He had been murmuring the last words in a scarcely audible tone; his lips were trembling; Alexandra also was too much moved to be able to speak. Thus they had silently reascended the verandah-steps and moved on--unintentionally--to the open door which led to the card-room. Alexandra paused, uttering a slight exclamation.
"What is it, My Lady?"
She made no answer, but drew her arm swiftly out of his, and hurried away from him into the card-room. Bertram did not follow her; amazed and hurt that she could so suddenly leave him, attracted it would seem by the large oval table, around which there stood a fairly large group of gentlemen, either staking money themselves or watching the progress of the game which was evidently some game of chance, with Lotter acting as banker. Bertram anyhow saw that hated person sitting at the head of the table and dealing the cards, and next moment he heard that loud voice of his, which he disliked so much, exclaiming: "Faites votre jeu, messieurs!" Alexandra had advanced to the table as though she meant to join in the game, and Bertram turned away in grave displeasure. How could he have full confidence in a being, who was accustomed to obey every movement of a restless heart, every temptation of a light-winged fancy? No, no! If he was to resign, Erna's happiness must be anchored in firmer ground!
He leaned against the door of the hall in which the couples were taking their places for the Lancers. Erna and her partner were standing but a few yards off. She was conversing with him in her usual, measured way; he could watch every movement of those beloved lips, when she spoke or when, with a fleeting smile, she answered a jesting word of her partner's. Her face was partly turned in his direction; he thought every moment that she would turn round completely and look at him. I "felt that some one was looking at me," she had said on that memorable morning, when he found her writing beneath the plantain-tree. Now she did not feel it. What had broken the magic spell of his glance? Was it because his love was no longer unselfish? Because a fierce wild longing seized him to press the slender white-robed form in his arms, to cover the sweet lips with wild kisses? No, no--it was not that! It was this! her heart no longer knew anything of him. It was this: new and younger gods had moved inside the temple, and the old one's might now depart ingloriously and hide their disgrace in the darkness of night!
The music struck up, Erna held out her hand to her partner and floated across to the other side of the hall; and Bertram hurried away, down the verandah steps, away into the garden.
Then he wandered about aimlessly, muttering wild words, wringing his hands despairingly. The deserted garden, with the coloured lamps swinging in the night wind, some dead, some dying, seemed a fit image of his wasted and desolate life; whilst the strains of mirthful music wafted across to him in mighty volumes from the brightly illumined mansion-house, and the sounds of singing and rejoicing that came up to him from the village below, seemed to mock the solitary self-tormentor. He felt that this could not go on, if he did not wish to go mad; he asked himself, pressing his hands to his throbbing temples, whether he was not mad already? Whether he was not the ill-omened victim, pursued by the relentless furies of jealousy, pursued until he breaks down--and to be spared only by voluntary resignation? Yet you surely can but resign what you own, what--if need be--you could defend; the possession of which you could dispute anyhow with your adversary to the last gasp. Despair does not resign, it only lets go what can no longer be held. What had he done to hold Erna? What was he doing at this very moment, except again making room for a rival, for whom, as it was, the stars in their courses were fighting, one who had youth and the privilege of an earlier attachment on his side? No, he deserved to be conquered, he who neither had the strength to conquer himself, nor the courage to join issue with the rival. Let the decision come then!
XX.
Bertram stood on the lowest step of the terrace when this decision struggled forth from his tempest-tossed soul, that could no longer bear the torment. A small steep stair led upward from this place, at the very extremity of the garden, without any landing-places; he hurried up, taking two and three steps at a time. He had reached the top; next he turned to the right, across the lawn, in the direction of the verandah, when suddenly the music was silent within the hall, and instantly the dancers came forth from the many doors to cool and refresh themselves in the balmy night air. He did not care to meet the merry, motley multitude. Here and there isolated couples were descending the stairs. He withdrew into the darkness of the shrubberies surrounding the winter garden. It was lighted up; and, as far as he could judge by a glance through the windows, was deserted; he would pass through it, and so regain, unseen and undisturbed, the rooms where the others were.
He entered. Between palm-trees and many broad-leaved plants there was a narrow passage, bisected in the centre by a shorter and broader one. Where the two passages met, towered a huge palm, set in a tub of mighty dimensions, and all but touching the glass-dome above. Behind, within the enclosure of the wall, was a small recess, furnished with dainty iron garden-chairs and with a table.
This, he knew, was a favourite spot of Erna's, where, on rainy days, she was wont to spend hours. He could not resist the temptation of visiting the spot which on her account was sacred to him. He sank into one of the chairs, put his folded hands to his head, and let it rest upon the little table. As he sat thus in the attitude of one praying, his thoughts became a prayer: and he prayed that Fate would now determine his lot, now and here, be it bliss or be it--death. He was willing to submit to either, in all humility, knowing himself subject to the heavenly powers that would deal with him by their own inscrutable will.