Hermann: A Novel

by E. Werner

CHAPTER VIII.

"That Toni should mention that unfortunate name! It makes you beside yourself, Hermann, what has become of your self-command, your strength of will?"

Grandmother and grandson were alone together, the portières were drawn up, the doors closed; they were secure from listeners. The Count had not yet spoken a single word, with crossed arms he walked up and down incessantly, without answering, without even hearing. The Präsidentin shook her head.

"I cannot understand what there is so dreadful in this discovery. You have searched long enough for the dead man's wife and child; you declared it would give you back your rest if you were able to do anything for them. You ought now to bless the chance which gives us at last the opportunity of--"

The Count suddenly stopped.

"Bless it? Let me alone, grandmother, you do not, cannot know what has perished for me in this discovery!"

She went up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Hermann, you are beside yourself, and not in a state to look at this matter calmly and sensibly, leave it in my hands. It is, of course, an understood thing, that after this discovery, the girl cannot remain any longer in the family. Bertha intends dismissing her. In any case, I will see that it is done in the most considerate manner possible, and, later on, we will try to find some guardian to assure her future. Do it as handsomely as you are able, return to her the whole income which her mother lost. Perhaps we may succeed in finding a suitable husband for her, a clergyman, or some one of that sort, and then we might manage unsuspiciously--"

The Count suddenly freed himself with a violent movement.

"Make no plans, grandmother," said he bitterly, "it is atonement to injury that we have to do with. I had thought of another way of expiating it, but I know that she will never, never take it from my hand."

"From your hand? I should think not. We must go to work with greater care than that. Whatever you have to do with it, she must not suspect in the least from whom it comes, or she might ask, why we did it."

"And supposing she already knows?"

"Hermann!"

"She knows it, must know it! Now I understand the glowing, unforgiving hate which she has shown towards me from the first moment, this aversion to my presence, this altogether mysterious demeanour. How strange that no suspicion of the truth ever entered my head; but it was the name which led me astray. Oh, she knows all, I tell you, she betrays it in every word, in every gesture. But one thing I have never been able to tear from her, a secret, which she knows how to keep, and yet I must have certainty at any price!" In great agitation he recommenced his pacing up and down the room. The Präsidentin stood still, speechless. Whether she was terrified at the idea that he was right in his conjecture, or at this outbreak of passion in the man who was usually so calm and collected, was undecided, for the next moment a slight sound was heard at the door.

"What is it? Who is there?" cried Hermann. He pushed back the bolt. Without stood a servant, looking much embarrassed.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Herr Count; I did not know that the door was locked. I wished to say--"

"Well, what--what?"

"Mademoiselle Walter is in the ante-room, and wishes to speak to the Herr Count."

"Mademoiselle Walter?"

"With me?"

The Präsidentin collected herself. First she was evidently on the point of sending a refusal, but Hermann anticipated her.

"I--will see her at once!"

The servant disappeared.

"Hermann, you ought not to speak to her now! You will betray yourself whilst you are in such agitation! And what can she want?"

The Count had all at once regained his self-command, but an expression of unspeakable bitterness appeared in his face.

"Calm yourself, grandmother! I know why she comes, it has nothing whatever to do with this affair. It must be deathly anxiety, indeed, which compels her to cross my threshold."

The Präsidentin had no time to demand an explanation of what was a mystery to her, for the servant had opened the door to show Gertrud in. The Count was right; it cost her a fearful effort to cross his threshold, and now it was at last done, she remained standing speechless, her eyes fixed on the ground, like one conscious of guilt. Her features were calm, but there was something almost terrible in the fixed look and deathly pallor, almost as if life had left them.

Hermann advanced to meet her.

"You wish to speak with me, mein Fräulein?"

"Yes."

The word fell softly, almost inaudibly from her lips.

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Pardon, grandmother,--may I beg you to follow me?"

He drew back the portière of the neighbouring room, and followed her in there. The Präsidentin remained behind, she went to the door and once more drew the bolt, then trod noiselessly to the closed portière, and quietly drew the folds somewhat aside--Hermann was capable of anything in this mood, he must not remain unobserved.

No word had as yet been spoken between the two. The Count stood, to all appearance calm, his hand supported by the table, and silently waited, but with the same bitter expression, for Gertrud to speak. She tried to do so, but was it really the deathly anxiety of which he had spoken? Her voice failed her, she could not.

Hermann's lips trembled, he saw well that he must speak first.

"I can guess what brings you here. You saw me come back unhurt, and tremble now for the life of my opponent. Calm yourself! Though our rencontre was not altogether without effect, it was not dangerous. Herr von Reinert has a slight wound in his arm, which caused his usually sure aim to miss me. He has at present remained behind at the gamekeeper's, the doctor is with him, and not the slightest danger is to be feared."

At his first words Gertrud had raised her eyes with a look almost of terror, but she now cast them down again.

"I thank you, Herr Graf, for the news, but you are mistaken--it is not that which brings me here."

Not that! Then it was not anxiety which had blanched her cheeks so terribly, which had given her this fixed, lifeless look--the Count's eyes lighted up suddenly as they had done yesterday evening; the bitter expression disappeared; he hastily came a step nearer.

"No! What was it then, Gertrud?"

She shrank back with a start; slowly he let fall his outstretched hand. The girl struggled for breath.

"I came--to inform you of something. It concerns you--both of us. I am compelled to leave this house to-day; my letter to the Baronin contains an excuse--but I owe the truth to you."

She had brought out the words in an almost choked voice, and at the same time strove visibly to avoid meeting his eyes. Graf Arnau drew himself up decidedly; he knew what was coming now.

"I go as your enemy; but I will not do so secretly behind your back. You asked me yesterday if a secret lay between us--you shall know it now."

"I know it already!"

"How?"

"An hour ago I learnt your real name, and with it the reason for your hatred to me."

She looked up at him as before, but now with the greatest horror.

"That is impossible, you cannot! You cannot know anything--anything, except that it was the name of a deceiver, who took his own life, when he found his crime discovered. That is what you have been told, is it not? Or--did you know more?"

Hermann made no answer, his eyes sought the ground darkly.

"Answer me, Count Arnau! If any one on earth has a right to ask, I have. What do you know?"

"All!"

In his blunt, broken tone, lay the whole dashed down power of his nature in one word; the girl stood for a moment as if struck by lightning.

"You knew it, and were silent!"

"It was my father, Gertrud!"

She suddenly drew herself up with almost fierce energy.

"You are right, Count Arnau, it was your father--and it was mine! I shall not forget that."

A heavy, oppressive pause followed. At last Hermann raised his head again.

"We have reached a point now where nothing more can be kept silent or spared. Will you tell me who has revealed the secret?"

Since the confession of the Count a strange change had passed over Gertrud. The anxiety, the conflict which had hitherto been betrayed in her manner, had given place to an unnatural calm; her glance, which had avoided his so timidly, looked at him full and threateningly, and her voice sounded firm and clear as she replied--

"My mother initiated me into the matter so soon as I was old enough to understand it. She had no proofs to make good her rights, nothing but the invincible conviction of her heart. My father did not dare to make public the suspicion he had held for some time against his powerful and influential superior; he mentioned it only to his wife on the morning of the fateful day, and therefore she only was capable of guessing at the truth. She knew that her husband was no cheat, that he was only the sacrifice of a crime; of an already planned, treacherous a assassination--"

"No, Gertrud, no, he was not that!" burst in Hermann. "A crime of the moment, a deed of despair, but no plan. I know it--I was witness of it!"

"Ah--you were a witness!"

The Count's eyes took a rapid survey of the room; it had only one entrance, and that, he knew, was well guarded; nevertheless his voice sank to a whisper as if he did not dare to trust the secret even to dead walls.

"That morning I was in my father's business room; I seldom went into it, this time it was childish disobedience which took me there. The day before my father had taken away a book which he thought unsuitable for me; but my childish fancy was so much excited by the adventurous story that I was determined to know the end of it. The book lay in his business room; I knew this, and seized the first opportunity to get possession of it. Scarcely had this happened before voices were heard in the corridor; conscious that I had done wrong, I flew with my book into a deep corner of the bay window, thinking that I should not be there more than a few minutes, for my father was accustomed to drive out at this hour. But this time he came in with your father. On account of the sun the drawn curtain concealed me completely, and thus I was a witness of a conversation, of which, at that time, I understood almost nothing, but which, nevertheless, on account of its fearful termination, was impressed upon my mind with terrible clearness. What I heard at first was unimportant; the talk was confined entirely to business matters. My father must already have made some demand of Herr Brand which he now repeated, but which, however, was most decidedly refused by him. Brand represented that he had already paid to the Count the sum due to him, and, without special authority from the Prince, could not give out any of the money entrusted to his charge, for which he was of course responsible. My father must have seen that he was lost, must have known no other way of escape, for he chose the most dangerous plan of all, and made his inferior his confidant. He confessed to him that he had already employed the sum received for the payment of personal debts, but that the expenses of the Prince's household now needed reimbursement, and that immediately, if all was not to be discovered. He strove to persuade the steward to give him sufficient for this from the balance remaining, promising that all should be returned in a few weeks. The Count swore to take all upon himself, he entreated, he promised, he at last threatened, but promises as well as threats were lost upon the man's unflinching faithfulness to duty. He answered, steadfastly, 'No.' I say once more, in spite of all this, my father was not capable of such a diabolically thought-out plan--the pistol, which lay loaded upon the table, was, it is my firm conviction, designed for himself, he had intended, like many another ruined man, to end his life by suicide had your father somewhat moderated his answer to him, but his stern sincerity and conscientiousness hastened the crime. He declared without mercy that any one cognisant of guilt, was, in his opinion, a sharer of it, and that he should feel himself obliged to make public what he had just heard in order to prevent further harm, and thus drove the already despairing man to madness. He knew that should this happen his honour, the honour of his family, was inevitably lost. I saw my father's hand suddenly grasp the pistol, saw a flash--and Brand fell dead before him."

Hermann stopped and passed his hand over his brow, which was wet with cold drops, it was manifestly a fearful torture to relate this, but Gertrud made no effort to spare him; the "iron sense of duty in the father" seemed to have descended to the daughter, she listened immovably.

After an instant the Count breathed deeply, and then continued--

"Terror must have stunned me, I could not utter a sound. I saw my father open the door and cry for help, saw my mother rush in--what happened later you know. It was found possible to throw the guilt upon the dead--"

"Oh, yes, it was found possible!" interrupted she bitterly. "The only voice which upheld the truth, the cry of the widow, was at once silenced as the shameful accusation of a highly respected man, And Count Arnau swore as witness--"

"Gertrud."

Such terrible hidden torment found vent for itself in the exclamation, that Gertrud did not finish the sentence.

"You must pardon me, Herr Graf, if I am overpowered with bitterness at the remembrance of this, we have suffered too long and too deeply under it. Our little all, which our father had saved so carefully, was, of course, seized, and my mother being quite without help, was compelled to ask assistance of well-to-do relatives in W----. We found there protection from actual hunger, but only under a hard condition. Our relatives were honest, strict bürger people, and would not suffer a name amongst them which stood in the papers as that of a thief and a cheat. My mother was forced to re-assume her family name, she did it in order to save her child, then but a few months old, from absolute want. But our misfortune was not kept secret by those around us--we have been despised so long as I can remember."

It seemed, indeed, as if with these remembrances, all the hatred and suffering of the past years was once more awakened, every word became a passionate reproach. Hermann had listened in dark silence, now he said with a sort of bitter resignation--

"I think it is a question which of us has suffered most under the crime. Your youth may have been bitter--mine was terrible. My mother died a few months after the dreadful deed, the year after my father followed. No one was able to understand how it was that he treated his only son and heir with an open hatred, though he at the same time obstinately refused to be separated from him for a single hour. No one knew that he guarded in him a witness of his guilt, and trembled hourly at the thought that his dreadful secret hung upon the silence of a mere child. Perhaps you can imagine what a lot that child's was! Had not my grandmother at times stood protectingly between us, I know not what terrible misfortune might have occurred. She it was who at that time interfered with all her influence and wealth to avert threatening ruin, which would have inevitably been followed by a discovery of the truth, and who later, after the death of my father, and during her ten years of guardianship, gradually managed to bring our affairs into order again, so that I may now call myself a rich man. Need I tell you, Gertrud, what a curse these riches have been to me? I could not give back the embezzled sum without arresting suspicion, but I hoped in some indirect way to make it up to those left behind. Since my majority I have never ceased to try and find trace of you, have taken all possible steps--in vain. I looked for Brand's widow and child, and never imagined how near to me the latter was. Gertrud! Fate has led us together strangely--did it really happen, in order that we might combat life and death together?"

At the last words his voice once more sank to those soft, deep tones, which she had already once heard from his lips, and the girl's whole being trembled before it, as it had done then, but she knew the danger now, and fled from it.

"Not this tone, Count Arnau,--I beg you--let us keep to the subject."

He silently bowed in assent.

"At the time my father paid out the sum, he received a receipt from his chief, Count Arnau. Did you know of it?"

"No. But my father himself undertook the seizure of the steward's papers. He will have destroyed it."

"It was not destroyed. A chance allowed it to lie hidden for years. It is in my hands!"

In speechless consternation Hermann drew back, the same moment the portière was torn open, and the Präsidentin stood before them.

"You must be mistaken, mademoiselle! It is impossible, it cannot be!"

Gertrud had turned round surprised, but not frightened, and met the old lady's threatening glance firmly--

"I am not mistaken. I repeat, the receipt is found, and has been in my possession an hour."

Meanwhile Hermann had collected himself, and now once more roused all his energy.

"You have the paper with you? May I see it?"

She shrank back at the proposal, and involuntarily laid both hands protectingly on her bosom. He smiled bitterly.

"Do you fear a renewed theft? I give you my word of honour that the paper shall be returned to you uninjured."

Slowly Gertrud drew it out and gave it to him; he opened it, the Präsidentin's eyes hung in breathless suspense on his features.

No one spoke for some seconds, but the Count leaned more and more heavily on the table, his cheeks pale as death; with averted face he at last, without speaking a word, gave back the paper, threw himself into a chair, and covered his eyes with his hand.

The Präsidentin knew enough.

"Mademoiselle--" it was in vain that she endeavoured to make her voice firm, it trembled audibly--"Mademoiselle, you can, and will not, make any use of this document; it accuses the dead."

Gertrud drew herself up scornfully; so soon as a third interfered, all her courage returned.

"You think not, Frau Präsidentin? But the dead Count died as a highly respected, honourable man, and my father lies dishonoured and disgraced in the grave. Do you imagine that his daughter would refrain from avenging him?"

"Do not build too many hopes on this paper; our tribunals cannot proceed against the dead, and as for the living--we are ready for any sacrifice, for any reparation within the bounds of possibility--" She stopped suddenly, even this energetic woman's eyes sank almost timidly before Gertrud's. "Take care, mademoiselle!" cried she, breaking out into anger, "take care not to drive us to do our utmost. The family of Count Arnau is still powerful and influential enough, and they will risk all, if it concerns their honour. Do not dare to let that paper out of your hands, else ruin might come upon yourself."

An expression of unspeakable scorn curled Gertrud's lips.

"I will wait and see if this mighty influential family succeed for the second time in defying justice. I will see if the law of the land will dare to refuse it to me when I come before them with this proof. Spare your words, Frau Präsidentin. What I had to fear was overcome before I came to you, now nothing more can intimidate me."

She had spoken with cold, firm decision. If her features had seemed fixed before, now they seemed turned to stone; the only expression in them was a fearful determination. The Präsidentin saw that nothing more was to be gained here. She placed herself before the door, covering it with her body.

"Now then, Hermann, you must guard your own and our honour! It must be!"

Her eyes, even more than her words, challenged the Count to get possession of the fateful paper by force.

Hermann had risen, he too seemed to have made a last decision, but with a wave of the hand, he dismissed his grandmother's proposal, and went up to Gertrud, who stood before him, still firm, and fearless.

"Gertrud!"

She shrank slightly, but did not alter her decided expression.

"I have no right to expect or ask forbearance from you. Do what your conscience tells you. You can raise no accusation against Count Arnau, my father--he is dead; but on the ground of this document you can publicly demand that the money which was withdrawn from you be returned, and thus cleanse your father's name from the stain which rests upon it, transferring it to mine instead."

In face of his words Gertrud looked somewhat inclined to waver, she hung her head.

"I--know it."

"You know it! Well, then, you also know that it will be my ruin. I have tried in strained activity to forget the curse which I have inherited. I have accomplished much, and hoped everything from my career; that is, of course, at an end, so soon as public shame reaches me. Neither my office nor my connection with the Prince's household can stand before that; I must resign it, henceforth to hide a dishonoured name in darkness and inactivity. For a nature like mine, this means ruin, Gertrud; power and the right to use it lie in your hands. Retaliate as you will, if you can ruin me, then do it."

A deep sigh heaved the tormented girl's breast, she would have rushed away, but the ban of his eyes and voice held her enchained. He stood before her, without entreaty, but also without reproach, only his eyes burned in passionate unrest, they searched her's deeply--deeply as if he must and would read the depths of her soul.

"Gertrud! It concerns your father's honour, and my destruction--do it!"

The girl's arm sank hopelessly, with a heart-rending expression she looked up, as if begging for mercy, her eyes met his, a moment passed, an eternity for both, then Gertrud suddenly seized the paper convulsively with both hands--it fell in fragments at her feet.

The Präsidentin stood speechless; she had not understood the last scene between the two, nor Hermann's incomprehensible behaviour, only now that she saw him draw the girl passionately towards him, the truth began to dawn upon her. The proud old woman tottered and supported herself by a chair, this was too much in one hour.

Meanwhile Gertrud lay half insensible in Hermann's arms, and he bent over her with an expression of tenderness, which the grandmother had never before seen in his firm, cold features.

The passionately longed-for certainty was his at last, now he knew, too, for whom she had trembled yesterday.

But the energetic girl did not succumb many minutes to this fearful agitation, she raised herself and tried to escape from his arms.

"You are saved, Count Arnau---Farewell!"

He stood as if struck by lightning.

"Gertrud, for heaven's sake, what does this mean?"

"I leave this house at once. Do not hold me back, I must go."

"And do you really imagine," cried Hermann, "that I will let you go? Oh, your incomprehensibleness does not alarm me any longer. You have given a right over you by this sacrifice which I shall know how to use."

Gertrud looked earnestly at him for a moment.

"No," said she at last, "with this sacrifice I have torn every tie between us for ever. What has happened does not exist for the world, and the daughter of the thief, Brand, can never be the wife of Count Arnau."

He took both her hands gently--

"Gertrud, not this bitterness. Can you not credit me with the power of protecting my wife before idle tongues?"

"Your wife, perhaps, but not yourself. My real name cannot remain unconcealed, so soon as I emerge from dependence and obscurity, and I have lived in aristocratic families long enough to know what is thought on such points. They would hardly pardon you your bürgerliche wife, and you would suffer under the continual persecution, until you would at last be compelled to retire to the hated obscurity of private life--on my account."

The Präsidentin, who had stood hitherto like one in despair, now breathed freely again at these words, which she saw were not without effect upon her grandson. He must, indeed, have himself recognized the undisputable truth of her argument, but he still strove against it.

"Gertrud, at this moment, under the influence of this agitation, we cannot make any weighty decision for our future. Promise me later--"

"No," interrupted she firmly, "the word of separation must be spoken now. Count Arnau, you know the relations of our country and Court better than any one else--answer me! Can your influence, your career still continue the same, if you break your connection with the nobility and with the Prince's household?"

The Count looked down, unprepared for an answer.

"I knew it! And now hear my last word. I shall not have made the sacrifice in vain, and, therefore, under the circumstances, I can never be your wife. Do not try to dissuade me, or to find me, it would be in vain. By this sacrifice I save your future, and that, with such a nature as yours, will be such as to dispense with a wife's love. Farewell!"

An unspeakable bitterness rang in her last words, but she left him no time to reply, and erect and stately, walked towards the door; here, however, the Präsidentin met her. Deeply moved, she silently held out both hands.

For an instant Gertrud took them, then disappeared in the neighbouring room.

The Präsidentin went up to her grandson and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"You may thank the girl's high principles, Hermann, for saving you from a folly which you would have had to repent all your life. She saves you, and us all!"

The Count did not answer, his eyes were fixed on the door where Gertrud had disappeared.

The Präsidentin bent down, and carefully picked up every fragment of the torn paper, then lit a candle, and held the pieces over the flame. As the last sank into dust and ashes the old lady breathed freely--

"Thank heaven! The evil is at an end!"