CHAPTER I.
"The season" had not been as brilliant in Grunwald for many a year as it was this winter. It seemed as if the people were already feeling the first breath of coming spring, and as if they could not make enough of the little time that was still remaining. Party followed party, and Heaven alone could tell how the old gentlemen and ladies could stand the incessant whist and the young people the incessant dancing; and how all of them could find pleasure in meeting night after night precisely the same company, for the circle which was thus kept in constant commotion was quite limited, and consisted of perhaps twenty or twenty-five families, including the highest military and civil officials, the family of the commandant of the fortress, Grunwald, his excellency von Bostelmann, and that of the president of the province, von Fitzewitz, etc. It may have been that the smallness of the circle favored to a certain extent the stupid delight with which these select fashionables were continually turning around themselves, although everybody knew everything about everybody else, or thought at least he knew or wanted to know it, so that there was never a lack of topics for gossip.
Each week had a special topic of its own, however, which was discussed with much animation. During the last but one, the strange conduct of Emily Cloten had furnished the favorite subject. There had, of course, been two parties--one in favor of the young lady, and another in favor of her husband. The former claimed that Emily had become crazy because of Arthur's faithlessness; the latter insisted upon it that, on the contrary, Arthur had been made crazy by his wife's faithlessness and was, in this state of mind, seeking consolation in the arms of his former favorite, Hortense Barnewitz. Emily's friends seemed to be sure of success, for the young lady--was it from caprice, or from better reasons?--reappeared suddenly in society, and began to play her former part as a reckless coquette more zealously than ever, utterly ignoring all that had occurred in the meantime.
Thus the spies, cheated out of this scandal, as it seemed, were compelled to turn their sharp eyes during the present week upon the relations between Prince Waldenberg and Helen Grenwitz, which had been already canvassed by everybody, and which yet, far from being exhausted, had only become more and more interesting, for it was believed that during the last few days these relations had assumed a definite form.
The spies had seen correctly. Since yesterday Helen was engaged to His Highness, Prince Raimund Waldenberg. Count of Malikowsky, hereditary Lord of Letbus.
For the present only in secret, since much time was required before all the preliminaries of an alliance between the princely family of Waldenberg and the most noble family of Grenwitz could be satisfactorily settled. Besides, the public announcement of the engagement was to take place in the capital, to which the prince was to return soon after New Year in order to join his regiment again, and where the prince's parents had promised to meet him, the mother from St. Petersburg, the father from Paris.
The baroness had, then, attained the goal of her wishes, and her exulting joy at her success amply compensated her for all the humiliations and disappointments, for all the sleepless nights, full of care and anxiety, of the past months. She carried her head as high as ever. Did she not owe all the successes she had ever had in life to herself alone, and so also this last one? Did she not owe it solely to her own prudence, moderation, and discretion that she, the simple nobleman's daughter, who had no fortune whatever, had become Baroness Grenwitz and mother-in-law of Prince Waldenberg? Had she not had to struggle through all her life, not only with circumstances, but also with those who stood nearest to her; with her weak husband, who had no energy and no sense for great comprehensive plans, and with her haughty, self-willed daughter? Had she not been forced to think and care for them all; to compel them almost to accept their good fortune? Truly, if these people were not grateful for their happiness, which they owed to her alone--well, it was not her fault!
Were they grateful? Any one but the baroness would have doubted it. The happy ones showed little of joy and elation in their features; on the contrary, since the decisive word had been spoken, a veil of embarrassment, if not of annoyance, seemed to have fallen upon their faces. The prince's dark countenance looked a shade darker, and his black eyes rested often with a strange, inexplicable meaning upon the fair, haughty features of his betrothed, who walked about in startling silence, very pale, and looking much more like a marble bride than like a happy girl. Still, those who chose need not have looked far for an explanation. The deep melancholy seemed to be justified by anxiety for the father, who had long been an invalid, and who had suddenly been taken seriously ill.
In the night which followed the day of the betrothal the old gentleman had had an attack of his old complaint, the gout, and the physicians who were called in declared at once that, this time, they could not answer for the result. From that moment Helen had been chained to her father's sick-bed, especially as the latter would allow no one else to be near him, to hand him his medicine and to smooth his pillow.
The early winter evening had come already. The streets were covered with deep snow and perfectly silent; only now and then the jingling of bells interrupted the stillness. No one happened to be near the patient but Helen. She was sitting near the bed, holding her father's withered hand trembling with feverish excitement, in her own soft hands, and trying, as well as she could, to soothe the increasing restlessness of the patient.
"Where is mother?" he asked, suddenly.
"She has gone to her room."
"And your--and the prince?"
"I asked him to take a walk."
"Raise my head a little!--that's it! Now give me both your hands!"
The patient paused a few moments, and then he spoke with great clearness and decision, so that it was evident he had long contemplated what he was about to say and turned it over in his enfeebled mind.
"My dear child! It is a good thing to be rich, when he who is rich has also a good heart; but I believe it is very rare to find the two together, or to see them stay together. And to be clever is also a good thing, but without a good heart it is worth little.
"Look here, dear child! Your mother and I--we have lived together eighteen years, and, next to God, I have loved and honored your mother more than all things. I think she has taken pains to love me back again, and I do not blame her if she has not succeeded. No, not her, only myself. I ought to have taken a wife who was more suitable to my age and to my ways; but I was vain and proud, and I wanted a handsome, stately, and clever wife, such as the world admires, and your mother was handsome, stately, and clever; far too pretty and too clever for me, an insignificant, simple man, who never was made for the great world. I felt it, therefore, all the time in my heart that I was not the man to make your mother happy; but she never let me know it distinctly until quite recently."
The old man bowed his gray head sadly, and repeated:
"Quite recently--when she wanted you to marry your cousin Felix, and I could not say Yes! and amen! to it--then I saw very clearly that we thought and felt in the most important and most sacred things so very differently; and whether I was right or she, that does not matter now; but, my dear child, it is a bad thing when those who ought to love each other cannot do it--a bad thing, my dear child, which may easily break a heart!"
And as the old man spoke these words the tears were rolling down his pale, wrinkled cheeks.
Helen sat there, silent and pale. Her hands trembled. Her father's words had apparently touched her to the heart.
"Therefore," continued the baron, after a short pause, "it has always been my principle, that parents ought not to interfere with the affections of their children, but only to pray to God that He would lead their hearts to choose well. Thus I have left you your choice, then and now. Then you could not decide; now you have decided. I cannot conceal it from you that I cannot understand the prince, and that I wish your future husband were less grand and less rich; but, as it is, I hope God will turn it to the best. You are a good, clever girl, and I think you cannot have chosen thoughtlessly, or from mere ambition; no! no! not thoughtlessly, nor from ambition, for you are my good, clever girl!" repeated the old man, as Helen, unable to control her emotion any longer, hid her beautiful head on his bosom, and gave way to a passionate fit of weeping.
"What is the matter, girl?" he said, frightened by this sudden vehemence; and then, as if a flash of lightning had lighted up for an instant the dark places in his daughter's heart, "For God's sake, child, you have not let your eyes be dazzled by Mammon! You do not love the prince? You have not followed the voice of your heart, which warned you against the stern dark man, but the counsels of your mother? Oh, my child! my unfortunate child! My fears, then, were not groundless! But it is time yet to turn back. I will speak myself with the prince; I will speak with him at once; he will have pity on a poor old man, who is sick unto death."
And he raised himself with spasmodic efforts in his bed.
It was a terrible struggle which was raging in Helen's heart while the baron said these words. Was there really a way yet out of this horrible labyrinth, in which she had lost herself? Could the step, the fatal step, be retraced? At what price? At the price of seeing her pride humbled! Her proud betrothed was to have pity! Pity with her poor old father! Pity with herself! Never ... Never!
"No, no, no!" she cried, seizing both of her father's hands. "You are mistaken, father! I am not unhappy! I have not been dazzled and tempted! I--I love the prince--I shall love him--I will try to love him--I will----"
She could not continue; her throat was closed by a spasm; her pale lips moved, but were unable to shape the words with which she uttered her own sentence of death.
"Oh, great God!" prayed the old man, "enlighten my child's heart! Child! child! Do not let your father leave this world with such a terrible doubt on his mind! Oh, if I could but tell you all as I feel it. Ah, this pain! My God ... My ..."
The sufferer fell back on his pillow.
Helen held him in her arms.
"Papa! dear papa! I will do all you ask; for I will tell the prince--great God! what is that?"
The hands of the old man began to tremble; cold perspiration bedewed his brow.
It was Death! Helen saw it with horror, and no help at hand--no help! She rushed to the bell and pulled, but the bell-rope remained in her hand. Then she rushed back to the bed, but the cold hands trembled no longer: the rolling eyes were fixed. Whatever help might come now, it came too late; and Helen threw herself, sobbing aloud, upon the body of the kind old man, whose brave and true heart had beaten to the last moment so warmly for her, and now stood still forever.