CHAPTER X.
The last carriage had driven away; the servants were arranging the rooms under Sidonie's directions. Elsa, who generally spared her aunt all household cares, had withdrawn under pretext of feeling a little tired, that, in her quiet room, she might let the soft echoes of this happy evening die out of her heart, undisturbed by the clatter of chairs and tables. It had not needed that he should dance the Rheinländer so admirably; she would still have brought him in the cotillon the large blazing order which she had placed at the bottom of the basket, and which, when her turn came, she boldly and successfully drew out, and then with trembling hands fastened it beside the iron cross on his breast. Yes; her hands had trembled and her heart had fluttered as she had done the great deed, and then looked up in his sparkling eyes; but it was from happiness, from pure happiness and joy. And it was happiness and joy which now kept her awake, after she had laid her greatest treasures--the album with his portrait and the little compass--on the table by her bedside, and had extinguished the candle, which she lighted again in order to cast a glance at the box containing the compass, and to assure herself that "it was still faithful," and "turned towards its master," and then opened the album at the place at which it always opened, and looked at his portrait once more; no, not at the portrait--that was detestable--but at the inscription, "With all my heart," and softly breathed a kiss upon it, and then quickly put the light out again, laid her head on the pillow, and sought in her dreams him to whom she was faithful waking and sleeping, and of whom she knew that he was faithful to her sleeping or waking. Ottomar had also, as soon as the last guests were gone, retired, with a "Good-night; I am tired to death; what has become of my father?" and had gone downstairs without waiting for the answer. In the passage leading to his room, he must pass his father's door. He stood still for a moment. His father, who had gone downstairs a few minutes before, was doubtless still up, and Ottomar was accustomed under similar circumstances to knock and, at least, wish him good-night through the open door. This evening he did not do so. "I am tired to death," he repeated, as if he wished to apologise to himself for this breach of his usual habit. But arrived in his room, he did not think of going to bed. It would have been useless so long as the blood coursed through his temples, "like mad," said Ottomar, while he tore off and threw down his uniform with the cotillon orders, and tore open his waistcoat and cravat, and put on the first garment that he laid his hand upon--his shooting-coat--and stationed himself at the open window with a cigar. The night was very fresh, but the cold did him good; a drizzling rain was falling from the black clouds, but he did not heed it; he stood there looking out into the dark autumn night, and smoking his cigar, confused thoughts whirling through his troubled brain, and the beating of the veins of his temples and the sighing of the wind in the trees prevented his hearing a twice-repeated knock at the door. He started like a criminal when he heard a voice at his ear. It was August.
"I beg pardon, sir. I knocked more than once."
"What do you want?"
"The General begs you will go to him at once."
"Is my father ill?" August shook his head. "The General has not yet undressed, and does not look exactly ill, only a little----"
"Only a little what?" The man scratched his head. "A little odd, sir. I think, sir, the General----"
"Confound you, will you speak out?" August came a step nearer, and said in a whisper, "I think the General had a disagreeable letter a little while ago; it may have been about half-past eleven. I did not see the man who brought it, and Friedrich did not recognise him, and I believe he went away again immediately. But I was obliged to take the letter to the General myself, and the General made a curious face when he read the letter."
"From a lady?" August could not help smiling, in spite of his sincere anxiety for his young master.
"Oh no!" said he. "They look different, one finds that out by experience; an important looking letter."
"Those infernal Jews!" muttered Ottomar. He could not understand what it meant; the next bill was only due in a week's time; but what else in the world could it be? His father would be in an awful rage again. Well, he would only have to propose a few days earlier, if he must propose, were it only to put an end to these everlasting worries, which left a man no peace even to smoke his cigar quietly in his own room at night. He tossed the cigar out of window. August had picked up his uniform coat, and was taking off the cotillon orders.
"What is that for?"
"Won't you put on your uniform, sir?" asked August.
"Nonsense!" said Ottomar. "It would only--" He broke off; he could not say to August, "It would only make this tiresome business longer and more solemn." "I shall simply tell my father that I do not mean to trouble him with these matters in future, but prefer to allow Wallbach finally to settle my affairs," said he to himself, while August went before him along the passage with the lamp, the gaslights having been extinguished, and stopped at his father's door.
"You may put the light down on the table and go to bed, and tell Friedrich to wake me at six o'clock." He had spoken louder than was necessary, and it struck him that his voice sounded strange, as if it were not his own voice. Of course it was only because the house was quite quiet, so quiet that he again heard the blood coursing through his temples, and the beating of his heart.
"Those infernal Jews!" he muttered again through his teeth as he knocked at the door.
"Come in!" His father stood at his writing-table, above which a hanging lamp was burning. On the console before the looking-glass also the lamps were still burning. The room seemed disagreeably light and formal-looking, although it was exactly as Ottomar had always seen it, as long as he could remember. He had better have put on his uniform after all.
"I must apologise for my dress, father; I was just going to bed, and August seemed to think you were in such a hurry." His father remained standing at the table, leaning on one hand, with his back towards him, without answering. The silence lay like a mountain on Ottomar's soul. With a great effort he shook off his vague dread.
"What do you want, father?"
"First that you should read this letter," said the General, turning round slowly, and pointing to a paper that was spread out before him on the table.
"A letter to me?"
"In that case I should not have read it; and I have read it." He had stepped back from the table, and paced slowly up and down the room with his hands behind his back, while Ottomar, standing where his father had stood just before, without taking the letter in his hand--the handwriting was legible enough--read as follows:
"Honoured Sir,--I trust your honour will forgive your humble servant, the undersigned, for venturing to call your honour's attention to a circumstance which threatens seriously to endanger the welfare of your honoured family. It concerns the relations which have for some time subsisted between your son, Lieutenant von Werben, and the daughter of your neighbour, Herr Schmidt, the owner of the great marble-works. Your honour will excuse the undersigned from entering into details, with which he is thoroughly conversant, but which are better consigned to the obscurity in which the parties in question seek in vain to remain, and if the undersigned begs you to ask your son where, and in whose company he was this evening between eight and nine, it is only to prove to your honour how far the said relations have been carried.
"It would be both foolish and unpardonable to suppose that your honour is acquainted with all this, and has connived at it till your son is on the point of being betrothed to the daughter of an ultra-radical democrat. On the contrary, the undersigned can imagine beforehand the painful astonishment which your honour will experience on reading these lines; but, your honour, the undersigned has also been a soldier, and knows what military honour is, as indeed all his life long he has cherished it, and he cannot endure any longer to see the honour of such a brave officer so criminally trifled with behind his back, by him who more than any other appears called to protect that honour.
"The undersigned feels he need say no more in assertion of the great veneration with which he is of his honour and his honour's whole family
"The obedient, humble servant."
The General did not interrupt his son for some minutes, but as Ottomar still remained motionless, staring in front of him, his teeth pressing hard on his white lip, he stopped in his walk at the far end of the room, and asked:
"Have you any idea who wrote that letter?"
"No."
"Have you the slightest suspicion that the lady whom it concerns----"
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Ottomar impetuously.
"I beg your pardon, but I am under the painful necessity of asking questions, as you do not appear disposed to give me the explanations which I expected."
"What am I to explain!" asked Ottomar half defiantly; "the thing is true."
"Short and conclusive," answered the General, "but not quite clear. At least, some points still require clearing up. Have you anything to reproach this lady with--I may call her so?"
"I must beg you to do so."
"Well, then, have you anything in the least to reproach this lady with, which, setting aside outward circumstances of which we will speak later, could prevent you from bringing her into Elsa's company? On your honour!"
"On my honour, nothing!"
"Do you know anything of her family, again setting aside outward circumstances, even the smallest fact, which would and ought to hinder any other officer who was not in your peculiar position from forming a connection with her family! On your honour!" Ottomar hesitated a moment; he knew absolutely nothing dishonourable of Philip; he only had the inborn instinct of a gentleman against a man who, in his eyes, is not a gentleman; but he would have considered it cowardly to shelter himself behind this vague feeling.
"No!" said he moodily.
"You have acquainted the lady with your circumstances?"
"In a general way, yes."
"Amongst other things, that you are disinherited if you marry a woman who is not of noble birth?"
"No."
"That was somewhat imprudent; however, I can understand it. But in a general way you say that she is aware of the difficulties which, under the most favourable circumstances, must stand in the way of a union between you and her?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever let her perceive that you have neither the will nor the power to remove these difficulties?"
"No."
"Rather have allowed her to believe, have probably assured her that you can and will set aside these obstacles?"
"Yes."
"Then you will marry her." Ottomar started like a horse touched by the spur. He had felt that this must and would be the end; and yet, as the words were spoken, his pride chafed against the pressure put upon his heart even by his own father. And in the background lurked again ghost-like the horrid sensation that he had had in the park; that he was weaker than she who so confidingly nestled in his arms. Was he to be always the weaker, always to follow, whether he would or no, always to have his path traced out for him by others?
"Never!" burst from him.
"How! never!" said the General. "Surely I am not speaking to a headstrong boy who breaks the toy that he no longer cares about, but to an officer and a gentleman who is accustomed to keep his word strictly." Ottomar felt that he must give a reason, or at least the shadow of a reason.
"I mean," he said, "that I cannot make up my mind to take a step in one direction that would compel me to do wrong in another."
"I think I understand your position," said the General; "it is not an agreeable one, but a man who pays attention in so many quarters should be prepared for the consequences. I must, however, do you the justice of admitting that I begin now to understand your behaviour to Fräulein von Wallbach, and that I only find wanting in it that consistency to which you have unfortunately never accustomed me on any point. In my opinion it was your duty to draw back once for all, the instant that your heart became seriously engaged in another direction. No doubt, considering our intimate acquaintance with the Wallbachs, this would have been extremely difficult and disagreeable, still a man may be deceived in his feelings, and society accepts such changes of mind and their practical consequences, provided everything is done at the right time and in a proper manner. How you are now to draw back, without bringing upon yourself and us the most serious embarrassment, I do not know; I only know that it must be done. Or have you carried your misconduct to its highest point and bound yourself here as you are bound there?"
"I am bound to Fräulein von Wallbach by nothing that the whole world has not seen; by no word that the whole world has not heard, or might not have heard, and my feelings for her have been from the first as undecided----"
"As your behaviour. Let us say no more about it, then; let us rather face the situation into which you have brought yourself, and deduce the consequences. The first is, that you have destroyed your diplomatic career--you cannot appear at the Court of St. Petersburg or any other court with a wife of low birth; the second, that you must exchange into another regiment, as you would never see the last of the collisions and rubs that must happen to you in your present regiment if you had a Fräulein Schmidt for your wife; the third, that if the lady does not bring you a fortune, or at least a very considerable addition to your means, you will have for the future to live in a very different way from what you have been hitherto accustomed to, and one which I fear will not be in accordance with your tastes; the fourth consequence is, that in forming this connection, were it as honourable in one sense as I wish and hope it may be, you will, according to the literal words of the will, lose all right to your inheritance. I mention this only in order to put the whole matter clearly before you." Ottomar knew that his father had not said everything, that he had been generously silent with regard to the five-and-twenty thousand thalers which he had in the course of the last few years paid for his son's debts, that is to say, all but a small remnant of his own property, and that he could not soon repay his father the money as he had fully intended to do; perhaps would never be able to repay it. His father would then only have his pay, and later his pension, to depend upon, and he had often spoken lately of retiring. His eyes, which in his confusion had sought the ground, now turned timidly towards his father, who, as before, slowly paced up and down the room. Was it the light, or was it that he looked at him more closely than usual? his father seemed to him aged by ten years, for the first time he looked like an old man. With the feelings of respect and affection that he had always entertained towards him were mixed a sensation almost of pity; he would have liked to throw himself at his feet, and clasping his knees, to cry: "Forgive me the sins I have committed against you!" But he felt rooted to the spot; his limbs would not obey him, or go the way he wished; his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth; he could utter nothing but: "You have still Elsa!" The General had remained standing before the life-sized pictures of his parents, which adorned one of the walls; an officer of rank in the uniform worn in the war of liberation, and a lady, still young, in the dress of that time, who strikingly resembled Elsa about the forehead and eyes.
"Who knows?" said he. He passed his hand over his forehead.
"It is late; two o'clock; and to-morrow will have its cares also. Will you be so good as to extinguish the gas-light above you? Have you got a light outside!"
"Yes, father."
"Good-night, then." He had himself extinguished the lamp in front of the looking-glass and taken up the other one. "You may go." Ottomar longed to ask for his hand, but he dared not, and with a good-night that sounded defiant, because he was ready to burst into tears, he moved towards the door. His father stopped at the door of his bedroom: "One thing more! I had forgotten to say that I reserve to myself the right of taking the next step. As you have delayed so long in taking the initiative, you will not refuse to grant me this favour. I shall of course keep you au courant. I beg that you will meantime take no step without my knowledge. We must at least act in concert, now we have come to an understanding." He said the last words with a sort of melancholy smile that cut Ottomar to the heart. He could bear it no longer and rushed out of the room. The General also had his hand on the door; but when Ottomar had disappeared he drew it back, carried the lamp to the writing-table, and took out a casket in which he kept, amongst other ornaments of little value that had belonged to his dead wife and his mother, the iron rings that his parents had worn during the war of liberation. He took out the rings.
"Times have altered," he said, "not improved. What, ah! what has become of your piety, your dutifulness, your chaste simplicity, your holy self-sacrifice? I have honestly endeavoured to emulate you, to be the worthy son of a race that knew no fame but the courage of its men and the virtue of its women. How have I sinned that I should be so punished?" He kissed the rings and laid them in the casket; and took from amongst several miniatures on ivory, one of a beautiful brown-eyed, brown-haired boy about six years old. He gazed long and immovably at it.
"The male line of the Werbens would die out with him, and--he was my darling. Perhaps I am punished because I was so unspeakably proud of him."