CHAPTER X.
She did not ask where he was leading her, and indeed spoke very little more, and scarcely betrayed by any sign whether she was listening to what he said, or was entirely absorbed in her own thoughts. He had begun by telling her, with a kind of forced liveliness, about all sorts of things that he thought would interest her; about the women in the countries on the other side of the ocean, their way of dressing, their songs and dances, and their ideas about love and men. As she made no reply to it all, he at last grew silent too. For a moment he felt a keen pang of pain, when, by the light of a street lamp, he caught sight of his own shadow and that of the girl swaying before them on the ground. How came he to constitute himself the knight of this poor creature, who clung so tightly to his arm that he realized well enough it would not be easy to shake her off again?
Six weeks ago, in another city--it was a summer night, too--in what a different mood had he returned home from a walk, and in what different company! But that was passed forever. Should he wander about in the desert all his life long in sackcloth and ashes, and turn his back upon all the happiness of existence? Who would be benefited by his sacrifice? And yet, why could he not suppress this obstinate pain, this remembrance of past days that sought to fill him with disgust at the lighthearted life of this "city of pleasure?"
He would not let his life be ruined by a spectre, he would carry his head high and sneer away all attacks of sentimentality. Laughing defiantly, to silence the low, far-off voice in his heart, he released his arm from the girl's, only to put it still tighter and more tenderly about her shoulder.
"Zenz," he said, "you are a darling little sweetheart. It would be a sin if you should not know where to lay your head. Do you see that house over there, with the lamp burning in front? That is where I live, and no one has a key to all the doors. How would it be if we should play hide-and-seek there for a time, with all this tiresome world?"
He merrily lifted her up from the ground, as if he would carry her over the street into the house; but she suddenly released herself and pointed anxiously to two riders, who were already so close upon them that they were forced to run to get by them.
"You little goose!" he laughed, "surely you are not afraid of two people on horseback, and they peaceful Sunday riders--"
The word died on his lips. As the light of the lantern fell on the faces of the two horsemen, he recognized in the one the lean profile and the black imperial of Lieutenant Schnetz, and in the other a little mustached gentleman, with a straw hat and a light riding-jacket.
No; it must be a mistake! How came he here? He had been deceived by a resemblance. It was only because he had so recently been thinking about past times, that their shadow had risen up before him. What could possibly bring the uncle of his betrothed to Munich, and in the company of the lieutenant--he who never left his niece?
And yet--as he looked he heard him say a word or two to Schnetz, and then there was a merry laugh.
The two rode unsuspectingly by, and long after their voices had died away, Felix stood gazing listlessly after them in the darkness without rousing himself from his thoughts.
It was he--Irene's uncle. But how did he come here? True, he had distant relatives in Munich; but it was years since he had left off all intercourse with them. Did he know, perhaps, that Felix was here in the city? Was that why he had come, and had he perhaps brought his ward with him? And even if it were all an accident--even the acquaintance with Schnetz--must not he inevitably learn from the latter that the fugitive had hidden himself here under the disguise of a sculptor's blouse?
"What is the matter?" asked the girl, at last growing impatient. "Do you know these gentlemen?"
"Ah! Yes," he answered, suddenly recalling where he was and with whom he was standing here in the street. With a deep sigh he brought himself back to the rôle of protector to this poor child. He stammered a meaningless remark about the breed of the horses and about skill in riding, and once more offered Zenz the arm he had withdrawn in his momentary confusion.
He led her thus across the street and into the house.
When they had reached his rooms, where the windows stood open toward the garden, he hastened to light a lamp. And then he forced himself, in his character of host, to show the now somewhat silent and shy girl the arrangement of his rooms, and all the curiosities that he had brought back from his travels. On the table lay a little Damascus dagger, which she took up and looked at curiously. He told her how a young Spanish lady had given it to him in Mexico. And then he remembered a bottle of sherry that was standing in his closet, and brought it and drew the cork.
"This is all the hospitality I can offer you," said he, still very absently, setting down a full glass before her.
She shook her head, and could not be prevailed upon even to taste the wine. And in all that she did she had grown very shy and timid, like a young swallow that has flown into an inhabited room, and keeps close pressed into a corner, where you can see the frightened heart beating under its feathered breast.
"Will you not look and see whether you can make yourself comfortable on the sofa?"
She did not answer, and sat still in a chair by the window, her hat still on her head, and her shawl wrapped closely about her.
"A beautiful night," she said softly, at last. "How far you can see from here over the city! You are very happy to be able to live in such a beautiful place."
"Well, you can share the happiness, then. Only make yourself quite at home. Are you tired?"
"Oh, no! but please don't trouble yourself about me. If you want to go to sleep, I will sit here and will not stir."
He came and stood beside her by the open window.
"Well, Zenz," he said, "you must not mind if I leave you alone now. The day has been so hot, the wretched music of that band and all sorts of other things have given me a furious headache, and I had better get to sleep. Good-night, child! If you want anything to amuse you, here are all manner of things--photographs and books of pictures. I will light you another candle. And now, make yourself comfortable. You can bolt the door from this side, and my housekeeper goes to market early in the morning, so that you are quite safe from her. And so, good-night!"
He touched her cheek lightly. She raised her face toward him, quietly and submissively, and looked at him half inquiringly, half afraid. Her lips, with their white teeth, were parted--yet now without a laugh--and her hands lay quietly folded in her lap. Yet, as he bent over her, he only touched the hair upon her forehead lightly with his lips.
"Good-night!" he said again.
Then he went into the adjoining room, and closed the door behind him.