Countess Erika's Apprenticeship Part 30

To-day she longed for him; she wanted him to take her on his knee and soothe her like a tired child, and then to have him carry her in his strong arms down the broad staircase of his old castle in Kossnitz, as he used to do when they were first married. Yes, she longed for his strong supporting arm.

Ah, if she were only free! She would turn her back on Berlin and go with him to Kossnitz. She positively hungered for Kossnitz,--for the odour of stone and whitewash in the broad corridors, for the airy, bare rooms, for the farm-yard with the brown farm-buildings. How picturesque it must all look now in the snow!--for the snow was still deep in Silesia. They would go sleighing: oh, how delicious it would be to rush along, warmly wrapped up, with only her face exposed to the fresh wintry breeze, the sleigh-bells ringing merrily, the horses mad with their exciting gallop, the snow-clad forest gleaming silvery white around them!

And how delicious would be the supper when they got home!--she would have done with all fashionable division of the day: they would dine at one, and she would have potatoes in their skins at supper-time,--she had not had them since she was a child,--and black bread, and sour milk:--how she liked sour milk!

One hope she had. Was it not Orbanoff whom she had seen last night in the background of the box of a young actress? It was not his habit to conceal himself on such occasions: probably he had been thus discreet on her account. An idea suddenly occurred to her. What an opportunity this might afford her to recover her freedom! All she had to do was to feign furious jealousy, and break with her dangerous lover without wounding his vanity.

On the instant she felt relieved, and even gay, in the light of this hope.

The clock struck five,--the hour of her appointment with Orbanoff.

Without ringing for her maid, she dressed herself in the plainest of walking-costumes and left the house. She walked for some distance, then hired a droschky and was driven to a shop in Potsdam Street, where she dismissed the vehicle, bought some trifle, and walked on still farther before hiring another conveyance.

At about eight o'clock of the same day, Goswyn von Sydow, who had lately been transferred to Berlin, where he was acting as adjutant to an exalted personage, issued from the low door of a small house in a side-street where he had attended the baptism of the first-born son of one of his early friends, a young fellow of decided talent, who had married a girl without a fortune, and who did not at all regret his choice. The home was modest enough, but was so unmistakably the abode of the truest happiness that Sydow could not but envy his friend his lot in life. How pleasant it had all been!

He lighted a cigar, but held it idly between his fingers without smoking it, and reflected upon his own requirements in a wife,--requirements which one woman alone could fulfil, and she----

Could he forget his pride, and try his fortune once more? His heart throbbed. No! under the circ.u.mstances, he could not. He never could forget that he had been taunted with Erika's wealth. Even if he could win her love, their marriage would begin with a discord.

If she were but poor!

The blood tingled rapturously in his veins at the thought of how, if trial or misfortune should befall her, he might take her to his arms and soothe and cheer her, making her rich with his devotion and tenderness. He suddenly stood still, as if some obstacle lay in his path. Had he really been capable of selfishly invoking trouble and trial upon Erika's head? He looked about him like one awaking from a dream.

Just at his elbow a young woman glided out of a large house with several doors. He scarcely noticed her at first, but all at once he drew a long breath. How strange that he should perceive that peculiar fragrance, the rare perfume used by his sister-in-law, Dorothea! He could have sworn that Dorothea was near. He looked around: there was no one to be seen save the girl who had just slipped by him, a poorly-clad girl carrying a bundle.

He had not fairly looked at her before, but now--it was strange--in the distance she resembled his sister-in-law: it was certainly she.

He was on the point of hurrying after her to make sure, but second thoughts told him that it really mattered nothing to him whether it were she or not: it was not his part to play the spy upon her.

He turned and walked back in the opposite direction, that he might not see her. As he pa.s.sed the house whence she had come, a man m.u.f.fled in furs issued from the same door-way. The two men looked each other in the face. Goswyn recognized Orbanoff.

For a moment each maintained what seemed an embarra.s.sed silence. The Russian was the first to recover himself. "_Mais bon soir_," he exclaimed, with great cordiality. "_Je ne vous remettais pas_."

Goswyn touched his cap and pa.s.sed on. He no longer doubted.

The next morning Dorothea von Sydow awaked, after a sound refreshing sleep, with a very light heart. She was free! All had gone well. She had first regaled Orbanoff with a frightfully jealous scene to spare his vanity, but in the end they had resolved upon a separation _a l'aimable_, and the Princess Dorothea had then made merry, declaring that their love should have a gay funeral; whereupon she had partaken of the champagne supper that had been prepared for her, had chatted gaily with Orbanoff, had listened to his stories, and they had parted forever with a laugh.

Now she was sitting by the fire in her dressing-room, comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, dressed in a gray dressing-gown trimmed with fur, looking excessively pretty, and sipping chocolate from an exquisite cup of Berlin porcelain. "Thank G.o.d, it is over!" she said to herself again and again.

But, superficial as she was, she could not quite convince herself that her relations with Orbanoff were of no more consequence than a bad dream.

She felt no remorse, but a gnawing discontent: she would have given much to be able to obliterate her worse than folly. She sighed; then she yawned.

She still longed for her husband and Kossnitz: she would leave Berlin this very evening for Silesia and surprise him. How delighted he would be! She clapped her hands like a child. Suddenly--it was intolerable--again she was conscious of that gnawing discontent. Could she never forget? And all for what she had never cared for in the least. She thrust both her hands among her short curls and began to sob violently. Just then the door of the room opened; a tall, broad-shouldered man with a kindly, florid face entered. She looked up, startled as by a thunderclap. The new arrival gazed at her tearful face, and, hastening towards her, exclaimed, "My dear little Thea, what in heaven's name is the matter?"

She clasped her arms about his neck as she had never done before. He pressed his lips to hers.

Goswyn was sitting at his writing-table,--an enormous piece of furniture, somewhat in disarray,--trying to read. But it would not do; and at last he gave it up. He was distressed, disgusted beyond measure, at his discovery with regard to Dorothea. The Sydows had hitherto prided themselves upon the purity of their women as upon the honour of their men. Nothing like that which he had discovered had ever happened in the family. He had suspected the mischief before; since yesterday he had been sure.

Must he look calmly on? What else could he do? To open his brother's eyes, to play the accuser, was impossible. Yes, he must look on calmly.

He clinched his fist. At that moment he heard a familiar deep voice outside the room, questioning his servant. "Otto! What is he doing in Berlin?" he asked himself; "and he seems in a merry mood." He sprang up. The door opened, and Otto rushed in, rough, clumsy as usual, but beaming with happiness. He laid his broad hand upon his brother's shoulder, and cried,--

"How are you, old fellow? Why, you look down in the dumps. Anything gone wrong?"

"Nothing," Goswyn declared, doing his best to look delighted.

"Is everything all right?"

"Everything."

"That's as it should be. I suppose you are surprised to see me drop down from the skies in this fashion."

"I am indeed."

"'Tis quite a story. But I say, Gos, how comfortable you are here!" and he began to stride to and fro in the bachelor apartment; "although you don't waste much time or money in decoration, old fellow: not a pretty woman on the walls. H'm! my room looked rather different in my bachelor days. What have you done with your gallery of beauties, Gos?"

"I bequeathed all my youthful follies to my cousin Brock, who got his lieutenancy six weeks ago," said Goswyn, to whom his brother's chatter was especially distasteful to-day.

"H'm! h'm! you're right: you're getting quite too old for such nonsense." And Otto stooped to examine two or three photographs that adorned his brother's writing-table. "That's a capital picture of old Countess Lenzdorff," he exclaimed,--"capital! Here is our father when he was young,--I look like him,--and here is Uncle Goswyn, our famous hero, killed in a duel at thirty years of age. They say old Countess Lenzdorff was in love with him. As if she could ever have been in love!

And you look like him: our mother always said so. Oh, here is our mother!" He took the faded picture, in its old-fashioned frame, to the window to examine it. "This is the best picture there is of her," he said. "Think of your ever being that pretty little rogue in a white frock in her arms, and I that boy in breeches by her side! Comical, but very attractive, such a picture of a young mother with her children.

How she clasps you in her arms! She always loved you best. Where did you get this picture?"

"My mother gave it to me when I was quite young. She brought it to me when she came to see me in my first garrison, shortly before her death," said Goswyn.

"I remember; you had been wounded in your first duel."

"Yes; she came to nurse me."

"Ah, you've a deal on your conscience. No one would believe you were worse than I; but"--with a look at the picture--"I'd give a great deal for such a little fellow as that." And he put the picture back in its place with a care that was unlike him, and that touched Goswyn.

With his usual want of tact, Otto proceeded to efface the pleasant impression he had produced. "Have you no picture of the Lenzdorff girl?" he asked, looking round the room.

"I may have one somewhere," Goswyn replied, evasively. Indeed, he had a charming picture of her in the first bloom of her maiden loveliness; but he kept it behind lock and key, that no profane eye might rest upon his treasure.

"What a tone you take!" Otto rejoined. "Why, she was a flame of yours.

A capital girl, only rather too full of crotchets: she was always a little too high up in the sky for me, but she would have suited you. I cannot understand why you did not seize your chance----"

"Now you are going too far," Goswyn said, with some irritation. "Do not pretend that you do not know that Erika Lenzdorff rejected me."

"What!" exclaimed Otto, in some dismay. "True, I remember hearing something of the kind; but that was a hundred years ago. Forgive me, Gos: the 'no' of a girl of eighteen who looks at one as the young Countess looked at you ought not to be taken seriously. Why don't you try your luck a second time? You cannot attach any importance to that intermezzo with the Englishman! Why, you are made for each other; and she is quite wealthy, too----"

"Otto, for G.o.d's sake stop marching up and down the room like a lion in a cage," cried Goswyn, unable to bear it any longer; "do sit down like a reasonable creature and tell me how you come to appear so unexpectedly in Berlin."

Otto lit a cigar and obediently seated himself in an arm-chair opposite his brother. "'Tis quite a story," he began, just as he had a quarter of an hour before.

"You've told me that already."