In the shadiest part of the park there is a pond, bordered with rushes and surrounded by a scanty growth of underbrush, in the midst of which stand the black, skeleton trunks of several dead trees. During the winters preceding the coming to Dobrotschau of the Baroness Harfink, and shortly after the purchase of the estate, some of the most ancient of the trees--trees as old as the family whose downfall necessitated the sale of Dobrotschau--had died. Their lifeless trunks still pointed to the skies, tall and grim, as if in mute protest against the new ownership of the soil.
The pond, once a shining expanse of clear water, is almost dried up, and a net-work of water-plants covers its surface. Now, when the rosebuds are falling from their stems without opening, this marshy spot is gay with many-coloured blossoms.
At the edge of the pond lies an old boat, and in it Olga is sitting, dressed in white, with a red rose in her belt, one of the few roses which the drought has spared. She is gazing dreamily, with half-shut eyes, upon the shallow water which here and there mirrors the skies. An open book lies in her lap, Turgenieff"s "A First Love," but she has read only a few pages of it. Her att.i.tude expresses languor, and from time to time she shivers slightly.
"Why is Lato so changed to me? why does he avoid me? what have I done to displease him?" These are the thoughts that occupy her mind as she sits there, with her hands clasped in her lap, gazing down into the brown swamp, not observing that Fainacky, attracted by the light colour of her dress among the trees, has followed her to the pond and has been watching her for some time from a short distance.
"She loves," he says to himself, as he notices the dreamy expression of the girl"s face; and his vanity adds, "She loves me!"
He tries, by gazing fixedly at her, to force her to look up at him, but he is unsuccessful, and then has recourse to another expedient. In his thin, reedy tenor voice he begins to warble "Salve dimora casta e pura"
from Gounod"s "Faust."
Then she looks round at him, but her face certainly does not express pleasure. She arises, leaves the skiff, and, pa.s.sing her obtrusive admirer without a word, tries to turn into the shortest path leading to the castle. He walks beside her, however, and begins in a low voice: "Frulein Olga, I have something to say to you."
"Tome?"
"Yes, I want to explain myself, to correct some false impressions of yours, to lay bare my heart before you."
He pauses after uttering this sentence, and she also stands still, her annoyance causing a choking sensation in her throat. She would fain let him know that she is not in the least interested in having his heart laid bare before her, but how can she do this without seeming cross or angry?
"You have hitherto entirely misunderstood me," he a.s.sures her. "Oh, Olga, why can you not lay aside your distrust of me?"
"Distrust?" she repeats, almost mechanically; "I am not aware of any distrust."
"Do not deny it," he persists, clasping his hands affectedly; "do not deny it. Your distrust of me is profound. It wounds me, it pains me, and--it pains you also!"
Olga can hardly believe her ears. She stares at him without speaking, in utter dismay, almost fearing that he has suddenly lost his wits.
"You must hear me," he continues, with theatric effect. "Your distrust must cease, the distrust which has. .h.i.therto prevented you from perceiving how genuine is the admiration I feel for you. Oh, you must see how I admire you!"
Here Olga loses patience, and, with extreme _hauteur_, replies, "I have perceived your very disagreeable habit of staring at me, and of persecuting me with what I suppose you mean for compliments when you think no one is observing you."
"It was out of regard for you."
"Excuse my inability to understand you," she rejoins, still more haughtily. "I cannot appreciate regard of that description." And with head proudly erect she pa.s.ses him and walks towards the castle.
For a moment he gazes after her, as if spellbound. How beautiful she is, framed in by the dark trees that arch above the pathway! "She loves! she suffers!" he murmurs. His fancy suddenly takes fire; this is no fleeting inclination, no!--he adores her!
With a bound he overtakes her. "Olga! you must not leave me thus, adorable girl that you are! I love you, Olga, love you devotedly!"
He falls at her feet. "Take all that I have, my name, my life, my station,--a crown should be yours, were it mine!"
She is now thoroughly startled and dismayed. "Impossible! I cannot!"
she murmurs, and tries to leave him.
But with all the obstinacy of a vain fool he detains her. "Oh, do not force those beauteous lips to utter cruel words that belie your true self. I have watched you,--you love! Olga, my star, my queen, tell me you love me!"
He seizes the girl"s hands, and covers them with kisses; but with disgust in every feature she s.n.a.t.c.hes them from him, just as Lato appears in the pathway.
Fainacky rises; the eyes of the two men meet. Treurenberg"s express angry contempt; in those of the Pole there is intense hatred, as, biting his lip in his disappointment, he turns and walks away.
CHAPTER x.x.xI.
CONSOLATION.
"What is the matter? What is it?" Treurenberg asks, solicitously.
"Nothing, nothing," Olga replies; "nothing at which I ought to take offence." Then, after a short pause, she adds, "On the contrary, he did me the honour to offer to make me Countess Fainacky. The idea, it is true, seemed to occur to him rather tardily, after conducting himself impertinently."
Lato twirls his moustache nervously, and murmurs, in a dull, constrained voice, "Well, and could you not bring yourself to consent?"
"Lato!" the girl exclaims, indignantly.
The bitter expression on Lato"s face makes him look quite unlike himself as he says, "A girl who sets out to marry must not be too nice, you see!"
His head is turned away from her; silence reigns around; the sultry quiet lies like a spell upon everything.
He hears a half-suppressed e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, the rustle of a robe, short, quick steps, and, looking round, sees her tall figure walking rapidly away from him, offended pride and wounded feeling expressed in its every motion. He ought to let her go, but he cannot, and he hurries after her; almost before she is aware of his presence, he lightly touches her on the arm.
"Olga, my poor Olga, I did not mean this!" he exclaims, gently. "Be reasonable, my child; I did not mean to wound you, but to give you a common-sense view of the affair."
She looks away from him, and suddenly bursts into irrepressible sobs.
"You poor child! Hush, I pray you! I cannot bear this! Have I really grieved you--I--why, "tis ridiculous--I, who would have my hand cut off to serve you? Come, be calm." And he draws her down upon a rustic bench and takes a seat beside her.
Her chest heaves as does that of a child who, although the cause of its grief has been removed, cannot stop crying at once. He takes her hand in his and strokes it gently.
A delightful sensation of content, even of happiness, steals upon him, but mingling with it comes a tormenting unrest, the dawning consciousness that he is entering upon a crooked path, that he is in danger of doing a wrong, and yet he goes on holding the girl"s hand in his and gazing into her eyes.
"Why are you not always kind to me?" she asks him simply.
He is confused, and drops her hand.
"For a whole week past you have seemed scarcely to see me," she says, reproachfully. "Have you been vexed with me? Did I do anything to displease you?"
"I have had so much to worry me," he murmurs.
"Poor Lato! I thought so. If you only knew how my heart aches for you! Can you not tell me some of your troubles? They are so much easier to bear when shared with another."
And before he can reply she takes his hand in both of hers, and presses it against her cheek.
Just at that moment he sees the Pole, who has paused in departing and turned towards the pair; the man"s sallow face, seen in the distance above Olga"s dark head, seems to wear a singularly malevolent expression.
As soon, however, as he becomes aware that Treurenberg has perceived him, he vanishes again.
Lato"s confusion increases; he rises, saying, "And now be good, Olga; go home and bathe your eyes, that no one may see that you have been crying."