"Stay, Herr Doctor _in spe_; if I _do_ refuse to take back the ring, there is no need for such conduct on your part as we remember on a former occasion."
"Dearest Adela, I entreat you not to trifle with me. This moment must decide our future, and if you deceive me now----"
"Good heavens, Walter! I am not deceiving you; I have grown older, and perhaps a little wiser, but for all that I am only sixteen years old, and you are still a student, and papa cannot spare me, and you must work very hard, and--no, stay where you are, please--what I wanted to say to you was that I thought it terrible that we should both go through the world so angry with each other, and I could not bear it, and so I begged papa to ask you here."
Whilst she spoke she had retreated step for step around the rose-bush as Walter advanced, so that both had now made its entire circuit. Again he tried to take her hand, but, lithe and swift as a fawn, she placed the entire bush between herself and her lover, and from her place of vantage went on: "Stand still there, and I will tell you something.
There was a young officer in Berlin who wanted me to marry him----"
"Adela!"
"Hush! Yes, he wanted me to marry him, and I refused point-blank."
"Adela!"
"Stand still, Walter, or I will leave you. I told him that at present I would betroth myself to no one, but that when I was eighteen, if any one should woo me, I never would marry an officer or a lawyer, for that I had decided if I ever married that it should be a doctor!"
And away she sped to the house, which she was entering just as Walter reached the foot of the veranda steps.
"Adela! dearest Adela!" he cried.
As he spoke, a fresh dewy rose was tossed into his face, and Adela vanished, with a laugh, inside the house.
CHAPTER XXIV.
PER CRUCEM AD LUCEM.
Bernhard"s exertions in Berlin were fruitless. The failure of the large banking firm had involved many other business firms. There had been heavy losses, and those who had not suffered shook their heads and kept their money safe in their pockets. The word "railway" provoked a perfect panic, and confidence everywhere was greatly shaken. Upon a closer examination Bernhard"s losses were found to be much greater than had been at first supposed. After conscientious consideration he could not but admit to himself that it was time for him to look after his own interests and relinquish, for the present at least, his efforts for the benefit of the country at large. So he returned to his home very much cast down, his confidence in his own ability greatly shaken, discontented with himself and with destiny.
At the station, which was about three miles from Eichhof, his carriage was awaiting him. He got into it with a sigh, and as it rolled through the monotonous pine forest he sat thinking how refreshing it would be to him to be affectionately welcomed to his home. He saw before him Thea as she had been a year before, when she had studied so hard for his sake, and the past lay before his mental vision like a lost Paradise. Why was it all so different now? why was there this shadow between himself and his wife, the shadow of a dead man, and yet palpable enough to separate them forever?
"She was pure as a lily when she came to me," he said to himself.
"Could I not have shielded her from every possible danger? Did I not know Lothar? Did I not know that he was as thoughtless as he was susceptible? Why did I look so far abroad and shut my eyes to what was nearest me? I built castles in the air for the future, and lost the ground beneath my feet. But then--Thea was my wife, Lothar was my brother,--how could I think---- Oh, it is hard, fearfully hard!"
Monotonous as the road along which he was driving, his future life now lay before him, without one sunny, peaceful spot that promised repose.
Suddenly he thought of his child, his son, of whom he had as yet seen so little. From his fair rosy boy a light seemed to issue and illumine the future pathway of the lonely man. He could devote himself to the care of his child, he could prepare for him a golden future. To be sure, he was himself still too young not to rebel against his fate, but nevertheless the thought of his boy consoled him. He roused himself from his gloomy revery, and asked the coachman whether the Countess Thea and his child were at Eichhof. The old servant turned towards him, and his eyes seemed mutely to reproach his master as he replied, "Yes, Herr Count; Madame the Countess arrived at Eichhof yesterday."
"And the child is well?" Bernhard inquired.
The old man"s face grew sad, but his eyes were not so reproachful; his master had not quite forgotten his wife and child. "Beg pardon, Herr Count," he said, "but the child is not well. They were both well when they arrived, but in the night----"
"Not well; what do you mean? The child is not seriously ill?"
"Beg pardon, Herr Count, but the child is very ill. Just before the despatch came from Berlin ordering the carriage, Madame the Countess telegraphed to the Herr Count----"
"And you have never told me until now?" Bernhard exclaimed.
The old man began once more with his "Beg pardon, Herr Count;" and added, "Madame the Countess thought that the Herr Count would have left Berlin before her despatch could reach him, and she was afraid that the Herr Count might be anxious, and so she told me to say nothing unless the Herr Count inquired. And I did just as Madame the Countess ordered."
"Drive on!" Bernhard cried, wrapping himself in his cloak. He looked at his watch; they were just crossing the forest near Panienka; he could not reach home in less than an hour. And his child, for whom he had just been planning in his mind, was ill, dangerously ill, or Thea would not have telegraphed him.
"What are you about, Hadasch?" he suddenly exclaimed to the coachman.
"Drive as fast as you possibly can----"
Instead of which the carriage stood still, and with his usual "Beg pardon, Herr Count," the coachman pointed to a very dashing and graceful horsewoman who had just appeared from a side-road, and who was the cause of the delay.
She reined in her steed beside the carriage, and Bernhard replied to the enchanting smile of the fair Amazon by a formal lifting of his hat.
"What a delightful encounter!" cried Frau von Wronsky, and her eyes were more eloquent than any words. "I hope your business matters are concluded, or rather I know they are, and that you have had much that was most annoying to endure."
"You know----" He was now standing in his barouche, with his hand upon the back of the seat, and her brilliant eyes were on a level with his own.
"Yes; I have heard it all in my letters from Berlin, and naturally I have sympathized with you from my heart. Your home must indemnify you, my dear Count, for all that you have suffered abroad." She leaned forward and looked him full in the face as she spoke. "I trust you will soon come to Panienka, that we may discuss it all together."
"You are very kind, but I have just heard that my boy is very ill, and----"
"Oh, has your wife returned? Happy man! I am still alone; my husband is away for an indefinite time----"
Bernhard looked not at her, but at his horses pawing the ground impatiently, as he rejoined, "I am extremely anxious with regard to my boy; he seems to be dangerously ill."
She struck her glove impatiently with the silver b.u.t.t of her riding-whip, and her dark brows lowered, but she controlled herself, and said, "If the sick-room should be too confining for you, I pray you to remember the rocks about the lake in the park at Panienka. My remembrances to your charming wife. I hope soon to hear from you."
She inclined her head and reined in her horse for an instant longer, as though awaiting an answer.
"I certainly will send you word with regard to the child"s condition,"
Bernhard said, gravely.
She galloped off, and he again ordered the coachman to drive as fast as possible.
The old man, however, who had listened with an impa.s.sive face to the conversation between his master and the charming Julutta, took the liberty of begging pardon once more, that he might inform Bernhard that Madame von Wronsky"s groom had met him to-day, and had questioned him as to the exact hour of the Herr Count"s arrival.
Bernhard"s brow grew dark. His people then were aware, it seemed, of his "friendship," and watched him. And she, Julutta, had not disdained to learn what she wished concerning him through her groom. And she seemed also to have made inquiries about him in Berlin. And yet, in spite of all this interest, she had no comprehension of his anxiety concerning his child! The sentiment with which he now regarded this woman, for whose sake he had for an instant done violence to all that was best in him, was more like hate than love. When at last he reached Eichhof he sprang impatiently from the carriage.
"How is the child?" he asked of the footman who instantly appeared. The man shook his head. "The doctor is up-stairs, Herr Count; I am afraid he is no better."
Bernhard hurried to the sick-room and entered noiselessly. He saw Thea leaning back in an armchair, deadly pale, and the physician occupied with her. Beside the child"s cradle two women knelt weeping. One glance at the little form lying there told Bernhard that he was too late, that all was over. For an instant he stood as though turned to stone. Then the doctor perceived him. The old friend of the family could scarcely speak to the young Count for a moment, but pressed his hand in silence.
"Is it all over?" Bernhard asked in a scarcely audible whisper, pointing to the child.
The physician a.s.sented. "Human means were of no avail. He died of convulsions."
"And my wife?"
"It is only a fainting-fit; but Countess Thea is terribly distressed."
Just then Thea opened her eyes, and, obeying his first impulse, Bernhard hurried to her side and clasped her in his arms. For an instant she allowed her head to rest upon his shoulder. Her whole frame was shaken by convulsive sobs. Then she gently disengaged herself, and sank on her knees beside the cradle, laying her head down upon the pillow.