The feeling which events had left behind in Hertha's mind was one of
dull disappointment. It seemed almost as if she had expended all her
trouble on an unworthy object. So long he had existed for her as an
exalted sinner, one of those melancholy, mysteriously-guilty, romantic
beings, whom it is the delight of a true woman to rescue from hell; and
now he stood before her in the flesh--a muscular, laughing country
squire, with bull-neck, broad shoulders, and a vocabulary that could
only be described as vulgar, though, alas! it certainly had the knack
of hitting the right nail on the head. Even his method of dealing with
his staff of retainers was quite different from what she had pictured.
With the righteous wrath of an outraged deity, she had expected him to
scourge the unfaithful servants out of his sight, to mete out to the
miscreants their deserts, but to reward those who had been honest and
vigilant by giving them an honourable post at his right hand. But now
that her dreams had become reality, all was as prosaic as possible. He
swore, and the servants slunk about like whipped hounds, and she had
not been once consulted.
The hated Uncle Kutowski, too, for whom she would have thought the
gallows too good, seemed to be taking his departure in far too easy and
comfortable a fashion.
On the second day he appeared, just after breakfast, in freshly ironed
linen, and buff _pique_ waistcoat, on which his watch-chain of boars'
tusks dangled aggressively, and explained to the ladies that he had
come to take his leave of them, in order to enter on a larger sphere of
work. In Poland, where formerly he had possessed land, there was a
complication of affairs, which, to be put straight, required the firm
hand and the knowledge of modern agricultural improvements of a
confidential land-agent such as himself.
He set this forth with the utmost self-assurance, and stroked his wavy,
greenish-grey beard with true patriarchal dignity; but his little eyes
glanced uneasily at the door from time to time, as if he were afraid
that Leo might come in and cut off his brilliant retreat. Grandmamma
was good-natured enough to accept the old reprobate's explanation
without question. Elly gravely went on with her painting, and Hertha
herself could do nothing but show her contempt by shrugging her
shoulders, which apparently didn't hurt his feelings in the least.
Finally, he had the effrontery to ask the young ladies to give him
their photographs, and to wish them handsome bridegrooms. This was a
little too much for Hertha.
"I only give my photograph to people whom I have learnt to esteem,"
said she, drawing herself up, "and if I ever should marry, which I am
uncertain about at present, I shall take care to choose a husband who
has no associates like yourself, Herr Kutowski."
Now he had got his due, and all grandmamma's tact could not alter it.
He bowed, and with a malicious smile remarked that he always knew that
Miss Hertha could not endure him, but that was not here or there. Now
the master had come home, she would find out fast enough what it was to
be a stranger in the house, and what a true friend she had had in him.
Hertha, hard hit, cast down her eyes. But kind old grandmamma put her
arm protectingly round her neck. Whereupon the old gentleman lighted a
cigar, thrust a sandwich of buttered rolls into his pocket, squeezed
out a few farewell tears, and after Elly, with characteristic meekness,
had submitted to having her forehead kissed by his atrocious lips, he
retired in the _role_ of the chivalrous old worthy.
All the morning Hertha carried about with her a sense of intolerable
wrong. It was not till she heard Leo, after lunch, say to his mother,
"The old uncle, by Jove! has been summarily dismissed," did she feel
slightly comforted, and concluded that perhaps, after all, the world
had not been made so comfortable for unpunished rogues as she had
supposed. Her relations with the returned master of the house somewhat
improved. He had addressed a few playful remarks to her at meals, and
had taken her retorts with gay good humour. It looked as if he had
quite forgotten that she had offended him. "He doesn't think I am grown
up," she reflected bitterly. And the idea she had entertained the whole
day of asking him formally for forgiveness was gradually abandoned.
It was after tea that he came to her, and in his usual lighthearted and
lively manner said: "Now then, little one, if you like, we will do some
accounts." She glowed under a swelling wave of pride. At last he had
asked her, had felt himself forced to regard her management of certain
departments as a serious matter. But she would not have been so proud
if she had suspected that grandmamma had hinted to him that it would
give her pleasure if he would go over her accounts with her. Her books
were in beautiful order. Since yesterday morning she had longed to show
him the blue octavo exercise-book, but had not had the courage to do so
uninvited.
Now, sitting opposite him, she produced records of her heroic
achievements, with flaming cheeks. She had reared and fattened twelve
turkeys, and sold ten in Koenigsberg; she had sent eighty chickens to
the Muensterberg market, and got an average price of sixty-five pfennigs
apiece for them. The sound eggs that were over had been bought at home
by a dealer, so that no deduction had to be made for waste. A greater
bargain still was in course of completion for unfattened geese, though
some were to be stuffed for the sake of the liver, but the season had
not come yet for that.
Then she passed on to the vegetable department. Fresh vegetables were
sent every Saturday regularly to the market at Muensterberg, but it
scarcely paid to compete with the peasant folk; still, in another
direction, a great success had been scored. She got several dozen
little baskets plaited from reeds, which a blind man made her for
twopence each. These little baskets were daintily arranged with leaves,
and filled, according to the season, with strawberries, cherries, and
other fruit. The milk-boys offered them for sale in Muensterberg, and
they had enjoyed quite a reputation. Three days later, all the little
baskets were collected empty, but if any customers wished to keep
basket as well as fruit they were to pay threepence more, and this
extra penny helped to pay the old blind man.
Her face was radiant with zeal, her hair wild, and her hands trembled
as she sat there calculating one sum of money after the other. She
would have liked to demonstrate her success by showing him the figures,
but no matter how she turned over the leaves, she could not find the
total, and the columns swam before her in crazy confusion. And in the
midst of her narration she had caught him looking at her with an
inquiring, astonished gaze, and she felt a choking sensation of sheer
joy in her throat; but she collected herself and proceeded further with
her good tidings.
She had come now to the most important thing of all--the milk and the
dairy produce. Here, of course, she had not been able to do as much as
she wished, for these stupendous affairs came under Uncle Kutowski's
management. However, she had got round Schumann, and worked him so
effectually that he was willing to help her. The experiment of sending
cream in bottles to Koenigsberg had been a failure, but for slightly
salted fresh butter a trade had been opened with Friedrich Graz in
Berlin, which was doing first-class business. This did not hinder the
morning milk, according to old custom, being despatched by waggon to
Muensterberg; and she felt bound to confess with pride that the
popularity of the Halewitz fruit-baskets had increased considerably the
daily demand for milk. She and the swineherd were at war as to how the
butter-milk ought to be used. The Swiss cook at Stoltenhof had given
her a famous receipt for making cheese of butter-milk. The Mamselle had
made excellent use of it, yet all the leavings were demanded for the
pigs, although they could very well be fed on the husks and refuse from
the brewery. Hertha thought these claims preposterous, and hoped that
Leo would see that the lion's share of the butter-milk were restored to
its proper uses.
And now she had finished, and she laid the blue exercise-book down with
modest satisfaction, and went back to grandmamma, who had been
listening to her report, beaming with delight.
He followed her, and grasped her industrious little hand with a smile
in which there was a gleam of almost paternal emotion.
"You are a plucky little girl," he said. "I am much obliged to you."
That was all. He might, at least, have said that he hoped she would go
on and prosper.
She ran out to cool her hot cheeks in the shade of the limes. Her
throat felt like lead from her strangled tears. She was depressed by
the consciousness that her soul's elated triumph had been followed by a
humiliation. She had expected something tremendous, unspeakable. What,
she hardly knew herself. At any rate, she need not have been thanked so
curtly, almost grudgingly.
Near the obelisk she came on Elly, exercising grandmamma's pug at the
end of a blue ribbon, which was not in the least necessary.
She ran to meet Hertha with an air of great importance, saying a
terrible misfortune had happened, and her whole future happiness was at
stake. She really thought she should have to put an end to herself.
"What _is_ the matter?" asked Hertha.
It was this. Christian had reported that this morning a sealed letter
addressed to her had been lying on Uncle Kutowski's table, and that now
it had disappeared.
"Well, what harm is there in that?" asked Hertha. "You should never
have had any secrets with that dreadful old man."
Elly blushed and stuttered. She had not exactly had secrets; it was
only that uncle had been so obliging, and the last time she had met
Kurt Brenckenberg he had promised that the song he had composed for her
should be sent to her through Uncle Kutowski.
"If you will do such stupid things, Mouse," said Hertha, turning her
back, "we can't go on being friends."
But Elly threw her arms around her from behind, and entreated and
implored her to help her just this once. She would never do it again.
And when she had sealed this vow with a solemn kiss and shake of the
hand, Hertha consented to do what she could in advising her.
First of all it seemed advisable to reconnoitre the spot where the
letter had been seen in the morning.
Hertha made a short cut through bushes and hedge to the bailiff's
house, and Elly, who despite her agitation had not let go of the fat
pug, obediently followed.
The bailiff's house was deserted as usual at this hour, and in
consequence locked up. The only way to get in was through an open
window at the back.
Hertha, who could climb like a squirrel, took the lead and dragged the
trembling Elly after her; the pug, who was in danger of being strangled
by the blue ribbon, was left behind, and barked as if he were mad at
his vanishing mistresses.
They found themselves in Schumann's room, which was filled with an
odour of onions and lamp-oil, for the head-bailiff was a bachelor and
catered for himself, leaving unspeakable messes simmering for hours on
a petroleum cooking-stove.
Elly could scarcely stand for fright, and even Hertha's heart beat
perceptibly quicker. Till this moment she had never shrunk timidly from
the boldest adventures; but now that the master of Halewitz ruled his
possessions again, everything wore a different aspect.
She penetrated further without looking to right or left. The door,
which led to the uncle's deserted apartments, was wide open. Within a
repulsive spectacle was revealed. In one corner the old sofa lay in
ruins, the bedstead was turned up against the wall, the cupboard doors
were flung back on their hinges, and in all the places which had been
mercifully hidden by carpet and _bric-a-brac_, dirt was laid bare, for
the old sloven had let it accumulate for years. Long-legged, hairy
spiders sat in the corners, and disturbed silver-grey wood-lice ran out
of the cracks in the floor.
On the table, where Christian had caught sight of the fatal letter, lay
the cracked shaving-mirror, with the pig's bladder, and odds and ends
of tobacco, and all sorts of papers; but the passionately coveted
envelope was nowhere to be seen.
Hertha searched the room with the thoroughness of a detective. She tore
open the table drawer, threw herself on the floor to spy under bureau
and wardrobe; she even shook the top-boots which stood ranged in a row
against the wall covered with baize, but not a trace could she discover
of the missing letter.
Between the windows, propped against the birchwood chest of drawers,
there was an old bookcase, much scratched and ornamented with
paintings. Hertha, after a fleeting glance, plucked up courage to
examine it closer. Two rows of books stood or lay on the shelves, some
of them bound, others in coloured-paper covers.
This, then, was the uncle's library that he had been in the habit of
boasting was the most interesting in the world. "When you are
particularly nice to me," he would say, "I will invite you to look
through it." But there the matter had dropped, for Hertha had never
felt inclined to be "particularly nice" to him. And nowhere was this
celebrated library without lock or custodian, absolutely at her
disposal, and hours might go by before one of the inmates of the house
might surprise her--deep in its treasures. She was so delighted, that
even the fatal letter was forgotten. Hertha with trembling fingers
touched the paper covers, and, looking into the first that lay on the
pile, read, "The Adventures of Queen Isabella; or, Secrets of the Court
of Madrid"--a title which excited her curiosity to the highest pitch.
As time was precious she began to read in the middle of the sentence on
which she had chanced to open. Elly, who had been standing about,
rather aimlessly crouched beside her, and tried to snatch a modest
share of the forbidden book's splendours over her companion's shoulder.
It was all about a handsome young Don Alvarez, who, returning from a
party late at night, is seized by masked ruffians, gagged and
blindfolded, and dragged into a luxurious, mysterious, brilliantly
lighted apartment, where from behind red satin curtains proceeded
ravishing strains of sweet music from cymbals and flutes.
And when he at last dares to draw aside the curtain, what does he see?
A coffin, from the pall of which a skull, with two crossed skeleton
legs, grins at him in scorn. Blood-red flames and incense rise to the
ceiling, and a sepulchral voice speaks in the clouds.
"That is the coffin in which you will lie, in the same hour that you
betray, by one word or look, what your eyes have seen, and your ears
heard."
So the shuddering young soul was to keep what he had seen and heard a
secret, till the end of time.
Hertha heard a bark, and as if waking out of a dream, saw Leo's figure,
standing its full height, close beside her. The pug, who had evidently
shown him the way, was at his heels.
The book fell from her hand. Don Alvarez sank into the night of
oblivion from which he had sprung.
"What are you doing here, you burglars?" asked Leo in a laughing tone.
He was answered by silence.
"And how did you get in? Come, confess, Elly. The door was locked. How
did you get in?"
Hertha felt an internal swooning; but defiance choked in her throat.
"You needn't rate Elly like that," she said, getting up; "as the door
was locked, we naturally got through the window. There is nothing to be
surprised at in that."
"Indeed?" he said. "Nothing to be surprised at! And what brings you
here?"
"That we don't intend to tell," Hertha answered; "it is our concern
alone."
"Now, we shall see about that," he said. "I am not going to argue with
you, my dear Hertha; you are beyond discipline. But you, Elly, come
here a minute."
And Elly, who had quite lost her presence of mind, regardless of a sign
that Hertha made to her, divulged in stupid fear everything she should
have kept to herself.
"A letter?" he inquired. "A letter from Uncle Kutowski to you?"
"Yes," she answered, crying.
He simply put his hand in his pocket and produced the letter. "Is that
it?" he asked.
Elly supposed, with sobs, that it must be it.
But as he looked as if he were going to wrench open the envelope,
Hertha considered it her duty to interfere.
"You surely will not be so unchivalrous," she said, "as to pry into
other people's secrets."
"I shall certainly be so unchivalrous," he responded, and tore the
envelope open.
"For shame," said Hertha, and turned away.
But he read aloud, "'The Smiling Stars,' serenade composed for and
dedicated to Fraeulein Elly von Sellenthin, as a token of his esteem and
regard, by Kurt Brenckenberg. _Cand. phil._"
Whereupon he gave a little whistle and slowly ripped the beautiful
verses into tiny fragments, which he scattered at his weeping sister's
feet.
"Let that be a lesson to you," he said, knitting his thick brows, "and
if I find out anything of the sort has happened again it will be a bad
look-out for you."
"We may go now, I hope?" asked Hertha, as she scanned him sideways from
under downcast lids.
"Yes, you may go," he replied. "There's only one thing more to say: for
the future there will be no more underhand dealings here. Do you
understand?"
Hertha shrugged her shoulders and turned to go. She had done with this
rude man, for ever.
Elly, who was again leading the pug by the blue ribbon, followed in
sobs.
When Leo was alone he laughed out loud.
"What depths of innocence!" he said to himself, and thought of the
women-folk he had met and dropped abroad, who were now separated from
him by the ocean. And then he thought of another, whose life was not
divided from his by the sea, but who must be considered as dropped none
the less.
He then turned to sample the books in which he had found the two young
girls so absorbed.
Besides the above-mentioned "Adventures of Isabella," the famous
library contained "The History of Great Courtizans," from the French of
Henry de Kock; "The Secrets of Madame du Barry," in yellow paper covers
at sixpence; "Practical Introduction to the Gastronomic Art for
Gourmets;" "Guide through Nocturnal Berlin; or, How Bachelors Amuse
Themselves;" "Sunday Magazine for Christian Families," year 1841; "The
Future of the Threshing Machine in German Agriculture;" "Pious Helen;"
"A Miser's Picture Book;" "Short and Simple Introduction to Steam
Threshing," in German doggerel; "Report of the Construction of a
Railway from Florchingen to Kirchheim;" "Guide to the Waxworks;"
"Yearly Report of the Sisterhood at Kaiserswerth, with a Supplementary
Catalogue;" "The Molock; or, Dangers of Horse-racing." The last item
was a mantrap in the form of a book, labelled "Dr. Qualm's Collected
Works." Inside was nothing but a forgotten cigar.
Leo contemplated the pile of yellow ragged literature, and shook his
head.
"Such is about the average standard of culture of us all," he thought
to himself.
Then his uncle's library was pitched into the stove, with the exception
of "Dr. Qualm's Collected Works," which was to be filled afresh and
handed over to Christian to be carefully studied.