Quisisana, or Rest at Last Part 8
"Have you not noticed that she has not said three words to me all the evening?"
"Insatiable man! Are you not satisfied with Lydia who is ransacking her repertory for your sake? Would you have all womankind at your feet? I shall warn Lotter against you as against his worst rival."
"Do not destroy our budding friendship. But, joking apart, can there be a rival?"
"What are you thinking of? And if there were, I should be sure to know it through Lydia, who, like all elderly girls, is apt to err on the side of seeing too much rather than too little. Moreover, we two, Lydia and I, have never lost sight of the child, and in Erfurth, where, it is true, she went alone once or twice during the last few years, she was always in the company of my sister and her six girls, and I never heard a word, nor the slightest hint. One of the girls, Agatha, the third, Erna's bosom friend, is coming here, by the way, in a day or two; and a good, modest, sensible girl she is, though not as pretty as the rest.
But you surely remember Agatha? Well, I'll question her a little when she comes, but I know beforehand that she will not have anything to tell. Oh, you'd better concentrate your jealousy upon Lotter!"
Hildegard surely felt very certain of her ground, else she would not have jested--a rare occurrence with her. Bertram took up a similar tone, and during the game of whist to which he and Otto soon afterwards sat down with the two older ladies, he was remarkably merry and talkative.
But two hours later Konski found him all the more gloomy and taciturn, and so silent that he did not even reply to the "good-night, sir," of that faithful servitor.
"It's the old one," soliloquised Konski, as he meditatively brushed his master's boots in his own little room, "who is bothering him. 'Dear Mr.
Konski,' here, 'My good Mr. Konski,' there--I know what she is after.
And then, to give me a whole dollar! And she has not any to spare, I can see that much, in spite of her grand airs and her tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. And she to rule the roast for master and me! Not if we knows it! And now we'll both marry; and marry smart young ones too! And may the devil fly away with all old women!"
IX.
For this morning, after breakfast, a general expedition had been planned--a drive to a certain eminence, from which the Baron was desirous of expounding to them all the arrangements for the forthcoming man[oe]vres. Bertram had at the last moment made an excuse: much to his regret, he sent Konski to say, that he had forgotten to write some really important letters, and must needs stay at home to do so now.
Would the others, please, on no account give up their drive for his sake.
"At first they would not go without you, sir," Konski reported; "but I got them to do it, and they are getting the horses ready now; the ladies are to drive, the gentlemen will go on horseback. So you may stay quietly in bed and try to get another hour's sleep. I am afraid, sir, you have had another awful night!"
And indeed it had been a worse night for Bertram than the preceding one, and this time the morning had not improved him. That he had to admit to himself when, after having first vainly endeavoured to follow the faithful servant's advice, he had at length risen in very low spirits and dressed, trying whether a stroll along the terrace garden-walk would cool his fevered brow and refresh his weary heart.
He had no right to be wearied. He was bound, when they came back, to meet them merrily and serenely; that belonged to his part. How could they give their confidence to one who appeared to have none in himself, in his own strength, his own courage?
And he would need all his courage to look, if it could be done, deeper than hitherto into Erna's eyes, into Erna's heart: and he would need all his strength if that look were to confirm what, yesterday, he had deemed impossible, but what, during the awful night, had come to appear to him as thoroughly possible, nay, as probable. If it were so, then the whole elaborate plan which he had yesterday confided to his friend, had therewith fallen to the ground. Otto's embarra.s.sments were scarcely as great as he had represented them; and even if he had not, according to his wont, exaggerated things, what would be the use of delaying the decision? On the contrary, the more swiftly it came, the better for all. If the Baron was a man of honour; he would not withdraw on learning that the maiden of his choice was not wealthy; if he had influence at Court, if this influence really amounted to something considerable, he would now try all the more to use it for his future father-in-law. They might then make their own arrangements, as best they could; and they would make arrangements; sacrifice some things on both sides, give up some hopes. What would one not sacrifice, what would one not give up, if one loved from one's very heart? But to have to look on at such hearty love, love delighting in sacrifice--never! To run away would be cowardly, no doubt. But then valour, like honesty, is appropriate only when it is needed, and when it will be of some use. He would have to think beforehand of some suitable pretext which should render a sudden departure possible.
Thus lost in mournful thought, Bertram was pacing backward and forward along the terrace-walk, now past sunny espaliers, along which ruddy grapes were already commencing to shine through the dense cl.u.s.ters of vine-leaves, anon between rows of beeches, which were entwined overhead and formed dusky arbour-like groves.
Having reached the end of one of these groves, he paused as one terrified. In front of him, on the platform where the terrace widened, Erna was seated beneath the great plantain tree which overshadowed the whole place with its broad branches. An open volume lay upon the round table before her; she was writing busily, bending over a blotting-book. The graceful form, the finely-chiselled features, stood out in clearest profile against the green terrace above her. In this subdued light the dainty cheek seemed even paler than usual; and as she now paused, pen in hand, lifting a long eyelash and glancing meditatively up at the leafy roof above, the great eyes shone like those of an inspired Muse.
"One draught before I pa.s.s onward--on the shadeless remainder of my dreary road," Bertram muttered to himself.
He might have stepped back without being noticed, but he did not do so; his motionless eyes clung to the beautiful picture before him, as one perishing of thirst might gaze upon a br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup, when, lo! she turned.
"Uncle Bertram!"
She had said it quite calmly, and now, slowly, she laid down her pen and closed her blotting-book, rising at the same time and holding out her hand to him as he came up.
"I felt that somebody, was looking at me."
"And you wished, to remain unseen, or at least undisturbed. But could I have guessed that I should find you here? Why are you not away with the others?"
A smile flitted over her face.
"I had important letters to write, too."
"Well, you have written, anyhow."
"And have you not? For shame. If you make any excuses you should yourself take them in earnest; then you will come to fancy afterwards that the excuses were really valid."
"I'll remember this in future. But what makes you tell me to my face that my important letters were but an excuse?"
"I thought that you did not care to go; and I think I know the reason why."
"Indeed! I am curious to hear it from you."
"I will tell you. I wanted to say so last night already, for then I noticed quite well how gladly you would have made an excuse, only you could not at the moment think of a suitable one; but I could not have said what I wished to say in a few words, and so I determined to try and have an undisturbed talk with you. Shall we not sit down?"
They sat dawn, Erna with her blotting-book before her, Bertram on the seat opposite. Her large eyes were lifted up to him. But a minute before he had greatly longed to be able to see deep, deep into these eyes, right to the innermost recess of her soul; and now, when it could be, when it was to be, he shrank from it, he wished the time deferred.
He would in any case learn the secret all too soon.
"Uncle Bertram, I wanted to tell you that ..."
The dark eyelids had closed after all; well, she anyhow did not see the breathless excitement with which he hung upon her lips. In his mind he heard already the words--"that--I engaged myself last night to be married to the Baron." The pause she made--of a second or two--seemed to him an eternity.
"My dear child," he said in a voice well-nigh inaudible ...
"That ... you shall not for my sake lay upon yourself a burden which you can no longer bear."
The large eyes were gazing firmly at him again, while he bent his own in deadly confusion.
He murmured--
"I--I do not understand you."
"You are too good to wish to understand me; but the excess of your goodness weighs me down and frightens me. I know that you are fond of me, that you do it only because you love me. But I love you too, Uncle Bertram, love you very much, more than formerly, when I did not really know you, did not at all understand you. I am no longer a child, and therefore you should not treat me like a spoiled child and do what I ask, especially when I see that I ask for something to which I had no right. I had no right to ask--I should not have entreated you to be kind to Aunt Lydia. And now I beg of you not to be so any longer, or to the same extent. I cannot bear it. She has harmed you as terribly, as terribly as only an evil heart can harm a good one. And she to be allowed to take your hand, look into your eyes, jest with you, as if nothing had occurred! If this had happened to me, I would not tolerate it--never, never!"
Her voice quivered, her lips trembled; the pale cheek was flushed now, the great eyes were flashing. She said she had not known him, had not understood him--and he? What had he known of her? of the strength of feeling of that heart of hers which had seemed to him to beat in such steady measure? His gaze was fastened on her now in raptured amazement, like the gaze of a mortal to whom something divine is being revealed.
But next moment the wondrous girl had conquered that pa.s.sionate impulse, her features regained their usual expression, and she went on, calmly enough--
"And you, Uncle Bertram, should not tolerate it either--you, least of all. You cannot lie, cannot play the hypocrite. Let others do so; it befits you ill, it is unworthy of you. I cannot, will not see anything unworthy in you. I will have one human being whom I can believe and trust unconditionally. This one you are, you must be; is it not so, Uncle Bertram?"
She held out her hand to him across the table. He could not refuse it, and yet, as he touched those slender fingers, something thrilled through him as though he had been guilty of some act of desecration.
"You think me too good, too great," he said. "I can only reply, I will try to deserve your confidence."
"And I will give you an opportunity at once. I am not contented with myself either. I too--for the sake of others, to please papa and mamma who seemed greatly to wish it--have been kinder to somebody than at heart I felt justified in being, and I must henceforth change my conduct towards him."
"He has proposed to you?"