CHAPTER XIX.

Evening had come, and throughout the house there was a feeling of disquiet and much busy movement. Baron Windeg had had another and a longer interview with his daughter in the afternoon, and directly afterwards the lady's maid had received orders to pack up her mistress's wardrobe. Herr Berkow had previously informed the servants that his wife would leave in the morning with her father for a stay of several weeks in the capital, and had desired that the necessary preparations should be made.

Of course, this piece of news at once made the round of all the officials' dwellings, and there, as at home, excited more uneasiness than surprise. It was clear as day that the master was only sending away her ladyship because he was convinced there would soon be "a row" on the works. He wished to know that she was in safety, and had probably himself sent for her father to fetch her away. Windeg was right. The pretext was so plausible, it occurred to nobody to doubt it.

At first, the strangely cold relations between the young married pair had been much discussed and commented on; but that had gradually ceased. It was known that the marriage had not been one of inclination, but as no quarrels or violent scenes were ever heard of--and, had there been any such, they could hardly have escaped the servants' notice--as Berkow was always politeness itself in his behaviour to his wife, and Eugenie tranquillity itself in her manner towards him, it was concluded that they must have become accustomed to and satisfied with each other: the usual result of these marriages of convenience. Their peculiar way of life seemed to be only what was practised in the great world.

In the higher circles of the capital it was usual to live thus apart and on a politely cool footing, and it could therefore be a matter of no surprise that the Baroness Windeg and the son of Berkow the millionaire should adopt the same course. That this journey, which had been preceded by no quarrel, should contain in it the germs of a final separation, was suspected by no one, and it struck no one as strange that the family did not spend that evening in company as usual.

Dinner was served for the two guests in the dining-room; her ladyship, being unwell, ordered tea in her boudoir, and then, to her maid's astonishment, left it untouched. As to Herr Berkow, he did not dine at all, but retired to his study where he had "business" to attend to, giving strict orders that he should not be disturbed.

Without all was pitch darkness, and here within the lamp on the writing-table shed its light on a man who, for more than an hour, had been pacing restlessly to and fro. Behind those closed doors the mask of indifference he had worn so long, was thrown off at last, and an outlet given to the storm silently raging within him. This was no longer the blase young heir, nor the resolute leader whose suddenly-aroused energy and presence of mind had impressed his subordinates with respect and inspired the officials with courage.

In this man's face were visible traces of a great passion, the extent of which had been unknown even to himself, until the moment when the object of it was about to be lost to him. That moment had now come, and, for a while, his passion claimed its right to be heard.

The pallor of his brow, his quivering lips and burning eyeballs told a tale of what that day's interview had cost him, though the Baron had asserted of it that he could not have supposed the matter would be so easily arranged.

It had come at last then, that much-dreaded day of separation! and it was well that another had stepped in and effected that which his will lacked strength to undertake. How often during the last fortnight had Arthur himself thought of using the pretext which the Baron now suggested to him, and so of shortening the torture of this life under a common roof; for that measured calm of exterior, belying at every moment, as it did, the inward glow at his heart, could no longer be sustained. It exceeded his powers of endurance! And yet he had taken no step.

It is an indisputable truth that what is unavoidable had best be done at once; but not every one who would, if necessary, courageously use the knife to a poisoned bodily wound, can pluck up resolution to tear a devouring passion from his breast. With it there comes irresistibly the dread of losing the much loved object.

They had been long separated, these two, but, at least, he could still behold that fair face with the dark, speaking eyes, and the proud and delicate features which had grown so grave of late, and then there came moments of bliss, fleeting as lightning, which made amends for whole days and weeks of bitterness; such as that time in the forest the day before yesterday, when, with evident anxiety, she had pressed her horse close to his, when she had trembled in his arms as he lifted her from her saddle.... It might be cowardly, but he could not voluntarily renounce all this before it was demanded of him. And now the demand was made!

The door was gently opened, and a servant appeared hesitating on the threshold.

"What is it?" exclaimed Arthur. "Did I not give orders"----

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man timidly.

"I knew you did not wish to be disturbed, but as her ladyship herself"----

"Who?"

"Her ladyship is here herself, and wishes"----

The man had no time to finish. To his astonishment, his master tore the door from his hand and hurried past him into the ante-room. There he saw his wife, apparently waiting; in an instant he was at her side.

"You have yourself announced? What unnecessary etiquette!"

"You wished to see no one, I hear, and Frank told me the order applied to every one without exception."

"Arthur frowned, and turned to the servant, who said apologetically,

"I really did not know what to do. It is the first time my lady has come here."

He stammered these words in his confusion, meaning them as an excuse and nothing more, but Eugenie turned quickly away, and the reprimand on her husband's lips remained unspoken.

The man was right after all; he had received no instructions for such an exceptional case as that of his mistress paying a visit to his master's room. It was truly the first time she had been there. Hitherto, they had only met in her boudoir, at table, or in the drawing-rooms. The present visit might well create surprise among the servants.

Arthur signed to the man to go, and came back into the study with his wife. She hesitated a little on the threshold.

"I wished to speak to you," she said, in a low voice.

"I am quite at your service."

He closed the door and pushed forward an armchair, inviting her by a gesture to be seated. These few minutes had sufficed to give him back all that self-control which he had so constantly exercised during the past few weeks. He spoke and moved in a cool measured way, as though showing politeness to a strange lady in a strange salon.

"Will you not sit down?"

"Thank you, I shall not detain you long."

There was something shy and uncertain in her manner which contrasted oddly with her usual composure. Perhaps in these rooms she felt ill at ease, or perhaps she found it hard to open the conversation.

Arthur did not come to her assistance. He saw that she twice tried to find words and failed, but he stood at his table silent and constrained, and waited.

"My father has told me of his talk with you," she began, "and also of its result."

"So I expected, and--excuse me, Eugenie--it was just on that account I was surprised to see you here. I thought you were occupied with the preparations for your departure."

These words were probably intended to counteract any impression his agitation at seeing her might have produced, and they had the desired result. Some seconds clasped before she continued.

"You had already spoken of my journey to the servants in the afternoon?"

"Yes, I thought you would wish it, and it seemed best that the order for the necessary preparation should come from me. Had you thought of introducing the subject in any other way? If so, I regret that I was not earlier made acquainted with your views."

His tone was frigid, and Eugenie felt as though an icy breath had been wafted over to her. Involuntarily she retreated a step.

"I have no observation to make, only it surprised me that my departure, the date of which had once been fixed, should now be hastened on. You had, I thought, reasons which would have induced you to keep to our arrangement."

"I? On this point I yielded to a wish, to a request of yours. Baron Windeg gave me to understand, at least, that it was so."

Eugenie started. She drew a long breath of relief, and all shyness and uncertainty vanished, as though, with this one answer, her courage had wholly returned to her.

"I thought so! My father went too far, Arthur; he spoke in my name, when he was only setting forth his own wishes. I have come now to clear up this misunderstanding, and to tell you that I shall not go, at least not until I hear from your lips that you wish me to do so."

Eugenie watched him with breathless attention, as though striving to read in his eyes what was passing in his mind; but they were downcast still, and her words produced no visible effect. His features relaxed once as she spoke of a misunderstanding, or so she fancied, but the change in him was but momentary, and, after a pause of a few seconds, he replied coldly and composedly as ever: "You will not go? And why not?" She stepped up to him and said resolutely: "You told me yourself the other day that all your future is involved in the coming struggle. I know since our last meeting with Hartmann that it will be fought out to the uttermost, and that your position is even more critical than you will allow. At such a time I can and will not leave you, it would be cowardly, and" ...

"You are very generous," interrupted Arthur with ill-concealed bitterness. "But to perform an act of generosity, some one must be found willing to accept it, and I certainly am not willing to accept yours."

Eugenie's hand grasped the chair near her, she pressed her fingers tightly into its velvet cushions, as though in repressed anger.

"Not?"

"No. The plan was of your father's making, so be it. He is doubtless right in requiring that his daughter, who will shortly be his altogether again, should be placed in safety and protected from those rough scenes and excesses which, in all probability, may take place here. I am quite of his opinion, and I agree fully to to-morrow's separation."

She raised her head and said with spirit,

"And I only agreed to it when I thought it was your wish. I cannot yield in this matter to my father's will alone. I have taken upon myself the duties of your wife, in the sight of the world at least, and, so far, I shall fulfil them. They command me not to desert you basely in the face of that which threatens you, but to remain at your side until the worst has been tided over, and the date originally fixed for our parting has come. Then I will go, and not before."

"Not if I expressly ask you to do so?"

"Arthur!"

He stood half turning from her, and crushing in his hand a paper he had mechanically taken up from his bureau. The self-control he had regained by so violent an effort was not proof against that look and tone.

"I have begged you once already not to play at generosity with me. I have no liking for such scenes. Duties! It may be the duty of a woman, who has willingly given her husband both hand and heart, to stay by him and share his misfortune, perhaps his ruin, as she has shared his prosperity. That is not our case. We have no duties to each other, for we never had any rights one upon the other. The only thing which I could offer you in our compulsory union was the possibility of dissolving it; it has been dissolved from the moment that we decided upon a separation. That is my answer to the offer you have made me."

Eugenie's dark eyes were still fixed on his face. The tell-tale lightning-like flash, which at times seemed to discover the unknown depths of his being, came not to-day, and yet to-day of all days did she long to conjure it up at any cost.

Whatever she may have seen or guessed by it--and something she must have divined, or her proud spirit would never have so far bent as to allow her to come hither with her proposal--he would not grant her the triumph of again beholding it or of convincing herself of its true meaning.

He remained perfect master of himself, and left her a prey to torturing doubt. Her woman's instinct had spoken unhesitatingly when Ulric Hartmann's look had glowed upon her yesterday up on the forest heights, and, with the knowledge of what lay behind, horror of it had seized her as well. Yet she had been quite calm then, through all the danger with which she was threatened by an insane passion.

Here, where there was nothing to fear, she shook from head to foot in a fever of emotion, and a thick veil seemed to fall on all around, just as the brown eyes opposite were veiled before her. The inward voice was silent now, and yet at this moment she would have given her life to have acquired a certainty.

"You should not make it so hard for me to stay." Her voice betrayed something of the perplexity within her; it wavered between pride and soft submission. "I had much to fight against and much to conquer before I came here. You know it, Arthur, and should spare me."

The words were almost supplicating, but Arthur had reached such a pitch of irritation, he could no longer understand this. The bitter rage, which had taken possession of him and now shook his whole frame, gave its own interpretation to her words, and he answered sharply.

"I do not doubt that the Baroness Windeg is making an immense sacrifice in resolving to bear a hated name yet three months longer, and to remain at the side of a man she so thoroughly despises, notwithstanding that immediate freedom is offered her. I had to hear once how repugnant both are to you, and can judge therefore of what the victory over yourself must have cost you."

"You are reproaching me with the conversation we had on the night of our arrival," said Eugenie in a low tone. "I ... I had forgotten it!"

His eyes blazed now, but not with the light she had sought and hoped for. He was too distant from her, too full of hostility, for that.

"Really? And you do not ask whether I have forgotten it. I was forced to listen then, but that was the limit of what I could bear. Do you think a man will allow himself to be trampled in the dust with impunity, as I was by you on that evening, and then rise from it without further ado when it pleases you to alter your opinion? I was not quite so miserably weak as you imagined; from that time forth I was not weak at all. That hour was decisive for me, but it was decisive for our future also. Whatever may befall me, I will bear it alone. During the last few weeks I have learnt so much, I shall be able to go through with that too, but"--he drew himself up with a glow of pride--"but the woman who on the day after our wedding repulsed me with such haughty contempt, without condescending to ask whether the husband to whom she had given her hand were really as culpable as she believed him, who received my assurance, my given word, that she was in error as the ready pretext of a liar, who, to my question as to whether it might not be worth while to try and redeem so lost a man, flung at me that contemptuous 'No'--that woman shall not stay by me; I will not have her at my side while I am fighting for all my future in this world. I will stand alone!"

He turned away from her in his wrath. Eugenie stood overwhelmed and speechless. Great as had been the change in her husband of late, she had never before seen him roused to passion, and at this moment his violence almost frightened her. By the storm, now bursting over her head, she could measure all that had lain hidden behind the indifference which had so revolted her, all that had smouldered within him for months together, until at last it drove him out of that apathy which had become a second nature.

Ah yes, that cold disdainful No! She knew now better than any one how unjust she had been to him, and now that she saw how that word of hers had mortified him, she might have allowed the present hour to make amends for all the evil the other had wrought, if only those last unfortunate words had remained unspoken. They touched her pride, and, when once that was called into play, all clear judgment and reflection were at an end, even though she knew herself to be in the wrong.

"You will stand alone," she repeated. "Well, I will not impose my presence on you. I wished to convince myself that my father's plan was yours also. I see it is so, and therefore I shall leave."

She turned to go. At the door she stopped a moment. It seemed to her that, as she touched the handle, he made a rapid movement as though about to spring after her; but it must have been an illusion, for, when she looked round, he was still standing at the table, deadly pale indeed, but with that answer of hers, that harsh inexorable "No," clearly written on his face and entire bearing.

Eugenie summoned up all her courage for one farewell speech.

"We shall only see each other to-morrow in my father's presence, and never again perhaps after that, so ... Good-bye, Arthur."

"Good-bye," said he hoarsely.

The door closed behind her; she was gone. The last few moments they could spend alone together had fled; the last bridge between them had broken down. Neither had been willing to yield an inch; neither would speak the word which alone had power to help and save, the one word which would have made good everything, even had the breach between them been ten times as wide. Pride had won the day and sealed their fate.

Grey and gloomy the morning dawned over the hills. In the house all was stirring at an unaccustomed hour. It was necessary to start early, so that the travellers might reach the nearest railway junction in time for the train which should take them on to the capital the same evening. At present there was no one in the breakfast-room but Conrad von Windeg. The Baron was still in his apartment, Eugenie was not visible either, and the young officer appeared to be very impatiently waiting for something or some one. He had paced up and down, had stepped out on to the balcony, and finally flung himself into an arm-chair, but he jumped up quickly as Arthur Berkow came in.

"Oh, you are here already!" said the latter, greeting his youthful brother-in-law with the cool politeness usual between them.

Conrad hurried up to him.

"I wanted to say a few words to you; but, good Heavens! what is the matter with you? Are you ill?"

"I?" said Arthur quietly. "What can you be thinking of? I am perfectly well."

"Are you?" returned Conrad with a look at the pale drawn features which told of a sleepless night. "I should not have thought so!"

"I am not used to get up so early, it always makes one look only half awake. I am afraid you will have a bad journey. There is a terrible fog this morning."

He went up to the window to look out at the weather, and also to escape from his companion's unpleasant physiognomical observations. Conrad was not to be put off so. He stepped up to his brother-in-law's side.

"I wanted to be down first," began he, hesitating a little, "because I should like to say a few words to you while we are by ourselves, Arthur."

Berkow turned round, surprised as much by the mode of address as by the wish expressed. Conrad had never before called him by his Christian name. He had hitherto followed his father's example and employed the formal "Herr Berkow."

"Well?" said Arthur, surprised indeed, but friendly.

The young officer was evidently divided between doubt and confusion on the one hand, and some unexpressed feeling on the other.

After the pause of a minute or so, he raised his frank handsome face and looked at his brother-in-law earnestly.

"We have been unjust to you, Arthur, and I perhaps more than the rest. I was indignant at the marriage and at the compulsion we had been subjected to, and I honestly confess I have hated you with all my heart ever since the day you married my sister. I found out yesterday that we had been mistaken in our opinion of you, and so it is all up with my hatred. I am sorry, very sorry, and--and that is what I wanted to say. Will you shake hands, Arthur?"

He held out his hand heartily. Arthur grasped it.

"I thank you, Con," he said, simply.

"Well, thank God, that is over. I could not sleep for it all night!" exclaimed the young fellow, greatly relieved. "And, believe me, my father does you justice too. He won't own it to you, I daresay, but I know it is in his mind."

A fleeting smile crossed Arthur's face, but it did not clear his brow or bring a sparkle to his eyes. A heavy shadow lay on both as he answered quietly,

"I am glad of it. So we shall not part as enemies."

"Oh, about the journey," broke in Conrad, hastily. "My father is still up in his room, and Eugenie is all by herself in hers. Will you not go in and speak to her?"

"What for?" asked Arthur in surprise. "The Baron may come in at any moment, and Eugenie will hardly"----

"I will stand before the door and not let any one in. I will manage to keep my father here until you are ready."

Arthur's face flushed under the other's earnest gaze, but he shook his head gravely.

"No, Con, that is not necessary. I spoke to your sister yesterday evening, and we said all there was to say."

"About her leaving?"

"About her leaving."

The young officer looked disappointed, but he had no time to press his offer, for the Baron's step was just then heard outside, and immediately afterwards he came in.

Conrad retreated into the back ground with an air of vexation, murmuring to himself as he did so:

"But the thing is not on the square, for all that."

The inevitable meeting at breakfast was over, helped through by the Baron's formal politeness, and by the constant presence of the servants; and now the carriage drove up to the terrace below. The gentlemen took their overcoats, and the maid brought Eugenie's hat and shawl. Arthur offered his arm to his wife to lead her down, for the appearance of a perfectly good understanding between them must be kept up to the last.

Grey and gloomy the morning had dawned over the hills; grey and gloomy it descended now into the valleys below. Before the windows a sea of mist ebbed and flowed, and here within doors the cold frosty morning light streaming already into the great rooms gave to them a weird and desolate look. The splendour of their decorations seemed suddenly to have lost all lustre and colour, now that they were about to be left empty once more--very empty would they be, for their young mistress was leaving them without thought of return.

Conrad noticed that his sister had precisely the same look on her face as that which just before had startled him on Arthur's; but, beyond this, he could discover nothing unusual in their appearance or behaviour. They were both fully capable of playing the parts they had undertaken, although their features betrayed that the effort to do so had cost them a sleepless night. Perhaps this icy composure of theirs was not all assumed.

When a storm has spent itself, there follows that dead calm which so often helps us with relative ease over the most dreaded passages in life. It casts a veil over the soul, and this veil obscures from it all clear consciousness of the decisive moment. The struggle and combating subside into a dull prevailing sense of pain, through which, now and again, darts a fierce sudden pang, making the sufferer reflect as to the reason of his anguish.

Eugenie, leaning on her husband's arm, went down the stairs without really knowing why or whither they were going. As in a dream she saw the carpeted steps over which her dress rustled, the tall oleander trees standing in the hall, the faces of the servants bowing as she went by. It all passed before her in an indistinct shadowy way.

Then all at once something sharp and almost painful smote her forehead; it was the cold morning air, and she shuddered as she went out into it. Before her stood the carriage ready to bear her away; she saw this and nothing else, for terraces, flower-beds and fountains, all had vanished, and the pale morning twilight gleamed only on a thick curtain of vapour. Once again the eyes of husband and wife met, but they spoke no word to each other. The cloud lay heavy and thick between them too.

Then Eugenie felt that a hand, cold as ice, was laid in hers, heard some distant polite farewell speech, the words of which she did not comprehend; but it was Arthur's voice which spoke, and, at that sound, the sharp stinging pain darted once more through her dull dream. After that came the stamping of horses' hoofs and the roll of wheels, and away they went out into the faintly illumined mists which surged and swelled around them, as on that spring day when, up on the forest heights, the separation had been decided on, in the hour of which the old legends say: "What parts then, parts for all eternity."