Felix Lanzberg's Expiation Part 30

But her manner now was of a quite different kind.

What could he think but that her love for him had become less; that with Elsa, as with all good mothers, her children had gradually won the precedence in her heart, and there was nothing to do for it. And Erwin smiled peculiarly, shrugged his shoulders, for the first few days felt painfully wounded, and finally began to accustom himself to the situation. He hunted a great deal, and also occasionally rode to Traunberg, where he was always sure of a hearty reception, often met gay society, and from whence he brought back the comfortable conviction that he had the best influence over a lovable but superficial human being.

Now, after Elsa had barricaded herself on all sides with diligence and pains and praiseworthy energy, against happiness, she was terrified at her own work, and she would gladly have annihilated it, but she now lacked the power. Erwin had become distant; formerly she would have silently slipped her hand into his and with that all would have been said, he would have understood. But now, now she no longer dared; she was as shy and embarra.s.sed as a bride. That it was hateful, yes, fairly inexcusable to suspect a man who in all the different situations of his life had acted so severely honorably as Erwin, of such disgraceful conduct as her jealousy suggested to her, she knew, but----

"The Lanzberg shadow has fallen upon my happiness," she sometimes thought sadly; "it must come so," but in the next moment she said, "No, it must not come so. I--I myself am to blame that it has come; why did I send him away from me on our wedding-day, from silly, childish obstinacy? If I believed in danger for him, I should have tried doubly hard to chain him to me; instead of this I have done everything to make myself disagreeable to him, only because my pride did not consider a threatened happiness worth defence. If what I feared now happens, then----" but here her thoughts paused. "That cannot be," she murmured impatiently; "It is not possible." Then suddenly she thought of her brother, who in his time had stood almost as high in her respect as Erwin, and who in one instant had sunken, oh, so deeply!

"If that were possible, then everything is possible in this world," she decided, sternly.

One day after another pa.s.sed--a cloud had shown itself in her sky so small and transparent that a single sunbeam would have sufficed to kiss it away; but the cloud had grown larger, and now covered the whole sky so that it could not even be seen.

An unpleasant accident contributed to embitter Elsa's feelings completely.

For a long time she had been urged by her heart to show Erwin some little attention, and she ransacked her brains to think of something which could please him, and yet would not be a too direct reminder of her love. At last it occurred to her to have a photograph taken for him of Baby, who with her childish coquetries had gradually become dearer and dearer to her father's heart.

She put the frock which Erwin liked best upon the little creature herself, one which showed off Baby's charms most advantageously. She kissed and smoothed the child's short curls, and hung a golden heart on a thin chain round her neck, of which the vain rogue was not a little proud, and tugged at it with both little fists to admire it, or put it in her mouth. Then Elsa ordered the carriage and drove over to Marienbad with Baby. Baby made the most attentive observations from the lap of her mamma; from time to time she stretched out her hand for some object which especially pleased her or was new to her, and gave a little clear joyous cry, or uttered some of those disconnected syllables which have significance for a mother's ear only.

The novelty of the situation at the photographer's impressed her; the first attempt did not succeed. The photographer remarked that if the Baroness would hold the child herself, it would perhaps be better. Elsa replied blushingly that she did not wish to appear in the picture.

But Baby would not have it otherwise. Now the trial succeeded admirably. The photographer showed the negative in which Baby's delicate face, with the solemn, staring eyes, and the shy, smiling mouth could plainly be recognized. Elsa nodded with satisfaction, but begged that he would wash out her figure. Then the old photographer--he knew Elsa from her childhood--surveyed his work with the look of an artist, and said, "Ah, Baroness, it would be a shame for the pretty picture. Has the Baroness one of the last photographs which I took of her as a bride? It is just the same face."

And Elsa let him have his way; involuntarily the delight with which he held the dim negative against his rough coat-sleeve amused her, and she even stole a glance in the mirror, the first glance for a long time, and thought that although somewhat pale and thin, she did not look so very old and faded as she had thought. She rejoiced at this discovery, and rejoiced that her richly embroidered black gown was so becoming, and rejoiced over Baby's picture, and looked forward to the moment when she should take it to Erwin.

When she now got into the carriage waiting below with Baby, and the servant closed the door, the child suddenly almost sprang out of her mother's lap, and stretched out her little arms, and cried in a clear, bell-like voice, "Papa! Papa!" As Baby's vocabulary is still very limited, and she had recently bestowed the t.i.tle of Papa upon Litza's pony, Elsa glanced somewhat sceptically in the direction in which the child's arm pointed, but really saw Erwin about to enter a jeweller's shop.

Linda Lanzberg was on his arm!

Elsa grew deathly pale. When the carriage, as upon entering she had directed, stopped before a toy store, she did not alight, but ordered, "Home!"

All reconciling feelings toward Erwin changed into a condition of boundless excitement; for the moment she felt a kind of hatred for him.

When at dinner he asked, "Elsa, were not you in Marienbad to-day? It seemed to me that I saw the carriage pa.s.s when I was in Stein's," she answered, coldly, "I was there. I had something to attend to. And did you buy anything of Stein?" she then asked, as if casually. "Will he mention Linda?" she thought, but he replied half laughingly, "A pink coral necklace for the little one. To-morrow is, if I am not mistaken, her christening day." In fact Baby had been named after the Countess Dey, the sensible name, Marie.

This explanation did not relieve Elsa in the slightest. The most innocent significance which she could ascribe to his presence there with Linda was that he had asked her advice in the choice of an ornament for the child. It did not occur to her that he could have met Linda in Marienbad quite accidentally. The rest of the evening she was in a hopelessly bad humor. Every word that Erwin spoke pained her, his manner of laying a pair of scissors on the table vexed her. With that, fever shone in her eyes and burned in her cheeks. The kiss which every evening he imprinted upon her forehead had long become a conventional ceremony, but to-day she wished to evade this formality. She disappeared from the drawing-room immediately after tea, upon some pretext, and did not return again.

The next day was a holiday, Baby's christening day, the day after Juanita's visit to Traunberg.

Most exceptionally, this time Erwin did not appear at breakfast, and when Elsa asked after him, the word was, "The Baron breakfasted in his own room, and had then gone away."

About half-past eleven, as Elsa sat in the nursery, weary and languid, holding Baby on her lap, the door opened and Erwin entered. Baby stretched out her little hands joyously, but Elsa's eyes grew gloomy and she struck the child's hand reprovingly. Erwin grew deathly pale, pale as she had never seen him before.

"Later, Baby," he murmured somewhat hoa.r.s.ely, and left the room. But Baby began to cry bitterly, and would not stay in her mother's lap.

After lunch, during which Erwin did not address another word to Elsa, she heard him down in the garden, talking and playing with the little one; she heard Baby's soft happy laugh; she went to the window, stretched out her head, and saw him swinging the child in the air. When Baby was finally weary of play, she laid her little arm around her father's neck, and leaned her delicate flower-like face against his sun-browned cheeks.

Elsa's head ached; she burned with fever from head to foot, every nerve quivered and her thoughts were gloomy. Slowly she dragged herself up and down, finally seated herself with hands clasping her temples, upon a divan. She was losing consciousness when suddenly she started up and listened. She heard Erwin's horse pawing the ground in front of the house. Where was he going so suddenly? She roused herself, and holding to the walls, crept slowly down-stairs. Then, hidden by the turn of the stairs, in the shadow of the hall, she heard Erwin's voice:

"If the Baroness asks for me, Martin, tell her that you do not know where I am; in no case shall she wait dinner for me," said he, quickly and softly.

With that he mounted his horse and rode away at a rapid pace.

Where? Elsa's heart stopped beating. Had anything happened?

She crossed the hall--she would force old Martin to speak; but he had gone also. Then something on the floor rattled, a gray paper which the hem of her dress had touched; she stooped for it--it lay there crumpled as if it had just fallen from a violent hand. She committed no voluntary indiscretion, she only looked at it as one scrutinizes a paper to see whether one shall pick it up or throw it away. It was not her fault that, thanks to the writing, which was as plain as print, at the first glance her eyes had comprehended the whole contents.

Dear Erwin:

Come soon--to-day, now--at once--I expect you.

Linda.

She took the note, carried it to Erwin's room, and laid it conscientiously upon his writing-desk. Then her knees trembled, and she had to sit down. Not that he had received the note surprised her. What fault was it of his if Linda wrote foolish notes? But what she did not understand, what remained absolutely incomprehensible to her was the fact that he had taken his valet into his confidence, that he had not been ashamed to make him his confidant. Had she not heard wrong? Had he gone to Traunberg? Now, when the facts spoke strongest against him, she weighed most justly the probabilities for and against his fault; she had acted imprudently towards him, and since the birth of the last child, devoting herself entirely to her maternal duties, had neglected him. He had borne this with goodness and patience; then Linda had suddenly appeared, with her dazzling beauty, her picturesque elegance, her coquettish heartlessness.

For hours Elsa sat there and waited. At five o'clock she sat down to dinner; immediately after this she left the dining-room--she had no more control over herself.

"It is all possible," she cried, giving way, desperate; her breath came heavily and so feverish that it burned her lips--black clouds swam before her eyes.

She looked at the clock. What kept him away from home so long--with her? Another fifteen minutes pa.s.sed--he must be with her. She could no longer endure her distrustful suspense--she would go to Traunberg.

She ordered the carriage. On the way she started at every sound, at every shadow, everywhere she saw him and her.

A fearful dread of the certainty came over her; at the last moment she clung to uncertainty.

She wished to return, but she was ashamed of displaying such inconsequence before the servants, and just then the carriage drove through the iron gate into the Traunberg park. The lackey in the vestibule announced that the Baroness was not at home.

Elsa sighed with relief; if Linda were not home, she could receive no guests, and Erwin could not be there. That she could have denied herself did not occur to her.

It was pleasant to her to enjoy Traunberg once more, without Parisian anecdotes and French _chansonnettes_--without Linda.

All was as if dead; it reminded her of the old Traunberg, where she had lived in loving solitude with her father. She did not think of returning at once; the great tension of her nerves had suddenly given way to vague dreaminess--the danger was not over but postponed.

She went out into the garden; her heart grew more and more heavy, and her step slow. Her dress caught upon a branch. It seemed to her that a warning hand held her back. In mysterious dread of choosing the very gloomy path which lay before her, she took another. Her heart beat rapidly, she stood still, resolved to return. Between the trunks of the lindens, the water of the large pond which bounded one side of the Traunberg park shone in the sunset glow. With the gentle murmur of the water mingled the regular strokes of oars. Elsa stood still, she listened. Who could it be? Linda was not home. Elsa glanced at the pond. In a little boat she saw two figures, one, Linda, leaning back in the end of the little skiff, flowers in her hair and in her lap, one hand in the water, an evil light in her eyes, something luxuriantly melancholy in her whole form. Opposite her, with his back to Elsa, sat a man, slender, broad-shouldered, in a light summer suit, with close-cropped hair of that striking light blond which shines like molten gold in the sunlight.

Elsa started back--it was surely Erwin--she turned away, she would see no more--but no--it seemed to her that she must call after him--there--the little row-boat had reached the small island covered with roses which was in the middle of the lake. In the gray-white August twilight she saw the two figures turn into the overgrown thicket of the island--they disappeared behind the bushes as if immersed in shadow.

Elsa was as if paralyzed by a kind of gloomy numbness; a fearful excitement overcame her--she must go--where she did not know, only far, far away from the accursed spot.

She did not think of ordering her carriage, of driving home. She scarcely thought of anything, only moved mechanically on, and instinctively took the path to Steinbach, as an animal wounded unto death seeks its hole to die in.

She groped before her with her hands, she blinked as if blinded by a terrible light, she hit blindly against the trees as she pa.s.sed, like a bat--she saw nothing but two light figures disappearing amid gloomy shadow. She hurried on and on--at first very rapidly--it seemed to her that she could fly, but she was mistaken. The unrest which raged within her was that of fever, of over-exhaustion, not of unused strength. Soon her feet felt like lead, and a heavy weight seemed resting upon her breast; she dragged herself wearily on like one in a bad dream, who wishes to flee from some monster and cannot. The more weary her body became, the more clear what had really frightened her became to her.

"He and Linda," she murmured to herself, "he and my brother's wife."

And with a desperate smile, a smile which condemned faith, hope and love to death, she added, "Yes, everything is possible in this world!"

How good he had formerly been, how loving! The loveliest moments of her married life came to her mind with the sad charm of the irrevocably lost. On she tottered, in her wide-open eyes the wild look which seeks nothing more, which looks away from everything, the look of a being who has seen happiness die. "I was happy," she murmured to herself with unspeakable bitterness.

But soon the poisonous breath of doubt tainted the happiness which had been also. How did she know how false it might have been, whether she had not merely been "considerately deceived"?