CHAPTER VII.
The morning broke clear and sunny. At breakfast Count Arnau and Herr von Reinert were missing, they had gone for a ride very early with several other gentlemen, which had only been settled late the evening before. No one thought of attributing any importance to this circumstance, but, on the other hand, Baronin von Sternfeld was greatly displeased that Mademoiselle Walter had also excused herself, on the plea of feeling very unwell. The good lady found this sudden indisposition of the gouvernante very inconvenient, for she was necessitated thereby to look after the children personally the whole day, the bonne and lady's maid being fully occupied with preparations for the next day's journey.
In her room, the windows of which looked out towards the fields, Gertrud paced restlessly up and down.
There was a limit even to her self-command; she had not felt able to appear at breakfast to-day, and to hear the talk over the "early ride," the meaning of which she alone knew. Yes, it was, indeed, a fearful task, to be silent and tremble in the full consciousness of what the next hour might bring, to remain here inactive, whilst over yonder the bloody decision was made; it was almost beyond her strength. She had kept the promise wrung from her, no word had passed her lips, but what this silence cost her, that she alone knew.
One could see that no sleep had closed the girl's eyes, which rested upon the window with an expression of the most painful suspense. Cheerful and golden the sunshine lay upon the fields around, over the woods, still enveloped in a blue mist. The corn waved gently in the morning breeze, and high up in the clear heavens the swallows shot backwards and forwards in rapid flight. But the road which led to the woods remained empty, not a single rider would appear.
Gertrud's pride and self-command seemed over. What, during the whole time, she would not confess to herself, what even yesterday evening she had tried to deny, she had been forced to recognise in the fearful anxiety of the previous night. "He shall not atone for his folly with his life, though I cannot hope for the same generosity from him!"
The words would not be put out of her memory. Eugen would not show any generosity; she knew that he was revengeful, like all weak people, and seized the opportunity gladly to revenge himself upon the man whose intellectual superiority had so often oppressed and embittered him, and he, too, was sure of his weapon, and seldom failed in his mark.
She fell down on her knees, and in speechless anxiety raised her folded hands. She knew now for whom this prayer was offered, and had known yesterday, when that grave, hard voice had asked so gently, "Gertrud, why do you hate me?" Though she had gathered together all her strength for the last despairing resistance, though she had possessed cruel courage to refuse him the one single word which he begged for, it was in vain now. Now she would like to have called him back, now, when it was too late. How icily cold his farewell had sounded--perhaps it was the last. Then suddenly a sound of hoofs was heard in the distance. Gertrud hurried to the window, as she had so often done before in vain, when she had heard any sound, but this time it was no disappointment. Her eyes had recognised the rider, though he was still far off on the edge of the wood; followed by his groom, Count Arnau rode towards the house.
The rebound was too great; the sudden appearance of him whom she had feared lost, decided all. In the cry of boundless delight, which unconsciously burst from her lips, in the expression of her face, lay the secret revealed. She flew to the door, reflection and reason for the moment gone; she must and would meet him!
A heavy, dull blow, then a cracking sound followed--she stopped suddenly, and looked back alarmed. One of her travelling boxes, which she had brought out yesterday, and partly packed, had been thrust out of its place by her sudden rush to the door. A simple, easily explained circumstance, but the girl's feverishly reddened cheek had become suddenly white. Slowly she again closed the door, and hesitatingly, step by step, approached the corner by the window. There was a strange expression in her face, a shrinking, as if before something supernatural, and with a timidity, as if she were really about to meet with some spirit, she bent down to examine the injury.
It was a small, unimportant little box, an old fashioned, insignificant piece of goods, which had belonged to her father, and which only a feeling of filial respect hindered the daughter from parting with. This legacy, almost the only one, which the orphan possessed, had hitherto accompanied her on every journey, and now it all at once fell over and broke, just at the moment when she was on the point of--Gertrud did not dare to complete the thought, but hastily pushed aside the books which had fallen out, and lifted the lid.
The back of the box had burst in two, and out of the crack, squeezed in between the wood and the leather lining, gleamed a piece of white paper. Gertrud mechanically pulled it out, and was about to lay it aside, when her eyes suddenly fell upon a word, an autograph--she passed her hand hastily across her eyes--surely it must be some vision, that she always and everywhere should come upon the name that just now filled all her thoughts, but at the second glance she saw that her eyes had not deceived her. "Hermann Count Arnau" stood there in faded ink, but in clear, plain handwriting--stood there on the old fashioned paper, which had been long years in its hiding place, where it must have fallen from a hole in the inner pocket, through a hasty opening of the box. Gertrud's head seemed to swim, incapable of comprehending the facts connected with it--still half stunned from her previous agitation she unfolded the paper.
It contained only a few lines, apparently very hurriedly put together, but in a business like form. The effect, however, upon the girl was like a lightning flash. She sprang up; her face, a moment since so pale, bathed in a deep flush, her eyes shining in passionate triumph, she pressed the new found paper with both hands against her breast, as if some one would tear it away, and her bosom heaved deeply--deeply, as if the weight of a whole life had been removed from it.
But it was only for a moment, in the next she started at some remembrance, which laid an icy hand on her heart, the fateful paper sank from her trembling hands, she stared at it despairingly, and then raised her eyes with a bitter cry to Heaven. On this paper had once hung the honour and happiness of a whole family--then a mischievous chance had allowed it to disappear.
Twice ten years had passed--two people had perished through its loss, and now chance had given back what was lost.
"O, God, why, just in my hand? And why now, just now?"
No answer came to this despairing question, and no sound from Gertrud's lips; mutely she fought out the conflict, the hardest in her life. How terrible it was, the convulsively wrung hands bore witness, but the lips were silent against the pain. She believed that in the past night she had known the fullest measure of tormenting anxiety, and yet, the despair of that hour compared with this moment! Now, with her own hand she must strike the threatening blow, it would be a deadly one, she knew, and this time more was at stake than life alone.
Only few, in face of such a choice, would have possessed the courage for conflict; they would have succumbed to swoons or tears, only listening to the voice of the heart, and turning away from the fateful decision. For her own unhappiness Gertrud was not one of the weak ones. A lonely, sad youth, containing bitter experiences enough for a whole life, had steeled her to endurance, but also given her that hardness, which happy people know nothing of. The iron law of duty, hitherto the single principle of her life, here, too, silenced every other voice, and, silently, and warningly came back the remembrances of the past, still sleeping unforgotten in her inmost soul. Every bitter hour in which her childhood had been so rich, every tear which she had shed, every humiliation she had endured, the mother's dying bed, the picture of her never known, but yet passionately loved father--all, all passed vividly before her, and as these remembrances poured upon her, the girl's features grew hard and cold, till at last, with dark decision she arose. The conflict was at an end; she laid her right hand as if with an oath, upon the fateful paper.
"The warning came at the right time! I was on the point of treason to myself and to my whole past. My poor sacrificed parents, the daughter will know how to guard your rights--even though she should perish in the act!"
Meanwhile, the other inhabitants of the house sat, as usual, after breakfast, in the garden house. Baron Sternfeld read aloud to his mother from the newspaper, but the political news, which she followed with such attention, seemed to weary the Baronin as well as Frau von Reinert; the former divided her attention between her embroidery and her two little daughters, who were playing outside on the terrace, and the latter yawned again and again behind her handkerchief.
The seven years had left their trace clearly enough upon Antonie. She was no longer that charming, poetical being, who knew so well how to inspire the young artist, that he forgot all else in his passion for her. Her beauty was of that delicate, but passing kind, which only lasts so long as the bloom and freshness of youth remains, and then vanishes, leaving scarcely a trace of its former reign. There were no firm, noble lines, no characteristic expression, no soul, in fact, to make up for these fleeting charms. The former enthusiastic fire in the dark eyes was extinguished, lost in that expression of weariness and languor, as plainly to be read in her features as in her husband's. The Gräfin Arnau, at twenty, had been wonderfully beautiful, Frau von Reinert, now thirty, was already faded, and all the magic arts of her toilette could not make up for what was lost.
Hermann's entrance put an end both to the Baron's reading and the weariness of the ladies. After a short morning greeting, including all, he went up to the Präsidentin's chair, and with a few words, excused his absence at breakfast.
"Where is Eugen?" asked Baron Sternfeld, surprised.
"Eugen has had a slight accident during our ride, and hurt his arm a little, he remained behind at the gamekeeper's, and I have given orders for the carriage to be sent to him. It is not at all a dangerous affair. Dr. Börner, who was one of our party, assured us so, and he put on a bandage at once."
No one thought of doubting this explanation, given in the calmest tone. The Baronin made an exclamation of concern, but Antonie cried hastily--
"That wild riding! I have prophesied over and over again to Eugen that he would have an accident some day, but he never listens to my warnings!"
There was not the slightest trace of anxiety or tenderness in this tone, only an unmistakable vexation. The Präsidentin's face certainly did not show any great concern or sympathy, but, nevertheless, she said gravely--
"Will you not at least go to your husband?"
"What need is there, grandmother? You hear that it is not in the least dangerous, and Eugen will be back in an hour in any case."
So saying, she leaned back in her chair with the most perfect indifference. The Präsidentin was silent, but her face betrayed what she thought of this answer--so this was the end of that unspeakable, glowing passion, which had once torn away the Gräfin Arnau from all the bounds of reason and sense! Hermann well understood his grandmother's look and shrug of the shoulders; was it not he who had favoured the match? It is always painful to have to confess to an error, and today the Count seemed little in the humour for it. As he came in, his eyes had flown restlessly and searchingly through the room, and the cloud which already lay on his brow had become darker. Now his unrest seemed to increase every moment; he became monosyllabic, and absent, and hardly took any part in the conversation.
"Is there no one to take charge of the children to-day?" asked he suddenly, looking towards the little girls, who were chasing each other up and down the terrace, and becoming rather noisy.
"No!" sighed the Baronin. "Mademoiselle Walter gave me the pleasure of excusing herself this morning on the plea of illness, just now, when we want to be off!"
"Ah, so!"
The Count's lips pressed themselves together in fierce anger, whilst the Baronin continued to complain of the great inconvenience of her gouvernante's illness just now, which might possibly even put off their journey.
"That is hardly to be feared, I think!" put in Antonie sarcastically. "I should imagine Mademoiselle Walter's evening walk yesterday has given her a cold, which cannot be of much importance."
"What evening walk?" asked the Baronin, becoming attentive.
"Well, she came back from the park pretty late yesterday evening, and a short time before a gentleman had left her. I could not recognize him, as it was already too dark, but from his appearance and walk I should not imagine that he was either a workman or a servant. Dear me, why not? All the gentlemen of the neighbourhood are unanimous in admiration of mademoiselle's beauty. It would be certainly no wonder if she listened to one of these inspired adorers, and consented to a little rendezvous--"
The Präsidentin knitted her brow; in spite of her antipathy to Gertrud, she was strictly just, and would suffer no calumnies in her presence.
"You ought first to prove that, Antonie," she interrupted in a grave, reproving tone, "as far as I can judge the girl, this accusation is the last that could be made against her, and hitherto Bertha has not found the slightest cause for complaint in her."
"I should also advise you to wait for an explanation of the matter, liebe Toni," continued Hermann coldly.
He still stood by his grandmother's chair, upon which he leaned with folded arms, and looked stedfastly at his cousin, with a peculiar expression. There was something half compassionate, half scornful in his look, and his lips already curled with the old, much feared sarcasm, which he poured unsparingly upon all around him, when irritated by some untoward circumstance.
"It was only a supposition," said Antonie, throwing back her head pettishly at the reproof. "But I had intended some time ago to give Bertha a hint with regard to Mademoiselle Walter; what I have found out lately about her is decidedly not to her credit."
Hermann smiled with unconcealed irony.
"Something you have found out lately? Really!"
Antonie looked questioningly at him.
"What do you mean? I don't understand you."
"Oh, I only meant, that what is not in the young lady's favour, namely, her outward appearance, you must have found out at the first moment."
Antonie flushed deeply at this malice of Hermann's, which, unfortunately, was only too true, and she did not make any denial.
She knew her cousin well enough to know that in a dispute she always got the worst of it, and that when he looked, as he did at this moment, not the slightest consideration need be expected from him. She contented herself, therefore, with darting an angry look at him, and completely ignoring the speech, turned to the Baronin, who now exclaimed suspiciously--
"But what is this you have found out about her?"
Antonie took a rose from the vase before her, and began to pluck it to pieces.
"Well, my information does not concern her so much as her family. I suppose you do not know that 'mademoiselle' has no right to the name of 'Walter.' It is her mother's family name, which the latter re-assumed, or rather was obliged to do so, because her husband's name called forth very unpleasant remembrances."
The sarcastic calmness with which Hermann had listened hitherto, suddenly disappeared and gave place to a deathly paleness. He bent forward in the deepest attention, and followed the conversation in visible suspense.
"A false name!" cried Baron Sternfeld, also coming nearer, "why, that is evident deception! How do you know it, Antonie? And why have you not mentioned it before?"
"Because I only found it out myself yesterday. My maid visited W---- some years since, and got to know something of Mademoiselle Gertrud, whose mother was still living at that time. Therese was not a little astonished to find in this Madame Walter the wife of Brand, formerly steward to the Prince in N----."
Here the Präsidentin suddenly laid her hand on her grandson's arm, and the warning was needed. He had started violently at the name, as if struck by a shot, now he slowly turned towards his grandmother, she exchanged a deep glance with him, whilst he seized her hand convulsively. But the warning was in time, he succeeded in keeping command over his features.
The others were all too much occupied with Antonie's disclosure to notice the Count.
"Brand--Brand!" said the Baron, thoughtfully, "I seem to have heard the name before somewhere. Who was he, did you say, and what do you know of him?"
"Not much to his credit. He embezzled money entrusted to him, belonging to the Prince, and finally, when he found his crime discovered, had the atrocity to shoot himself in Uncle Arnau's business room, before his eyes. I was but a child then, but I know the affair was much talked about, and made a great stir. Hermann must remember it well enough, for the shock almost cost his poor mother her life."
Count Arnau appeared not to have heard the indirect question, at least he gave no answer. His hand lay icy cold in the Präsidentin's, she must have felt by this how it stood with him, for she suddenly looked up anxiously, his face still remained immovable.
The Baronin was in the greatest indignation. "Abominable! The daughter of a thief, of a cheat in my house! And she has dared to be silent towards me, to be taken into my house under a false name!"
Antonie smiled maliciously. "Good gracious, Bertha, do you think it likely she would do otherwise? It would have been simply impossible for her to obtain a respectable situation if she had openly confessed her antecedents."
"No matter, I cannot suffer such a deception, cannot entrust the education of my children to the hands of a person who comes of such a family. I shall speak to her to-day and demand an explanation of her."
"You will not do that, Bertha," interrupted the Präsidentin, in her sharpest tone. "How do you even know whether the girl knows her father's history? I doubt it, and even if she did, the children are not responsible for the sins of their parents, in which they have had no part. If you wish to dismiss the young lady, do it at least as considerately as possible; in any case, I beg that you will take no steps in the affair without once more considering the matter with me."
The old lady had risen and stood so imposingly before her daughter-in-law, that neither she nor her husband ventured a remonstrance, indeed, they were accustomed to bow to the mother's authority unconditionally, though her sudden taking of the gouvernante's part had somewhat surprised them.
The Präsidentin turned to her grandson. "Have the goodness, Hermann, to lead me to my room, I feel somewhat tired. I should advise you, Antonie, to get into the carriage and drive down to your husband. If his hurt is so indifferent to you, propriety nevertheless demands, that you (at least, in the eyes of others) trouble yourself somewhat about it. The carriage is just driving up, I see."
This advice, given in the tone of a decided command, was evidently as unpalatable to Frau von Reinert as the former to the Baronin, but she, too, did not gainsay it. In the worst of tempers, she rang for her maid to fetch hat and shawl, whilst the Präsidentin left the saloon, supported on Hermann's arm.