In the capital there reigned all the busy movement of a summer
afternoon. A many-coloured ever-changing crowd thronged the main
streets, promenaders, people intent on business, and artisans
succeeding each other in one unbroken stream. All around unceasing
noise and the endless roll of carriages, great clouds of dust rising on
every side, and overhead the hot rays of the afternoon sun, already
falling obliquely, and lighting up the whole scene.
From the windows of the Windeg mansion, situated in one of the
principal streets, a young lady was looking down on the hurry and
bustle below which had grown almost strange to her in the solitude of
her mountain home.
Eugenie had returned to her father's house, and the short interval of
her married life seemed effaced and forgotten. In the family circle it
was rarely adverted to, and never except when some allusion to the
approaching separation had to be made. The sons followed in this their
father's example, and he kept silence on the subject at home, hoping
thereby to stifle every painful remembrance.
At the same time he busied himself with those preliminary steps
necessary before entering on the judicial proceedings of the divorce.
Until this stage should be reached, the matter was not to be made
public. The servants and those few acquaintances, who were still in
town, knew no more than that the young wife had come on a visit to her
family, in consequence of some disturbances on her husband's estates.
Eugenie occupied the rooms which had been hers before her marriage.
Nothing in them had been altered, and when, as in former days, she
stood at her favourite window, which opened on to a balcony, and looked
out, all the old well-known objects met her sight; she might never have
been away at all.
The last three months could be nothing more to her than an ugly dream,
from which she had now awakened to the old freedom of her maidenhood,
and to a freedom far more complete than any she had known before, for
now there was no spectre of care haunting each step made by herself and
those dearest to her. Every new day would no longer bring fresh
humiliations and fresh sacrifices, each hour of the family life need no
longer be poisoned by the fear of what might happen on the morrow, of
possible disgrace, of ruin with all its fearful consequences. The noble
old race of the Windegs could now come forward once more with all the
prestige of wealth and power, for the Lord of Rabenau was rich enough,
when all former losses were covered, to make a splendid provision for
himself and all belonging to him.
There was indeed one shadow still on all this new-born sunshine, and it
was caused by that plebeian name so detested by the Baron, and, at one
time, by Eugenie.
But even this need only be a question of time. The beautiful talented
girl had formerly met with many admirers of her own rank, who would
sooner or later have become suitors for her hand, in spite of her
father's embarrassed circumstances; indeed, any man wedding Eugenie
Windeg might well forget that he would be taking home as his bride the
daughter of a poor and debt-laden house. Then the elder Berkow had
stepped in, had roughly interfered with all these plans and projects,
and destined the prize to his own son. He was able to demand that which
others must sue for, and he knew how to use his power. But now Eugenie
would be free, and her father could afford to give her a brilliant
dowry. He knew more than one among his peers who was ready, and not
from interested motives alone, to take up again the thread which had
been so rudely severed; and so, with the name, the last remembrance of
that former marriage would vanish for ever, and, by a union of suitable
rank, the young Baroness would be placed in a position equal, if not
superior, to that assigned to her by birth. Then the last spot on the
Windeg shield would be effaced, and it would shine out once more with
undiminished lustre.
But the young wife hardly looked as calm and full of joyous hope as the
advent of so much good fortune might have led one to expect. She had
now been some weeks in her father's house, and yet the colour had not
returned to her cheeks, and her mouth had not learnt to smile again.
Here, surrounded by all the love and care of her own people, she
continued pale and silent as she had been by the side of the husband
who had been forced upon her, and now, as she looked down on the crowds
below, there was not one in all that varying multitude who had power to
fix her attention for an instant. She gazed down on them with that
far-off dreamy look which sees nothing near at hand, but is intent on
some very different object in some far distant place. "In that city of
yours one loses everything, even one's love of solitude and the woods."
These words hardly seemed applicable here. Eugenie looked as if quite a
painful longing for them had taken possession of her.
The Baron was in the habit of coming to his daughter's rooms for half
an hour before going for his afternoon ride. He came in now with a
graver face than usual and holding a paper in his hand.
"I must trouble you with some business matters to-day, my dear," he
began, after a few words of greeting. "I have just had an interview
with our solicitor, which has proved more satisfactory than we could
have expected. The representative of the other side is empowered to
meet all our wishes, and the two have come to an agreement as to the
necessary steps to be taken. The whole affair will probably be settled
much more quickly and easily than we had dared to hope. I must ask you
to sign this paper, please."
He held out the document to her. Eugenie stretched out her hand to take
it, and then suddenly drew it back again.
"I am to"----
"Just to put your name here underneath, nothing more," said the Baron
calmly, laying the paper on a writing-table and pushing forward a
chair. Eugenie hesitated.
"It is a deed, I see. Ought I not to read it over first?"
Windeg smiled.
"If it were an important document, we should have given it to you to
read, of course, but it has reference only to the proceedings in
divorce. The demand will be made for you by counsel, but your signature
is required. It is a mere formality at the opening of the suit, the
details will follow later. If you would like to hear how it sounds,
I"----
"No, no," interrupted she, "it is not necessary. I will sign, but it
need not be done at once. I am not in the humour for it now."
The Baron looked at her in astonishment.
"Humour? but you have only to sign your name. It will be done in a
minute, and I have promised your counsel to let him have it this
evening; he intends to present the petition to-morrow morning."
"Well then, I will bring it to you this evening signed. Only not now, I
cannot do it now."
Windeg shook his head and looked displeased.
"This is a very strange whim, Eugenie, and I do not understand it at
all. Why cannot you make this simple stroke of your pen now in my
presence? However, if you insist upon it .... I shall expect that you
will give it to me this evening at tea, there will still be time to
send it off."
He did not notice that his daughter breathed a sigh of relief at these
words. Going up to the window, he too looked down into the street.
"Will not Conrad come to me?" asked Eugenie, after a moment's pause. "I
have not seen him yet except at dinner."
"He is very likely tired after his journey, and may be taking a little
rest. Oh, there you are, Conrad, we were just speaking of you."
The young Baron, who came in at this moment, must have counted on
finding his sister alone, for he said with evident and not altogether
pleased surprise,
"You here, sir? They told me you were having an interview with the
solicitor in the library."
"It is over, as you see."
Conrad seemed to wish it had lasted a little longer. He made no answer,
but went up to his sister and sat down comfortably by her side. He had
only come up from the country that day at noon.
A strange, and, in the Baron's sight, highly untoward chance had willed
that the regiment to which his eldest son belonged should be quartered
in the town nearest to the Berkow estates. Now, of all times, when the
connection had so entirely ceased! An extension of leave for the young
officer could not be thought of, as the rising of the miners throughout
the neighbourhood had produced much agitation in the province, and
riots were expected which might call for an intervention of the
military, so Conrad must return very shortly to the garrison-town,
where Berkow had, of course, many intimate acquaintances.
He had already received strict injunctions from his father not to
mention the intended separation just at present. The Baron kept to his
original tactics; he would present the world with an accomplished fact.
For the rest, he fondly imagined, though he did not say so, that his
son would avoid all personal contact with his whilom relative.
This supposition appeared to be correct; at least Arthur's name was
never mentioned in the young officer's letters, and the existing state
of things on his works only casually alluded to. Conrad had been sent
to the capital on some matter relating to his service. There had been
no opportunity as yet of talking freely; he had only been at home a few
hours, and, at dinner, the presence of guests had imposed some
restraint upon the family.
Now, however, the objectionable subject having once been introduced in
reference to Eugenie's signature, the Baron inquired in a tone of the
utmost indifference, as if asking for news of a very slight and distant
acquaintance, how things were going on the Berkow estates.
"Badly, sir, very badly," said Conrad, turning to his father, but
keeping his place at his sister's side. "Arthur fights like a man
against the misfortunes which are assailing him on all sides, but I am
afraid he will succumb to them at last. He has ten times more to battle
against than the proprietors of the other works. All his father's sins,
during twenty years of tyranny and oppression, are visited now upon
him, and he has to suffer, too, for all the reckless speculations of
later times. I cannot make out how he manages to struggle on. Any one
else would have given way long ago."
"If the movement is growing too strong for him, I am surprised he does
not call in military aid," said the Baron coldly.
"That is just it, but on this subject he won't listen to reason. For my
part," cried the young heir of the Windegs, with the characteristic
inconsiderateness of his class, "for my part, I would have shot down
the fellows long ago, and have forced them to leave me in peace. They
have given him cause enough, and if their ringleader goes on exciting
them, as he is now doing day by day, they will be burning his house
over his head soon. But it is all of no use, you may argue and pray.
'No, and once again no; so long as I can defend myself, no stranger
shall set his foot on my works!'
"And to be frank with you, sir, they will be very pleased in the
regiment if our help is not required; we have had to give it too often
already during the last few weeks. At the other places round, things
were not half so bad as at the Berkow mines, yet the first thing the
owners did was to cry out for troops to protect them, and thereby place
themselves on a war-footing with their own people.
"There have been some ugly scenes, and at such times, it is we who
always have to bear the brunt. We are not to proceed with harshness, if
it can be avoided, yet we are to make our authority respected, and the
whole responsibility of whatever may happen falls upon us. So the
Colonel and all the officers take it very kindly of Arthur that he has
held out, and still persists in holding out, against his rebels by
himself."
Eugenie listened to her brother with breathless attention. He seemed to
look upon her as quite uninterested in the matter, and addressed
himself solely to his father. The Baron, who had noticed with rising
displeasure the constant recurrence of the word "Arthur," now said in a
tone of chilling reproof:
"You and your comrades appear to be very well acquainted with all that
goes on at Herr Berkow's works."
"The whole town is talking of it," declared Conrad, quite unmoved. "As
for me, I certainly have been out there pretty often."
At this avowal his father gave a start of surprise.
"You have been out to see him, and that frequently?"
Perhaps the young man had observed the emotion which at his last words
had become visible in Eugenie's face. He took her hand in his now and
held it fast as he continued in the same careless way:
"Well, yes, sir. You told me not to talk about that business, you know,
and it would have looked odd if I had ignored my brother-in-law
altogether, especially situated as he now is. You did not forbid my
going out there."
"Because I imagined your own sense of propriety would have forbidden
it," said Windeg, highly incensed. "I took it as a matter of course
that you would avoid that connection, instead of which you appear to
have sought it, and that without writing one word on the subject to me.
Really, Conrad, this is too bad!"
If he had told the whole truth, Conrad must have confessed that he had
feared to receive a direct prohibition, and so had prudently abstained
from all mention of his proceedings in his letters. In a general way he
stood in proper awe of his father's frown, but to-day Eugenie's
presence seemed to counterbalance its effect. He looked in her eyes,
and what he saw there must have made the paternal reproaches easy to
bear, for he even smiled as he answered quite unconcernedly,
"Well, I can't help it if I have taken such a liking to Arthur. You
would have done the same in my place. I assure you he can be perfectly
charming if he likes, only he is always so awfully grave. To tell the
truth, his gravity suits him very well, though. I said to him
yesterday, when I was coming away, 'If I had known from the first what
you were, Arthur'"----
"Arthur!" interrupted his father, with his severest intonation.
The son tossed his head rather defiantly.
"Well yes, we call each other Arthur and Con, now, that is, I asked him
to. I don't see why we should not, he is my brother-in-law."
"He is your brother-in-law no longer," said the Baron coldly, pointing
to the table. "There lies our petition for a divorce."
Conrad glanced, not over tenderly, at the document in question.
"Oh, the petition. Has Eugenie signed it?"
"She is about to do so."
He looked at his sister. Her hand trembled in his, and her lips
quivered as if she could with difficulty repress her agitation.
"Well, it seems to me, sir, that precisely with regard to this matter
of the divorce, Arthur has behaved in a way to make all reproachful and
bitter feeling towards him out of the question. It would be mean not to
do him full justice now. I never should have thought it possible that a
man could so shake off his languor and rouse himself to such energy as
I see in him.
"All that he has been doing during the last few weeks, choosing always
exactly the right time and place to make his action felt, all the
horrible scenes and conflicts he has prevented, he alone in the midst
of those rebellious masses by the mere force of his presence and
personal influence--all that must be seen to be believed. He has become
a regular hero. That the Colonel and all the officers say; in fact the
whole town says so. The officials have behaved remarkably well, because
he is always at their head.
"Not one among them has left the works, but when I came away, they
seemed to have reached the extreme limits of endurance. The misfortune
is, Arthur has taken it into his head that no stranger shall come
between him and his people, and he is carrying out his resolution with
rare consistency. I think, if it comes to the worst, he is capable of
barricading himself and his staff up in the house and of making them
all defend themselves to the last man, rather than call for help. It
would be just like him!"
Here Eugenie pulled her hand out of her brother's; she got up quickly
and went to the window.
The Baron rose also with an expression of the most lively displeasure.
"I really do not know, Conrad, how it is you answer a simple question
about the state of things on Herr Berkow's estate by so exaggerated a
panegyric of him. It shows a want of consideration for your sister
which I should not have expected from you, for you have always
professed to regard her with special affection. You will find yourself
in an awkward position when the divorce proceedings become known. What
figure you will then make with your eccentric admiration for this man,
which you appear to have paraded before the whole garrison, I leave you
to reflect. But now I beg this conversation may cease, you see how
painfully Eugenie is affected by it. Pray come with me."
"Leave Conrad with me just a few minutes, papa," said his daughter; "I
should like to ask him something."
The Baron shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"Well, be so good then as not to touch upon this subject again, and so
agitate yourself still more. In ten minutes the horses will be below,
Conrad. I shall expect you to be there. Good-bye for the present,
Eugenie."
The door had hardly closed upon him, when the young officer rushed up
to his sister at the window, and threw his arm round her with rough but
unmistakable tenderness.
"Are you angry too, Eugenie?" he asked, "was I really unfeeling?"
Eugenie looked at him with passionate eagerness. "You have seen Arthur,
have spoken to him frequently, yesterday even, when you were coming
away. Did he send no message by you, absolutely none?"
Conrad looked down. "He desired to be remembered to you and my father,"
said he, rather crestfallen.
"How? In what words?"
"He called after me when I was in the carriage, 'Remember me to the
Baron and to your sister.'"
"And that was all?"
"That was all."
Eugenie turned away. She wished to hide from her brother the bitter
disappointment which was written in her face, but Conrad held her fast.
He had her own beautiful dark eyes, but with him their expression was
bolder, more full of vivacity. At this moment, however, as he bent over
her, all his thoughtless gaiety had vanished, and given place to a most
unaccustomed earnestness.
"You must have wounded him cruelly at some time, Eugenie, and in a way
he cannot get over. I would so gladly have brought you a line or a word
at parting, but it was not to be had from him. He would never talk
about you, but each time I mentioned your name he went deadly pale and
turned away, and then dragged in another subject by the ears, so as not
to hear any more, just exactly as you do when I speak to you about him.
By Jove! there must be a regular hatred between you two?"
Eugenie tore herself free from him.
"Leave me, Con, for Heaven's sake! leave me, I can bear it no longer."
A look almost of triumph passed over the young man's face, and there
was a ring of repressed joy in voice.
"Well, I don't want to intrude upon your secrets. I must go now, or my
father will be getting impatient, he is in such an awful temper to-day.
I shall leave you alone now, Eugenie; there is that divorce petition to
be signed, you know. It will be ready, no doubt, by the time we come
home. Good-bye."
He hurried off. The horses were standing before the door, and the Baron
was looking impatiently up at the windows above. The ride was not a
particularly agreeable one, for not only the eldest, but the two
younger sons, soon felt the effects of their father's ill-humour. Baron
Windeg could not endure that any one bearing the name of Berkow should,
in his presence, be spoken of in terms of praise; and, as he naturally
supposed his daughter to have the same feeling, he considered that an
offence had been offered both to her and to himself.
Conrad had to bear many allusions to his "want of tact" and his "want
of consideration." He let it all pass very quietly, however; on the
other hand, he showed the most lively interest in the ride, or rather
in the duration of it. It was so long since he had been in town; the
drive on the outskirts was so animated and diverted him so much, that
he contrived to spin out the expedition to a considerable length, and
it was growing quite dark when the four returned to the city.
In the meantime Eugenie had remained alone. Her door was locked, she
could endure no one near her now. The walls of her room and the old
family portraits which adorned them, had witnessed many a fit of
weeping, many a bitter struggle when the girl's marriage had been under
discussion, but none so cruel as the present, for now the battle was
with herself, and the enemy was not easy to conquer.
There upon the writing-table lay the paper by which a wife prayed to be
judicially parted from her husband; only the signature was wanting.
When once that was affixed the divorce would really be gained, for the
consent of her husband and the Baron's influential connections assured
to the affair a speedy and favourable issue. She had refused to make
that all-important stroke of her pen, but it must be made now. What had
the one hour availed? It would be all the same whether the inevitable
step were taken sooner or later! But just then Conrad had come in with
his story, and had torn open afresh the wounds which had not yet ceased
to bleed.
And yet her brother had brought her no message, not even a word of
greeting. "Remember me to the Baron and to your sister," that was all!
Why not rather "to Lady Eugenie," that would have been colder still and
more fitting. Eugenie went up to the writing-table, and her eyes
wandered over the words of the document. There too all was cold and
formal, though the fate of two people was decided by it. But Arthur had
willed it so. He it was who had first spoken the word of separation,
who first and unhesitatingly agreed to hasten it on; and, when she had
gone to him and declared herself ready to stay, he had turned from her
and bade her go. The blood rushed to her temple again, and she
stretched out her hand to take the pen.
She was woman enough to know that this signature of hers would be a
blow to him, although he must be in a great measure prepared for it.
She had been able to interpret looks, and had been conscious of
unguarded moments in which he had betrayed himself; but, that he had
mastered his weakness to the very last moment, that he would not
understand when she hinted to him of the possibility of a
reconciliation, that he was peremptory to her as she had been to him,
that he opposed his pride to hers--these were offences for which he
must now suffer, even though the cost to herself should be tenfold
greater.
The demon of pride rose up within her again in all its fatal strength.
How often had it successfully held the field against all better
feelings, not always for her own good or for that of others! But to-day
another voice made itself heard as well. "Arthur is fighting like a man
against the misfortunes which are awaiting him on all sides, but he
will succumb to them at last."
And when he should so succumb, he would be alone, alone in his defeat
as he had been in the battle. He had no friend, no confidant, not one.
The officials might serve him devotedly, strangers might admire him;
but there was no one to cleave to, no one to feel for him, and the wife,
whose place was at his side, was at this moment signing the paper by
which she prayed for a separation with the briefest possible delay from
the husband whom she had already abandoned, and who was now struggling
day by day against imminent ruin.
Eugenie let fall the pen and stepped back from the writing-table. After
all, what had been Arthur's crime? He had shown himself indifferent to
a wife who, as he believed, had married him solely with a view to his
wealth. When she had convinced him of his error, she had added
contemptuous words such as no man will bear if he has a spark of honour
in him. Here, too, his father's sins had been visited on him, and he
had abundantly suffered for them during his short married life.
Since that first conversation no further trouble had come to her,
except that her husband had held back from her in distant coldness, but
he--what had he not endured? Eugenie best knew what the three months
had really been, which to those about them had presented only the
superficial calm of indifference, and which had held stings sharp
enough to irritate a man beyond endurance.
It is possible to wound with every look, with every breath, and this
had been done. Looking down on him from the elevation of her rank and
position, she had tried to crush him into that pitiful nothingness
which, in her opinion, was his proper condition. Day by day she had
used her weapons, all the more ruthlessly when she found he was
vulnerable. She had made of his home a place of torment, of his
marriage a curse, and all this that she might revenge herself on him
for his father's unscrupulous treatment of her family. With fullest
intent she had driven him so far that he himself had proposed a
separation, because he could no longer endure life at her side. If, at
last, he drew himself up and pushed aside the hand which had so racked
and tortured him, whose was the fault?
She sprang up from the seat on which she had thrown herself, and began
to pace up and down in terrible agitation as though trying to escape
from herself. She knew well what she was trying to obtain from herself,
whither her efforts were tending.
There was but one thing now which could help and save, but that was
impossible, that could not be! If she were to make the sacrifice of all
her pride, and the sacrifice were not accepted frankly and freely as it
was offered? Might she not have been mistaken, have read those eyes
amiss; they had never been unveiled for more than an instant, and then
only reluctantly. If he were again to meet her with that same freezing
look, asking her by what right she was doing that which would have been
any other woman's simple duty? If he were again to say that he would
stand or fall alone, if he were to bid her go once more? No, never!
better the separation, better a whole life of misery and regret, than
incur the possibility of such humiliation.
The departing sun, tipping the trees out yonder with gold, had long
since set and twilight had fallen, but it brought no quiet or coolness
to the heated overcrowded streets. Without, the sultry evening air was
full of the same hum and stir; the stream of people still passed and
repassed unceasingly, and the sound of voices and of the rattle of
carriages was still borne up confusedly to the windows above.
But, through it all, another sound was heard, faint at first as a mere
whisper, but growing ever nearer, ever more distinct. Had it been
wafted over from those green forest-heights and made its way through
the great busy thoroughfares of the city up to the young wife's ears?
What it was she hardly knew; it was like the soughing of the wind in
the pine branches, and, through it, echoed once more all the old forest
music with its mysterious chords.
There came back to her vividly that first glimpse of spring, those
bitter-sweet moments passed under the shelter of the friendly woods.
The mists rose up around her again, the storm howled, and the brooks
tumbled tumultuously down into the valleys below. Out of the thick grey
mist one figure stood out clear and definite--the one figure which
since that time had never left her sleeping or waking--and looked at
her reproachfully with its great brown eyes.
He who has passed through such a crisis as this, when all the powers of
the soul are concentrated on the resolution shaping itself within, may
have known these rapid flashes of memory, may have seen again old
scenes in their fullest details rising up before the mind's eye,
without visible or external cause, but with a force irresistible.
Eugenie felt that the air around her was full of these memories, felt
that, one after the other, the weapons were falling from her hands,
until at last there remained only the magic influence of that hour when
she had made the discovery that her hate was at an end, and that, in
its place, something else was springing up, something against which she
had striven, as it were, to the death, but to which she must now make
surrender.
It was soon over, that last short struggle between the old demon of
unbending pride, unable to forgive the repulse it had once met with,
and the woman's heart telling her that she was loved, spite of all.
This time the forest voices had not spoken in vain. They gained the
victory at last. The paper, which was to divide two people who had
sworn to be one for ever, lay torn upon the ground, and the young wife
was on her knees, raising her beautiful face, down which the hot tears
were streaming, and sobbing,
"I cannot--I cannot do him and myself this wrong. It would strike home
to us both. Come what may, Arthur, I will stay by you."
"Where is your sister?" asked the Baron, when, an hour later, he
entered the lighted drawing-room and found his sons there alone. "Has
not Lady Eugenie been told that we are waiting for her?" he continued,
turning to the servant who had been preparing the tea-table, and was
about to leave the room.
Conrad forestalled the answer.
"Eugenie is not at home." said he, signing to the man to go.
"Not at home!" repeated the Baron, in astonishment. "Has she driven out
so late as this? Where can she have gone?"
Conrad shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know. Directly I came in I ran up to her rooms. She was not
there, but I found this lying on the floor."
He drew out a paper, and an odd little twitch played about his lips as,
seemingly with the utmost gravity, he pieced the two halves neatly
together and laid them before his father. The Baron looked down at
them, but could make nothing of it.
"Why, that is the petition drawn out by the proctor, which I gave to
Eugenie to sign! I will have the servants up. If she has really gone
out, they must know where the carriage was to take her."
He laid his hand on the bell, but Conrad stopped him, and said very
quietly:
"I think, sir, she must have gone to her husband."
"Are you out of your senses, Conrad?" cried the Baron. "Eugenie gone to
her husband!"
"Well, I only fancy so. We shall soon know for a certainty, for I found
this note on her writing-table addressed to you. I brought it down, it
is sure to give us some information."
Windeg tore open the envelope. In his hurry, he did not notice that
Conrad so far transgressed all etiquette as to go behind him and read
over his shoulder. There could be no mistake now about the triumphant
expression of the young officer's face. It was so evident, that the two
younger brothers, who understood nothing of what was going on, looked
first at him and then at their father with anxious and inquiring looks.
The note contained only a few lines.
"I am going to my husband. Forgive me, papa, for leaving so suddenly,
so secretly. I will not lose an hour, and I do not wish to encounter
your opposition; I must have withstood it, for my resolution is taken.
Do nothing more in the matter of the divorce, and recall that which has
been done already. I do not give my consent to it, I will not leave
Arthur.
"Eugenie."
"Was such a thing ever heard of?" the Baron broke out, letting the note
fall from his hands. "A daughter of mine dares to change her mind in
this way and to make a clandestine flight from my house. She withdraws
herself from my protection, destroys all my hopes and plans for her
future, and goes back to this Berkow, who is on the very brink of ruin,
goes back among all those miners in revolt, when the whole
neighbourhood is in a state of anarchy. This verges on madness. What
has happened? I demand to be told, but first this senseless plan must
be frustrated, while there is yet time. I will go immediately" ...
"The express train to M---- left half-an-hour ago," interrupted Conrad,
"and the carriage is just coming back from the station. It is too late
now, any way."
At this moment the carriage, which had, no doubt, been used by Eugenie,
was heard coming in at the gates. The Baron began to see that it was
too late, and now the vials of his wrath were turned upon his son.
He reproached him with being the sole cause of all. With his ridiculous
laudation of his brother-in-law, with his exaggerated accounts of the
man's situation, he had stung Eugenie's conscience, until a morbid
sense of duty had driven her to her husband's side, for no other reason
than because he was unhappy; and when once she was there, who could
tell whether a complete reconciliation might not come about, if Berkow
were selfish enough to accept the offered sacrifice?
But Windeg swore by all that was dear to him, that he would carry
through the divorce in spite of all. The thing was set on foot, it was
in the hands of counsel, and Eugenie must and should be brought to
reason. He, the Baron, "would see whether he could not use his
authority as a father, although two of his children"--with a crushing
glance at poor Conrad, who, for the nonce, was the only criminal at
hand, "although two of his children appeared to disregard it
altogether."
Conrad let the storm pass over his head, and spoke no syllable in his
own defence; he knew from experience that it was the best way. He sat
with drooping head and downcast eyes, as if he were a prey to the most
unmitigated remorse for the thoughtlessness of his conduct and the evil
it had wrought.
But when the Baron, still furious, left the room and went to shut
himself up in his private apartments, there further to ponder and growl
over this incredible business, the young lieutenant sprang up with a
bound, the roguish expression of his handsome face and the sparkle in
his eye telling plainly how little the paternal anger had gone to his
heart.
"To-morrow morning Eugenie will be with her husband," said he to his
brothers who now assailed him with questions and reproaches, "and my
father may try to come between them with his lawyers and paternal
authority as much as he pleases. Arthur will take good care of his wife
when once he knows she belongs to him; he has not known it so far. As
for us," here he cast a very meaning glance at the door by which his
father had disappeared, "we shall have stormy weather for the next
week. The worst is yet to come, when my father finds out how things
really are between those two, and that something else is in question
here than mere conscience and a sense of duty.
"One comfort is, Arthur will have sunshine; with it and Eugenie at his
side he will win through, never fear. Thank goodness, there is an end
of the divorce suit, courts of justice and counsel included, and if one
of you has a word to say against my brother-in-law, let him say it to
me. I'll answer him."