CHAPTER IV.

Evening was drawing on. The festivities on the Berkow estates had been partic.i.p.ated in by the bridal pair, and, so far at least, had attained their end. After the happy termination of that perilous incident which had so nearly compromised the whole proceedings, the original programme had been strictly adhered to. The young couple, everywhere in requisition during the afternoon, found themselves at last at home, and left to each other's company. Herr Schaffer had just taken his leave, he was to return to the elder Herr Berkow in the city the following morning; and the servant, who had been busy with the arrangements of the tea-table, now disappeared in his turn.

The lamp on the table shed its clear mild light on the pale blue draperies and costly furniture of the little salon, which, like all the other rooms in the house, had been newly and splendidly decorated for the reception of the new mistress, and formed part of the suite appropriated to her use. The silk curtains, closely drawn, shut from it the outer world; flowers filled the stands and vases, perfuming the air, and on a table before a little sofa stood the silver tea-service ready for use. In spite of all the splendour, it was a perfect little picture of domestic comfort.

So far, at least, as the boudoir itself was concerned; but the newly married couple hardly seemed as yet to appreciate its home-like charm. The bride, still in full dress, stood in the middle of the room musing, and holding in her hand the bouquet which Wilberg, in Martha's stead, had had the happiness of offering her. The scent from the orange-blossoms engrossed her attention so completely, that she had none left for her husband, and he certainly made no very vigorous claim upon it. Scarcely had the door closed behind the footman, when he sank into an armchair with an air of exhaustion.

"It is enough to kill one, this making a show of one's self for ever!

Is not it, Eugenie? They have not granted us a minute's respite since yesterday at noon. First the ceremony, then the dinner, then a most fatiguing journey by rail and post, which went on all through the night and forenoon of to-day, then the tragic episode; here again a reception, presentation of officials, dinner.... My father did not remember evidently, when he sketched out the programme, that we possess anything like nerves. I own that mine are completely unstrung!"

His wife turned her head and cast a very contemptuous glance at the man, who, in his first tete-a-tete with her, could talk of his nerves.

Eugenie did not appear to have much knowledge of such ailments; not a trace of fatigue was to be seen on her fair face.

"Have you heard whether young Hartmann's wound is dangerous?" asked she by way of answer.

Arthur had exerted himself to make an exceptionally long speech; he seemed surprised that it had obtained so little notice.

"Schaffer says it is nothing," he returned indifferently; "he has spoken to the doctor, I think. By the by, we shall have to make the young fellow some sort of recognition. I shall commission the Director to see about it."

"Ought you not rather to take the matter into your own hands?"

"I? No, pray spare me that! I hear he is not a common miner after all, but the son of the manager, a deputy, or something of the kind. How can I tell whether money, or a present, or what would be the proper thing to give him? The Director will manage it admirably."

He let his head sink into the cushions again. Eugenie answered nothing; she sat down on the sofa and leaned her head on her hand. After the pause of a minute or so, it seemed, however, to occur to Herr Arthur that he owed his young wife some attention, and that he could not possibly remain silent and buried in his arm-chair during the entire hour the tea-drinking would be supposed to last. It cost him an effort, but he made the sacrifice and actually rose to his feet. Going over to his wife, he seated himself by her side, took her hand and even went so far as to attempt pa.s.sing his arm round her. But it was only an attempt. With a quick movement, Eugenie drew her hand out of his and retreated from him, casting a glance at him like that which, yesterday in church, had so spoiled his father's first embrace. There was the same cold haughty repulse in her look which said better than any words: "I am not to be approached by you, or any like you."

But this high disdainful manner, so imposing to the father, proved less so when employed towards the son, probably because the latter was no longer to be awed by anything. He appeared neither intimidated nor disconcerted at this evident show of repugnance, but merely looked up with some faint surprise.

"Is that disagreeable to you, Eugenie?"

"It is new to me at least. You have hitherto spared me such marks of affection."

The young man was too apathetic to feel all the bitter meaning of these words. He took them as a reproach.

"Hitherto? Well, yes, etiquette was rather severely maintained in your father's house. During the whole two months of our engagement, I had not once the happiness of seeing you alone. The continual presence of your father or your brothers laid a restraint upon us which, now we are together quietly for the first time, may well be laid aside."

Eugenie retreated still farther.

"Well then, now that we are quietly alone together, I declare that such tender demonstrations, made just to satisfy appearances, and in which the heart has no share, are positively distasteful to me. I release you once for all from any such obligations."

The surprise in Arthur's face became a little more marked now; so far, however, he was not really roused.

"You seem to be in rather a peculiar humour to-day. Appearances! Heart!

Really, Eugenie, I should not have expected to find such romantic illusions in you of all people."

An expression of deep bitterness pa.s.sed over her features.

"I took leave of all illusions in life when I promised you my hand. You and your father were bent on uniting your name with that of Windeg, which is old and n.o.ble. You thought, by doing so, you would obtain those honours and that society from which you had hitherto been shut out. Well, you have gained your end. For the future, I must sign myself Eugenie Berkow!"

She laid a most contemptuous stress on the last word. Arthur had risen; he seemed to understand at last that this was something more than a bride's caprice, called forth, possibly, by his negligence during the journey.

"You certainly do not seem to like the name much. Until to-day, I had no idea that, in taking it, you had yielded to constraint from your family, but I begin to think"----

"No one has constrained me!" interrupted Eugenie. "No one has even persuaded me. What I did, I did voluntarily, with full consciousness of what I was undertaking. It was hard enough for them at home that I should be sacrificed for their sakes."

Arthur shrugged his shoulders; it was plain from the expression of his face that the conversation was beginning to weary him.

"I really do not understand how you can speak in such a tragic tone about a simple family arrangement. If my father, in making it, had other objects in view, I suppose the Baron's motives were not of a very romantic nature either, only he, probably, had still more cogent reasons for approving of a marriage by which he certainly was not the loser."

Eugenie started up, her eyes flashed, and a hasty movement of her arm threw the fragrant bouquet to the ground.

"And you dare to say that to me? After what occurred before your suit was accepted? I thought, at least, you would blush for it, if indeed you are still capable of blushing."

The young man's languid, half-closed eyes opened suddenly, large and full; there came a gleam into them, like a sudden spark shooting up from beneath dead ashes, but his voice retained its quiet matter-of-fact tone.

"First of all, I must beg of you to be a little clearer. I feel myself quite unable to make out these enigmatic speeches."

Eugenie crossed her arms with a rapid movement; her bosom heaved tumultuously.

"You know, as well as I do, that we were on the brink of ruin. Whose the fault may have been, I cannot and will not decide. It is easy to throw stones at one who is struggling with adversity. When a man has inherited estates overburdened with debt, when he has to maintain the repute of an old name, to keep up a position in society, and to a.s.sure his children's future, he cannot ama.s.s money as you do in your industrial world. You have always had gold to throw away, your every wish has been forestalled, every whim gratified. I have tasted all the misery of an existence, which, wearing of necessity the outward mask of splendour, was every day, every hour, drawing nearer inevitable ruin.

Perhaps we might yet have escaped, if we had not fallen precisely into Berkow's nets. He fairly forced his help on us at first, forced it upon us until he had got everything into his hands, until we, pursued, entrapped, despairing, literally knew not which way to turn. Then he came and claimed my hand for his son as the sole price of deliverance.

Rather than offer me up, my father would have braved the worst, but I would not see him sacrificed, his whole career destroyed, I would not have my brother's future blighted, our name dishonoured, so I gave my consent. Not one of my family knew what it cost me!--but, if I sold myself, I can answer for it to G.o.d, and to my conscience. You, who lent yourself to be the tool of your father's base designs, have no right to reproach me; my motives were at least n.o.bler than yours!"

She paused, overcome by her emotion. Her husband still stood motionless before her; there was the same slight pallor on his face as had been visible at noon, when the danger was just overpast, but his eyes were veiled once more.

"I regret that you did not make these disclosures to me before our marriage," said he, slowly.

"Why?"

"Because you would not then have incurred the humiliation of signing yourself Eugenie Berkow."

The young wife was silent.

"I had not the slightest suspicion of these--these manipulations on my father's part," continued Arthur, "for my habit is in no way to interfere with his business concerns. He said to me one day, that if I chose to sue for the hand of Baron Windeg's daughter, my proposal would be accepted. I agreed to the plan, and I was formally presented to you, our betrothal following a few days later. That is my share of the business."

Eugenie turned away.

"I would rather have had a plain avowal of your complicity than this fable," she said coldly.

Again the man's eyes opened wide, and again that strange light gleamed in them, ready to kindle into flame, but ever anew quenched by the ashes.

"It seems I stand so high in my wife's estimation, that my words do not even find credence with her?" said he, this time with a decided touch of bitterness.

Eugenie's fair face expressed the most sovereign contempt, as she turned it towards her husband, and she answered slightingly:

"You really must excuse me, Arthur, for not meeting you in a spirit of perfect confidence. Until the day you entered our house for the first time on an errand I understood but too well--until then, I had known you only through the city gossip, and it"----

"Drew no flattering portrait of me? That I can well believe. Will you not have the goodness to tell me what people were pleased to say of me in town?"