The First Violin Part 70

"Oh, yes!" said he. "Yes, very."

"What do you do all day?"

"I learn lessons from Herr Nahrath, and I ride with Uncle Bruno, and--and--oh! I do whatever I like. Uncle Bruno says that some time I shall go to Bonn, or Heidelberg, or Jena, or England, whichever I like."

"And have you no friends?"

"I like being with Brunken the best. He talks to me about my father sometimes. He knew him when he was only as old as I am."

"Did he? Oh, I did not know that."

"But they won't tell me why my father never comes here, and why they never speak of him," he added, wearily, looking with melancholy eyes across the lines of wood, through the wide window.

"Be sure it is for nothing wrong. He does nothing wrong. He does nothing but what is good and right," said I.

"Oh, of course! But I can't tell the reason. I think and think about it." He put his hand wearily to his head. "They never speak of him. Once I said something about him. It was at a great dinner they had. Aunt Hildegarde turned quite pale, and Uncle Bruno called me to him and said--no one heard it but me, you know--'Never let me hear that name again!' and his eyes looked so fierce. I'm tired of this place," he added, mournfully.

"I want to be at Elberthal again--at the Wehrhahn, with my father and Friedhelm and Karl Linders. I think of them every hour. I liked Karl and Friedhelm, and Gretchen, and Frau Schmidt."

"They do not live there now, dear, Friedhelm and your father," said I, gently.

"Not? Then where are they?"

"I do not know," I was forced to say. "They were fighting in the war. I think they live at Berlin now, but I am not at all sure."

This uncertainty seemed to cause him much distress, and he would have added more, but our conversation was brought to an end by the entrance of Brunken, who looked rather surprised to see us in such close and earnest consultation.

"Will you show me the way back to the countess's room?" said I to Sigmund.

He put his hand in mine, and led me through many of those interminable halls and pa.s.sages until we came to the rittersaal again.

"Sigmund," said I, "are you not proud to belong to these?" and I pointed to the dim portraits hanging around.

"Yes," said he, doubtfully. "Uncle Bruno is always telling me that I must do nothing to disgrace their name, because I shall one day rule their lands; but," he added, with more animation, "do you not see all these likenesses? These are all counts of Rothenfels, who have been heads of the family. You see the last one is here--Graf Bruno--my uncle.

But in another room there are a great many more portraits, ladies and children and young men, and a man is painting a likeness of me, which is going to be hung up there; but my father is not there. What does it mean?"

I was silent. I knew his portrait must have been removed because he was considered to be living in dishonor--a stain to the house, who was perhaps the most chivalrous of the whole race; but this I could not tell Sigmund. It was beginning already, the trial, the "test" of which he had spoken to me, and it was harder in reality than in antic.i.p.ation.

"I don't want to be stuck up there where he has no place," Sigmund went on, sullenly. "And I should like to cut the hateful picture to pieces when it comes."

With this he ushered me into Grafin Hildegarde's boudoir again. She was still there, and a tall, stately, stern-looking man of some fifty years was with her.

His appearance gave me a strange shock. He was Eugen, older and without any of his artist brightness; Eugen's grace turned into pride and stony hauteur. He looked as if he could be savage upon occasion; a nature born to power and nurtured in it. Ruggedly upright, but narrow. I learned him by heart afterward, and found that every act of his was the direct, unsoftened outcome of his nature.

This was Graf Bruno; this was the proud, intensely feeling man who had never forgiven the stain which he supposed his brother had brought upon their house; this was he who had proposed such hard, bald, pitiless terms concerning the parting of father and son--who forbade the child to speak of the loved one.

"Ha!" said he, "you have found Sigmund, _mein Fraulein_? Where did you meet, then?"

His keen eyes swept me from head to foot. In that, at least, Eugen resembled him; my lover's glance was as hawk-like as this, and as impenetrable.

"In the music-room," said Sigmund; and the uncle's glance left me and fell upon the boy.

I soon read that story. The child was at once the light of his eyes and the bitterness of his life. As for Countess Hildegarde, she gazed at her nephew with all a mother's soul in her pathetic eyes, and was silent.

"Come here," said the Graf, seating himself and drawing the boy to him.

"What hast thou been doing?"

There was no fear in the child's demeanor--he was too thoroughly a child of their own race to know fear--but there was no love, no lighting up of the features, no glad meeting of the eyes.

"I was with Nahrath till Aunt Hildegarde sent for him, and then I went to practice."

"Practice what? Thy riding or fencing?"

"No; my violin."

"Bah! What an extraordinary thing it is that this lad has no taste for anything but fiddling," observed the uncle, half aside.

Grafin Hildegarde looked sharply and apprehensively up.

Sigmund shrunk a little away from his uncle, not timidly, but with some distaste. Words were upon his lips; his eyes flashed, his lips parted; then he checked himself, and was silent.

"_Nun denn!_" said the count. "What hast thou? Out with it!"

"Nothing that it would please you to hear, uncle; therefore I will not say it," was the composed retort.

The grim-looking man laughed a grim little laugh, as if satisfied with the audacity of the boy, and his grizzled mustache swept the soft cheek.

"I ride no further this morning; but this afternoon I shall go to Mulhausen. Wilt thou come with me?"

"Yes, uncle."

Neither willing nor unwilling was the tone, and the answer appeared to dissatisfy the other, who said:

"'Yes, uncle'--what does that mean? Dost thou not wish to go?"

"Oh, yes! I would as soon go as stay at home."

"But the distance, Bruno," here interposed the countess, in a low tone.

"I am sure it is too far. He is not too strong."

"Distance? Pooh! Hildegarde, I wonder at you; considering what stock you come of, you should be superior to such nonsense! Wert thou thinking of the distance, Sigmund?"

"Distance--no," said he, indifferently.

"Come with me," said the elder. "I want to show thee something."

They went out of the room together. Yes, it was self-evident; the man idolized the child. Strange mixture of sternness and softness! The supposed sin of the father was never to be pardoned; but natural affection was to have its way, and be lavished upon the son; and the son could not return it, because the influence of the banished scapegrace was too strong--he had won it all for himself, as scapegraces have the habit of doing.