In his childhood, beside his father's sick-bed, Oswald had learned how
to treat an invalid with rare tenderness; but what he never had been
taught nor could have been taught,--what was his very own nature,--was
his impetuous, untiring kindheartedness, a kindheartedness that was
never content with passively theorizing, but always refused to
discontinue effort even in the case of the most distressing
emergencies, and always longed to soothe with hope the pain which it
could not cure.
Fritz, on the day after the dinner, had sent a note to Tornow, telling
of his sad condition and of his projected journey to Gleichenberg, and
Oswald and Georges had instantly ridden over to Schneeburg, where they
found Fritz coughing incessantly, propped up with pillows in a large
easy-chair before his writing-table, painfully endeavouring to write
out his last will. Ten minutes of Oswald's presence sufficed to cause
life to wear a different aspect for Fritz. Oswald scolded him for
giving them all such a fright with that desponding note of his,
protested that a man looking as well as he did had no right to depress
his friends with melancholy forebodings, told of the miracles wrought
by Gleichenberg on many of his acquaintances, and declared that 'a mere
hemorrhage' was of very little consequence, particularly in cases like
Fritz's where consumption was not in the family.
"I had one, when I was a volunteer, after parade one day," he
concluded, "and I never should know it to-day."
"That must have been something different, Ossi," said Fritz, laughing
at his friend's earnestness;--the laugh brought on a violent fit of
coughing. Oswald put his arm around him and supported his head;--"it
will soon be over, hand him a glass of water, Georges, there...."
"However low down a fellow may be, it lightens his heart to look into
your eyes, Ossi," said Fritz, taking breath after the cough had gone.
"You're right there, Fritz," Georges agreed, "and yet there's no more
inflammable, and momentarily unjust man in the world, than he."
"Yes, but then...." began Fritz.
"Now be quiet," Oswald ordered, "the best thing for you to do would be
to lie down for a while, and we will do our best to entertain you
without making you laugh."
"Thanks," said Fritz, "but I .... I should like to say something to you.
When a man stands on the brink of the grave...."
"Aha, you are posing again as an interesting invalid," Oswald rallied
him; "well--Georges, go down stairs and pay your respects to Pipsi,
there's a good fellow; I hear her chattering with her little brother
beneath the window;--I know how pleased Fritz is with your visit, but,
just now, you are a little in the way."
Georges laughed, and withdrew bowing low.
They were left alone in the long, low room; against the windows the
leaves of the old apricot-trees rustled dreamily, and the air was
fragrant with the scent of the last flowers of summer. The portraits of
Fritz's parents and of their Imperial Majesties looked down from the
wall, their outlines rather vague in the darkened apartment, and on the
old door-jamb, scored with the children's names a prismatic sunbeam was
playing.
"Now tell me, Fritz, what is the matter? You know there is no need of
any beating about the bush between us," said Oswald leaning towards the
sick man, "speak low, I can hear you."
Fritz fixed his gaze upon the door-jamb where among the old names two
new ones had been written, 'Pipsi five, Franzi three years old.' "God
knows, I have no reason to cling to life," he said with a sigh, "and
yet my heart is sore at the thought that next year I shall--make no
mark there!--Poor children!--who will care for them when I am gone?"
His voice broke, and it was with difficulty that he kept back the
tears. "I have taken a great deal of pains with them, and hitherto they
have been good little things,--at least so they seem to me ...."
"Your children are charming," was Oswald's warm assurance.
"Are they not?" gasped Fritz, and his hollow eyes sparkled, "but they
are still so little--when I am dead they will run wild. Capriani will
not let them starve--assuredly not; but _how_ will he provide for
them?--and my wife agrees with him in everything--that is the worst of
it;--Ossi, in my will I have expressed a wish that my children should
be separated from their mother. She does not care for them very much; I
think she would be glad to be rid of the burden of bringing them
up .... and I have begged you--you will not take it ill of me, Ossi,...."
he hesitated.
"Would you like me to be their guardian?"
"Ah, Ossi!"
"Then that is settled," said Oswald, holding out his hand, "and,
moreover, my mother told me to tell you that when I am married she
should have nothing more to do, and would take pleasure in attending to
the education of your little ones. You can hardly ask anything better
for them."
"Ah, Ossi, your mother is an angel!"
"Indeed she is," said Oswald gravely.
"She is well?"
"No, she was very weary to-day at dinner, she had a sleepless night
from anxiety on my account--my poor mother! And now since your mind is
easy on all points, old fellow, it is to be hoped that you'll torment
yourself no longer with gloomy forebodings, but do your best to get
well and strong. Let us recall our poor exiled Georges, shall we
not--_ca_! who's there? some one knocked!"
"Come in!" said Fritz.
Conte Capriani entered, a roll of parchment in his hand.
Oswald winced.
"For Heaven's sake stay," panted Fritz, holding his friend fast by the
wrist.
"Yes, pray stay, my dear Count," said Capriani, who must have heard
Fritz's words, or had understood his gesture. "I knew that I should
meet you here, but what I have to arrange with our friend, Malzin,
might as well be discussed before a hundred witnesses. I am really glad
to see you again--our last conversation came to so sudden a
termination," and the Conte familiarly held out his hand to the young
man.
Oswald measured him from head to foot with a haughty glance, and put
his hand in his pocket. Then leaning his elbow upon the high back of
Fritz's easy-chair, he stood motionless while Capriani angrily pushed a
chair near to the table and sat down.
"So, my dear Malzin, you are off for Gleichenberg," he began, with his
left thumb stuck into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, and his right hand
resting on the roll of parchment on his knee.
Oswald's gaze was fixed with a strange curiosity upon the face of the
stock-gambler; all the loathsome ideas which had sullied his soul of
late recurred to him; how disgraceful, nay how ridiculous his foul
suspicions seemed when confronted with the flesh and blood Capriani.
Meanwhile the Conte, irritated to the last degree by the young Count's
cold stare, continued, "You must, of course, be desirous of settling
your affairs, Malzin, before your departure. Under present
circumstances you ought to be glad to be able to provide for the future
of your children."
"Certainly; I have discussed it fully with my relatives," murmured
Fritz, trembling with agitation, and clasping his thin hands on the
table.
"Discussed?--that can lead to nothing," Capriani asserted, "I see, I
see, the same loose way of attending to business. A matter of such
importance ought to be definitely settled. It is time for you to listen
to reason, as regards that vault; of course we all hope that you will
return from Gleichenberg sound and well, but we must be prepared for
the worst. If you close your eyes to this you leave your children
unprovided for, and you, you alone will be to blame, seeing that by
merely executing this deed of sale for that burial-vault--downright
rubbish--you will receive the extremely handsome and liberal sum of
thirty thousand gulden. Now, pray be reasonable."
The Conte spread the parchment out on the table before Fritz, dipped a
pen in the ink, and handed it to him.
The tears came into the wretched man's eyes. "My poor children!" he
groaned and took the pen.
On the instant Oswald snatched the fateful parchment from the table,
and threw it on the floor; "You shall not sign it, Fritz!" he
exclaimed, his voice hoarse with indignation; then turning to the
Conte, he said sharply, "You see that my cousin is not equal to the
excitement of an interview like the present. May I beg you to leave
us?"
The Conte sprang up, his breath came in quick gasps, and a dark menace
shot from the eyes that he rivetted upon the young man's face.
"May I beg you to leave the room," Oswald repeated with icy disdain.
"You show me to the door?"--the Conte said, beside himself with
rage,--"you dare to do this to me--you--were not my hints the other day
plain enough?...."
Oswald lost all self-control; "Scoundrel! Liar!" he gasped hoarsely.
His riding-whip lay on the table--he seized it and pointed to the door;
"Begone!" he thundered.
For an instant Capriani hesitated, baleful threatening flashing in his
eyes. "I am going," he said, "but you shall hear from me!" and the door
closed behind him.
Quivering with rage, Oswald turned about. "My God! Fritz ....!" he
exclaimed in terror. Fritz had risen from his chair, and after
advancing a step, had fallen drenched in blood beside his couch!