Countess Erika's Apprenticeship Part 32

Yes, it was Goswyn; there was no denying it.

"And you think that I should--I should--forgive?" murmured Otto, hoa.r.s.ely, as if ashamed to utter the words.

"If you can so far conquer yourself."

Otto stooped and picked up the letters that had fallen upon the floor.

He glanced through one of them. "There is not much tenderness in these lines, I must say." And he dropped at his side the hand holding the packet.

"One piece of advice I must give you," said Goswyn, with a coldness in his tone which he could not quite disguise. "If you forgive, you must have the strength of soul to forgive absolutely. If you forgive, throw those letters into the fire: Dorothea must never learn that you know anything."

"Yes," Otto said, dully. Suddenly he went close to Goswyn, and, looking him full in the eye, said, between his teeth, "Would you forgive?"

Goswyn started. He had no answer ready. "I--I never should have married Dorothea," he said, evasively.

"I understand," Otto said, in the same hoa.r.s.e whisper. "You never would have forgiven; but it is all right for stupid Otto."

Again there was a distressing pause. Otto had turned away from his brother, with an inarticulate exclamation of pain. Goswyn gave him some moments in which to recover himself; then, laying his hand on his brother's arm, he said, "Do not take it so ill of me, Otto; I have no doubt I talk foolishly. I cannot decide; I am confused."

"No wonder," groaned Otto. "The position is a novel one for you: there has never been anything like it in our family. Oh, G.o.d!" he struck his forehead with his clinched fist; "I cannot believe it! I used to be jealous at times, but of no special person. Never, never could I have believed,--never!"

"Otto."

"What?"

"Since you cannot bring yourself to forgive----"

"Since I cannot bring myself to forgive----" Otto repeated, with bowed head.

"You must at least look the matter boldly in the face and decide what to do."

"Decide--what--to do----"

"Are you going to procure a divorce?"

Otto stood motionless. Goswyn laid his hand upon his shoulder; Otto shrank from his touch. "Leave me, Gos!" he gasped. "I beg you, go!"

The clock on Dorothea's writing-table struck: the tone was almost like that of Dorothea's voice. Goswyn looked round. Six o'clock. At seven he was invited to dine with a great personage,--an invitation tantamount to a command: he could not be absent. It was high time for him to go home to dress, but he could not bear to leave Otto alone.

"I must go," he said, "but I entreat you to come with me; you must not see Dorothea just now, and the fresh air will do you good and clear your thoughts."

"Why should they be clearer than they are?" Otto said, wearily and with intense bitterness. "I see more than you think. But go,--go: in a few minutes she will be here, and it would be more terrible to me than I can tell you to see her before you. No need to say more: I know that you will stand by me through thick and thin! There, give me your hand.

I will do nothing unworthy of us, I promise you. Now go!"

Goswyn had gone, but Dorothea had not yet returned. Otto sat alone beside the dying fire. He could not comprehend what had befallen him.

He must rid himself of this terrible oppression, but how? Some way must be found,--some solution of the problem: he sought for it in vain.

"Forgive!" The word rang in his ears, and his cheeks burned. How had Goswyn dared to suggest such a thing? No, it was impossible. Be divorced,--have her name dragged in the mire, and his shame published in all the newspapers? He stamped his foot. "No! no!"

What then?

He could challenge Orbanoff, and send Dorothea adrift in the world, a wife, not divorced, but separated from her husband. This was what the world would expect of him. He shivered as with fever. Send her adrift into the world without protection, without support, without moral strength, beautiful as she was,--expose her to insult from women, to sneering homage from men: she would sink to the lowest depths, not from depravity, but from despair. He wiped the moisture from his forehead.

That would be the correct thing to do,--only---- Suddenly a sound that was half laughter, half sob, burst from his lips: he knew perfectly well that, while she lived, sooner or later the moment would come when he could no longer endure life without her; and then--then he should follow her, Heaven only knew whither, and take her in his arms, even were she far, far more lost than now.

And again there rang through his soul, "Forgive!" and again his whole being revolted. The packet of letters which he had thrust into his breast weighed him down. It was all very well for Goswyn to say that Dorothea must never know that the packet had fallen into his hands.

Why, she would ask for it. Ah,--he bit his lip,--he could not think of it! He could not forgive!

His burden grew heavier every moment. On a sudden he felt very tired,--overcome with drowsiness. What was that? The rustle of a gown.

The door opened. Framed by the folds of the portiere, indistinct in the gathering twilight, appeared Dorothea's tall, lithe figure.

She had come, and he had determined upon nothing,--nothing.

He did not stir.

"Gos not here?" she asked, in her high, twittering voice. He tried to summon up his anger against her; he told himself that he ought to strike her,--kill her. But he was as if paralyzed; he could not stir; he trembled in every limb. She did not perceive it, and she could not distinguish his features in the darkness.

"So much the better!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad of a quiet cosy evening with you. Do you want to please me, Otto? Come with me now to Uhl's and dine, and then let us go to the theatre. Will you?"

She came up to him. He had arisen, and the fresh sweetness of her feminine nature seemed to envelop him. She put both her hands on his shoulders and nestled close to him. "Will you?" she murmured again.

He put his arms around her and kissed her twice as he never had kissed her before, with a tenderness in which there was a mixture of rage and glowing, frantic pa.s.sion. Twice he kissed her, and then he suddenly became aware of what he was doing. He thrust her away.

"What is the matter?" she asked, startled.

"Nothing."

"But something is the matter."

"I tell you no!" He hurled the words in her face as it were, and stamped his foot. "Go--get ready!"

She lingered for a moment, and then left the room. He looked after her.

Goswyn's state of mind was indescribable. He hastily changed his uniform and made ready for the dinner. His nerves were quivering with a dread that he could not explain. "He never can bring himself to get a divorce," he said to himself; "and if he forgives----"

Disgust seemed fairly to choke him; he took shame to himself for having suggested such a course to Otto for a moment. He had no right to despise Otto. The old family affection for his brother revived in him in full force.

As soon as he was dressed he belied his usual Spartan habits by sending for a droschky. It would give him time to stop for a moment at Dorothea's lodgings to see what was going on there. The monotonous jogging of the vehicle soothed his nerves: his thoughts began to stray.

As it turned into Moltke Street the droschky moderated its speed, and at the same instant a dull sound as of the excited voices of a crowd struck upon his ear. He looked out of the carriage window, upon a close throng of human beings. The vehicle stopped; he sprang out.

There was a crowd before the house occupied by his sister-in-law.

Shoulder to shoulder men were pushing eagerly forward. A smothered murmur made itself heard; now and then a cynical speech fell distinctly on the ear, or a burst of laughter that died away without an echo, mingled with the curses of coachmen who could not make their way through the ma.s.s of humanity crowding there in the pale March twilight, through which the glare of the lanterns shone yellow and dreary. At first he could not get to the house; but the crowd soon made way for his officer's uniform.

He rang the bell loudly. Some time pa.s.sed before the door was opened for him. Measures had evidently been taken to baffle the curiosity of the crowd.

The door of Dorothea's apartments, however, was open. He hurried onward, finding at first no one to detain him or to give him any information.

In the cosy little room, now brilliantly lighted, where he had left his brother, stood Dorothea, evidently dressed to go out, in a gray gown, and a bonnet trimmed with pale pink roses, her cheeks ashy pale, her face hard and set in a frightful, unnatural smile.

"What has happened?" cried Goswyn.