no time to finish. To his astonishment, his master tore the
door from his hand and hurried past him into the ante-room. There he
saw his wife, apparently waiting; in an instant he was at her side.
"You have yourself announced? What unnecessary etiquette!"
"You wished to see no one, I hear, and Frank told me the order applied
to every one without exception."
"Arthur frowned, and turned to the servant, who said apologetically,
"I really did not know what to do. It is the first time my lady has
come here."
He stammered these words in his confusion, meaning them as an excuse
and nothing more, but Eugenie turned quickly away, and the reprimand on
her husband's lips remained unspoken.
The man was right after all; he had received no instructions for such
an exceptional case as that of his mistress paying a visit to his
master's room. It was truly the first time she had been there.
Hitherto, they had only met in her boudoir, at table, or in the
drawing-rooms. The present visit might well create surprise among the
servants.
Arthur signed to the man to go, and came back into the study with his
wife. She hesitated a little on the threshold.
"I wished to speak to you," she said, in a low voice.
"I am quite at your service."
He closed the door and pushed forward an armchair, inviting her by a
gesture to be seated. These few minutes had sufficed to give him back
all that self-control which he had so constantly exercised during the
past few weeks. He spoke and moved in a cool measured way, as though
showing politeness to a strange lady in a strange salon.
"Will you not sit down?"
"Thank you, I shall not detain you long."
There was something shy and uncertain in her manner which contrasted
oddly with her usual composure. Perhaps in these rooms she felt ill at
ease, or perhaps she found it hard to open the conversation.
Arthur did not come to her assistance. He saw that she twice tried to
find words and failed, but he stood at his table silent and
constrained, and waited.
"My father has told me of his talk with you," she began, "and also of
its result."
"So I expected, and--excuse me, Eugenie--it was just on that account I
was surprised to see you here. I thought you were occupied with the
preparations for your departure."
These words were probably intended to counteract any impression his
agitation at seeing her might have produced, and they had the desired
result. Some seconds clasped before she continued.
"You had already spoken of my journey to the servants in the
afternoon?"
"Yes, I thought you would wish it, and it seemed best that the order
for the necessary preparation should come from me. Had you thought of
introducing the subject in any other way? If so, I regret that I was
not earlier made acquainted with your views."
His tone was frigid, and Eugenie felt as though an icy breath had been
wafted over to her. Involuntarily she retreated a step.
"I have no observation to make, only it surprised me that my departure,
the date of which had once been fixed, should now be hastened on. You
had, I thought, reasons which would have induced you to keep to our
arrangement."
"I? On this point I yielded to a wish, to a request of yours. Baron
Windeg gave me to understand, at least, that it was so."
Eugenie started. She drew a long breath of relief, and all shyness and
uncertainty vanished, as though, with this one answer, her courage had
wholly returned to her.
"I thought so! My father went too far, Arthur; he spoke in my name,
when he was only setting forth his own wishes. I have come now to clear
up this misunderstanding, and to tell you that I shall not go, at least
not until I hear from your lips that you wish me to do so."
Eugenie watched him with breathless attention, as though striving to
read in his eyes what was passing in his mind; but they were downcast
still, and her words produced no visible effect. His features relaxed
once as she spoke of a misunderstanding, or so she fancied, but the
change in him was but momentary, and, after a pause of a few seconds,
he replied coldly and composedly as ever: "You will not go? And why
not?" She stepped up to him and said resolutely: "You told me yourself
the other day that all your future is involved in the coming struggle.
I know since our last meeting with Hartmann that it will be fought out
to the uttermost, and that your position is even more critical than you
will allow. At such a time I can and will not leave you, it would be
cowardly, and" ...
"You are very generous," interrupted Arthur with ill-concealed
bitterness. "But to perform an act of generosity, some one must be
found willing to accept it, and I certainly am not willing to accept
yours."
Eugenie's hand grasped the chair near her, she pressed her fingers
tightly into its velvet cushions, as though in repressed anger.
"Not?"
"No. The plan was of your father's making, so be it. He is doubtless
right in requiring that his daughter, who will shortly be his
altogether again, should be placed in safety and protected from those
rough scenes and excesses which, in all probability, may take place
here. I am quite of his opinion, and I agree fully to to-morrow's
separation."
She raised her head and said with spirit,
"And I only agreed to it when I thought it was your wish. I cannot
yield in this matter to my father's will alone. I have taken upon
myself the duties of your wife, in the sight of the world at least,
and, so far, I shall fulfil them. They command me not to desert you
basely in the face of that which threatens you, but to remain at your
side until the worst has been tided over, and the date originally fixed
for our parting has come. Then I will go, and not before."
"Not if I expressly ask you to do so?"
"Arthur!"
He stood half turning from her, and crushing in his hand a paper he had
mechanically taken up from his bureau. The self-control he had regained
by so violent an effort was not proof against that look and tone.
"I have begged you once already not to play at generosity with me. I
have no liking for such scenes. Duties! It may be the duty of a woman,
who has willingly given her husband both hand and heart, to stay by him
and share his misfortune, perhaps his ruin, as she has shared his
prosperity. That is not our case. We have no duties to each other, for
we never had any rights one upon the other. The only thing which I
could offer you in our compulsory union was the possibility of
dissolving it; it has been dissolved from the moment that we decided
upon a separation. That is my answer to the offer you have made me."
Eugenie's dark eyes were still fixed on his face. The tell-tale
lightning-like flash, which at times seemed to discover the unknown
depths of his being, came not to-day, and yet to-day of all days did
she long to conjure it up at any cost.
Whatever she may have seen or guessed by it--and something she must
have divined, or her proud spirit would never have so far bent as to
allow her to come hither with her proposal--he would not grant her the
triumph of again beholding it or of convincing herself of its true
meaning.
He remained perfect master of himself, and left her a prey to torturing
doubt. Her woman's instinct had spoken unhesitatingly when Ulric
Hartmann's look had glowed upon her yesterday up on the forest heights,
and, with the knowledge of what lay behind, horror of it had seized her
as well. Yet she had been quite calm then, through all the danger with
which she was threatened by an insane passion.
Here, where there was nothing to fear, she shook from head to foot in a
fever of emotion, and a thick veil seemed to fall on all around, just
as the brown eyes opposite were veiled before her. The inward voice was
silent now, and yet at this moment she would have given her life to
have acquired a certainty.
"You should not make it so hard for me to stay." Her voice betrayed
something of the perplexity within her; it wavered between pride and
soft submission. "I had much to fight against and much to conquer
before I came here. You know it, Arthur, and should spare me."
The words were almost supplicating, but Arthur had reached such a pitch
of irritation, he could no longer understand this. The bitter rage,
which had taken possession of him and now shook his whole frame, gave
its own interpretation to her words, and he answered sharply.
"I do not doubt that the Baroness Windeg is making an immense sacrifice
in resolving to bear a hated name yet three months longer, and to
remain at the side of a man she so thoroughly despises, notwithstanding
that immediate freedom is offered her. I had to hear once how repugnant
both are to you, and can judge therefore of what the victory over
yourself must have cost you."
"You are reproaching me with the conversation we had on the night of
our arrival," said Eugenie in a low tone. "I ... I had forgotten it!"
His eyes blazed now, but not with the light she had sought and hoped
for. He was too distant from her, too full of hostility, for that.
"Really? And you do not ask whether I have forgotten it. I was forced
to listen then, but that was the limit of what I could bear. Do you
think a man will allow himself to be trampled in the dust with
impunity, as I was by you on that evening, and then rise from it
without further ado when it pleases you to alter your opinion? I was
not quite so miserably weak as you imagined; from that time forth I was
not weak at all. That hour was decisive for me, but it was decisive for
our future also. Whatever may befall me, I will bear it alone. During
the last few weeks I have learnt so much, I shall be able to go through
with that too, but"--he drew himself up with a glow of pride--"but the
woman who on the day after our wedding repulsed me with such haughty
contempt, without condescending to ask whether the husband to whom she
had given her hand were really as culpable as she believed him, who
received my assurance, my given word, that she was in error as the
ready pretext of a liar, who, to my question as to whether it might not
be worth while to try and redeem so lost a man, flung at me that
contemptuous 'No'--that woman shall not stay by me; I will not have her
at my side while I am fighting for all my future in this world. I will
stand alone!"
He turned away from her in his wrath. Eugenie stood overwhelmed and
speechless. Great as had been the change in her husband of late, she
had never before seen him roused to passion, and at this moment his
violence almost frightened her. By the storm, now bursting over her
head, she could measure all that had lain hidden behind the
indifference which had so revolted her, all that had smouldered within
him for months together, until at last it drove him out of that apathy
which had become a second nature.
Ah yes, that cold disdainful No! She knew now better than any one how
unjust she had been to him, and now that she saw how that word of hers
had mortified him, she might have allowed the present hour to make
amends for all the evil the other had wrought, if only those last
unfortunate words had remained unspoken. They touched her pride, and,
when once that was called into play, all clear judgment and reflection
were at an end, even though she knew herself to be in the wrong.
"You will stand alone," she repeated. "Well, I will not impose my
presence on you. I wished to convince myself that my father's plan was
yours also. I see it is so, and therefore I shall leave."
She turned to go. At the door she stopped a moment. It seemed to her
that, as she touched the handle, he made a rapid movement as though
about to spring after her; but it must have been an illusion, for, when
she looked round, he was still standing at the table, deadly pale
indeed, but with that answer of hers, that harsh inexorable "No,"
clearly written on his face and entire bearing.
Eugenie summoned up all her courage for one farewell speech.
"We shall only see each other to-morrow in my father's presence, and
never again perhaps after that, so ... Good-bye, Arthur."
"Good-bye," said he hoarsely.
The door closed behind her; she was gone. The last few moments they
could spend alone together had fled; the last bridge between them had
broken down. Neither had been willing to yield an inch; neither would
speak the word which alone had power to help and save, the one word
which would have made good everything, even had the breach between them
been ten times as wide. Pride had won the day and sealed their fate.
Grey and gloomy the morning dawned over the hills. In the house all was
stirring at an unaccustomed hour. It was necessary to start early, so
that the travellers might reach the nearest railway junction in time
for the train which should take them on to the capital the same
evening. At present there was no one in the breakfast-room but Conrad
von Windeg. The Baron was still in his apartment, Eugenie was not
visible either, and the young officer appeared to be very impatiently
waiting for something or some one. He had paced up and down, had
stepped out on to the balcony, and finally flung himself into an
arm-chair, but he jumped up quickly as Arthur Berkow came in.
"Oh, you are here already!" said the latter, greeting his youthful
brother-in-law with the cool politeness usual between them.
Conrad hurried up to him.
"I wanted to say a few words to you; but, good Heavens! what is the
matter with you? Are you ill?"
"I?" said Arthur quietly. "What can you be thinking of? I am perfectly
well."
"Are you?" returned Conrad with a look at the pale drawn features which
told of a sleepless night. "I should not have thought so!"
"I am not used to get up so early, it always makes one look only half
awake. I am afraid you will have a bad journey. There is a terrible fog
this morning."
He went up to the window to look out at the weather, and also to escape
from his companion's unpleasant physiognomical observations. Conrad was
not to be put off so. He stepped up to his brother-in-law's side.
"I wanted to be down first," began he, hesitating a little, "because I
should like to say a few words to you while we are by ourselves,
Arthur."
Berkow turned round, surprised as much by the mode of address as by the
wish expressed. Conrad had never before called him by his Christian
name. He had hitherto followed his father's example and employed the
formal "Herr Berkow."
"Well?" said Arthur, surprised indeed, but friendly.
The young officer was evidently divided between doubt and confusion on
the one hand, and some unexpressed feeling on the other.
After the pause of a minute or so, he raised his frank handsome face
and looked at his brother-in-law earnestly.
"We have been unjust to you, Arthur, and I perhaps more than the rest.
I was indignant at the marriage and at the compulsion we had been
subjected to, and I honestly confess I have hated you with all my heart
ever since the day you married my sister. I found out yesterday that we
had been mistaken in our opinion of you, and so it is all up with my
hatred. I am sorry, very sorry, and--and that is what I wanted to say.
Will you shake hands, Arthur?"
He held out his hand heartily. Arthur grasped it.
"I thank you, Con," he said, simply.
"Well, thank God, that is over. I could not sleep for it all night!"
exclaimed the young fellow, greatly relieved. "And, believe me, my
father does you justice too. He won't own it to you, I daresay, but I
know it is in his mind."
A fleeting smile crossed Arthur's face, but it did not clear his brow
or bring a sparkle to his eyes. A heavy shadow lay on both as he
answered quietly,
"I am glad of it. So we shall not part as enemies."
"Oh, about the journey," broke in Conrad, hastily. "My father is still
up in his room, and Eugenie is all by herself in hers. Will you not go
in and speak to her?"
"What for?" asked Arthur in surprise. "The Baron may come in at any
moment, and Eugenie will hardly"----
"I will stand before the door and not let any one in. I will manage to
keep my father here until you are ready."
Arthur's face flushed under the other's earnest gaze, but he shook his
head gravely.
"No, Con, that is not necessary. I spoke to your sister yesterday
evening, and we said all there was to say."
"About her leaving?"
"About her leaving."
The young officer looked disappointed, but he had no time to press his
offer, for the Baron's step was just then heard outside, and
immediately afterwards he came in.
Conrad retreated into the back ground with an air of vexation,
murmuring to himself as he did so:
"But the thing is not on the square, for all that."
The inevitable meeting at breakfast was over, helped through by the
Baron's formal politeness, and by the constant presence of the
servants; and now the carriage drove up to the terrace below. The
gentlemen took their overcoats, and the maid brought Eugenie's hat and
shawl. Arthur offered his arm to his wife to lead her down, for the
appearance of a perfectly good understanding between them must be kept
up to the last.
Grey and gloomy the morning had dawned over the hills; grey and gloomy
it descended now into the valleys below. Before the windows a sea of
mist ebbed and flowed, and here within doors the cold frosty morning
light streaming already into the great rooms gave to them a weird and
desolate look. The splendour of their decorations seemed suddenly to
have lost all lustre and colour, now that they were about to be left
empty once more--very empty would they be, for their young mistress was
leaving them without thought of return.
Conrad noticed that his sister had precisely the same look on her face
as that which just before had startled him on Arthur's; but, beyond
this, he could discover nothing unusual in their appearance or
behaviour. They were both fully capable of playing the parts they had
undertaken, although their features betrayed that the effort to do so
had cost them a sleepless night. Perhaps this icy composure of theirs
was not all assumed.
When a storm has spent itself, there follows that dead calm which so
often helps us with relative ease over the most dreaded passages in
life. It casts a veil over the soul, and this veil obscures from it all
clear consciousness of the decisive moment. The struggle and combating
subside into a dull prevailing sense of pain, through which, now and
again, darts a fierce sudden pang, making the sufferer reflect as to
the reason of his anguish.
Eugenie, leaning on her husband's arm, went down the stairs without
really knowing why or whither they were going. As in a dream she saw
the carpeted steps over which her dress rustled, the tall oleander
trees standing in the hall, the faces of the servants bowing as she
went by. It all passed before her in an indistinct shadowy way.
Then all at once something sharp and almost painful smote her forehead;
it was the cold morning air, and she shuddered as she went out into it.
Before her stood the carriage ready to bear her away; she saw this and
nothing else, for terraces, flower-beds and fountains, all had
vanished, and the pale morning twilight gleamed only on a thick curtain
of vapour. Once again the eyes of husband and wife met, but they spoke
no word to each other. The cloud lay heavy and thick between them too.
Then Eugenie felt that a hand, cold as ice, was laid in hers, heard
some distant polite farewell speech, the words of which she did not
comprehend; but it was Arthur's voice which spoke, and, at that sound,
the sharp stinging pain darted once more through her dull dream. After
that came the stamping of horses' hoofs and the roll of wheels, and
away they went out into the faintly illumined mists which surged and
swelled around them, as on that spring day when, up on the forest
heights, the separation had been decided on, in the hour of which the
old legends say: "What parts then, parts for all eternity."