Part 17

Leo had bent down to impress a light kiss of gratitude on the hand which had been extended to him in forgiveness, and now he turned hurriedly away from her to Frau von Sembritzky, whom he greeted with the noisiest effusion. Thus there was no reason why he should remark that Felicitas, who was half fainting, was led from the room by Frau von Stolt.

The ladies, delighted from the bottom of their hearts that the painful situation had been so well got over, also seemed as if they saw and heard nothing; while Leo broke into exclamations of amazement at the sight of little Meta Podewyl--had he not carried her pickaback?--promoted to the dignity of a married woman.

The gentle little person, who in her lilac silk gown was enthroned so prettily among the older ladies, smiled, feeling shy and flattered. Together with the others sitting at the "young girls'" table, she had gushed and dreamed about the fugitive. It was said that it was she who had composed the verses of the chorale, which every Sunday during the confirmation time had been passed round amongst them, and in which "foreign lands" rhymed with "sacred bands," and "home love" with "pure dove." But then Hans von Sembritzky had shown he was in earnest, and she had suddenly forgot her prayers for the absent hero.

Frau von Neuhaus, who had designs on Elly for her son, and so considered herself almost as one of the family, caught Leo by the arm, and led him over to the young people's table, where some who had proved less faithless were gathered.

The young creatures, six of them altogether, stood up and ranged themselves in a half-circle. They were all blushing, and all cast their eyes on their plates. There was not one in this bevy of girls who had not languished for him since she was twelve years old, who had not felt a romantic thrill at the story of the fatal duel, and the flight from his fatherland of the much-admired murderer. There were two younger sisters Podewyl, then Trude Krassow, Susi Neuhaus, and two bourgeois maidens with whom they were compassionately intimate.

Leo's eye rested with pleasure on the pale-golden and reddish-golden heads of the little crew who stood with beating hearts smiling at him. He was elated that the game he played was turning out so well. An ecstasy of success rushed over him, giving his spirits wings and doubling his capabilities of enjoyment. He squeezed each of the soft rosy hands, and gazed with the rapture of a privileged flame into each pair of shining eyes.

He had quite forgotten Felicitas; and then he took his leave of them in order to join the gentlemen of the party. As he followed the servant across the gravel path of the garden, and drew near the group of young cavaliers, he became aware that, amidst loud laughter, they were shooting at small yellowish quoits, which at every shot flew into the air and mostly fell to pieces before the bullet had even touched them.

These quoits were thin slices of Gruyere cheese (somewhat crumbly from the dry air), which with other good things had been supplied for the young gentlemen's six-o'clock light refreshment, but as the appetite necessary for their enjoyment was lacking, they had been turned to another purpose.

Bets were concluded, books made, forfeits paid, false starts announced just as if they were on the racecourse.

Leo stepped into the circle, which respectfully opened to admit him. He belonged to an older generation than these scatter-brains, the oldest of whom had not passed the first third of his twenties. In consequence he did not "know" any of them, and had indeed scarcely set eyes on them since they had left school. After they had greeted him with astonished respect, a laughing babel of voices began to explain to him the newly invented sport.

He took them in one by one when they were not looking. So it was in the society of these cheese-shooters that she had sought and found enjoyment? How infamous! and, what was more, how ridiculous!

Lothair Stolt, as son of the house, invited him to take part in the game; he himself offered to give up one of the favourites, which had already been heavily backed, because it was certain not to fall to pieces before it was shot at.

Leo expressed his thanks, and said that he was a novice in this art.

"But you can shoot?" asked the young master of Zesslingen.

"A little, dear Benno."

They scouted his modesty. Every one knew that he used to be the first shot in the country; and who could say what fresh skill he might have acquired on the other side of the ocean?

"We won't hear any excuse," some one cried from the little crowd.

Leo felt in the humour for the prank. It was an opportunity, too, of reading a timely lesson to some who might later perhaps be disposed to make themselves objectionable.

"The revolver was our speciality over there," he said, looking round.

"We have one! We have one!" they shouted in chorus.

Lothair handed him a magnificent pistol with long blue gleaming barrels.

"But he must shoot at the cheese," called out Herr von Zesslingen, who, since he had drunk the three gallons, was looked upon as an authority amongst them.

"Just as you please," replied Leo.

The favourite, a fine slice of porous, golden-yellow cheese about the size of a plate, with firm rind, was solemnly handed to him. He carried it between two fingers to the mark, which was about fifteen paces from the shooting-place, and placed it on two of the pegs by which the circular target was fastened to the table.

"It must fall directly it is hit," he said.

The youths exchanged glances. One didn't need to go to South America to learn to hit an object the size of a man's hand at a distance of fifteen paces. The first shot was fired. The slice did not stir, and surprise increased.

At intervals of several seconds two other shots followed. The slice stood fast as if it had taken root on the mark.

"Will the gentlemen satisfy themselves that the target has not been struck?" said Leo.

"It seems pretty clear that it hasn't," replied Lothair, feeling that he might now safely venture on a little impertinence.

"All the same, I invite inspection."

Shaking their heads, the little group trotted over to the target. It seemed almost as if he had been pulling their legs. But not a trace of the last shots was to be found on the broad surface of the marking-table. The bullets must have stuck in the air. Only when Leo knocked over the slice of cheese with the nail of his little finger was the mystery solved. The slice had three pores larger than the rest. A bullet had penetrated through each of these almost without grazing the side.

They gave vent to an exclamation of awed amazement, for here was a man capable of choosing the very pore in his enemy's skin that he might fancy in which to lodge a bullet. Soon afterwards the older gentlemen came over from the stable-yard, Ulrich amongst them. When he beheld his friend laughing and joking with the youngsters, he stiffened and withdrew a few steps, looking almost shocked. Before he could open his mouth, Leo was at his side.

"Silence!" he exhorted.

Then he shook heartily the hands stretched out to him on all sides. So soon as it was over he led Ulrich aside.

"We must keep up the deception," he said to him, "and seem as if we had not met since the day at the station."

"Why these hole-and-corner resources?" he asked, mystified.

"Because Felicitas is cleverer than we two put together," he answered, with cynical exuberance.

"She planned this?"

"Yes, of course."

"And wrote to you?"

"Equally of course."

"And then?"

Leo saw that he could not rise to the task of convincing his friend.

"Let her explain to you herself," he said, getting red and turning away.

On the way home Ulrich learnt what he wanted to know. Rocking herself to and fro, half-crying, half-laughing like a child, who fears a scolding and hopes to turn it off by being funny, Felicitas told him of the stroke of genius, which had resulted in Frau von Stolt interceding to bring about the reconciliation for her own and her guests' sake, which otherwise she would never have countenanced or forgiven. A dispensation of Providence had drawn the good woman into the fray, to convince her, even while she resisted, of the holiness of such a work of love.

Ulrich listened, still vexed. "Why did you not tell me what you intended to do?" he asked.

"Because I wouldn't have my dear, good, noble husband mixed up in it," she replied.

He shook his head. He could not understand, even yet, how the two could have lent themselves to such scheming.

"It was all done for your sake," she whispered, leaning against him tenderly.

That night Ulrich spent many hours walking up and down his room.

"They lie for me; they deceive for me. For me they reverse all the laws of the human heart. Can such love as that lead to any good?"

And when he had put out the light, and stared into the darkness with searching eyes, the thought flashed suddenly across him--

"This reconciliation ought not to be. It is not moral."

XVIII

It was too late now to turn back. And however much Ulrich Kletzingk might feel himself master of his will, he recognised the fact that he would not be able to bear turning back. He clung to the repossession of Leo with the whole strength of his passionate heart, which could never do enough to show its love. The greater the sacrifice which had been made for him, the more jealously he prized the value of what had been regained.

For the most part, things went on in their old routine. Leo was seldom able to come over, and then for only a few hours at a time, for at Halewitz the oats were not yet disposed of. When he did come he was in gay spirits, but in his solicitude for Ulrich there mingled a nervousness that was altogether alien to his nature.

The first time that he had made his way over and looked his friend in the eyes, his heart-beats rose to his throat, for he felt as if some misfortune had happened, and as if either anger or pain blazed at him from Ulrich's face. Then he seized the thin, transparent hands, which the summer sun had powdered with a heap of freckles, and as he pressed them felt thankful that his alarm had been uncalled for. But still it could not be disguised that something in their friendship had been severed--something which could not be cemented or grow together again.

Their mutual love had not lessened, their confidence in each other was the same, but a shadow crouched between them, and rose its full height when neither was on his guard. Ulrich too was conscious of this. The more fervidly he clung to the refound friend, the clearer he saw that the manner of their intercourse had altered. Hardly perceptible, of course. No third person would have noticed it, but it could not escape Ulrich, whose sensitive organism longed for the sunshine of harmless gaiety. Leo's jokes were rarer. He weighed his words, and sometimes stopped short in the middle of a sentence as if considering whether what he was going to say would hurt his friend's feelings.

"Don't treat me as if I were a brittle article," he besought him once. "You know I can stand a puff of wind, and you used not to spoil me."

"Perhaps not," replied Leo, wrinkling his forehead; "the devil knows how it is that I have suddenly got into this mincing way."

After the manner of sturdy country squires, Leo, in old days, had delighted to crack broad jests, which though in themselves distasteful to Ulrich, he had let pass with a smile, feeling that no side of human nature ought to be ignored.

It occurred to him now that Leo avoided all reference to sexual subjects, and had ceased to retail gallant adventures.

"Have you secretly gone over to the monks?" Ulrich asked once.

"Why?"

"Because women don't seem to exist for you now."

"A time comes when one gets sick of that sort of thing," Leo answered, and quickly turned the conversation into another channel.

A vague feeling of shyness kept him at a distance from the castle. He much preferred to get his friend out into the fields and plantations where they would ride silently side by side.

But while they were trying, out of doors, to enjoy once more the old communion of interests, which had so long been sacrificed, Felicitas, hidden behind the curtains of one of the balcony windows, cast wistful eyes after them.

She had no just cause for complaining of Leo. He scarcely ever omitted at the end of his visits to seek a short interview with her. And when time would not allow of this courtesy, she received through Ulrich his greetings and apologies. His manner towards her was uniformly natural and kind. There was something in it of brotherly camaraderie, half respectful, half facetious; and the pressure of his hand, and the expression in his eyes, betokened sincere and warm friendship. In short--she ought to have been content.

Nevertheless it dispirited and hurt her that no look or syllable of his ever recalled what she had once been to him. It would seem as if not the slightest trace had been left in his memory of that mad, blissful time, vivid pictures of which lived on in hers; for despite all pain, she could not banish them. What she had done for him was in vain if he had thus erased everything from his mind, and made it blank to the past.

She cried a good deal in these days, declared that her life had been a failure, and revelled in old memories, which, whether painful or sweet, filled her soul with bitterness. She looked back and saw herself from earliest childhood, a burden to unknown relations, parentless and homeless: an adventuress through circumstance on the look-out for lucky chances.

She had never known her mother; her father, an impecunious officer, had been embittered by an unsuccessful career, and out of disappointment at his discharge, had taken his own life.

From his grave-side she had been taken by an old-maidish aunt to her institution, where for three years she had gazed with yearning through a barred window on the forbidden street. Then other relations sent her to a fashionable Belgian school, where the pious sisters instructed her in the art of dancing and embroidery, and inculcated coquetry; and next, by one of those turns of fate which characterised the years of her early girlhood, she found herself transported to the solitude of a Polish magnate's estate. From there, after various stages of transition and misery, she passed into the circle of Halewitz, which, in spite of several efforts to get away from it--for she dearly loved change--she was destined to take root in. After all, it was the only place where she was not forcibly reminded of her helplessness and homelessness; and, what was more, where her bewitching personality was allowed to unfold itself according to her sovereign will.

At that time there had been a little flirtation between her and Leo--the innocent prelude to their later guilty liaison. It had passed without leaving any serious consequences behind.

The first to approach her in earnest with a proposal was Herr von Rhaden, the proprietor of Fichtkampen, a former loose-liver, and at one time a crony of old Baron Sellenthin's. He was at the end of his forties, sallow, grizzled, and gallant. Felicitas, admired as she knew herself to be, said "Yes" without much reflection. For since her thirteenth year, she had determined to take the first husband she could get, to throw herself into his arms whether he was the best or worst of men, so that she might be released from her forlorn situation by an early marriage.

Thus, at nineteen, she migrated to Fichtkampen; became mother of a son; danced, rode, made point lace, played patience, and waited for the advent of the hero whom the cards promised her. She would gladly have flirted, only the cantankerous disposition of her elderly husband would not have permitted it. First, _faute de mieux_, and then, really to satisfy her heart's hunger, she attracted Leo to her again. As a friend of her youth, and a second cousin, he was placed beyond her husband's jealous suspicion, and so things happened as they were bound to happen.

The famous duel which made her a widow was the climax. It would have been sheer insanity to remain a widow, and no one blamed her when, after nearly two years' mourning, she accepted the hand of the grave and high-minded Uhich von Kletzingk, although he was the bosom-friend of the man who had killed her first husband.

Now, for the first time, she was free, and enjoyed the liberty she had so long yearned for. Ulrich's patience was admirable. He guessed that a secret repugnance alienated her from him, the sickly man; as his innate refinement of feeling would not allow him to take by force what was not readily acceded, he put a bridle on his own wishes. His self-denial did not make him reproach her. She found in her husband her ready and sincerest friend, while she engaged in flirtations with the gentlemen of the country round, scoring triumphs, which fed her vanity. But happy she was not. It was part of her nature to luxuriate in feeling unhappy. It raised her in her own esteem to a higher sphere, and increased the charms of her personality. She posed to the world defenceless and lovely, with a veil of melancholy draping transparently the mystery of a soul devoured by a secret desire.

She knew perfectly well that with Leo's return a new epoch in her life had opened. Folly was at an end; her existence had become serious once more. It seemed to her clear that she didn't, perhaps never had loved him, and daily and hourly she repeated this assertion to herself, as his image rose before her again, laughing as of old, and would not be obliterated from her mind any more. He roused her animosity, at times she almost hated him; yet a gnawing, anxious curiosity drew her to him irresistibly.

During the first eight days of his return, she had given her train of admirers their _conge_; then she went further, and sacrificed her child. She had found a thousand ways of deceiving herself into justification of the act. She scarcely knew, and she didn't want to know, what she was doing. Even the goal that she thought to attain by it was misty and vague. Now the child had been gone nearly a second month, and a dull anxiety filled the place in her heart left empty by her motherly care for him.

One afternoon, when Ulrich was out, she took the letters from the postman, and a note from Paulchen fell into her hands which increased her anxiety. It ran--

"Dear Papa and Dear Mamma,

"It isn't nice here, and I should like to come home at once. And I am very frightened. And we have to get up at six o'clock in the morning, and then I get the morning banging from the boys, because I am the youngest. If I was not the youngest, some one else would get the banging; but, as I am the youngest, I get it. After dinner, there is the afternoon banging, and after supper, the evening blessing, and that hurts worst of all. Lotzen is the strongest boy. He can spin a top splendidly; but he does everything else badly. But he says it doesn't matter, because he is going to be a general; his uncle is a general, and that is why he will be a general, too. I should like to be a landowner. I wish I was not so frightened. How is Fido? And now I must say good-bye.

"Your

"Paul.

"P.S.--It is 123 days to Christmas. One of the boys has counted it up."

A sharp struggle went on that day within her. She stood before Paulchen's photograph, stared at it, wrung her hands, and pressed them against her brow. In sheer fear, her face lengthened.

"What will be the end of it?" she stammered. "What can be the end of it?"

Then she threw herself on the sofa, cried, prayed, and finally resolved to keep the letter a secret from her husband. For she knew what he was. She knew that he would never consent to the child staying another moment in a place where his life threatened to become a torment to him. But his being brought back must be prevented at any cost, or her ends could never be achieved. She felt driven to resort to means of watching over the fate of her child as a loving mother, without making Ulrich a participator in her anxiety.

There was an old sewing-woman in the house, Minna by name, who in other days had been her confidante and factotum. She had taken letters to Leo, and had mounted guard for them at the garden gate. More lately she had rendered assistance in the more harmless goings on with the boys of the neighbourhood. She was always on the spot when wanted, and when it was necessary to cloak and mask things.

That same evening Felicitas shut herself in her sanctum, and with a fluent pen wrote the following answer--

"My dearest Paulchen,

"You must never write such letters to papa again. Then poor papa, as you know, is often ill, and if you cause him anxiety he will distress himself and get worse. You would not like to make him worse, would you? Happily, I have managed to keep your last letter from him. For the future, you must only write to papa that you are feeling happy and getting on well. But if you would like to pour out your heart to your mamma, put your little letter in one of the enclosed envelopes; then it will reach me safely through old Minna, who sends her love to you. As to the treatment you have to put up with from your schoolfellows, I shall probably write and complain of it to the head-master, for such roughness certainly ought not to be allowed in a boarding-school, meant only for boys of good family. But don't you think you have exaggerated a little, my darling boy? What they do to you is done in fun, you know. And then, you want to grow up a brave man, and so you must try and bear teasing, and laugh at pain. Have you thought of that?

"A thousand kisses, my own sweet Paulchen,

"From your very loving

"Mamma."

She addressed half a dozen envelopes with the address under which she had received other clandestine letters. It was--.

"Fraeulein Minna Huth,

"Muensterberg,

"Poste restante."

Then she put all together into a big envelope, and rang for old Minna, to whose secret care she entrusted the missive.

The sewing-woman, a withered hag with a large parchment-coloured face in which her toothless jaws incessantly champed, rejoiced in the new intrigue. She clung to her beautiful young mistress with the faithfulness of a pampered dog, and her only ambition was to be useful to her. Paulchen's scrawls would be as safe in her hand as formerly the outpourings of amorous souls.

The danger of the little boy's return was thus averted; but Felicitas was no happier. She longed so intensely to see Leo, for once, alone. She had proved that she understood how to sound the depths of his soul. But it was clear as daylight that he avoided being _tete-a-tete_ with her. He always chose with punctilious exactitude the hours for his visits when Ulrich was to be found in the yard, and turned invariably towards the stables instead of dismounting before the portico.

"Is this the reward for the sacrifice I have made in becoming reconciled with him?" she asked herself; but she did not take into consideration that the self-sacrifice only existed in Ulrich's imagination. In her heart's estrangement, she almost thought of resorting again to the old flirtations for distraction. "Enjoy yourself, deaden yourself with the old pleasures," she said to herself, "so that he will see how things are with you, and approach you again."