Part 7

"If I may venture to advise you, I should get rid of the old man, despite considerations of kinship and friendship. At all events, he isn't much use to you."

"I have kicked him out already," said Leo.

"So much the better," Ulrich remarked. "One of his worst feats was last Saturday, when his chicanery drove away the Lithuanian reapers."

"I am quite at sea in that matter," Leo declared. "Unless a miracle happens, the fine harvest will go to the dogs."

"Not quite a miracle is required to save it," replied Ulrich, with his dear old smile, which always seemed to bring comfort and help. "A few days ago I applied to Captain von Quetner in Muensterberg. I begged aid from him. He believed he could meet the emergency, and to-morrow before sunrise twenty-five men, Uhlans, will be brought over here on my waggons."

A wave of gladness swept over Leo. From this moment things would look up. He seized Ulrich's hand in dumb gratitude. But the latter bit his lips, and withdrew from him gently.

"I didn't come to tell you this," he said. "I could have written about that, but there are things to be discussed that cannot be committed to paper. I am sorry to say your prophecy has proved true. It must be all over between you and me. A woman has separated us. My marriage has demanded the sacrifice of our friendship."

Leo stared at him, unable to speak.

"Don't misunderstand me," Ulrich went on, struggling painfully with his words, "I needn't assure you that I love you to-day as much as I ever did. I fear that this separation may be my death-blow. Nevertheless, it must be."

"Because your--your wife desires it?" asked Leo, in growing bitterness.

"Don't call me weak, and abuse me for being a slave to a woman," Ulrich answered. "I have never in all my life been tied to apron-strings, and hope I never shall. But I am in the habit of listening to what my conscience dictates. And that insists on my doing my duty by the woman who bears my name and whose child I have made my own."

Leo was eager to know how she had taken the news, but was ashamed to try and glean the information from his friend by crooked questionings; however, as it proved, there was no need, for Ulrich on his own accord told him all he wanted to know.

"I did not think," he said, "that Felicitas, who lives and forgets so rapidly, would have been so deeply moved at your return. I must say that without taking credit to myself. God knows there is no reason why I should. I believed that she had completely got over her grief for the loss of Rhaden. She scarcely ever mentions his name, and even forgets the anniversary of his death. And for two years, I have, as tactfully as I could, endeavoured to impress on her your innocence in that unfortunate accident, ... for as an accident pure and simple I have always regarded the fatal duel. It seems that it has all been in vain. The first thing that happened yesterday was that she went into hysterics. I was afraid she was going to be seriously ill. The whole night she sat on the boy's bed, murmuring over him. I got her away early this morning almost by force, for the poor boy, too, was deprived of his night's rest. You will believe me, dear Leo, when I say that all this makes me bound to admit that she has right on her side."

Leo was silent. If he had spoken it would have been hypocrisy, and he could not bring himself to that.

"When she had become calmer," Ulrich went on, "I told her of our conversation, and of the fears you had entertained about the continuance of our intercourse. I wanted to prove to her by that, how much you had considered the condition of her feelings. But the effect was quite contrary from what I had expected. Especially what you said about the child seemed to excite her to the last degree. Forgive me, dear old boy, if it was a blunder to repeat it. I hoped it would help both you and me. Why should I repeat to you all her expressions of resentment against you? It is unnecessary to tear open old wounds. You may believe me that I know how to distinguish between the hysterical exaggerations to which she gave vent in her grief, and the grief itself. But that is genuine enough, and when she says, 'How can I touch your hand, when I know that to-day it has lain in the hand which struck down my child's father?'--when she says that she is right, a thousand times right. I ought to have foreseen it all, before I linked her fate with mine. Now it is done, and, in your words, it has come to the decision. 'You must choose between me and her.'"

Still Leo was silent. The fatal image of the woman glided before his eyes. It seemed to melt into the gold of the evening clouds, and with the damp mist to fill the darkening world.

How came it that she had been able to rob him of what was dearest to him on earth? And, what was worse than anything else, she was justified. It was only strange that she, who, as a rule, was given to half-measures, and avoided anything like resolute action, had proved herself, in this, almost firmer than he was. But then, of course, she had no friend to lose....

"I thank you, old boy," Ulrich went on, "for not reproaching or laughing at me. Not that any contradiction on your part would have been of the least use. The facts are inexorable, and what we are doing is the only natural course to take."

"Yes," Leo assented, staring out of the window.

If Ulrich had only guessed what truth he was speaking!

"And now there is nothing more to say, except, as it were, to make my last bequests. When you want me, I shall come to you--at any hour of the day or night, in good or evil fortune. I shall expect the same from you, even though in ordinary circumstances we shall have no alternative but to pass each other by with a silent pressure of the hand."

"It must be as you decide," said Leo; and he felt a dull aching at his heart.

Ulrich sat rigid and upright, every muscle brought into obedience to the power of his will. His burning eyes rested unwaveringly on his friend's face, as if he would fain absorb him with his gaze. Not once did his voice tremble.

"Just one word more, old boy," he said, "before we part. I have to make an open confession to you concerning a certain matter, and to ask your pardon. You will find in your books the constant occurrence of a sum of money which you will not be able to explain. Interest--called in by--then follows my name."

Leo was all attention.

"The sum comes altogether to sixty-six thousand and a few hundred marks. You know you had no ready money. It fell to my share to save the sinking ship. So I gave what was necessary out of my own means to set it afloat again.... Forgive the deception, and don't thank me! No. I won't be thanked," he repeated, as Leo stood up and seemed as if he were going to rush and embrace him. "Anything I have is always at your service. That, of course, is an understood thing. And now good luck and good-bye."

He was making quickly for the door, but at the last moment he was seized with one of those attacks which Leo with dread had seen coming on for several minutes. He fell across the sofa, growing deadly pale. His eyes were fixed, his pulse stood still, and he lost consciousness.

Leo had known these symptoms from earliest youth, and also knew the remedy. As he fell, he had caught Ulrich's head in his arms, and began massaging his scalp vigorously with his finger-tips. After a few seconds the eyes recovered their ordinary expression, a gentle flow of blood mounted to his temples, and he came to himself again.

"Thank you, dear old boy," he said, standing up with a sad smile. "Once more I have lived to experience your skill in casting out the little white mice."

And he seized his hat. Leo begged him to wait till he had quite recovered, but Ulrich refused.

"No loitering," he said; "it will only excite us again, and prolong the agony."

The carriage had driven round to the door. For a moment he let his thin, delicate hand rest tremblingly in Leo's hard palm, then he wrenched himself away.

"Remember me to your people," he said, covering himself with the carriage-rug.

The horses started, and the carriage rolled away with subdued crunching of wheels unto the purple evening dusk.

Leo, half blinded by his rising tears, staggered back unto his study.

"Be sensible ... no whining ... don't be an old woman," he cried, preaching courage to himself, for it was right that this should be. Only thus could all be made straight again.

VIII

The feeling which events had left behind in Hertha's mind was one of dull disappointment. It seemed almost as if she had expended all her trouble on an unworthy object. So long he had existed for her as an exalted sinner, one of those melancholy, mysteriously-guilty, romantic beings, whom it is the delight of a true woman to rescue from hell; and now he stood before her in the flesh--a muscular, laughing country squire, with bull-neck, broad shoulders, and a vocabulary that could only be described as vulgar, though, alas! it certainly had the knack of hitting the right nail on the head. Even his method of dealing with his staff of retainers was quite different from what she had pictured. With the righteous wrath of an outraged deity, she had expected him to scourge the unfaithful servants out of his sight, to mete out to the miscreants their deserts, but to reward those who had been honest and vigilant by giving them an honourable post at his right hand. But now that her dreams had become reality, all was as prosaic as possible. He swore, and the servants slunk about like whipped hounds, and she had not been once consulted.

The hated Uncle Kutowski, too, for whom she would have thought the gallows too good, seemed to be taking his departure in far too easy and comfortable a fashion.

On the second day he appeared, just after breakfast, in freshly ironed linen, and buff _pique_ waistcoat, on which his watch-chain of boars' tusks dangled aggressively, and explained to the ladies that he had come to take his leave of them, in order to enter on a larger sphere of work. In Poland, where formerly he had possessed land, there was a complication of affairs, which, to be put straight, required the firm hand and the knowledge of modern agricultural improvements of a confidential land-agent such as himself.

He set this forth with the utmost self-assurance, and stroked his wavy, greenish-grey beard with true patriarchal dignity; but his little eyes glanced uneasily at the door from time to time, as if he were afraid that Leo might come in and cut off his brilliant retreat. Grandmamma was good-natured enough to accept the old reprobate's explanation without question. Elly gravely went on with her painting, and Hertha herself could do nothing but show her contempt by shrugging her shoulders, which apparently didn't hurt his feelings in the least. Finally, he had the effrontery to ask the young ladies to give him their photographs, and to wish them handsome bridegrooms. This was a little too much for Hertha.

"I only give my photograph to people whom I have learnt to esteem," said she, drawing herself up, "and if I ever should marry, which I am uncertain about at present, I shall take care to choose a husband who has no associates like yourself, Herr Kutowski."

Now he had got his due, and all grandmamma's tact could not alter it.

He bowed, and with a malicious smile remarked that he always knew that Miss Hertha could not endure him, but that was not here or there. Now the master had come home, she would find out fast enough what it was to be a stranger in the house, and what a true friend she had had in him.

Hertha, hard hit, cast down her eyes. But kind old grandmamma put her arm protectingly round her neck. Whereupon the old gentleman lighted a cigar, thrust a sandwich of buttered rolls into his pocket, squeezed out a few farewell tears, and after Elly, with characteristic meekness, had submitted to having her forehead kissed by his atrocious lips, he retired in the _role_ of the chivalrous old worthy.

All the morning Hertha carried about with her a sense of intolerable wrong. It was not till she heard Leo, after lunch, say to his mother, "The old uncle, by Jove! has been summarily dismissed," did she feel slightly comforted, and concluded that perhaps, after all, the world had not been made so comfortable for unpunished rogues as she had supposed. Her relations with the returned master of the house somewhat improved. He had addressed a few playful remarks to her at meals, and had taken her retorts with gay good humour. It looked as if he had quite forgotten that she had offended him. "He doesn't think I am grown up," she reflected bitterly. And the idea she had entertained the whole day of asking him formally for forgiveness was gradually abandoned.

It was after tea that he came to her, and in his usual lighthearted and lively manner said: "Now then, little one, if you like, we will do some accounts." She glowed under a swelling wave of pride. At last he had asked her, had felt himself forced to regard her management of certain departments as a serious matter. But she would not have been so proud if she had suspected that grandmamma had hinted to him that it would give her pleasure if he would go over her accounts with her. Her books were in beautiful order. Since yesterday morning she had longed to show him the blue octavo exercise-book, but had not had the courage to do so uninvited.

Now, sitting opposite him, she produced records of her heroic achievements, with flaming cheeks. She had reared and fattened twelve turkeys, and sold ten in Koenigsberg; she had sent eighty chickens to the Muensterberg market, and got an average price of sixty-five pfennigs apiece for them. The sound eggs that were over had been bought at home by a dealer, so that no deduction had to be made for waste. A greater bargain still was in course of completion for unfattened geese, though some were to be stuffed for the sake of the liver, but the season had not come yet for that.

Then she passed on to the vegetable department. Fresh vegetables were sent every Saturday regularly to the market at Muensterberg, but it scarcely paid to compete with the peasant folk; still, in another direction, a great success had been scored. She got several dozen little baskets plaited from reeds, which a blind man made her for twopence each. These little baskets were daintily arranged with leaves, and filled, according to the season, with strawberries, cherries, and other fruit. The milk-boys offered them for sale in Muensterberg, and they had enjoyed quite a reputation. Three days later, all the little baskets were collected empty, but if any customers wished to keep basket as well as fruit they were to pay threepence more, and this extra penny helped to pay the old blind man.

Her face was radiant with zeal, her hair wild, and her hands trembled as she sat there calculating one sum of money after the other. She would have liked to demonstrate her success by showing him the figures, but no matter how she turned over the leaves, she could not find the total, and the columns swam before her in crazy confusion. And in the midst of her narration she had caught him looking at her with an inquiring, astonished gaze, and she felt a choking sensation of sheer joy in her throat; but she collected herself and proceeded further with her good tidings.

She had come now to the most important thing of all--the milk and the dairy produce. Here, of course, she had not been able to do as much as she wished, for these stupendous affairs came under Uncle Kutowski's management. However, she had got round Schumann, and worked him so effectually that he was willing to help her. The experiment of sending cream in bottles to Koenigsberg had been a failure, but for slightly salted fresh butter a trade had been opened with Friedrich Graz in Berlin, which was doing first-class business. This did not hinder the morning milk, according to old custom, being despatched by waggon to Muensterberg; and she felt bound to confess with pride that the popularity of the Halewitz fruit-baskets had increased considerably the daily demand for milk. She and the swineherd were at war as to how the butter-milk ought to be used. The Swiss cook at Stoltenhof had given her a famous receipt for making cheese of butter-milk. The Mamselle had made excellent use of it, yet all the leavings were demanded for the pigs, although they could very well be fed on the husks and refuse from the brewery. Hertha thought these claims preposterous, and hoped that Leo would see that the lion's share of the butter-milk were restored to its proper uses.

And now she had finished, and she laid the blue exercise-book down with modest satisfaction, and went back to grandmamma, who had been listening to her report, beaming with delight.

He followed her, and grasped her industrious little hand with a smile in which there was a gleam of almost paternal emotion.

"You are a plucky little girl," he said. "I am much obliged to you."

That was all. He might, at least, have said that he hoped she would go on and prosper.

She ran out to cool her hot cheeks in the shade of the limes. Her throat felt like lead from her strangled tears. She was depressed by the consciousness that her soul's elated triumph had been followed by a humiliation. She had expected something tremendous, unspeakable. What, she hardly knew herself. At any rate, she need not have been thanked so curtly, almost grudgingly.

Near the obelisk she came on Elly, exercising grandmamma's pug at the end of a blue ribbon, which was not in the least necessary.

She ran to meet Hertha with an air of great importance, saying a terrible misfortune had happened, and her whole future happiness was at stake. She really thought she should have to put an end to herself.

"What _is_ the matter?" asked Hertha.

It was this. Christian had reported that this morning a sealed letter addressed to her had been lying on Uncle Kutowski's table, and that now it had disappeared.

"Well, what harm is there in that?" asked Hertha. "You should never have had any secrets with that dreadful old man."

Elly blushed and stuttered. She had not exactly had secrets; it was only that uncle had been so obliging, and the last time she had met Kurt Brenckenberg he had promised that the song he had composed for her should be sent to her through Uncle Kutowski.

"If you will do such stupid things, Mouse," said Hertha, turning her back, "we can't go on being friends."

But Elly threw her arms around her from behind, and entreated and implored her to help her just this once. She would never do it again. And when she had sealed this vow with a solemn kiss and shake of the hand, Hertha consented to do what she could in advising her.

First of all it seemed advisable to reconnoitre the spot where the letter had been seen in the morning.

Hertha made a short cut through bushes and hedge to the bailiff's house, and Elly, who despite her agitation had not let go of the fat pug, obediently followed.

The bailiff's house was deserted as usual at this hour, and in consequence locked up. The only way to get in was through an open window at the back.

Hertha, who could climb like a squirrel, took the lead and dragged the trembling Elly after her; the pug, who was in danger of being strangled by the blue ribbon, was left behind, and barked as if he were mad at his vanishing mistresses.

They found themselves in Schumann's room, which was filled with an odour of onions and lamp-oil, for the head-bailiff was a bachelor and catered for himself, leaving unspeakable messes simmering for hours on a petroleum cooking-stove.

Elly could scarcely stand for fright, and even Hertha's heart beat perceptibly quicker. Till this moment she had never shrunk timidly from the boldest adventures; but now that the master of Halewitz ruled his possessions again, everything wore a different aspect.

She penetrated further without looking to right or left. The door, which led to the uncle's deserted apartments, was wide open. Within a repulsive spectacle was revealed. In one corner the old sofa lay in ruins, the bedstead was turned up against the wall, the cupboard doors were flung back on their hinges, and in all the places which had been mercifully hidden by carpet and _bric-a-brac_, dirt was laid bare, for the old sloven had let it accumulate for years. Long-legged, hairy spiders sat in the corners, and disturbed silver-grey wood-lice ran out of the cracks in the floor.

On the table, where Christian had caught sight of the fatal letter, lay the cracked shaving-mirror, with the pig's bladder, and odds and ends of tobacco, and all sorts of papers; but the passionately coveted envelope was nowhere to be seen.

Hertha searched the room with the thoroughness of a detective. She tore open the table drawer, threw herself on the floor to spy under bureau and wardrobe; she even shook the top-boots which stood ranged in a row against the wall covered with baize, but not a trace could she discover of the missing letter.

Between the windows, propped against the birchwood chest of drawers, there was an old bookcase, much scratched and ornamented with paintings. Hertha, after a fleeting glance, plucked up courage to examine it closer. Two rows of books stood or lay on the shelves, some of them bound, others in coloured-paper covers.

This, then, was the uncle's library that he had been in the habit of boasting was the most interesting in the world. "When you are particularly nice to me," he would say, "I will invite you to look through it." But there the matter had dropped, for Hertha had never felt inclined to be "particularly nice" to him. And nowhere was this celebrated library without lock or custodian, absolutely at her disposal, and hours might go by before one of the inmates of the house might surprise her--deep in its treasures. She was so delighted, that even the fatal letter was forgotten. Hertha with trembling fingers touched the paper covers, and, looking into the first that lay on the pile, read, "The Adventures of Queen Isabella; or, Secrets of the Court of Madrid"--a title which excited her curiosity to the highest pitch.

As time was precious she began to read in the middle of the sentence on which she had chanced to open. Elly, who had been standing about, rather aimlessly crouched beside her, and tried to snatch a modest share of the forbidden book's splendours over her companion's shoulder.

It was all about a handsome young Don Alvarez, who, returning from a party late at night, is seized by masked ruffians, gagged and blindfolded, and dragged into a luxurious, mysterious, brilliantly lighted apartment, where from behind red satin curtains proceeded ravishing strains of sweet music from cymbals and flutes.

And when he at last dares to draw aside the curtain, what does he see? A coffin, from the pall of which a skull, with two crossed skeleton legs, grins at him in scorn. Blood-red flames and incense rise to the ceiling, and a sepulchral voice speaks in the clouds.

"That is the coffin in which you will lie, in the same hour that you betray, by one word or look, what your eyes have seen, and your ears heard."

So the shuddering young soul was to keep what he had seen and heard a secret, till the end of time.

Hertha heard a bark, and as if waking out of a dream, saw Leo's figure, standing its full height, close beside her. The pug, who had evidently shown him the way, was at his heels.

The book fell from her hand. Don Alvarez sank into the night of oblivion from which he had sprung.

"What are you doing here, you burglars?" asked Leo in a laughing tone.

He was answered by silence.

"And how did you get in? Come, confess, Elly. The door was locked. How did you get in?"

Hertha felt an internal swooning; but defiance choked in her throat.