"Look here," he said, "I live under the same roof with you, but of your
life, of your past, I know absolutely nothing."
"You have never asked me about it," she replied.
"Would you have told me if I had?"
"Of course I would.... I will tell you now, this minute, if you like."
She disengaged herself from his arm; an eager blissful smile lit up her
face.
"Of course I should like it. So fire away."
The expression, "fire away," did not please her. It seemed scarcely
suitable to the solemnity of the occasion, but his interest so
delighted her that she quickly forgot the jarring note.
"God knows," she said, "there isn't much to tell, after all. So far I
haven't had many experiences, and what I have had are mostly stupid."
"Do you remember your mother?" he interposed, to give her an opening.
She cast her eyes up at the stars. "Yes, thank God!" she said. "I was
nearly seven years old when she died. Ah! how I cried.... We lived in a
big castle, amidst pure Poles. The castle was on a hill, and it had a
colonnade leading down to the Weichsel, which was at the foot of the
hill. She used to sit in the colonnade when it was warm, and the maids
with red handkerchiefs on their heads carried shawls for her. And every
minute she would say, '_Mnie jest zimno_,' which means, 'I am cold,'
and then they used to put another shawl over her. The long rafts glided
by on the river below, and on Wednesdays and Saturdays the steamboat
came. She always watched the steamboat till it was out of sight and not
a puff of its smoke to be seen, and when it had quite disappeared she
used to say, '_Podniescie mnie_,' and that meant, 'Lift me up.' She
wanted to see if she could catch another glimpse of it, standing up.
She had brown hair and a face like wax, with very big dark eyes. There
were always drops of perspiration on her cheeks. She was not tall, but
rather small, and she had thin arms; but that came from illness and
from grief, and perhaps from ennui. For she said constantly, 'I am very
unhappy, and dreadfully dull.'"
"And your father--where was he?" Leo asked.
Her face hardened into an expression of hate.
"I would rather not speak of my father," she answered; "he was bad....
Yes, he was bad, and I shall be bad too, for I am like him."
"Good gracious!" he remonstrated; "who put that nonsense into your
head?"
"It isn't nonsense," she replied, full of conviction; "have you
never heard of Darwin?"
"Yes ... the man who says we are descended from monkeys and
such-like--rot!" he was going to add, but checked himself in time.
"And then there is heredity, you know, about our all inheriting the
qualities of our parents. Our science-master explained that to us. If
your father is given to drink, then you will drink too."
"Did your father drink?"
"Yes--he drank."
"And so you are afraid that you will become a drunkard, eh?"
"No, not that. A girl couldn't very well. But I am afraid about
temper."
"What temper?"
"His was so violent. When he was in one of his rages he didn't know
what he was doing; once he flew at me with a knife."
"Horrors! How old were you then?"
"Not quite eight. It was after mother's death. He came from I don't
know where. We hadn't seen him for two years, and when he found out
that nothing had been left to him, and that it was all mine, and had
already been put in the hands of trustees, he was frantic, and it was
then that he did it--snatched up the knife. Afterwards he took me with
him when he travelled about. I was always to be with him, because then
he could get the money for my education."
"And you understood everything even then?" he exclaimed, amazed and
deeply moved.
A melancholy little smile flitted across her face, which made her look
years older.
"You see, I am not so foolish as you thought," she said. "I have cried
a good deal in my life. Oh yes! We were speaking of the violent
temper.... Well, I have got it too. If I am angry I am blind, and don't
know what I do, and my blood rushes into my head. I shall come to a bad
end one day. Mamma says I ought to pray, and beseech the Lord Jesus
every day to change my bad blood. But I am not sure that it would be
right. For if I have my bad times, I have my good too. No one dreams
what they are. Elly, for example. You know what she is like? always
placid, always soft. I believe the sun shines brighter for me than for
her, that to my eyes green is greener, and ... the moon ... how it
sails up there.... She doesn't see it.... She is always too sleepy. So
I say to myself often, every unhappiness may be happiness if one knows
just how to enjoy things like that."
He laid his hands on his forehead and stared at her. "Great God!" he
thought, "what magic there is in a young creature like this!"
She had talked herself into a high pitch of excitement, and, without
heeding him, went on--
"Yes, and then he left me at Geneva and went to get married, and that
is how you and I come to be related, you see. And when I heard that I
had a new mother I wept for joy; but the others--the girls, you
know--frightened me, and said, 'What will become of you now you have
got _une maratre_?' for there we all talked French. But I thought to
myself, 'Wait till she sees you; she will sure to be kind out of pity.'
And, because Madame Guignaud wished me to pay my respects to her
beforehand, I wrote her a letter. But there was not much respect in it,
and it began like this: 'Ma mere voici une malheureuse enfant qui vous
implore'--and so on. However, it did very well, and when she came she
was good and loving to me, and my heart leapt out to her. Ah! in those
days she often smiled. She seemed to love my father very much, and I
hoped better days were now in store for me, and I should stay at home,
but, properly speaking, there was no home. He refused to stay on the
estate my dead mamma had left to him, for he said that he was ashamed
to be 'mademoiselle's guest.' He meant me by 'mademoiselle.' His own
estate, Malkischken, as you know, was so dilapidated that we had to get
the furniture for three rooms on hire from a carpenter in Muensterberg.
That's why we didn't stay long there, but started travelling about. We
went to Baden-Baden, Spa, Nice; and everywhere it was the same, the
same waiters and electric-bells, every morning two eggs with coffee,
and at dinner twelve courses; but if one was hungry in between, one had
to starve, because we were charged _en pension_. Mamma was always sad,
and papa always angry with me, and in want of money. Oh! it was
terrible. One day he flew at me with his riding-whip, and was going to
beat me, when mamma sprang between us and said, 'The child shall go
away to-day, or----' What the 'or' meant I didn't understand, but he
grew as white as a sheet, and the next morning I went away, first back
to Geneva, where I stayed till I was thirteen. That is where Ada
was----"
She stopped, thinking with a start of the letter she had left unblotted
on the writing-table.
"Which Ada?"
"Ada von Wehrheimb, my greatest friend," she replied; and, turning her
head aside, she added with a slight blush, "She is engaged already."
"Ha! ha!" he laughed, "quickly fixed up. Well, and then?"
"Then ... then." She lost the thread of her narrative for a moment. His
laugh had put her out.
"Oh, then I went to Hamburg to Frau Luettgen's, whom we knew in
Wiesbaden. Frau Luettgen's _pensionat_ is the most noted _pensionat_ in
all Hamburg. Oh, what happy times I had there!... Frau Luettgen was as
tall and straight as a beanstalk, and was very particular about the
pronunciation of _s_. She 's-taerb auf der S-telle wenn man vor dem
S-piegel s-tand, oder mit einer S-tecknadel s-pielte oder eine S-peise
bes-poettelte.' Oh, it was too lovely. And there I was confirmed, for I
was to be a Protestant, although dear dead mamma was a Catholic. And I
was quite willing to change, for we all reverenced the Pastor Bergmann.
And when I was kneeling at the altar, I prayed to God with all my heart
to take me, so that I might go to heaven at once. For at that time I
was quite pious and good, and did not know how bad people could be and
how bad I was to be myself."
"And you learnt all that afterwards?" he asked, smirking.
"Rather!"
And she gave a little snort, which was always a sign that she was
thinking of her faithless friends Kaethi Greiffenstein and Daisy
Bellepool.
"Go on, my chick," he begged; "let's have the whole awful history."
"No, but I simply _can't_ tell you."
"Why not?"
"Oh, dear, dear! If I do, your are sure to despise me."
"That I certainly shall not do, child."
"Well, one day you must know, so here goes.... Once, once, I was in
love."
"Indeed?"
"Now you despise me, don't you? Say 'Yes,' say 'Yes' quite calmly. It
doesn't matter."
"Who was it?"
"I'll tell you. We ought to have the courage of our sins, even
if it costs us our head, oughtn't we? He was a commissionaire in a
music-shop."
"Great Scot!"
"Dreadful, wasn't it? He had long fair curly hair--very long. And when
we went for walks of an afternoon, Frau Luettgen in front, he used to
stand at the door and make eyes at me. And I always got red, like the
donkey I was."
"Now listen, child, and I'll give you some good counsel," he said,
laughing. "Not only must we have the courage of our sins, as you so
wisely remarked just now, but we must do penance for them."
"You mean ... because I said.... But first hear how he behaved. I had
two friends, called Kaethi Greiffenstein and Daisy Bellepool, both
Americans, and that is why I hate America."
"The whole country, from top to bottom?"
"Yes, and my heart felt lighter when you had cleared out of it. Well, I
made those two girls the confidantes of my secrets, and one day--what
do you think happened? Novels were found under Kaethi Greiffenstein's
mattress: 'The Broken Heart,' 'The Marble Bride,' and 'Hussar's Love,'
and I don't know what else. There was an awful row. Frau Luettgen held a
court-martial. Kaethi denied everything. She knew nothing about the
books. Some one else must have put them in her bed. Another search was
made, and behold in Daisy Bellepool's bed the same discovery! But
besides the books there was a packet of letters too--love-letters. To
whom? Why, to me, signed Bruno Steifel.... Of course I didn't know any
one called Bruno Steifel, but who believed me when I said so? Not a
soul! The letters were answers to those I was supposed to have written
to him, in which I had asked him to get me novels from the lending
library, ... as a knightly service and testimony of his love. Wasn't it
awful?"
"Terrible," Leo said, biting his lips.
"I was locked up, and got nothing, for two days but bread and water and
slimy lentil soup. I was prayed for every morning and evening, and
Laura Below bad a dream in which she saw me burning in hell. The dream
was made public at a committee meeting, and I was held up as a warning
example. Who knows how long it might have gone on, if I hadn't thought
of a means of saving myself?"
"If you want to know who Herr Bruno Steifel is,' I said, 'why not go to
the library the label of which is stamped on the outside cover of the
books?... They will be certain to know him there. And they did, sure
enough. And who do you think it was?"
"He of the fair locks, of course...."
"Of course. And Frau Luettgen goes at once to his chief and tells him
the whole story. Herr Bruno Steifel is called and cross-examined. 'Have
you got novels out from the library?' 'Yes,' he says, and gets horribly
red. 'Are you in possession of letters?' He won't answer, but the chief
threatens him with dismissal, and he produces them. The signature is:
'Your ever loving Hertha von Prachwitz,' but the handwriting is ... now
guess."
"Daisy Bellepool's?"
"No, Kaethi Greiffenstein's. Daisy Bellepool's mamma wished her daughter
to have more freedom, like other American girls. So she was allowed to
go out alone, and in consequence she arranged the whole business.
Wasn't it disgusting?"
"Yes, disgusting."
"What do you think I did? I threw a jug of water at Daisy's head, and
gave Kaethi such a black eye that she was obliged to wear bandages for
three days. So bad can you be when people behave badly to you."
"And what became of the pair?" he asked.
"Kaethi was expelled soon after, but Daisy was allowed to stay on
because her mamma had subscribed to the new school buildings. But it
did her no good. Not any decent girl would speak to her again. What I
have lived through. Think of it! Then I came here to Halewitz. Ah, and
how I love it! though I have my troubles, even here." She paused and
gave him a shy entreating glance, as if she would say, "I know who has
only to speak one word to free me from them."
He laughed and stretched himself; and then thought with embarrassment
of the other woman who had come into his house to disturb its peace.
"We all have our troubles, my dear," he said.
"You, too?" she asked, lifting her eyes to him in alarm.
"More than enough, my child."
"Yes, yes, I know," she sighed. "Grandmamma is always talking about
it."
"About what?"
"About your having more debts than you have hairs on your head, and
that you often don't know on Saturdays where to get money to pay the
wages."
"Our dear respected grandmamma is an old chatterbox."
"But if s true, isn't it?"
"Yes, the devil can't deny it."
She was silent and seemed to be considering deeply. Then she inquired,
crinkling her forehead--
"For about how much longer can you hold on?"
"Hold on--what do you mean?"
"How long, I mean, before you come a cropper, as the saying is?"
"Ah, now it is evident you were educated at Hamburg," he said, trying
to joke.
But she would not be evaded. "Could you hold on, do you think, another
four years and four months?"
"Why do you insist on the fours?" he laughed.
She drew down the corners of her mouth. "Now you are making fun of me,"
she said, "and it is really rather sad.... I am _so_ rich, and have, so
far, too much money."
"Ah I you would like to lend me some?"
"I _can't_, that's the worst of it," she answered; "all through the
stupid trusteeship. It is too provoking;" and she scuffled her feet
impatiently.
"How much would you be prepared to give me?" he asked, for the subject
amused him.
"All."
A stab of melancholy happiness shot through him; that feeling which he
had not been able to recapture before. Now he was obliged to suppress
it and goad himself into keeping to the comic side of the question.
With a hurried laugh, he cried--
"Hullo, little one, no one can call you stingy."
An anxious look was cast at him, which asked plainly, "Don't you
understand me?" Then she crouched down and drew herself shivering away
from him, while the tears rolled down her cheeks, over her parted lips
and clenched teeth.
"If this isn't love," he thought, "my name is not Sellenthin." A wild
jocund impulse within him bid him snatch her in his arms, shout the
house awake, shout to the whole world, "Here, see this child, this
woman-child is--my wife." He knew that it would have been his
salvation, but he did not do it. He did not do it because the fist of
his giant care was on his throat almost throttling him, so that the
breath was dammed up in his broad chest, and his mighty limbs shackled
under the oppressive weight.
"Thank you, dear child, thank you," he said hoarsely. "You meant it
well, and I shall never forget it of you."
He bent down and kissed the gleaming forehead held up to him so
candidly.
"There is still time," cried the wild voice again....
"And now go to bed," he said. "It is getting very late."
She rose silently, and without wishing him "good night," walked away
over the glistening gravel path and the darkling lawn to the garden
gate.
It seemed to him that she reeled. He would have rushed after her, but
he was as one paralysed. Because he was no longer certain of his
honour, he feared to lose his sense of shame.