CHAPTER XVI.
Veitel Itzig was in the highest excitement. After many consultations with his adviser Hippus, many nightly calculations as to the state of his purse, he had ventured upon a bold stroke of business, and had succeeded in it. He had wormed himself into a not very creditable secret, and had sold it for eight thousand dollars. The happy day had at length arrived when he was to carry home this large capital. After his long endeavor to appear calm, while his heart was beating with anxious suspense like a smith's hammer, he was now happy as a child; he jumped round the room, laughed with pleasure, and asked Hippus what sort of wine he would like to drink to-day. "Wine alone will not do," replied Hippus, ominously. "However, it is long since I have tasted any Hungarian. Get a bottle of old Upper Hungarian; or, stay, it is dark enough, I will go for it myself."
"How much does it cost?"
"Two dollars."
"That is a good deal, but 'tis all one; here they are;" and he threw them on the table.
"All right," said Hippus, snatching at them. "But this alone will not do, I must have my percentage. However, as we are old acquaintances, I will be satisfied with only five per cent. of what you have made to-day."
Veitel stood petrified.
"Not a word against it," continued Hippus, with a wicked glance at him over his spectacles; "we know each other. I was the means of your getting the money, and I alone. You make use of me, and you see that I can make use of you. Give me four hundred of your eight thousand at once."
Veitel tried to speak.
"Not a word," repeated Hippus, rapping the table with the dollars in his hand; "give me the money."
Veitel looked at him, felt in the pocket of his coat, and laid down two notes.
"Now two more," said Hippus, in the same tone. Veitel added another.
"And now for the last, my son," nodded he, encouragingly.
Veitel delayed a moment and looked hard at the old man's face, on which a malevolent pleasure was visible. There was no comfort there, however; so he laid down the fourth note, saying, in a stifled voice, "I have been mistaken in you, Hippus;" and, turning away, he wiped his eyes.
"Do not take it to heart, you booby," said his instructor; "if I die before you, you shall be my heir. And now I am off to taste the wine, and I will make a point of drinking your health, you sensitive Itzig;" and, so saying, he crept out of the door.
Veitel once more wiped away a bitter tear that rolled down his cheeks. His pleasure in his winnings was gone. It was a complex sort of feeling, this grief of his. True, he mourned the lost notes, but he had lost something more. The only man in the world for whom he felt any degree of attachment had behaved unkindly and selfishly toward him. It was all over henceforth between him and Hippus. He could not, indeed, do without him, but he hated him from this hour. The old man had made him more solitary and unscrupulous than before. Such is the curse of bad men; they are rendered wretched not only by their crimes, but even their best feelings turn to gall.
However, this melancholy mood did not long continue. He took out his remaining treasure, counted it over, felt cheered thereby, and turned his thoughts to the future. His social position had been changed at a stroke. As the possessor of eight thousand dollars—alas! there were but seven thousand six hundred—he was a small Crœsus among men of his class: many carried on transactions involving hundreds of thousands without as much capital as he had; in short, the world was his oyster, and he had but to bethink himself with what lever he should open it—how invest his capital—how double it—how increase it tenfold. There were many ways before him: he might continue to lend money on high interest, he might speculate, or carry on some regular business; but each of these involved his beloved capital in some degree of risk; he might win, indeed, but then he might lose all, and the very thought so terrified him that he relinquished one scheme after another.
There was, indeed, one way in which a keen-witted man might possibly make much without great danger of loss.
Veitel had been accustomed, as a dealer in old clothes, to visit the different seats of landed proprietors; at the wool market he was in the habit of offering his services to gentlemen with mustaches and orders of merit; in his master's office he was constantly occupied with the means and affairs of the nobility. How intimately he knew old Ehrenthal's secret desire to become the possessor of a certain estate! And how came it that in the midst of his annoyance with Hippus, the thought of his schoolfellow Anton suddenly flashed across him, and of the day when he had walked with him last? That very morning he had walked about the baron's estate, and lounged by the cow-house, counting the double row of horns within, till the dairy-maid ordered him away. Now the thought passed like lightning through his brain that he might as well become the owner of that estate as Ehrenthal, and drive with a pair of horses into the town. From that moment he had a fixed plan, and began to carry it out.
And he speculated cunningly too. He determined to acquire a claim upon the baron's property by a mortgage; thus he would safely invest his capital, and work on quietly till the day came when he could get hold of the property itself. At all events, if he did not succeed in that, his money would be safe. Meanwhile, he would become an agent and commissioner, buy and sell, and do many clever things besides. Also, he must remain Ehrenthal's factotum as long as it suited him. Rosalie was handsome and rich, for Bernhard would not live to inherit his father's wealth. Perhaps he might desire to become Ehrenthal's son-in-law, perhaps not; at all events, there was no hurry about that. There was one other whom he must get on a secure footing—the little black man now drinking that expensive wine down stairs. Henceforth he would pay him for whatever he did for him, but he would not confide in him.
These were the resolves of Veitel Itzig; and, having concocted his plans, he locked his door, threw himself down exhausted on his hard bed, the imaginary possessor of Baron Rothsattel's fair property.
That evening the baroness and her daughter sat together in the conservatory, and both were silent; the baroness intently watching a bright moth, which was bent upon flying into the lamp, and came knocking its thick little body over and over against the glass which saved its life.
Lenore bent over her book, but often cast an inquiring glance at her mother's thoughtful face.
There came a quick step along the gravel, and the old bailiff, cap in hand, asked for the master.
"What do you want?" said Lenore; "has any thing happened?"
"It's all over with the old black horse," said the bailiff, in great concern; "he has been biting and kicking like mad, and now he is gasping his last."
Lenore sprang up with an exclamation for which her mother chid her.
"I will come and see to him myself," said she, and hurried off with the old man.
The sick horse lay on his straw, with the sweat running down, and his sides heaving violently. The stable-boys stood around, looking at him phlegmatically. When Lenore entered, the horse turned his head toward her as if asking help.
"He knows me yet," cried she. Then turning to the head groom, "Ride off instantly for a veterinary surgeon."
The man did not like the thought of a long ride at night, and replied, "The doctor is never at home, and the horse will be dead before he can come."
"Go at once!" commanded Lenore, pointing to the door.
"What is the matter with the groom?" asked Lenore, as they left the stable.
"He is grown good for nothing, and ought to be sent off, as I have often told my master; but the lout is as obedient to him as possible—he knows the length of his foot—while to every one else he is cross-grained, and gives me daily trouble."
"I will speak to my father," replied Lenore, with a slight frown.
The old servant continued: "Ah! dear young lady, if you would but look after things a little, it would be a good thing for the property. I am not satisfied with the dairy either: the new housekeeper does not know how to manage the maids; she is too smart by half—ribbons before and behind. Things used to go on better; the baron used to come and look at the butter-casks, now he is busy with other things; and when the master grows careless, servants soon snap their fingers at the bailiff. You can be sharp enough with people; it's a thousand pities you are not a gentleman."
"You are right; it is a thousand pities," said Lenore, approvingly; "but there's no help for it. However, I will see to the butter from this very day. How is corn now? You have been buying some lately?"
"Yes," said the old man, dejectedly, "my master would have it so. I don't know what's come to him: he sold the whole granary full to that Ehrenthal in winter."
Lenore listened sympathizingly, with her hands behind her.
"Do not fret about it, my old friend," said she; "whenever papa is not at home, I will go about the fields with you, and you shall smoke your pipe all the same. How do you like the new one I brought you?"
"It has a beautiful color already," said the bailiff, chuckling, and drawing it out of his pocket. "But to return to the black horse; the baron will be very angry when he hears of it, and we could not help it either."
"Well, then," said Lenore, "if it could not be helped, it must be endured. Good-night. Go back now to the horse."
"I will, dear young lady; and good-night to you too," said the bailiff.
The baroness had remained in the conservatory, thinking of her husband, who formerly would have been by her side on an evening like this. Yes, there was a change in him: kind and affectionate toward her as ever, he was often absent and preoccupied, and more easily irritated by trifles; his cheerfulness was of a more boisterous character, and his love for men's society increasing; and she mournfully asked herself whether it were the fading of her youth that accounted for this.
"Is not my father yet returned?" asked Lenore, as she entered.
"No, my child, he has much to do in town; perhaps he will not be back till to-morrow morning."
"I do not like papa being so much away," said Lenore; "it is long since he has read aloud to us in the evening, as he used to do."
"He means you to be my reader," said her mother, with a smile; "so take your book, and sit down quietly by me, you impetuous child."
Lenore pouted, and instead of taking up the book, threw her arms round her mother, and said, "Darling, you too are sad and anxious about my father. Things are no longer as they used to be. I am no child now; tell me what he is doing."
"Nonsense," calmly replied the baroness. "I am keeping nothing back from you. If there really be any reason for your father's frequent absence, it is our duty to wait till he chooses to communicate it; and this is not difficult to those who love and trust him as we do."
"And yet your eyes are tearful, and you do seek to hide your anxiety from me. If you will not, I will ask my father myself."
"No, you shall not," said the baroness, in a tone of decision.
"My father!" cried Lenore; "I hear his step."
The stately form came rapidly toward them. "Good-evening, my home treasures!" he called out. Then clasping wife and daughter at once in his arms, he looked so cheerfully at them that the baroness forgot her anxiety and Lenore her question. The baron sat down between them, and asked whether they saw any thing unusual about him.
"You are cheerful," said his wife, fondly, "as you always are."
"You have been paying visits," said Lenore; "I know that by your white cravat."
"Right," replied the baron; "but there's something more: the king has been graciously pleased to give me the Order my father and grandfather have both worn, and I am much pleased that the cross should thus become, as it were, hereditary in our family. And with the Order came a most gracious letter from the prince."
"How charming!" cried his wife, throwing her arms around him; "I have longed for this star for some years past. We will put on the decoration;" and, having done so, she loyally kissed, first her husband, and then the cross.
"We know indeed," said the baron, "how such things are rated in our days, and yet I confess that the rank implied by such a decoration is intensely precious to me. Our family is one of the oldest in the kingdom, and there has never been a mésalliance among us. However, at the present time, money is beginning to replace our former privileges, and even we nobles must take thought for it if we wish to preserve our families in the same position as ourselves. I must provide for you, Lenore, and your brother."
"As for me," said Lenore, crossing her arms, "I can do nothing for the honor of the family. If I marry, which I have, however, no inclination to do, I must take some other name; and little will my old ancestors, in armor yonder in the hall, care whom I choose for master. I can not remain a Rothsattel."
The father drew her toward him laughingly. "If I could only find out how my child has got these heretical notions!" said he.
"She has always had them," said her mother.
"They will pass," answered the baron, kissing his daughter's brow. "And now read the prince's letter, while I go and look after the black horse."
"I will go with you," said Lenore.
The order, a memorial of the chivalrous past, was a source of still more satisfaction to the baron than he cared to avow. The congratulations of his numerous acquaintance pleased him, and he felt it a prop to his self-respect, which it often needed. A week later, Ehrenthal came on his way to the neighboring village to offer his congratulations too, and just as he was making his final bow he said, "You had once a notion, baron, of setting up a beet-root-sugar factory. I find that a company is about to be formed to build one in your neighborhood. I have been asked to take shares, but first of all I thought I would ascertain your views."
This intelligence was very unwelcome; for though, after much deliberation and consultation, he had resolved, for the present, to postpone the project, the baron did not like it to be hopelessly interfered with by a rival factory.
In a tone of vexation, he exclaimed, "Just now, when I have, for a time, that capital to dispose of!"
"Baron," said Ehrenthal, heartily, "you are a rich man, and much respected. Give out that you mean to set up a factory yourself and the company will be dispersed in a few days."
"You know I can not do so at present," said the baron, reluctantly.
"You can, gracious sir, if you choose. I am not the man to urge you to it. What do you want with money-making? But if you say to me, 'Ehrenthal, I will set up a factory,' why, I have capital for you as much as you like. I myself have a sum of ten thousand dollars ready; you may have it any day. And now I will make a proposal. I will get you the money you want, at a moderate rate of interest; and for the money I myself advance, you shall give me a share of the business until you are able to repay the sum. Should you require further money, you must take a mortgage on your property until you can replace the whole."
The proposal appeared disinterested and friendly, but the baron felt a certain misgiving, and declined it.
Accordingly, Ehrenthal had to retire, saying, "You can think the matter over; I shall, at all events, put off the forming of the company for a month."
From that day forth the baron was deluged with letters, notes, and messages. First Ehrenthal wrote to say he had got the month's delay; then Herr Karfunkelstein, one of the projected company, wrote to say he resigned his pretensions; then Ehrenthal wrote again, inclosing the yearly accounts of a similar factory, that the profits might be judged of. Then a Herr Wolfsdorf wrote to offer capital at a low rate of interest. Then, lastly, an unknown person of the name of Itzigveit wrote to beg that at least the baron would not enter into partnership with Ehrenthal, as was rumored in the town, for, though a rich, he was a very selfish man, and that the writer could advance capital on much better terms; whereupon Ehrenthal wrote again that some of his enemies were, he knew, intriguing against him, and wishing to make money themselves in the baron's promising undertaking, but that the baron must please himself; that, for his part, he was an honorable man, and did not wish to push himself forward.
The consequence of all these communications was, that the baron grew familiar with the thought of building his factory with borrowed money. However, there was one thing that offended his pride, and that was the thought of Ehrenthal as a shareholder; so far the letter of the unknown Itzigveit had taken effect.
During the next month he was the prey of a miserable irresolution, and his wife, in silent sorrow, observed his excitement. He often went to town, and often inspected similar factories. True, the evidence thus collected was not encouraging, but this he attributed to dread of his competition, or to unfavorable details of site or management.
The month was over, and a letter came from Ehrenthal to beg for a decision, as some members of the company were impatient of further delay.
It was on the evening of a hot day that the baron wandered restlessly over his grounds. Heavy black, clouds gathered over an arch of yellow sky. The grasshoppers chirped far louder than their wont. The little birds twittered as if in apprehension of some coming evil. The swallows flew low, and darted by close to the baron, as if they did not see him. The wild flowers along the road hung down covered with dust. The shepherd who passed him looked gray and spectral in the lurid light.
The baron strolled on to the other side of the lake whence Anton had taken his last look of the lordly home. The castle now stood before him in a crimson glow; every window-pane seemed on fire, and the red roses lay like drops of blood upon the dark green climbers beneath. And nearer and nearer rolled on the black clouds, as if to shroud the bright pile from sight. Not a leaf stirred, not a ripple curled the water. The baron looked down into the water for some living thing, a spider, a dragon-fly, and started back from the pale face that met him, and which at first he did not recognize as his own. There was a sultry, boding, listless gloom over his heart, as over all nature.
Suddenly a strange shivering sound in the tree-tops—a signal to the storm. Again a pause, and then down rushed the mighty wind, bending the trees, curling the lake, driving the dust in wild whirls along. The bright light faded from the castle, and all the landscape toned down into bluish gray. Then forked lightning, and a long and solemn peal.
The baron drew himself up to his full height, and turned to meet the storm. Leaves and branches flew round him, big drops fell on his head, but he kept looking up at the clouds, and at the lightning that flashed from them, as though expecting a decision from on high.
Then came the galloping of a horse's feet, and a gay voice cried out, "Father!" A young cavalry officer had drawn up beside him.
"My son! my beloved son!" cried the baron, with a quivering voice; "you are come at the right time;" and he clasped the youth to his heart, and then held his hands and looked long into his face. All indecision, all mournful forebodings were over; he felt again as the head of his house should feel. Before him stood, blooming in youth and health, the future of his family. He took it as an omen, as the voice of fate to him in the hour of decision. "And now," said he, "come home; there is no further need for our remaining in the rain."
While the baroness drew her son down by her on the sofa, and never wearied of looking at and admiring him, the baron sat at the window and watched the torrents of rain. Brighter grew the flashes, and shorter the interval between them and the thunder's roll.
"Shut the window," said she; "the storm comes this way."
"It will do our house no harm," replied her husband, encouragingly. "The conductor stands firm on the roof, and shines through the clouds. And now look there where the clouds are blackest, behind those bright green ash-trees."
"I see the spot," returned she.
"Make up your mind," continued he, smiling, "always to have your beloved blue sky covered with gray smoke in that direction. Above those trees will rise the factory chimney."
"You mean to build?" inquired the baroness, anxiously.
"I do," was the reply. "The undertaking will involve much that will be disagreeable to you and me, and will require all my energies. If I venture upon it, it is not for our own sake, but our children's. I wish to secure this property to our family, and so to increase its return that the owner may be able amply to provide for the rest of his children, and yet leave the estate to the eldest son. After much painful deliberation, I have this day taken my resolve."