CHAPTER III

A cosy chat with Tilling—We misunderstand each other—The attachment grows—Countess Griesbach—Jealousy overcome—Tilling goes away—A touching letter—Death of Tilling’s mother.

The dinner-party broke up at eight o’clock although my father insisted on detaining them. I politely urged a cup of tea, but each had his excuse and felt obliged to go. Tilling and Bresser had also risen to take leave, but were easily persuaded to stay. Father and the doctor were soon seated at the card-table, while Baron Tilling joined me by the fire.

“I have a scolding for you, Baron. After the first visit you forgot the way to my house.”

“You never asked me.”

“I told you, Saturdays.”

“Pardon me, Countess, if I find regular reception days abominable. To meet a lot of strange people, bow to the hostess, sit a minute, hear the weather discussed, meet a stray acquaintance, venture a stupid remark; a desperate attempt to start a conversation with the hostess is interrupted by a new arrival, who starts the weather talk again, and then a fresh bunch comes in—perhaps a mother with four marriageable daughters—you give up your chair, and finally in weariness take leave and go. No, Countess, my talent for society is weak at best.”

“I meet you nowhere. Perhaps you hate people, and are a bit misanthropic. No, I do not believe that, for I conclude from your words that you love all men.”

“Hardly that; it is humanity as a whole I love, but not every man, not the coarse, worthless, self-seeking. I pity them because their education and circumstances made them unworthy of love.”

“Education and circumstances? Does not the character depend on heredity?”

“Our circumstances are also a matter of inheritance.”

“Then you do not hold a man responsible for his badness, and therefore not to be hated?”

“The one does not always depend on the other. A man is often to be condemned, though he is not responsible. You also are not responsible for your beauty, and yet one may admire——”

“Baron Tilling,” I said reproachfully, “we began talking seriously, and suddenly you treat me like a compliment-seeking society miss.”

“Pardon me; I only intended to use the illustration closest at hand.”

An awkward pause followed. Then I said abruptly:—

“Why did you become a soldier, Baron Tilling?”

“Your question shows that you have looked into my mind. It was not I, Frederick Tilling, thirty-nine years old, who has seen three campaigns, who chose the profession. It was the ten-year-old little Fritz, who spent his babyhood playing with lead soldiers and toy war-horses. It was this boy, whose father, a decorated general, and whose lieutenant uncle were always asking, ‘What are you going to be, my boy?’ And the boy would always answer, ‘A real soldier with a real sword and a live horse!’”

“My son had a box of leaden soldiers given him to-day, but he shall never have them. Tell me, why did you not leave the army after the little Fritz had grown into the big Frederick? Had not the army become hateful to you?”

“To call it hateful is saying too much. The condition of affairs which requires that men shall enter the cruel duties of war, that I hate. But if such conditions are inevitable, I cannot hate the men who fulfil these duties conscientiously. If I left the service, would it diminish war? Another would hazard his life in my place. Why not I?”

“Is there not some better way for you to serve your fellows?”

“Perhaps. But I have been taught nothing thoroughly except the arts of war. I think a man can do good and be useful in almost any surrounding, and find opportunity to lift the burden of those dependent upon him. I appreciate the respect the world holds me in because of my position. My career has been quite fortunate, my comrades love me, and I enjoy my success. I have no estate, and as a civilian I could not help even myself. So why should I consider abandoning the military service?”

“Because killing people is repulsive to you.”

“Yes, but in self-defence the responsibility for killing ceases. War is often called murder on a big scale, but the soldier never feels himself a murderer. Naturally the atrocities of the battle-field are revolting to me, and fill me with pain and disgust even as a seaman might suffer during a storm. Still a brave sailor is undaunted and ventures the sea again.”

“Yes, if he must. But must there be war?”

“That is another question. The individual should do his duty, and that gives him strength and even pleasure.”

And so we chatted in a low tone, that we might not disturb the card-players. Neither would our conversation have suited the others, for Tilling told of the horrors he experienced in war, and I told him of my reading of Buckle, who argued that the war spirit would die out as civilisation advanced. I felt Tilling’s confidence as he displayed his inner feelings to me, and a certain current of sympathy was established between us.

“What are you two plotting and whispering about?” my father suddenly called out.

“I am telling the Countess old war stories.”

“Oh, she likes that; she has heard them from her childhood.”

We resumed our whispered talk. Suddenly Tilling fastened his gaze on me, while speaking in a sympathetic voice. I thought of the princess, felt a sudden stab, and turned my head away.

“Why did your face change, Countess? Did my words offend you?”

I assured him it was nothing, but the conversation became rather strained. At last I rose and looked at the clock, and bade my father goodnight. Tilling offered to take me downstairs.

“I fear I have offended you, Countess,” he said, lifting me in my carriage.

“On my honour, no.”

He pressed my hand hard to his lips, “When may I call?”

“On Saturday——”

“That means not at all.” He bowed and stepped back.

I wanted to speak again, but the carriage door was shut. I should have liked to cry tears of spite like a vexed child, to think I had been so cold to one whose warm sympathy I had so enjoyed. Oh, that hateful princess! Was it jealousy? Then it dawned on me with a burst of astonishment—I was in love with Tilling! “In love, love, love,” answered the carriage wheels. “You are in love,” the street lamps flashed at me. “You love him,” breathed the scent of my glove, as I pressed the spot he kissed to my lips.

Next day in the red book I denied it all. I enjoyed a sympathetic clever man, but that is far from falling in love. I would meet him the next time quite calmly, and find pleasure in conversing with him. How could I have been so disturbed yesterday? To-day I could laugh at my silliness.

The same day I called on my girlhood friend, Lori Griesbach, from whose