Part 20

"It isn't nonsense," she replied, full of conviction; "have you never heard of Darwin?"

"Yes ... the man who says we are descended from monkeys and such-like--rot!" he was going to add, but checked himself in time.

"And then there is heredity, you know, about our all inheriting the qualities of our parents. Our science-master explained that to us. If your father is given to drink, then you will drink too."

"Did your father drink?"

"Yes--he drank."

"And so you are afraid that you will become a drunkard, eh?"

"No, not that. A girl couldn't very well. But I am afraid about temper."

"What temper?"

"His was so violent. When he was in one of his rages he didn't know what he was doing; once he flew at me with a knife."

"Horrors! How old were you then?"

"Not quite eight. It was after mother's death. He came from I don't know where. We hadn't seen him for two years, and when he found out that nothing had been left to him, and that it was all mine, and had already been put in the hands of trustees, he was frantic, and it was then that he did it--snatched up the knife. Afterwards he took me with him when he travelled about. I was always to be with him, because then he could get the money for my education."

"And you understood everything even then?" he exclaimed, amazed and deeply moved.

A melancholy little smile flitted across her face, which made her look years older.

"You see, I am not so foolish as you thought," she said. "I have cried a good deal in my life. Oh yes! We were speaking of the violent temper.... Well, I have got it too. If I am angry I am blind, and don't know what I do, and my blood rushes into my head. I shall come to a bad end one day. Mamma says I ought to pray, and beseech the Lord Jesus every day to change my bad blood. But I am not sure that it would be right. For if I have my bad times, I have my good too. No one dreams what they are. Elly, for example. You know what she is like? always placid, always soft. I believe the sun shines brighter for me than for her, that to my eyes green is greener, and ... the moon ... how it sails up there.... She doesn't see it.... She is always too sleepy. So I say to myself often, every unhappiness may be happiness if one knows just how to enjoy things like that."

He laid his hands on his forehead and stared at her. "Great God!" he thought, "what magic there is in a young creature like this!"

She had talked herself into a high pitch of excitement, and, without heeding him, went on--

"Yes, and then he left me at Geneva and went to get married, and that is how you and I come to be related, you see. And when I heard that I had a new mother I wept for joy; but the others--the girls, you know--frightened me, and said, 'What will become of you now you have got _une maratre_?' for there we all talked French. But I thought to myself, 'Wait till she sees you; she will sure to be kind out of pity.' And, because Madame Guignaud wished me to pay my respects to her beforehand, I wrote her a letter. But there was not much respect in it, and it began like this: 'Ma mere voici une malheureuse enfant qui vous implore'--and so on. However, it did very well, and when she came she was good and loving to me, and my heart leapt out to her. Ah! in those days she often smiled. She seemed to love my father very much, and I hoped better days were now in store for me, and I should stay at home, but, properly speaking, there was no home. He refused to stay on the estate my dead mamma had left to him, for he said that he was ashamed to be 'mademoiselle's guest.' He meant me by 'mademoiselle.' His own estate, Malkischken, as you know, was so dilapidated that we had to get the furniture for three rooms on hire from a carpenter in Muensterberg. That's why we didn't stay long there, but started travelling about. We went to Baden-Baden, Spa, Nice; and everywhere it was the same, the same waiters and electric-bells, every morning two eggs with coffee, and at dinner twelve courses; but if one was hungry in between, one had to starve, because we were charged _en pension_. Mamma was always sad, and papa always angry with me, and in want of money. Oh! it was terrible. One day he flew at me with his riding-whip, and was going to beat me, when mamma sprang between us and said, 'The child shall go away to-day, or----' What the 'or' meant I didn't understand, but he grew as white as a sheet, and the next morning I went away, first back to Geneva, where I stayed till I was thirteen. That is where Ada was----"

She stopped, thinking with a start of the letter she had left unblotted on the writing-table.

"Which Ada?"

"Ada von Wehrheimb, my greatest friend," she replied; and, turning her head aside, she added with a slight blush, "She is engaged already."

"Ha! ha!" he laughed, "quickly fixed up. Well, and then?"

"Then ... then." She lost the thread of her narrative for a moment. His laugh had put her out.

"Oh, then I went to Hamburg to Frau Luettgen's, whom we knew in Wiesbaden. Frau Luettgen's _pensionat_ is the most noted _pensionat_ in all Hamburg. Oh, what happy times I had there!... Frau Luettgen was as tall and straight as a beanstalk, and was very particular about the pronunciation of _s_. She 's-taerb auf der S-telle wenn man vor dem S-piegel s-tand, oder mit einer S-tecknadel s-pielte oder eine S-peise bes-poettelte.' Oh, it was too lovely. And there I was confirmed, for I was to be a Protestant, although dear dead mamma was a Catholic. And I was quite willing to change, for we all reverenced the Pastor Bergmann. And when I was kneeling at the altar, I prayed to God with all my heart to take me, so that I might go to heaven at once. For at that time I was quite pious and good, and did not know how bad people could be and how bad I was to be myself."

"And you learnt all that afterwards?" he asked, smirking.

"Rather!"

And she gave a little snort, which was always a sign that she was thinking of her faithless friends Kaethi Greiffenstein and Daisy Bellepool.

"Go on, my chick," he begged; "let's have the whole awful history."

"No, but I simply _can't_ tell you."

"Why not?"

"Oh, dear, dear! If I do, your are sure to despise me."

"That I certainly shall not do, child."

"Well, one day you must know, so here goes.... Once, once, I was in love."

"Indeed?"

"Now you despise me, don't you? Say 'Yes,' say 'Yes' quite calmly. It doesn't matter."

"Who was it?"

"I'll tell you. We ought to have the courage of our sins, even if it costs us our head, oughtn't we? He was a commissionaire in a music-shop."

"Great Scot!"

"Dreadful, wasn't it? He had long fair curly hair--very long. And when we went for walks of an afternoon, Frau Luettgen in front, he used to stand at the door and make eyes at me. And I always got red, like the donkey I was."

"Now listen, child, and I'll give you some good counsel," he said, laughing. "Not only must we have the courage of our sins, as you so wisely remarked just now, but we must do penance for them."

"You mean ... because I said.... But first hear how he behaved. I had two friends, called Kaethi Greiffenstein and Daisy Bellepool, both Americans, and that is why I hate America."

"The whole country, from top to bottom?"

"Yes, and my heart felt lighter when you had cleared out of it. Well, I made those two girls the confidantes of my secrets, and one day--what do you think happened? Novels were found under Kaethi Greiffenstein's mattress: 'The Broken Heart,' 'The Marble Bride,' and 'Hussar's Love,' and I don't know what else. There was an awful row. Frau Luettgen held a court-martial. Kaethi denied everything. She knew nothing about the books. Some one else must have put them in her bed. Another search was made, and behold in Daisy Bellepool's bed the same discovery! But besides the books there was a packet of letters too--love-letters. To whom? Why, to me, signed Bruno Steifel.... Of course I didn't know any one called Bruno Steifel, but who believed me when I said so? Not a soul! The letters were answers to those I was supposed to have written to him, in which I had asked him to get me novels from the lending library, ... as a knightly service and testimony of his love. Wasn't it awful?"

"Terrible," Leo said, biting his lips.

"I was locked up, and got nothing, for two days but bread and water and slimy lentil soup. I was prayed for every morning and evening, and Laura Below bad a dream in which she saw me burning in hell. The dream was made public at a committee meeting, and I was held up as a warning example. Who knows how long it might have gone on, if I hadn't thought of a means of saving myself?"

"If you want to know who Herr Bruno Steifel is,' I said, 'why not go to the library the label of which is stamped on the outside cover of the books?... They will be certain to know him there. And they did, sure enough. And who do you think it was?"

"He of the fair locks, of course...."

"Of course. And Frau Luettgen goes at once to his chief and tells him the whole story. Herr Bruno Steifel is called and cross-examined. 'Have you got novels out from the library?' 'Yes,' he says, and gets horribly red. 'Are you in possession of letters?' He won't answer, but the chief threatens him with dismissal, and he produces them. The signature is: 'Your ever loving Hertha von Prachwitz,' but the handwriting is ... now guess."

"Daisy Bellepool's?"

"No, Kaethi Greiffenstein's. Daisy Bellepool's mamma wished her daughter to have more freedom, like other American girls. So she was allowed to go out alone, and in consequence she arranged the whole business. Wasn't it disgusting?"

"Yes, disgusting."

"What do you think I did? I threw a jug of water at Daisy's head, and gave Kaethi such a black eye that she was obliged to wear bandages for three days. So bad can you be when people behave badly to you."

"And what became of the pair?" he asked.

"Kaethi was expelled soon after, but Daisy was allowed to stay on because her mamma had subscribed to the new school buildings. But it did her no good. Not any decent girl would speak to her again. What I have lived through. Think of it! Then I came here to Halewitz. Ah, and how I love it! though I have my troubles, even here." She paused and gave him a shy entreating glance, as if she would say, "I know who has only to speak one word to free me from them."

He laughed and stretched himself; and then thought with embarrassment of the other woman who had come into his house to disturb its peace.

"We all have our troubles, my dear," he said.

"You, too?" she asked, lifting her eyes to him in alarm.

"More than enough, my child."

"Yes, yes, I know," she sighed. "Grandmamma is always talking about it."

"About what?"

"About your having more debts than you have hairs on your head, and that you often don't know on Saturdays where to get money to pay the wages."

"Our dear respected grandmamma is an old chatterbox."

"But if s true, isn't it?"

"Yes, the devil can't deny it."

She was silent and seemed to be considering deeply. Then she inquired, crinkling her forehead--

"For about how much longer can you hold on?"

"Hold on--what do you mean?"

"How long, I mean, before you come a cropper, as the saying is?"

"Ah, now it is evident you were educated at Hamburg," he said, trying to joke.

But she would not be evaded. "Could you hold on, do you think, another four years and four months?"

"Why do you insist on the fours?" he laughed.

She drew down the corners of her mouth. "Now you are making fun of me," she said, "and it is really rather sad.... I am _so_ rich, and have, so far, too much money."

"Ah I you would like to lend me some?"

"I _can't_, that's the worst of it," she answered; "all through the stupid trusteeship. It is too provoking;" and she scuffled her feet impatiently.

"How much would you be prepared to give me?" he asked, for the subject amused him.

"All."

A stab of melancholy happiness shot through him; that feeling which he had not been able to recapture before. Now he was obliged to suppress it and goad himself into keeping to the comic side of the question. With a hurried laugh, he cried--

"Hullo, little one, no one can call you stingy."

An anxious look was cast at him, which asked plainly, "Don't you understand me?" Then she crouched down and drew herself shivering away from him, while the tears rolled down her cheeks, over her parted lips and clenched teeth.

"If this isn't love," he thought, "my name is not Sellenthin." A wild jocund impulse within him bid him snatch her in his arms, shout the house awake, shout to the whole world, "Here, see this child, this woman-child is--my wife." He knew that it would have been his salvation, but he did not do it. He did not do it because the fist of his giant care was on his throat almost throttling him, so that the breath was dammed up in his broad chest, and his mighty limbs shackled under the oppressive weight.

"Thank you, dear child, thank you," he said hoarsely. "You meant it well, and I shall never forget it of you."

He bent down and kissed the gleaming forehead held up to him so candidly.

"There is still time," cried the wild voice again....

"And now go to bed," he said. "It is getting very late."

She rose silently, and without wishing him "good night," walked away over the glistening gravel path and the darkling lawn to the garden gate.

It seemed to him that she reeled. He would have rushed after her, but he was as one paralysed. Because he was no longer certain of his honour, he feared to lose his sense of shame.

XXI

September was drawing to its close. Despite the disquieting turn that events had taken, Leo Sellenthin continued to live a fresh, healthy, and active life, without its ever occurring to him to doubt the indestructibility of his high spirit or the intrepidity of his adherence to his own doctrine of right. Not once had he felt the "tragic touch;" only a certain feeling of discomfort had taken up its abode within him. He was like a man who wears an ill-fitting coat, and doesn't know whether it is too wide or too narrow. The naive self-assurance which had sat like an ornament on him hitherto was gone; he studied and examined himself, found flaws in his nature, and rejoiced in his good points.

Lively, whimsical sallies which once had rippled forth from him carelessly, seemed to him now something wonderful and striking; he enjoyed them while he gave them utterance, and was pleased when they caused laughter. In sharp contrast to this mood were his surly, taciturn fits, when those around did well to keep out of his way.

But sooner or later his original nature broke through the clouds again, if it was only to scoff cynically at the past. He wanted to be healthy and jolly, and he succeeded.

One afternoon, when Leo was in the act of starting to ride over to Uhlenfelde, there arrived in the courtyard, puffing and blowing, the hanging cheeks of his yellowish-brown face covered with sweat, the worthy old pastor Brenckenberg.

He and his son had walked over together, but the latter had considered it advisable to disappear in the direction of the bailiff's quarters, not being sure of his reception at the castle.

A spirit of devilry awoke in Leo at the sight of the old bigot, to whose philippics he had as yet had no opportunity of retaliating, being thus delivered into his hand.

The pastor's visits to his patron and quondam pupil had never been frequent; they had been limited, for the most part, to pastoral calls, when deputations had to be received or clerical matters discussed, but had generally ended by taking the form of solemn drinking bouts; for Leo, whose cellars were stocked with fine wines, delighted to pour his best into the old man's glass, whose connoisseurship failed only from want of practice. That was an accepted and invariable custom, dating from his father's hilarious times; and even the oldest amongst the retainers could not remember a day when their pastor had left the precincts of Halewitz sober.

"Hullo, old fellow!" called Leo, stretching out his hand to him. "How is it we haven't met all this time? Uneasy conscience, eh?"

"A man of God has never an uneasy conscience," replied the pastor, with a grin--"unless he has been drinking water;" and he mopped his shiny face and bacon neck with a red-cotton pocket-handkerchief.

"Wait," thought Leo; "you shall not get off to-day;" and he motioned to the groom to unsaddle the mare again.

As they walked up side by side to the portico, the parson whose corpulent figure swayed from side to side, appeared of more massive and powerful build than his old pupil, although the latter towered half a head over him.

Leo led him into the study, asked him to sit down, and rang for Christian.

"Bring us a bottle of sour cooking Moselle," he commanded.

The old servant gave him an astonished look. "It is not fit to drink even in the kitchen punch-bowl," he took the liberty of murmuring.

"Do what I tell you!"

Christian departed, shaking his head, and Leo settled himself comfortably opposite the pastor.

"Now let us hear all the scandal," he said. "What chimney smokes? Where has a hair been found in the soup?"

"Fritzchen! Fritzchen!" Brenckenberg rebuked him with his broadest smile. "You shouldn't hold up to ridicule the shepherd of your soul."

He had always called him "Fritzchen." Why, no one knew, not even he himself. The pet name had survived the decade during which their relations to each other had so altered. The "you," which was held to be officially correct, yielded to the familiar "thou" when they sat together over their wine. Sometimes Leo gave the signal, but oftenest it was the old man, whose heart overflowed in his cups, who adopted the more endearing form of address at his own peril.

Christian brought the wine with the conscience of a poisoner, and hobbled out again.

The small black eyes of the shepherd of souls sparkled with satisfaction under their fierce bushy brows; he smacked his full lips. The Lord's wrestler had doffed his armour, and wanted to be simply a man, a peace-loving, weak, lusty human being, who next Sunday would have something to repent. The bottles looked respectable enough, the wine somewhat pale, it was true, as it trickled into the dignified rummers in a watery stream, but that might be deceptive. He breathed hard through his distended nostrils, and thrust out his upper lip.

"Your health, old fellow!"

"Your health, Fritzchen!"

He tasted, started, half-choked, and coughed violently; then, with a countenance expressive of unutterable human grief and disappointment, he put down his glass.

"Nice wine!" remarked Leo, raising his forefinger to command assent.

The pastor, purple from coughing, would have liked to spit it out, but daren't.

"Fritzchen," he said plaintively, "what tricks are you up to now?"

"Isn't my wine to your taste, Herr Pastor?"

"I can't say it is. No. By Jove, Fritzchen!"

"I don't understand you, dear pastor. You see that I drink it. Indeed, since I began to repent my past sins I have drunk nothing else. It is what we call the wine of repentance and crucifixion! Pies-Porter.... Year '83.... An unusually cold and damp year, as you will remember."

"Ah!" exclaimed the pastor, suddenly enlightened.

"Yes, yes, old friend. Do you grasp it now? Since we condemned our Fritz to hell-fire there has been howling and gnashing of teeth at Halewitz. We don't wallow in luxury here, as David did with his Bathshebas. Sour Moselle is our only drink. Your health, old boy."

"Look here, Fritzchen," said the pastor, relapsing, after his shock, into the affectionate "thou," "if the condition of your conscience compels you to drink it, that is your own affair. I don't wish to hinder any one in carrying out their principles; but you must allow me, if you please, to be only an onlooker."

Leo laughed triumphantly in his face, for this was what he expected.

"If I am not mistaken, my dear friend, you once expressed yourself in the following beautiful and touching words: 'Bareheaded will I go, and walk with my naked soles on red-hot bricks.' Yes, you said you would do that for your David, your Fritzchen. But now, when it comes to the point, it seems that you can't even share in his penitence to the extent of drinking a glass of Pies-Porter, year '83, with him."

The old man stroked his cheeks. "You take me for a fool, Fritz," he said; "but ... you are right." And with a desperate effort he emptied the glass in one draught.

Leo, in the name of all his sins, did the same, and refilled the glasses.

"Now, Fritzchen," the old man began, letting his bulldog glance, half severe, half servile, rest on his squire, "we are not Catholics, and I am not your father confessor. I simply came here to talk over with you the autumn conference, and, with the Lord's permission, to drink a glass of good wine in your company. Instead, you choose to set before me this trash, and to begin talking of that cursed business, which has already caused me enough headaches."

"_You_ began it, old man."

"Yes, in the pulpit. That is my damned duty.... And if you rascals will carry on such games, then----"

"You must rail and swear...."

"You've had many a clout from me, Fritzchen...."

"And I have kissed the hand that held the rod," he interposed, laughing.

"I thought I had done enough; but if I had known _that_ of you ... ah! ah!"

"You would like to make it good?" mocked Leo.

"If possible ... with pleasure."

Leo seized his glass. "Health, Master Pastor!"

"Fritzchen, have mercy!"

"I say drink! _Donnerwetter_!"

And again the superb glasses made reproachful music as they met at being turned to such abominable uses.

Leo uncorked the second bottle, and offered the pastor a cigar.

"I beg pardon, Fritzchen, but are these also--so to say--penitence cigars?"

"What a pity!" thought Leo. "I didn't think of that;" and he shook his head, smiling.

The pastor kindled the excellent weed forthwith, and revelled in the fragrant clouds.

"There you sit, stretching your legs in your splendour," said he, "and split with laughter at the old fat fellow you love to make a fool of. But do you imagine that it makes what you have done one hair's breadth better?"

"Humph!" said Leo, curling his moustache.

"You may deluge it with rose-water, but it still stinks."

"Humph!" came a second time from Leo.

"That day in the church I gave you a scorcher, to the best of my ability. And now you resent it. That's not pretty of you, Fritzchen."

"What I resent," replied Leo, "is that, instead of coming to me and having it out fair and straight, you preferred to let a woman lead you by the nose in the matter, and tried, according to her receipt, to scourge me into creeping to the foot of the cross, howling and whining my penitence. That's not a manly course to take, and I believe that the old God of our fathers Himself wouldn't be pleased at it."

"Do you mean by this woman your sister?"

"Yes, I mean my sister."

"Very well. You must know, Fritzchen, that your sister came to me a couple of years or so before that, and said---- It doesn't matter what she said, except that I tell you it is no subject for joking, and you should lay it to heart that the unhappy story threatened to prove fatal to your sister's peace."

"What do you know about my sister's peace?"

"Simply this. She knew her bit, and I knew mine. So there was no beating about the bush between us. And when I saw that the story preyed on her mind, I administered consolation, as was my duty, and as I could not procure her exactly the solatium that she required...."

"You would say the _man_ she requires?"

"Quite right. That is what I do mean. Failing that, I directed her to Heaven. Don't laugh in such a godless fashion, Fritzchen. It is my vocation. And what is Heaven there for, unless it is to help us on our way through this vale of tears?"

"But it is not there to turn our brains."

The old man frowned in deep thought, and muttered, "For that purpose it is not there I agree."