"The unwillingness is mutual. I have not the least desire to know anything of him," she says, with emphasis.
"Ah!--indeed!" he says, with a lowering glance from beneath his s.h.a.ggy eyebrows. "Shall I tell him so, from you?"
"If you choose!" she replies. Suddenly an idea strikes her; she observes him in her turn more keenly than hitherto, his face, his figure, his hands, tanned and neglected, but slender and shapely, with almond-shaped nails. There is something familiar in his features.
Is he really the brewer Studnecka, the fool? And if no fool, who can it be that ventures thus to address her? Something thrills her entire frame. A portrait recurs to her memory,--a portrait of the elder Leskjewitsch, which, since the family embroilment, has hung in the lumber-room at Zirkow. There is not a doubt that this crazy old creature is her grandfather.
He sees that she has recognized him.
Her bearing has suddenly become haughty and repellent. She adjusts her large straw hat, which has been hanging at the back of her neck.
"Then I am to tell him from you that you do not wish to have anything to do with him?" the old man asks again.
"Yes." Her voice is hard and dull.
"And besides," he asks, "have you nothing else to say to him?" He looks at her as if to read her soul.
She returns his look with eyes in whose brown depths the tears so lately shed are still glistening. She knows that she is putting the knife to her own throat, but what matters it? The gathered bitterness of years overflows her heart and rises to her lips.
"And besides,"--she speaks slowly and provokingly,--"besides, I should like to tell him that I consider his conduct cold-hearted, petty, and childish; that after he has tormented to death two people, my father and my mother, he might, in his old age, attempt by love and kindness to make some amends for his wickedness, instead of going on weaving fresh misery out of his wretched hatred and obstinacy, and--that never whilst I live will I make one advance towards him!" She bows slightly, turns, and leaves him. He looks after her graceful figure as it slowly makes its way among the underbrush and is finally lost to sight.
"A splendid creature! What a carriage! what a figure! and what a bewitching face! No wonder she has turned the brain of that silly lad at Komaritz. He knows what"s what. The child shows race," he mutters; "she"s a genuine Leskjewitsch. All Fritz.--Poor Fritz!"
The old man pa.s.ses his hand across his forehead, and then gazes after her once more. Is that her blue dress glimmering among the trees? No, it is a bit of sky. She has vanished.
Zdena manages to slip up to her own room un.o.bserved when she reaches Zirkow. She makes her first appearance at table, her hair charmingly arranged, dressed as carefully as usual, talkative, gay. The most acute observer would hardly suspect that a few hours previously she had all but cried her eyes out.
"And did you bring us the piece of news from Dobrotschau?" asks Frau Rosamunda during the soup, which Zdena leaves untasted.
"Oh, yes. And most extraordinary it is," she replies. "Paula Harfink is betrothed."
"To whom?"
"To Harry," says Zdena, without the quiver of an eyelash, calmly breaking her bread in two as she speaks.
"To Harry? Impossible!" shouts the major.
"Not at all," Zdena declares, with a smile. "I saw him with her. She already calls him by his first name."
"I do not understand the world nowadays," growls the old soldier, adding, under his breath, "That d--d driving about in the moonlight!"
Frau von Leskjewitsch and her cousin Wenkendorf content themselves during the remainder of the meal with discussing the annoying consequences for the family from such a connection, partaking, meanwhile, very comfortably of the excellent dinner. The major glances continually at his niece. It troubles him to see her smile so perpetually. Is it possible that she is not taking the matter more seriously to heart?
After dinner, when Frau von Leskjewitsch has carried her cousin off to the greenhouse to show him her now gloxinias, the major chances to go into the drawing-room, which he supposes empty. It is not so. In the embrasure of a window stands a figure, motionless as a statue,--quite unaware of the approach of any one. The major"s heart suffers a sharp pang at sight of that lovely, tender profile, the features drawn and pinched with suppressed anguish. He would like to go up to his darling,--to take her in his arms. But he does not dare to do so. How can one bestow caresses upon a creature sore and crushed in every limb?
He leaves the room on tiptoe, as one leaves the room of an invalid who must not be disturbed.
"G.o.d have mercy on the poor child!" he murmurs.
CHAPTER X.
A GARRISON TOWN.
As was formerly remarked at the sale of the effects of Mademoiselle Pauline C----, "Very little body-linen and very many diamonds," so it may be said of the population of X----: very few inhabitants, but very many hussars.
The town consists of a barracks and a Casino; the post-office, church, and school-house, as well as all the big and little houses, new and tasteless, or old and ruinous, are merely a secondary affair.
The ugly square barracks, painted red, is situated upon what is called "The Ring," a s.p.a.cious, uneven square, unpaved but trodden hard, and, besides, covered with dust, straw, remains of bundles of hay, and all kinds of dirt pertaining to a stable.
Opposite the barracks is the Casino, also called "_Hostinee u byl ruze_," or "The White Rose Inn." The barracks stands alone, haughtily exclusive. Adjoining the Casino and the post-office, however, are various ugly or half-ruinous structures, and opposite the post-office there is a line of unedifying building, describing a s.p.a.cious circle,--low huts, two-storied houses, houses with mansard roofs, houses painted yellow, light green, or light pink, with a saint in a blue niche over the front door, and houses with creaking weatherc.o.c.ks on the roof, all half ruinous, but clinging affectionately to one another, like drunken recruits bent upon mutual support.
It is noon. From the open windows of the most pretentious of these houses come the notes of a waltz, with a loud sound of shuffling and sc.r.a.ping, alternating with screaming and laughter. The story goes that the wife of the steward of the Casino, Frau Albina Schwanzara, former _prima ballerina_ at Troppau, is teaching the cancan behind those same windows to one of the celebrities of the little town, the wife of a wealthy tallow-chandler, and that the lady in question, for the entertainment of the corps of officers now stationed at X----, is to dance the aforesaid beautiful dance at the next "sociable," dressed as a chimney-sweeper. "Fast at any price!" is the device of the celebrity.
The lively music is the only animate circ.u.mstance in "The Ring;" the sultry August heat has stricken dead everything else. The kellner at the door of the Casino, the sentinel at the gate of the barracks, are nodding where they stand. In a corner of the square is the wagon of a troupe of strolling players,--a green-painted house on wheels,--to which is harnessed a one-eyed steed with very long legs and a tail like a rat"s. The prima donna of the troupe, a slovenly woman in shabby dancing-slippers, is squatting on a bundle of hay, flirting with a cavalry sergeant. A lank youth with long, straight, fair hair is thrashing with his suspenders a pig tied at the back of the wagon, while he holds up his trousers over his stomach with his left hand.
Several other children of Thespis lie stretched out snoring, among various drums and ropes, in the dust.
All the people who happen to be in the square stare at them.
The universal interest is shortly diverted, however, by the arrival of two equipages and a luggage-wagon, all three driving down a side street to rein up before the post-office. In the first of the two vehicles, a large convenient landau, two ladies are seated with a young man opposite them. The second carriage is occupied by a valet and two maids.
They have come from the nearest railway-station, and have merely stopped at the post-office for any letters and papers that may be awaiting them. While the servant is procuring these within the building, the young man alights from the landau and enters into conversation with the postmaster, eagerly inquiring what regiment is at present in garrison at X----.
The curiosity of an increasing public becomes almost morbid. All crowd around the post-office. The young actress has lost her admirer,--the sergeant has rushed up to the young man.
"Oh, Herr Lieutenant!" he calls out, eagerly; then, ashamed of his want of due respect, he straightens himself to the correct att.i.tude and salutes with his hand at his cap. Two officers, each with a billiard-cue in his hand, come hastily out of the Casino, followed by a third,--Harry Leskjewitsch. The stranger receives the first two with due courtesy; Harry he scans eagerly.
"You here, Harry!" he exclaims, going up to him with outstretched hands.
The lady on the right in the landau lowers the red Bilk parasol with which she has. .h.i.therto shielded her face from public curiosity, and takes out her eye-gla.s.s; the other leans forward a little. Both ladies are in faultless travelling-dress. The one on the right is a beauty in her way, fair, with a good colour, a full figure, and regular features, although they may be a trifle sharp. Her companion is beautiful, too, but after an entirely different style,--a decided brunette, with a pale face and large eyes which, once gazed into, hold the gazer fast, as by the attraction one feels to solve a riddle.
"Treurenberg!" Harry exclaims, grasping the stranger"s hands in both his own.
"I thought you were in Vienna," Treurenberg replies. "I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you! When did we meet last?"
"At your marriage," says Harry.
"True! It seems an eternity since then." Treurenberg sighs. "Only fancy, I had to shoot my "Old Tom" last winter!"
At this moment a little cavalcade pa.s.ses across the square to reach the barracks,--an Amazon in a tight, very short riding-dress, followed and accompanied by several gentlemen.
Treurenberg"s attention is attracted by the horse-woman, who, although much powdered, rather faded, and with a feverish glow in her large, dark eyes, shows traces of very great beauty.
"Is not that Lori Trauenstein?" Lato asks his new-found friend.
"Yes,--now Countess Wodin, wife of the colonel of the regiment of hussars in garrison here."
"An old flame of mine," Lato murmurs. "Strange! I scarcely recognized her. This is the first time I have seen her since----" he laughs lightly--"since she gave me my walking-ticket! Is Wodin the same as ever?"