AN EVENTFUL DAY.
The next day was Sunday.
Werner stood at the church door, looking down the road from Eichhof,
along which Thea's carriage was wont to come at this hour.
To-day it did not appear. The tones of the organ, heard through the
open door, died away at last, and Werner entered.
There were none of his comrades there except a young lieutenant, who
had been absent from the garrison the day before, and who could, of
course, know nothing of the events of the previous evening. Werner
hesitated whether or not to look up Lothar after church, but, seeing
the curtains before his windows still closed, he decided not to disturb
him. As he left the church and walked out into the clear winter
sunshine, his mood was very grave, almost solemn.
"I will ride to Eichhof and take leave of Countess Thea," he thought.
"I can do so calmly now, without betraying myself; and the sooner it is
over the better." A quarter of an hour later he was riding along the
broad Eichhof road.
Thea, sitting in the bow-window, saw him coming. Her cheeks did not
flush, her heart beat no faster, as she recognized him. In her pure
unconsciousness of self she had not a shadow of a suspicion of this
man's sentiments towards her. Her first thought was, "How strange that
he should know that Alma is coming here again at noon!" And then she
took up the letter which she had just received and read before
recognizing Werner riding along the road. Was there really nothing more
in it than the few hasty words she had just read? was this all the
answer from Bernhard to the two long letters, filled with every detail
that could interest him, that she had written to her husband? Of course
he must be very busy, his thoughts entirely occupied with the
proceedings of the Reichstag, and his time with his social duties. But
she had so longed for some heartsome words from him; she missed him so
terribly, and she would so gladly have had some little share in his
present life, even although she were so far away from him. She would so
much have liked to know whom he saw most, and what chiefly occupied
him. She had asked him a hundred questions, but for all he had but a
brief indifferent answer. She had often pressed Bernhard's letters to
her lips, but to-day she could not,--something cold and strange seemed
breathing upon her from these few lines: she was chilled. Yes, she had,
she knew, perceived the same thing in all of Bernhard's letters lately,
but what it was she could not tell, she could not explain.
For a moment she had forgotten the approaching guest, and her sad eyes,
half veiled in tears, saw only the leafless branches outside her
window, now glittering with snow. Not until her glance fell upon the
road did she remember Werner, and she blushed, for she feared that if
he found her sad, and with a letter from her husband in her hand, he
might suspect the cause of her melancholy mood. Therefore she hurriedly
thrust the letter into her work-table. When Lieutenant von Werner
entered, she arose and calmly and kindly offered him her hand.
"I am come to take my leave of you," he said, and there was a slight
tremor in the voice usually so firm and clear. "I am ordered to the
military school at S----; and, as I shall be excessively busy during
the next few days, I thought I would employ my Sunday leisure in paying
a farewell visit to Eichhof."
Thea looked at him surprised, and almost alarmed. "Good heavens, so
suddenly!" she exclaimed. "I had no idea that you expected to be
transferred----"
"I did not expect it, although I had asked for it. A happy combination
of circumstances has favoured me."
"You wish to go away, then?"
"I think this transfer is best for me," he replied, passing his hand
across his brow. Never in his life had he felt the atmosphere so
insufferably sultry and close as at this moment.
"Oh, then I will not be sorry that you are transferred, grieved as I
must be for ourselves and for Lothar. Ah, if Bernhard were only at home
again! When you go Lothar will be left entirely to himself."
The introduction of this subject restored Werner's self-possession. He
told Thea that he had become convinced of the impossibility of his
exercising any influence over Lothar, and that this certainty had added
to his desire to be ordered elsewhere. They were still discussing
Lothar, when the noise of carriage-wheels was heard, and Thea arose
with the words, "Ah, there comes my sister!" Werner, too, arose. His
broad forehead flushed crimson, for the moment had come in which he
must say farewell, and he knew that perhaps--yes, most probably--he was
alone with Thea for the last time in his life. He was not in a
condition to carry on an indifferent conversation with her any longer.
"Let me say farewell to you now, madame," he said. "I have several
other visits to pay, and anything so painful as leave-taking should not
be unnecessarily prolonged."
Thea looked up at him in startled wonder, and there was some
embarrassment in her voice as she asked him if he would not stay and
dine.
But she knew as she spoke that he would not accept her invitation. Yes,
she saw it all; she knew now that he loved Alma, and that he wished to
avoid meeting her, since he saw plainly that his affection was not
returned. Filled with compassion and sympathy for him, she held out to
him both her hands, and said, in the firm conviction that his heart lay
open before her, "Go; you are right to go now. God bless you! and
believe that I shall always think of you with warm, genuine
friendship."
He made no reply, but for one short moment pressed her hand to his
trembling lips, and then left the room. On the stairs he met Alma, and
briefly bade her good-by, leaving her as much astonished at his sudden
departure as Thea had been.
Then he flung himself upon his horse, and gave him the spur. He avoided
the roads leading to the town, and turned towards the forest. The swift
gallop cooled his heart and brain, and when he had reached a low hill
whence there was a last view of the castle and park of Eichhof, he
slackened rein and turned for one more look. Then, with a murmured
"Farewell! farewell!" he plunged into the forest, to reach by a
circuitous route a neighbouring estate, where his leave-taking would be
a far easier matter.
He was fleeing, it is true, but his flight was a victory; he had come
off conqueror in the hardest battle in which the human soul can ever
engage,--the strife between passion and duty.
Meanwhile Lothar had awakened from his prolonged morning slumbers, and
endeavoured in vain to recall how he had got home and to bed on the
previous evening. It cost him a considerable amount of resolution to
get up, and when he did so he felt wretched and depressed. Gradually
certain vague memories of last night occurred to his mind. He put his
hand into one of his coat-pockets, then into the other; both were
empty. He shook his head, and finally recollected that he had worn
another coat yesterday. It was hanging over an arm-chair. He proceeded
to search the pockets, and produced a crumpled roll of paper. He opened
it, and sank upon a lounge with an exclamation of despair.
The paper contained an acknowledgment for the round sum of ten thousand
marks, which he had lost in the course of the night at play, and which
he had pledged his honour should be paid within a week. Lothar stared
at the characters on the crumpled sheet. Ten thousand marks! Payable
within a week! Here was an overwhelming disaster! How had it happened?
He racked his brain to remember; the events of the evening were mere
formless shadows in his dulled remembrance. He had first won, then
lost, and there had been a good deal of champagne drunk; all that was
perfectly simple and commonplace. But this debt! How was it to be paid?
If Bernhard had been at home, he would have gone to him again in spite
of everything that he had said to him. He had always been wont to
rectify in this manner the unjust family traditions that endowed one
son with everything in the way of the goods of this world and left the
others destitute. But Bernhard was away, and must either be sought out
in Berlin or informed by letter of this last terrible debt. And what if
Bernhard refused this time, as he had so often threatened to do, to pay
the debts? Lothar buried his face in his hands, and the moisture stood
in beads upon his forehead. There was but a week before him in which to
adopt any plan of payment; he must decide immediately, and, in common
with all men lacking independence, he was incapable of decision without
consultation with some friend. It is true that he now remembered that
Werner had warned him and that he had rejected his advice; he knew,
too, that of late there had been a certain diminution of the cordial
friendship that had existed between them. But nevertheless it was to
Werner that his thoughts turned in this dire extremity.
"He is the best of fellows, and has proved that he is really my
friend," he thought. "I could not, of course, accept a loan from him
again, aside from the fact that this sum is far beyond his means; but I
will, at all events, ask his advice. One's own perceptions become
clearer when one has talked matters over with a sensible man."
He rose, arranged his dress, and went to Werner's apartments. He found
them closed; but, as the key was hanging up beside the door, Lothar
determined to go in and await the return of his friend or of his
friend's servant, who was also absent. He knew that Werner frequently
went to church, and if he had gone there this morning, and had been
detained, he might come in at any moment. Lothar paced the room to and
fro several times, then went to the window, and finally decided that
this waiting was intolerable. He threw himself upon the small leathern
sofa, and spent some moments lost in gloomy revery; then he sprang
suddenly to his feet again, and as he did so accidentally twitched off
the cover of a small table, so that several books and some papers that
had lain upon it fell upon the ground. With an exclamation of
impatience he stooped to gather them up. A small portfolio had opened
in falling, and several sheets of paper fluttered out of it on to the
floor.
"Cursed scribblings!" muttered Lothar, picking them up. Suddenly his
attention was arrested by one of these, and he looked at it more
closely.
"Why, that is Eichhof," he thought; "there is the fountain, with the
old oaks in the background, the chapel by the pond, and the avenue on
the right. When did he draw this, and what induced him to select
exactly this view?" Suddenly the thought flashed upon him, "This is the
view from Thea's bow-window. How did Werner come by it?"
He stooped for the other sheets, firmly resolved not to look at them.
"Good heavens, 'tis Thea herself!" he exclaimed involuntarily, as he
held the last of them in his hand. "The resemblance is so striking that
it can be seen at a glance. Well, there's surely no reason why I should
not look closely at the picture of my sister-in-law. I did not know
that Werner was such an artist, and still less was I aware that Thea
had been sitting to him. A charming study of a head. I really should
like to know when and where it was drawn. I thought he never went to
Eichhof without me; but he always vexed me with his want of frankness.
Who knows what he has been about while he has been pretending to
study---- Ah!" As he threw the sheet upon the table it turned upon its
face, and upon the other side was written the refrain of a song, "Fair
Marjory," that Thea often sung: "Be still, my heart, be still."
Lothar, who had meant to see and to read nothing, had seen and read
enough to make him stride to and fro in the room like a madman,
muttering in broken sentences, "He loves her,--she has been sitting to
him! Bernhard has neglected her, and Werner has consoled her, while I,
fool, double-dyed fool that I am, suspected nothing! Night and day I
have thought of her, and never dared, not even to myself, to call what
I felt for her by its right name! And now I know that Bernhard is
faithless to her, that Werner is false, and that she, indeed, is no
saint! Was I not half mad for her sake yesterday when Hohenstein went
on telling such fine stories of Bernhard, my worthy brother? Did I not
try to drive away with wine and cards the thoughts that would haunt me?
and at that very time perhaps Werner was with her. Oh, if it were not
so horrible it would be ridiculous,--a silly, ridiculous farce----"
"Has the Herr Lieutenant any orders?" the voice of Werner's servant
suddenly asked just behind him.
"Where is your master?" Lothar asked, roughly.
"The Herr Lieutenant has ridden over to Eichhof. He left word that he
should be gone some time, as he meant to go farther still."
Lothar was gone before the man had finished his sentence.
For a moment he had forgotten his gambling debt: he thought only of
Werner and Thea. His brain seemed on fire; his temples throbbed
violently. Without one distinct idea formed in his mind, he threw
himself upon his horse and rode furiously to Eichhof.
As he dismounted in the court-yard his first question was with regard
to Werner.
"The Herr Lieutenant rode away more than two hours ago," the footman
replied.
Lothar ran up the staircase, and entered Thea's bow-windowed room
almost at the same moment in which the servant announced him. As he did
so an opposite door was hastily closed, and he thought he could hear
the sound of retreating footsteps.
Agitated as he was, no longer master of himself, he took no notice of
Thea, who was sitting at her writing-table and who rose to greet him,
but rushed to the closed door and tore it open, to discover Alma, who
quickened her pace almost to a run as she perceived him. He turned
about, went to Thea, seized her by the wrist, and said, with flashing
eyes, "Has Alma been here all day long?"
Thea tried to free her hand from his grasp.
"What is the matter, Lothar?" she asked, alarmed by his expression and
his strange conduct. "What do you want with Alma?"
"Why did she hurry away as though there was some mystery to conceal?"
"Good heavens! she went to lay aside her wraps. I had detained her here
to read a letter."
"A letter? What letter?"
Thea shook her head and tried to smile.
"It was nothing," she said; "nothing worth mentioning," but her lip
quivered.
Lothar still gazed at her with eyes that were menacing and yet
unutterably sad.
"But that is not what I would ask," he said, retreating a step or two
without turning his eyes from her face. "I pray you tell me,--how long
have you been receiving Werner's visits,--how long have you known that
he loves you?"
"Lothar!" she almost screamed, involuntarily steadying herself by the
table as if she needed a support; every trace of colour faded from her
face, and she muttered beneath her breath, "He is mad!"
Hitherto Lothar had been convinced of the truth of his suspicions. But
now that he had hurled the base inquiry in Thea's face, as it were, now
that she had made him no reply save by an indignant and terrified
exclamation, he suddenly doubted, and as he looked at her the
conviction of her perfect innocence overwhelmed him with irresistible
force.
"Answer me, Thea! for God's sake answer me!" he implored her. "Tell me
it was all a phantom of my disordered fancy. I know that Werner was
here alone to-day,--that he has taken your picture, that he loves you;
but tell me that you are innocent, and I will believe it. Only speak,
speak! I implore you!"
Thea looked fixedly at him; she saw the entreaty in his eyes and the
agony expressed in all his features.
"You are ill, Lothar," she said, "and therefore I will answer your
wild questions. Werner came to Eichhof for the first time without you
to-day. He came to take leave of me, since he is ordered to the
military school of S----. What you say about a picture is as
unintelligible to me as all the rest of your words."
"Werner going away! I knew nothing of it."
"His orders arrived only last evening. You were still sleeping this
morning when he called for you. And now go to your room and lie down:
your eyes show that you have fever. I will send a servant to you."
She put her hand upon the bell, but Lothar stayed her as she was about
to ring.
"Forgive me, Thea," he begged. "I have suffered so much!"
"You are still suffering, for you are ill."
"No, no! I am well enough, only--but I will not speak of myself. Thea,
tell me one thing, are you happy? Does Bernhard write often, and are
his letters what they should be?"
Thea's cheeks flushed and grew pale; her hands trembled as she
collected, with nervous haste, the various letters lying upon her
table, and which Lothar, who watched her narrowly, could see were
postmarked 'Berlin.'
For a moment she could not reply in words, but Lothar, believing that
he read an answer in her face to his words, cried, "Oh, I see,--you
know it all! They have written you all about it from Berlin, have they
not?"
"Hush!" she said, imperatively, her face dyed with a burning blush.
"How dare you touch upon that subject?"
"Oh, it is just that which drove me mad,--which made me dream what I
said of Werner possible," Lothar exclaimed, passionately. "I knew how
unhappy you must be. I hate Bernhard for it, but I hated Werner still
more, because I thought that in your misery you----"
Thea had turned away, and in silent indignation would have left the
room, but Lothar interposed between her and the door, and, throwing
himself at her feet, cried, "Forgive me! forgive me! My sin is my
excuse; for I love you, Thea, I love you! more--far more--than all the
rest!"
Suddenly he sprang to his feet. A servant entered with some commonplace
message.
Lothar stood for a moment as though paralyzed. He heard the man's voice
and then Thea's as though from some vast distance, and when he looked
around Thea had vanished, and the servant was asking whether the Herr
Lieutenant would drive home in the open wagon or the covered carriage.
For an instant Lothar stared at him in bewilderment. Then he passed his
hand across his brow. "No; the Countess's kindness is unnecessary," he
said, when the explanation of the scene dawned upon him. "I am no
longer giddy, and I can ride home."
He left the room, and in the hall he encountered Alma, who had dried
her tears and bathed her eyes.
"Farewell, my dear Alma," he said, with a deliberate gravity, almost a
solemnity of manner, quite foreign to him.
"Are you going away?" the girl asked, all unconsciously, and impressed
by this strange mood of his.
"Going away? No--that is--yes--perhaps so. At all events, I bid you
farewell."
She heard him go down the stairs slowly and heavily. A sudden
inexplicable foreboding weighed upon her like lead. She felt as though
some evil threatened him, and she longed to avert it, to call him back.
She started to do so, when she heard the voices of the servants in the
hall below, and reflected that she did not know what to say to him. She
ran into the bow-windowed room, and looked down the avenue. A flock of
crows hovered above it; they were the only living things in sight. Alma
waited. One of the crows that had alighted in the road flew into the
air, and instantly afterward a lonely horseman rode along between the
snow-clad trees. Alma pressed her forehead against the window-panes,
but the rider never turned to look towards the castle. His head was
bent forward on his breast, and he seemed to pay no heed to his horse.
Like some shadow horse and rider appeared and disappeared at regular
intervals among the poplars lining the avenue. Alma gazed after them
until the last glimpse of Lothar had vanished in the wintry mist that
had begun to veil the landscape.
"Farewell," she whispered, and her heart was as heavy as if she had
parted from him forever.
Suddenly she roused herself from her revery. "How selfish I am!" she
thought. "I stand dreaming here, thinking of all kinds of impossible
misfortunes, while Thea is alone. Ah, we have enough real sorrow to
bear! There is no need to invent fancied woes." She went to look for
her sister, whom she had some difficulty in finding.
Thea had retained sufficient self-possession to tell the servant that
her brother-in-law was ill, and to order a carriage for him; and then,
like some scared bird, she had flown through the castle, and taken
refuge in the conservatory adjoining the drawing-room. Here she sank
upon a seat,--the same seat where she had so often sat with Bernhard
before their marriage. She pressed her hands upon her throbbing heart,
and then upon her eyes, which were dry, hot, and tearless. Could all
that had happened in the last hour be real? The wild, insane words in
which Lothar had told her of Werner's love and of his own still rang in
her ears. Could such things be? Had she in her utter unconsciousness so
deceived herself? Or had Lothar actually spoken in the delirium of
fever? She sighed heavily. These questions, press upon her as they
might, vanished before that other: Was it possible that she had lost
Bernhard's heart,--nay, that perhaps she had never possessed it,--that
he had deceived her from the first? "No," her own heart answered, "that
cannot be! And yet----" She selected a letter from among those she had
gathered up from her table and brought hither with her, and read it
once more. It was from Adela Hohenstein, and addressed to Alma, who had
taken it from the post on her way to Eichhof that morning, and had read
it in the carriage. She had been unable to conceal from her sister the
agitation its contents had produced. Thea had questioned her,
suspecting that she had heard some news of Bernhard, and Alma had
finally been induced to show her the letter. Adela wrote in her usual
thoughtless harum-scarum way all that she had heard and seen of
Bernhard. She had frequently, at the house of one of her relatives, met
Bernhard and Julutta Wronsky together, and her letter was evidently
written in the first flush of her anger after one of these occasions.
"Let me tell Thea that for at least a year she ought never even to
condescend to look at that husband of hers," she wrote upon the last
page, "and then perhaps he may come to learn that she is a thousand
times prettier and better and lovelier than this detestable Frau von
Wronsky. For I have learned thus much of the world, that men like to be
ill-treated; they make all the good women unhappy, but they will lay
down their lives for the worthless ones. Papa is the only exception; it
does not spoil him to be loved and petted. He is kinder and dearer than
words can tell; but all other men are monsters, your Bernhard as well
as the rest." Then there was a postscript:
"Dearest Alma, for heaven's sake don't give Thea my message. I have
reflected that it can only do mischief. She is married to him, and they
must get along together as they best can. It can do no kind of good for
other people to meddle and talk. I would tear up this letter, but it is
well that you at least should know what men are worth, and every word
that I have written is true. So I send my letter just as it is, and
only beg you to say nothing to Thea about it.
"P. S. the second. _A propos_, yesterday I met Walter in the street,
and I stopped him and asked him to come and see us. Do you know what
his reply was? 'I am very sorry, Fraeulein von Hohenstein' (that is what
he called me), 'that my studies leave me no time for visiting.' What do
you think of that? Just like men in general, and the Eichhofs in
particular."
At another time this letter of Adela's might not have made such an
impression upon Thea as it had produced to-day, when her heart was
filled with doubts and fears with regard to Bernhard. Had she not
foreboded all that Adela had written?
Still, after she had re-read the letter, it might perhaps not have
affected her so deeply as at first had not the tidings it contained
been confirmed by Lothar's wild words. Bernhard's conduct was then
striking enough to be a theme for Berlin gossip! Oh, if only his
devotion had been shown towards any other woman! But that he should
turn to this Frau von Wronsky, with whom he had at first denied all
acquaintance, and afterwards confessed to it under such strange
circumstances; that it should be she, the woman with whom Bernhard had
desired that his wife might have as little intercourse as possible!
Thea's thoughts were in a whirl,--an abyss seemed yawning between
Bernhard and herself which all her love could not bridge over. She
raised her eyes. Above her trembled the mysterious fantastic blossom of
the orchid to which Bernhard had once compared the Countess Wronsky.
Ah, whither had they gone, those bright summer days when he had called
Thea his rose of May and had promised to surround her with perpetual
sunshine?
"If this is all true, he does not deserve that I should weep for him,"
she said, aloud. "No, he does not deserve it," she repeated, firmly,
closing her quivering lips. But then she thought of her child, of her
lost happiness, of her lonely youth, and she wept bitterly.
Thus Alma found her at length, and led her back to the bow-windowed
room, where a lamp was now lighted.
"Do not speak," Thea entreated, and Alma only put her arms about her
and held her in a tender embrace. But Thea was restless. She sprang up
and went to her child. Even there she could not stay long, but returned
to the bow-windowed room, and paced it hurriedly to and fro. She could
not talk to her young sister of what was agitating her. Why, she seemed
to herself almost guilty when she remembered Lothar's passionate words.
Lothar,--there was another dark spot in her thoughts! Ah! from all
sides black clouds were gathering above her, and she could do nothing
save wait quietly until the tempest broke. She was condemned to quiet,
and what could be more horrible in her present agitation?
Alma felt that the struggle in Thea's soul must be fought out alone.
She went silently hither and thither, looked after the child, presided
at the tea-table, and only now and then approached her sister to press
her hand or to imprint a kiss upon her forehead. She went to the window
and looked out into the night, now illumined by the rising moon. Her
heart was filled with a yearning melancholy, and, reproach herself for
it as she might at such a time, she could not restrain her thoughts
from deserting Thea and centring about Lothar. He had looked so
strange, so disturbed, when he had spoken that last 'farewell.'
Suddenly her attention was attracted towards the avenue, which lay like
burnished silver beneath the moon. Was there not a shadow stirring
there? And could she not distinguish the sound of horses' hoofs? She
peered eagerly out, but the moonlight was deceptive,--she might be
mistaken. Then she heard doors closing below and steps coming through
the antechamber. Thea had sunk into the arm-chair at her writing-table,
and with pen in hand was pondering upon a letter which she believed it
her duty to write, and for which she could find not only no words but
not even one clear idea. Alma hastened to the door.
"Who is there?" she asked, so quickly that Thea looked up startled.
"Herr Lieutenant von Werner begs----" the entering servant began.
"Lieutenant Werner,--how, so late?" Alma repeated, and her slight
figure trembled as she added, beneath her breath, "That means
misfortune."
Thea had risen. "What, what is coming now?" she thought. "Show Herr von
Werner up!" she said, in a sharp tone of command very unlike her. But
Herr von Werner had followed close upon the footman's heels, and stood
at the door. Alma could not utter a word; she only gazed anxiously into
his pale face, and steadied herself by an arm-chair as though she were
afraid of falling. Thea went firmly to meet him. She had never borne
herself so proudly, her dark eyes had never been so haughty and cold,
as, without seeming to notice Werner's agitation, she asked, calmly,
"What brings you to us so late, Herr von Werner? It must be something
very unusual."
"Yes, madame, it is so, and very sad."
Alma could hardly stand. Thea still looked at Werner with an
unnaturally calm expression, and with not the faintest suspicion of
what was to come.
"Lothar!" came breathed like a sigh from Alma's pale lips.
Thea's thoughts were not of him. "Tell me. I need no preparation; I am
prepared," she said.
"Your brother-in-law met with an accident in riding home from Eichhof,
and is severely injured."
Now Thea too grew pale.
"Was he thrown? Is his life in danger?" she asked, in low, uncertain
tones, while Alma's eyes never for one moment left Werner's face.
"His condition leaves little room for hope. He was not thrown,--an
accident, probably the result of carelessness----"
"He is dead! he has shot himself!" Alma suddenly gasped. Her gloomy
forebodings had at last found distinct expression.
Thea looked at Werner. He was very pale, but he uttered no
contradiction.
Alma sank on her knees and buried her face in her hands. Thea slowly
passed her hand across her forehead. "Dead,--shot," she repeated
softly, as if hardly able to apprehend the meaning of the words. The
erect figure tottered, and before Werner could spring forward to
support her she fell fainting on the floor.
Alma raised her head at Werner's exclamation of terror, and saw her
sister's unconscious form. She called the servants and did all that was
necessary to restore Thea, while she herself felt hardly aware of what
had happened.
She, the younger and weaker of the two sisters, had not fainted, while
to Thea the thought that she might have had some share in Lothar's
death had been like a destroying flash of lightning. Alma did not
succumb, but deep darkness seemed to envelop her, in which she was
aware only of the present moment and its duties; all else was a blank.
She felt a dull pain in her head and heart, and would fain have cast
herself on the earth and have wept passionately. But shame lest she
should betray feelings that only the closest and dearest ties with
Lothar could justify, restrained her, and Thea's helpless condition
gave her a power of self-control of which she never could have believed
herself capable.
"I instantly telegraphed to your brother-in-law," Werner said to Alma,
"and then hurried hither, because I knew that, with the garrison so
near, you must hear the fatal news before to-morrow."
Alma bent her head in silent assent, and in her eyes alone could be
read the entreaty that he would tell her all he knew of this terrible
calamity. He went on, in a low tone: "I only reached home at dusk, and
I saw a light in Eichhof's room. It therefore surprised me to find it
locked, and to receive no answer to my call when I had knocked at the
door in vain. I was about to descend the staircase, when I met
Eichhof's servant, who, in reply to my questions with regard to his
master, told me that the Herr Lieutenant had returned from Eichhof half
an hour previously, and had seemed very unwell; that he had sent him
ten minutes before to the apothecary's for some soothing draught, which
he was just taking to him. Why the door should be locked he could not
possibly comprehend. We tried again to open it, and finally broke it
open. He sat upon the sofa, his head lying on the table before him. As
I raised him up, the revolver fell on the floor. Death must have been
instantaneous."
Alma covered her face with her hands and burst at last into a flood of
tears, weeping so passionately, so uncontrollably, that Werner could
not but comprehend what this death was to this girl. In his agitation
he had said more than he meant to, and he reproached himself for so
doing. Almost in a whisper he began again: "He probably intended to
clean the revolver. I feel convinced the pistol was discharged through
carelessness, for--for--there were materials for cleaning it lying upon
the table." Werner was so unaccustomed to say what was not true that he
succeeded but ill in this attempt.
Suddenly Thea entered the room; her eyes glowed with an unnatural
feverish brilliancy. She hastily approached Werner and held out her
hand as if to clasp his, then instantly withdrew it, and asked,
standing close to him, as if to prevent him from evading her question,
"Do you know why he shot himself?"
"It is not impossible that it was an accident, madame."
Thea shook her head. "That you do not believe," she said. "You know of
no reason for this deed?"
"He was ill, and perhaps a momentary insanity----"
"Yes, a momentary insanity. And you think my husband will come
to-morrow?"
"I am sure of it."
She cast down her eyes and was silent for a moment, while a shudder
seemed to pass through her delicate frame.
"Can anything be done to-night?" she asked.
"Nothing by you, madame."
"Well, then farewell, Herr von Werner. It is best you should return to
town."
"In fact, I still have much to arrange there."
Agitated as Werner was, he could not but observe the strange alteration
in Thea's manner towards him.
"Lothar was really like an own brother to her; the shock and her great
suffering have thus changed her," he thought, without dreaming of the
real state of her mind.