UNEXPECTED.
Summer had gone, and autumn was tinging forest and field with crimson
and gold.
The Freiherr von Hohenstein was driving in a little open vehicle
through his forest,--that is, over that part of his estate which a few
years previously had been covered with fine old trees, but where now
some labourers were removing a few stumps, while at intervals a
solitary giant of the woods seemed to tell of his brothers, certain of
whom were now sailing the seas, while others upheld the roofs of city
dwellings.
The Freiherr von Hohenstein looked gloomily about him upon the desert
plain, dotted here and there with small spots of future forest in the
shape of low scraggy shrubs, and found as much food for vexation in the
quick disappearance of the former forest as in the slow growth of the
young trees. He was powerless, however, to alter either of these
annoying facts, and he sighed heavily as his thoughts wandered oddly
enough, and yet by a strictly logical train of ideas, from the
forest-trees to his son Hugo, who had not indeed any personal
connection with ship-builders and carpenters, but who could have told a
great deal about the money paid by them for the trees.
"The deuce knows how it is all to end!" the Freiherr growled to
himself. "Every year living is dearer and the income smaller;
everything to be bought goes up in price, everything to be sold comes
down. It is enough to drive me mad!"
Such had now for some time been the usual conclusion of the Freiherr's
reflections, and after these deep-drawn sighs he was wont to fall into
a still gloomier revery, in which he arrived at no single clear idea
except that fate was using him with singular injustice in so
complicating his financial affairs from year to year.
"Was he extravagant in any direction? No, assuredly not! It is true, he
bred racers, and in order to do so was obliged to employ certain people
who required high wages; but it was his only pleasure, and could not be
altered. His domestic affairs were conducted upon a very liberal scale;
but, as the neighbour and friend of the Eichhofs, it was his duty not
to allow any difference to be observed between the Baron's style of
living and his own; he surely owed this to his rank and station in
life. His son required enormous sums; but the Freiherr had but two
children, and his daughter cost him almost nothing. And it was natural
that Hugo should enjoy life,--he must represent his name worthily. The
Hohensteins had never been bookworms or arithmeticians, and if the
young fellow sometimes went too far and his father resolved that he
should be 'brought to book' the very next time, still his debts must be
paid; the boy could not be dishonoured. All these expenses were really
matters of course; they would not have troubled the Freiherr in the
least except for this unaccountable yearly deficit in his income.
"I suppose the bad harvest years are at the bottom of the mischief,"
the Freiherr thought, and consoled himself with the reflection that the
good years must come, and that then the 'unavoidable expenses' would be
met, and the 'inconceivable deficits' be made up. He had of late
positively loathed the books of the estate, and had in consequence
rather neglected them. Now he remembered that the time was at hand for
the first instalment to be paid of a loan he had had of Count Eichhof,
and that he could not possibly pay it. He looked up from his gloomy
contemplation of the soil which had once been forest-land, and which
was to be forest-land again in the future, and drove over to Eichhof to
discuss matters with the Count. But he did not find him at home. "The
Herr Count is hunting to-day," the footman informed the visitor. The
Freiherr decided to await the Count's return. He could not be long
away, for twilight was close at hand. He asked for the Countess, was
most graciously received by her, and inquired after the welfare of her
sons. When the Countess talked of her sons she adopted a manner and
bearing which plainly indicated that, although the young men might very
possibly conduct themselves pretty much after the fashion of other
young people of their age and rank in society, still they were
unquestionably very remarkable men, as she and indeed many others well
knew. Bernhard was at present, after the usual wedding-tour among the
Alps, installed in his vine-wreathed villa in one of the Thiergarten
streets.
"He writes seldom," said the Countess, "and seems to spend much of his
time at home. I could have wished that they had continued to travel
until the _saison morte_ was over in Berlin; for, although he is
extremely happy with his little wife, a man of his force and intellect
needs social excitement."
"Oh, your daughter-in-law is so charming that her husband's distaste
for general society is easily understood," the Freiherr observed.
"She is a good child," said the Countess.
A more attentive listener than the Freiherr could possibly be at this
time would have plainly heard in the Countess's intonation as she
uttered the words 'good child' the unspoken thought, "but much too
insignificant for my Bernhard." The Freiherr, however, was only
listening to catch the first sound of the hoofs of the horses that were
bringing home the hunting-party, and just as the Countess was preparing
to tell him of the charming letter she had just received from her
cousin the ambassador, with whom she had begun a correspondence "solely
upon Walter's account," the wished-for cadence struck upon his ear.
"I think your husband has returned," he said, "Allow me to go and meet
him."
"I don't think it is my husband," was the reply. "His voice usually
makes itself unmistakably heard upon his return from hunting. But pray
inform yourself about it, my dear Baron."
The Freiherr left the room, although there was still no sound of the
Count's voice. The Countess sat gazing towards the western sky, where
the last gleams of the dying day faintly lingered, and began to wonder
why the servant had not brought in the lamp, and why the house was so
silent, since, as the Freiherr did not return, her husband must surely
be at home.
The room grew darker and darker, and silence still prevailed. This
quiet was positively oppressive. The Countess arose, passed through the
antechamber, and opened the door leading out to the landing of the
grand staircase. No light was burning here either, but from below came
a dull gleam, and the smothered sounds of hurried words and whispers.
"What is the matter? Why are the lamps not lighted?" the Countess
asked, standing at the head of the stairs. The Freiherr, who stood at
their foot with a candle in his hand, looked up at her with a face so
pale and horror-stricken that a cold shudder ran through her as she
repeated her question, "What is the matter? For God's sake tell me what
has happened!"
"Be calm," said the Baron, who stood beside her in an instant, while
his voice trembled as perceptibly as did the candle in his hand. "Be
calm, I entreat you, dearest madame; your husband has met with an
accident."
The Countess grew pale to the very lips. "Oh, God!" she shrieked;
"where is he? where is he?" And she would have rushed down the
staircase, but the Freiherr detained her. "He is not yet here,--he is
coming. One of his huntsmen brought us the news."
"He is coming?" she cried; "he is only wounded,--he must be only
wounded?"
"He is seriously injured, very seriously," said the Freiherr. "I fear
we must be prepared for everything,--even for the worst!"
The Countess stared at him with eyes wide with horror; her lips
twitched convulsively, as though unable to utter the terrible word
written so plainly in the Freiherr's face,--uttered so distinctly in
this fearful silence, which was interrupted only by the sounds of
suppressed sobs from the group of servants in the hall below.
Suddenly she threw up her arms. "Dead!" she shrieked, "dead!"
The word was spoken, and she fell back senseless into the Baron's arms.
At that moment a vehicle drew up in the castle court-yard, and the
Count, surrounded by his huntsmen, and a few others whom the accident
had called together, was slowly carried up the terrace steps. They bore
him into the castle through the same portal which he had left lusty and
joyous only a few hours before, never to behold it again.
With drooping tail, and now and then uttering a melancholy whine, his
favourite hound followed his master's body; he had long been the
faithful companion of his sport. And in the wagon that had brought his
master home dead lay the gun, which all shunned to touch, for it had
caused all this woe, by its accidental discharge as the Count was
leaping a ditch in the ardour of the chase.
A few hours later, mounted horsemen rode out into the night, and
telegraphs and letters spread the news of the Count's sudden death far
and wide.
In the big drawing-room heavy silver candelabra, with their myriad
candles, are burning at the head of the couch where Count Eichhof is
lying sunk in his last sleep. His head is turned slightly to one side,
so as entirely to conceal the fatal wound in the right temple, and the
smile that the excitement of the hunt had called to his face still
lingers there.
"Can this be? Is it really true?" murmurs the Countess, seated in an
arm-chair beside the couch, and gazing fixedly with dry eyes at the
smiling face; while the old servant, kneeling at the dead man's feet,
slowly shakes his white head. He cannot believe it, it is so unlike his
master to die; it must all be an evil dream. But below-stairs all are
fully convinced of its reality. The huntsman in the kitchen is telling
circumstantially, for the twelfth time, the whole terrible story,--how
the Count jumped across the ditch and the gun went off. Nor does he
forget to mention the black rabbit that crossed their path when the
chase had just begun, or his own frightful dream of the previous night,
which had caused him to say to his wife when he left her, "Look out for
some accident to-day!" And the cook listens with the same shudder that
he felt the first time the story was told, only it passes off rather
more quickly, and he is able to find consolation not only in the
tankard to which he has frequent recourse, but also in the thought that
he stands very well "with the young master" and will in all probability
retain his position. At last the huntsman goes home, the kitchen is
gradually deserted, and the lights are extinguished, leaving the castle
in darkness, save for the broad glare out into the night from the
windows of the big drawing-room, where he who was the castle's lord now
lies at rest.