Christmas Eve was drawing very near, but Hertha Prachwitz was still not
quite ready with her presents. For her stepmother she had painted a
hymnbook cover of punched leather, with mottoes and emblems; she had
embroidered a table-centre for grandmamma, and crocheted an Irish
lace collar for Elly. Now she was at work till late at night on a
pocket-book, which was to be sent anonymously to Leo, and which,
besides places for letters, contained a memorandum table and a frame
for photographs.
This frame was designed specially to hold a picture of Felicitas von
Kletzingk.
Hertha had not come any nearer solving the problem as to whether she
was wicked or not, but one thing she knew for certain, that he loved
her, and so she hoped his love might not be in vain.
She herself had quietly renounced all thought of him. Perhaps she
would become a Catholic again, and go into a convent, or perhaps, as
sick-nurse, succumb to the first epidemic. There were, indeed, numbers
of opportunities of seeking the death of the superfluous.
Her intention of becoming a hospital-nurse Hertha had not been able to
keep to herself. Her stepmother, unfortunately, encouraged the idea. At
this time she wore black dresses with white turn-down collars and
cuffs, after the style of English nurses, and in secret made the sign
of the cross over herself and Elly.
This phase in Hertha caused grandmamma much uneasiness, and as she
found that she could no longer win the child's confidence, she
consulted Pastor Brenckenberg about her one Sunday in the vestry.
The old man gave wise advice. He stroked his fat double chin, and said,
grinning--
"Don't fret, Frau von Sellenthin, it is really nothing serious. Between
the ages of fifteen and eighteen, sometimes sooner, sometimes later,
most young girls get a strong religious craze. It will pass off like
measles. Crossing herself, too, a habit she must have acquired when a
Catholic, she will grow out of. Mark my words, and have patience."
The old lady smiled, and was satisfied, but Hertha's strenuous mood
continued. She had blue rings round her eyes, and gazed at the moon.
One might have thought she was ill, had not her figure, in these weeks,
began to develop into beauty. The flatness of her breast yielded to
rounded curves; her brown throat became fuller; her shoulders lost
their angularity and took on graceful sloping lines. Her face alone
remained small and sharp, and kept its bird-like, restless expression.
All the rebellious discontent and pain caused by the betrayal of her
love, which inwardly devoured her, could not resist the influence of
the approaching festival of peace and goodwill. While she was
industriously working at her presents, love gushed forth from every
pore of her being. An impulse towards goodness and forgiveness mastered
her, and even stifled that burning, indescribable bitterness which, as
a rule, took possession of her whenever the beautiful woman's image
rose before her eyes.
The day before Christmas Eve, the painting of the pocketbook was
finished, if not altogether to her satisfaction, and the photograph of
Frau von Kletzingk, which she had abstracted from the family album,
graced the frame. Now the only difficulty remaining was, how to get her
present to the nearest post-office in dead secrecy. Fortunately, an
opportunity occurred just in the nick of time.
Grandmamma, who was preparing the servants' Christmas tables, found her
supply of nuts and gingerbreads had run short, and that she had also
miscalculated the number of aprons and woollen mittens required.
"One can't turn a dog out in weather like this," she said, "but if only
I knew of some one who was going to Hoffmann's in Muensterberg I would
ask him to act the part of a real Santa Claus."
Hertha, with a beating heart, offered to undertake the journey.
"My lamb is always to the fore when there is any kindness to be done,"
said grandmamma. "In the closed sleigh perhaps you won't find it too
cold."
Half an hour later she was on the way. A snow-storm whirled through the
air so thick that it seemed as if white towels were flapping over the
sleigh windows. The fine frozen flakes, as hard as bullets, pelted
against the glass as if huge shovelfuls of white sand were being hurled
against it The voice of the storm whistled uncannily through the
chinks. Yet it was cosy and warm underneath the fur rugs, and the
twilight of the confined space was conducive to dreaming. It seemed to
her as if a web as soft as velvet was being spun closer and closer
around her, shutting her off from all the vexations of life.
She released her cramped hold on the precious pocket-book, and burying
her head in the farthest corner, thought only good and noble things
about him. The sleigh flew through the air like a bird, only as it
inclined towards the stream did it begin to bump a little. She looked
up in some alarm at the miniature icebergs with clouds of snow dancing
above them on either side of the track which had now been made across
the solid ice.
When she arrived in Muensterberg and the chance of sending off the
pocket-book was deliciously within reach she became undecisive again.
All she had to do was to say to the young man at Hoffmann's, "Pack this
for me and address it to Herr von Sellenthin," and the thing would be
done.
As she was reflecting this she beheld, with a start, _his_ sleigh a few
yards in front of her. She recognised him instantly, without his
turning round. He wore a pea-jacket and high oilskin boots. The winter
cap which grandmamma had knitted him out of grey fleecy wool was drawn
over his ears. A hill of driven snow rested between his shoulders.
Hertha was not in the least prepared to meet him in Muensterberg. It was
true she had not seen him at home before she came out, but that was
nothing extraordinary, because he was hardly ever to be seen there,
except at dinner, when he still joined the family party to eat in
silence what was handed him, and then to hurry away.
Now he spotted his own horses. "Hulloa! who's that?" he cried to the
coachman, who stopped while he opened the door and looked in. "Oh, it's
you, child, is it?" he said, smiling wearily and sadly, but filling her
with delight. His beard was encrusted with snow, and thawing drops ran
over his forehead and cheeks. "Have you still got purchases to make for
this evening?"
"Yes."
"Ah, that's all right. I would drive with you only I've got my own turn
out. I have business at the Prussian Crown. Take care of yourself,
child, and don't get cold."
He gave her his hand and shut the sleigh door. The horses moved on and
he vanished.
Hertha leaned back in her corner and shut her eyes tight. She was quite
decided now not to send the pocket-book. He had only to smile and all
her sulks were gone. Ah! she must think of something very nice to do
for him now, something extra nice.
She accomplished her shopping at Hoffmann's, which was in a tumultuous
bustle. She bought aprons with flowery patterns, and all the woollen
mittens had coloured borders, and she defrayed the extra cost out of
her own purse.
While she was seeing her parcels packed into the sleigh at the door of
the Prussian Crown she became aware that Leo was sitting at a little
table in the window of the coffee-room. There was a bottle of wine
before him, and his head was buried dejectedly in his hands. Her heart
beat faster. She would have liked to ask if there was anything she
could do for him on the way home, but she hadn't the courage to
approach him.
The drive back was again like a dream. She could not forget how he had
smiled, and how kindly and simply he had greeted her. It is Christmas,
she thought, that drives all enmity out of people's hearts. And now she
knew what she would do to please him. The pocket-book should lie on his
plate as a token of reconciliation, and instead of _the_ woman's
likeness, grandmamma's dear honest face should smile out at him from
the frame. That would alter the character of the present altogether.
Hertha arrived home at half-past two. She was tired, but happy, and
still held the pocket-book in her half-frozen fingers. There was not
much for her to do. Grandmamma and the old Mamselle were arranging the
presents, and the salon doors were locked. Elly, who had been fearfully
lazy, and had scarcely finished in time her two yards of tatting for
grandmamma, was stretched out on the sofa and began forthwith to talk
nonsense. If Bruno only knew what Frank had whispered in her ear, it
must come to a duel between them, and if Frank knew what Bruno had said
to Kattie about her, a duel would also be the inevitable consequence.
First she said she would cry herself sick over Bruno's death, and five
minutes later, over Frank's. So her chatter went on aimlessly,
interlarded with all sorts of expressions which filled Hertha with
contemptuous disgust. During the autumn Elly had acquired a whole
dictionary of English slang, and talked of "hot flirtations," "jolly
fellows," and of things being "smart" and "swagger," till Hertha was
almost mad from irritation.
The latter stood at the window, from which one could see into the
courtyard. She watched the drifting snow, flying clouds of which
waltzed above the stables, and whipped from the slates of the roof, the
white masses clung to the fanes like linen flags. The wind howled and
sighed in the trees, and on the side that faced the wind their trunks
were encrusted with great icicles.
Here and there on the lawn patches of the turf were visible, and within
them the withered trembling blades of grass looked like corpses brought
out of their grave by magic and made to dance a weird measure. A pale
light escaping from the clouds illumined the dusk uncannily. The
smallest strip of sulphurous yellow showed the place where the sun had
gone down.
Hertha in her happy childish years had believed that the Christchild
came down to earth on a sunbeam. But there was none to be seen now. Ah!
how long ago it seemed since those days! To-day she felt old and weary
of life.
Eternities of gnawing pain and suffering seemed to lie behind her. Yet
before her she looked out expectantly for a sweet, vague, dreadful
something, the prospect of which filled her young soul with blissful
melancholy and brought tears of holy thankfulness into her eyes. It was
like a low and mysterious whispering, an elegy and a song of spring
in one. She thought of things that promise to blossom into vigorous
life--a rose-bush covered with dewy buds; a bird's nest filled with
yellow speckled eggs--such as these were the sacred hopes and secrets
that lie buried and cherished in the depths of the soul.
And Christmas, after all was said and done, meant love and peace;
goodwill and forgiveness.
The clock struck five, greyer became the masses of snow outside, and
more and more did the roof of the stables become one with the sky, and
still he didn't come. Already the hum of many voices proceeded from the
servants' hall. Impatience had brought the guests to the house long
before the bell was to sound. But grandmamma had been prepared for this
emergency and had ordered an enormous supply of hot coffee and buns to
be in readiness.
Hertha wanted to make herself useful and went down to them. There they
stood in long files exhaling the odour of fustian and warming their
benumbed fingers on their coffee-mugs. Johanna's ragged school was
represented in full force. At first she had intended to entertain her
pupils under her own roof, not wishing to crave hospitality for them
from her sullen brother. But at Hertha's earnest request and
grandmamma's assurances that Leo would not object, she had determined
to bring her little people over to the castle for the festive evening.
Old and young greeted, beaming, the universally popular "gracious
little countess." She took her favourites in turn on her lap, listened
to detailed complaints of winter hardships from the mothers, and
regarded herself altogether as a good angel. But time went on and he
didn't come.
When it struck six the company began to stream out into the corridors
and press towards the door of the salon. There they grew eager and
noisy. Though each knew perfectly well that his plate would be standing
ready for him in its proper place, they fought with knees and elbows to
get in front of each other.
Hertha went back to the morning-room, because she was no longer needed
by any one. Grandmamma was pacing up and down excitedly, Johanna was
staring at the lamp, and Elly yawned and fidgeted with the fringe of
the table-cloth.
"Such want of consideration," lamented grandmamma; "he must know that
the people will go nearly mad at being kept waiting, he must know how
they will want to see him, and yet he can't come home for once, even on
Christmas Eve, but must needs go knocking about goodness knows where."
Hertha was horrified at grandmamma, who always took his part, being so
irate with him to-day, and that he should have at least one person to
defend him she said--
"I met him in Muensterberg this morning. He had some business to do at
the Prussian Crown."