"What is the subject under discussion?" he asks. Dressed in the extreme of fashion, in a light, summer suit, a coloured shirt with a very high collar, a thin, dark-blue cravat with polka-dots, and the inevitable Scotch cap, with fluttering ribbons at the back of the neck, he would seem much more at home, so far as his exterior is concerned, on the sh.o.r.e at Trouville, or in a magnificent park of ancient oaks with a feudal castle in the background, than amidst the modest Zirkow surroundings. He suspects this himself, and, in order not to produce a crushing effect where he is, he is always trying to display the liveliest interest in all the petty details of life at Zirkow. "What is the subject under discussion?" he asks, with an amiable smile.

"Oh, the Harfink."

"Still?" says Wenkendorf, lifting his eyebrows ironically. "The young lady's ears must burn. She seems to me to have been tolerably well discussed during the last three days."

"I merely observed that you were all fire and flame for her while she was here," Frau Rosamunda persists, "and that consequently I do not understand why you now criticise her so severely."

"The impression produced upon men by that kind of woman is always more dazzling than when it is lasting," says the major.

"H'm!--she certainly is a very beautiful person, but--h'm!--not a lady," remarks Wenkendorf; and his clear, full voice expresses the annoyance which it is sure to do whenever conversation touches upon the mushroom growth of modern _parvenues_. "Who are these Harfinks, after all?"

"People who have made their own way to the front," growls the major.

"How?"

"By good luck, industry, and a.s.surance," replies the major. "Old Harfink used to go regularly to his work every morning, with his pickaxe on his shoulder; he slowly made his way upward, working in the iron-mines about here; then he married a wealthy baker's daughter, and gradually absorbed all the business of the district. He was very popular. I can remember the time when every one called him 'Peter.'

Next he was addressed as 'Sir,' and it came to be the fashion to offer him your hand, but before giving you his he used to wipe it on his coat-tail. He was comical, but a very honest fellow, a plain man who never tried to move out of his proper sphere. I think we never grudged him his wealth, because it suited him so ill, and because he did not know what to do with it." And the major reflectively pours a little rum into his third cup of tea.

"I do not object to that kind of _parvenu_," says Wenkendorf. "The type is an original one. But there is nothing to my mind more ridiculous than the goldfish sp.a.w.ned in a muddy pond suddenly fancying themselves unable to swim in anything save eau de cologne. H'm, h'm! And that plain, honest fellow was, you tell me, the father of the lovely Paula?"

"G.o.d forbid!" exclaims the major, bursting into a laugh at the mere thought.

"You have a tiresome way of beginning far back in every story you tell, Paul," Frau Rosamunda complains. "You begin all your pedigrees with Adam and Eve."

"And you have a detestable habit of interrupting me," her husband rejoins, angrily. "If you had not interrupted me I should have finished long ago."

"Oh, yes, we all know that. But first you would have given us a description of old Harfink's boots!" Frau Rosamunda persists.

"They really were very remarkable boots," the major declares, solemnly.

"They always looked as if, instead of feet, they had a peck of onions inside them."

"I told you so. Now comes the description of his cap," sighs Frau Rosamunda.

"And the lovely Paula's origin retreats still further into obscurity,"

Wenkendorf says, with well-bred resignation.

"She is old Harfink's great-grand-daughter," says Zdena, joining for the first time in the conversation.

"Old Harfink had two sons," continues the major, who hates to have the end of his stories told prematurely; "two sons who developed social ambition, and both married cultivated wives,--wives who looked down upon them, and with whom they could not agree. If I do not mistake, there was a sister, too. Tell me, Rosel, was there not a sister who married an Italian?"

"I do not know," replies Frau Rosamunda. "The intricacies of the Harfink genealogy never inspired me with the faintest interest."

The major bites his lip.

"One thing more," says Wenkendorf. "How have you managed to avoid an acquaintance with the Harfinks for so long, if the family has belonged to the country here for several generations?"

"Harfink number two never lived here," the major explains. "And they owned the iron-mines, but no estate. Only last year the widow Harfink bought Dobrotschau,--gallery of ancestral portraits, old suits of armour, and all. The mines have been sold to a stock company."

"Not a very pleasing neighbourhood, I should say," observes Wenkendorf.

"'Surprise you with the revelation of a secret,'" Frau Rosamunda reads, thoughtfully, in a low tone from the note beside her plate.

And then all rise from table. Zdena, who has been silent during breakfast, twitches her uncle's sleeve, and, without looking at him, says,--

"Uncle dear, can I have the carriage?"

The major eyes her askance: "What do you want of the carriage?"

"I should like to drive over to Komaritz; Hedwig will think it strange that I have not been there for so long."

"H'm! don't you think Hedwig might do without you for a little while longer?" says the major, who is in a teasing humour.

"Oh, let her drive over," Frau Rosamunda interposes. "I promised to send the housekeeper there a basket of Reine-Claudes for preserving, and Zdena can take them with her. And, Zdena, you might stop at Dobrotschau; I will leave it to your diplomatic skill to worm out the grand secret for us. I protest against a.s.sisting on Sunday at its solemn revelation."

"Then shall I refuse the invitation for you?"

"Yes; tell them that we expect guests ourselves on Sunday. And invite the Komaritz people to come and dine, that it may be true," the major calls after the girl.

She nods with a smile, and trips into the castle. It is easy to see that her heart is light.

"Queer little coquette!" thinks the major, adding to himself, "But she's a charming creature, for all that."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SECRET.

An hour later Zdena, a huge red silk sunshade held over her handsome head, is driving rapidly towards Dobrotschau. She intends to make peace with her cousin.

The exaggerated attentions which he paid to Paula vexed her for the moment, but now she remembers them with only a smile of contempt. "Poor Harry!" she murmurs, in a superior, patronizing way. "Poor Harry! he is a thoroughly good fellow, and so devoted to me!"

The carriage rolls swiftly along the smooth road, upon which the last traces of a recent shower are fast fading beneath the August heat. The sky is blue and cloudless. The sun is rising higher; the stubble-fields to the right and left lie basking in its light; the shadows of the trees grow shorter and blacker, and the dark ma.s.ses of the distant forests stand out in strong contrast with the sunny fields.

Avoiding the rough forest road, the coachman takes the longer course along the highway. An hour and a quarter pa.s.ses before Zdena drives through an arched gate-way, surmounted by a crest carved in the stone, into a picturesque court-yard, where between two very ancient lindens stands a Saint John of Nepomuk, whose cross has fallen out of his marble arms, and at whose feet an antique fountain, plashing dreamily, tells of long-gone times,--times that possess no interest for the present inmates of the castle.

Zdena does not waste a glance upon the picturesque beauty of her surroundings. Two riding-horses, very much heated, and led up and down the old-fashioned court-yard, at once engage her attention. Are those not Harry's horses? What is Harry doing here? A slight sensation of anxiety a.s.sails her. Then she smiles at her nonsensical suspicions, and is glad that she shall thus meet Harry sooner than she had hoped.

A footman in a plain and tasteful livery hurries forward to open her carriage door; the ladies are at home.

Zdena trips up the steps to the s.p.a.cious, airy hall, where, among antique, heavy-carved furniture, a couple of full suits of armour are set up, sword in gauntlet, like a spellbound bit of the Middle Ages, on either side of a tall clock, upon whose bra.s.s face the effigy of a grinning Death--his scythe over his shoulder--celebrates his eternal, monotonous triumph. On the walls hang various portraits, dim with age, of the ancestors of the late possessor, some clad in armour, some with full-bottomed wigs, and others again wearing powdered queues; with ladies in patch and powder, narrow-breasted gowns, and huge stiff ruffs.

"If these worthies could suddenly come to life, how amazed they would be!" thinks Zdena. She has no more time, however, for profound reflections; for from one of the high oaken doors, opening out of the hall, comes Harry.

They both start at this unexpected encounter; he grows deadly pale, she flushes crimson. But she regains her self-possession sooner than he can collect himself, and while he, unable to utter a word, turns his head aside, she approaches him, and, laying her hand gently upon his arm, murmurs, in a voice sweet as honey, "Harry!"