"What--what do you mean?"

Arthur drew himself up erect, and some animation came into his eyes as he fixed them on his father.

"Baron Windeg was ruined, that every one knew. Who ruined him?"

"How should I know?" asked Berkow, ironically. "His extravagance, his love of playing the grand seigneur when he was head over ears in debt, was cause enough. He would have been lost without my help."

"Indeed? So you had no ulterior object in view when you gave him your help? The Baron was never offered the alternative of surrendering his daughter, or of preparing to meet the worst? He decided voluntarily upon this marriage?"

Berkow laughed, but his laughter was forced.

"Of course. Who has been telling you anything to the contrary?" But, in spite of his tone of a.s.surance, his look fell. This man had probably never yet lowered his eyes when reproached with an unscrupulous act, but he could not meet his son's gaze on this occasion. A bitter expression pa.s.sed over the young man's face; if he had had any doubt hitherto, he knew enough now.

After the pause of a second, he renewed the conversation.

"You know that I never had any inclination for marrying, that I only yielded to your incessant persuasion. Eugenie Windeg was as indifferent to me as any other woman. I did not even know her, but she was not the first who had been willing to give up her old name in exchange for wealth. At least, that was how I interpreted her consent, and that of her father. You never thought fit to inform me of that which preceded and followed my proposal. I had to hear of the barter that had been made of us both from Eugenie's mouth. We will let that be. The thing is done, and cannot be undone; but you can understand now that I shall avoid exposing myself to fresh humiliations. I have no wish to stand a second time before my wife, as I had to do the other evening, while she poured out all her contempt for me and my father, and I--I could but listen in silence."

Berkow had been dumb so far, and had half turned away, but at these last words he looked round at his son quickly with some astonishment.

"I should not have believed that anything could irritate you so much,"

said he slowly.

"Irritate? Me? You are mistaken, we did not reach the pitch of irritation. My lady-wife deigned from the first to mount on the high pedestal of her exalted virtues and of her n.o.ble descent, and I, who, in both respects, am equally unworthy, preferred to admire her only from a distance. I should seriously advise you to do the same, that is, if ever you attain to the happiness of her society."

He threw himself down on the sofa again with an air of contemptuous indifference, but even in his sneer there was a touch of that irritation his father had noticed. Berkow shook his head, but the subject was too embarra.s.sing, and the role he played towards his son in this business too painful for him not to seize the first opportunity of putting an end to the discussion.

"We will talk it over again at a fitting time," said he, taking out his watch hastily. "Let us have done for to-day. There are yet two good hours before the people arrive; I am going over to the upper works. You will not come with me?"

"No," said Arthur, relapsing into indolence.

Berkow made no attempt to use his authority. Perhaps, after such an interview, the refusal was not disagreeable to him. He went away, leaving the young man alone once more, and, with the renewed stillness, all the latter's apathy seemed to return to him.

While the first bright spring day smiled on the world without, while the woods lay bathed in sunshine, and the sweet scent of the pines rose up from the hills, Arthur Berkow lay within in the darkened room, where the curtains were so carefully lowered, the _portieres_ so closely drawn, as though he alone were not created to enjoy the free mountain air and the bright light of day. The air was too keen for him, the sun too dazzling. It blinded him to look out, and he said to himself that his nervous system was shaken beyond all description. The young heir, who had at his disposal all that life and this world can give, thought, as he had often thought before, that after all both the world and life are horribly empty, and that it is a.s.suredly not worth while to have been born at all.

CHAPTER VII.

The state dinner, prepared with lavish expense and on a most luxurious scale, was over at last. It had procured for Berkow one special triumph, independently of the pleasure he must have felt at seeing how numerous were the guests around him. The n.o.bility of the neighbouring town, and its leading personages in particular, had always been exclusive to the last degree. No member of it had condescended as yet to enter the house of a parvenu, whose equivocal antecedents still shut him out from the highest circles of society; but the invitations bearing the name of Eugenie Berkow, _nee_ Baroness Windeg, had been universally accepted. She was, and would ever remain, a scion of one of the most ancient and n.o.ble houses of the land.

No one could or would wound her by a refusal, more especially as it had not remained a secret how she had been forced into this union. But, if the bride were to be met with fullest esteem and sympathy, her father-in-law, in whose house the dinner was given, could not possibly be treated otherwise than with politeness, and so this too came to pa.s.s.

Berkow was jubilant; he knew well that this was only the prelude to what must happen in the capital next winter. The Baroness Windeg would certainly not be allowed to fall out of her sphere because she had sacrificed herself to filial love. She would now, as. .h.i.therto, be looked on as an equal in spite of the plebeian name she bore. And touching this name, too, the object for which he had so long striven lay now, as he hoped, almost within his grasp.

But if, on the one hand, the ambitious millionaire felt that he owed his daughter-in-law some thanks, notwithstanding that she had on this day more than ever a.s.sumed the airs of a princess, and had held herself completely aloof from him and his, the behaviour of his son, on the other hand, surprised as much as it angered him. Arthur, who had been in the habit of a.s.sociating exclusively with people of rank, seemed all at once to have lost all taste for such company. He was so extremely cool in his politeness towards his distinguished guests, he even maintained so studied a reserve towards the officers of the garrison, with whom, on previous visits, he had always been on a familiar footing, that he more than once approached those bounds which a host cannot overstep without giving offence. Berkow could not understand this new whim. What could possess his son? Did he want to show his opposition to his wife by thus obviously avoiding her guests?

Those gentlemen from the town, who had ladies under their escort, started early on their return-journey, for the long rains had made the roads almost impracticable, and a drive of several hours in the darkness was not a thing to be desired. This gave the mistress of the house liberty to withdraw, and Eugenie at once availed herself of it, leaving the reception-rooms and retiring to her own private apartments, while her husband and his father stayed with the remaining visitors.

At the appointed hour, Ulric Hartmann made his appearance. Since his early childhood, since Frau Berkow's death, when his parents' relations with the great house had altogether ceased, he had not been within its walls. Indeed, the master's chateau, with its surrounding terraces and gardens, was to the whole working-population a closed Eldorado, into which even the officials only gained occasional access when called thither by some weighty matter of business, or by a special invitation.

The young man walked through the lofty hall, lined on each side by flowering plants, up the carpeted stairs, and through the well-lighted corridors, until in one of the latter, he was received by the servant who had brought him the message in the morning. The man showed him into a room, saying:

"Her ladyship will be here directly," and, with this observation, shut the door and left him alone.

Ulric looked round the large handsomely decorated ante-room, the first of a long suite of apartments, all of which were now completely empty.

The guests were still a.s.sembled in the distant dining-room which looked out on the garden, but the emptiness and stillness of this part of the house made its splendour yet more impressive. The _portieres_ were all drawn back, and Ulric could see through the long suite of handsome rooms, each one of which seemed to surpa.s.s the others in beauty.

The thick, dark-coloured velvet of the carpets drank in the light, so to speak; but it shone all the brighter on the richly gilt decorations of the walls and doors, on the silk and satin furniture, in the tall mirrors which reached to the ceiling and cast forth the reflection of it in a thousand brilliant rays, yes, even on the waxed floors bright and smooth as gla.s.s; it set off to fuller advantage those pictures, statues and priceless vases with which the salons were so profusely ornamented. All that wealth and luxury can give was here brought together, and the effect was one which might well dazzle an eye accustomed to obscurity, and most at home in the dark mazes of the mine.

But the sight, though it would certainly have been confusing to any of his comrades, appeared to make no impression on Ulric. His look glanced darkly through the sparkling vista, but there was no admiration to be traced in it. Each costly thing which drew his attention seemed to rouse up within him a feeling of enmity, and he suddenly turned his back on the glittering perspective, and gave a little vehement stamp with his foot on finding that there were no signs of any one as yet.

Ulric Hartmann, clearly, was not the man to wait patiently in an anteroom until such time as he could be conveniently received.

At last something rustled behind him; he turned round and took a step back involuntarily, for a few paces from him, just under the great chandelier, stood Eugenie Berkow. Up to this time he had seen her but once, on the day he had carried her from the carriage, and she then wore a travelling-dress of dark silk, whilst her face was shaded by her hat and veil. Of that meeting he had preserved only one remembrance, that of the great dark eyes which had scanned his countenance so closely.

Now--ah yes, indeed! this was an apparition very different from any that had hitherto come within the young miner's sphere of vision. Over the white silk dress flowed a delicate white lace, which waved like a cloudlet round her tall and slender figure. Into these airy folds some roses seemed to have been wafted, and a wreath of roses encircled her blonde head, the shining tresses of which rivalled in their soft brilliancy the pearls about her neck and arms. The blaze of the wax-lights fell full on this lovely picture so fitly framed by its surroundings. As she stood there, it seemed as though nothing ought to approach her which had anything in common with the ordinary life of this work-a-day world.

But although Eugenie's whole appearance might betoken the high-born lady of fashion, that being the role which she had this evening exclusively played--her eyes showed plainly that she could be something else too. They lighted up now with a glad expression, as she caught sight of the young man, and she went up to him with quiet friendliness.

"I am pleased that you came when I sent for you. I wanted to speak to you to clear up a misunderstanding. Come with me."

She opened one of the side doors, and entered the adjoining room, followed by Ulric. It was her own boudoir, and separated her apartments beyond from the suite before mentioned--but what a contrast it was to the latter! Here only a mellowed light streamed from the lamp over the tender blue draperies and hangings. The foot, bold enough there to tread, sank silently into the yielding carpet, and the caressing air was warm and balmy with the scent of flowers.

Ulric stood on the threshold as if spell-bound, though he was in general but little used to fits of shyness. Here all was so different to the dazzling rooms he had left, so much more beautiful, so dreamily still. The wrath with which he had looked on all that splendour had gone out from him; in its place there stirred a something which he could not define, a something born of the gentler influences now so strangely surrounding him. But in the next minute a hot anger at this weakness burned up within him, he drew back instinctively as from some vaguely-felt danger, and his whole being rose up in inflexible hostility to this atmosphere of beauty and fragrance with all its seductive charm.

Eugenie stopped, noticing with some surprise that the miner was not following her. She took a seat near the door, and her eyes scrutinised his face narrowly. The curly light hair entirely covered the still fresh scar, and the wound, which might well have proved dangerous to another man, had had but little effect on this powerful frame. Eugenie sought for some trace of past suffering, but found none. Her first question related, however, to his injury.

"So you have quite recovered? Does the wound really give you no pain now?"

"No, my lady, it was not worth speaking about."

Eugenie did not appear to remark the short ungracious tone of the answer. She continued, speaking with the same kindness.

"I heard, certainly, from the Director's mouth on the very next day that there was nothing to be apprehended, or we should have had you more thoroughly cared for. After his second visit to you, the Director a.s.sured me again that there was no question of any danger, and Herr Wilberg, whom I sent to your house on the day after the accident, brought me the same report."

At the first words of her little speech Ulric had raised his eyes and fixed them on her face. His moody brow cleared slowly, and his voice had a gentler sound as he answered,

"I did not know, my lady, that you had troubled yourself so much about it. Herr Wilberg did not tell me he came from you, or"----

"Or you would have been rather more friendly to him," concluded Eugenie, a little reproachfully. "He complained of the brusque way in which you treated him that evening, yet he was so full of sympathy for you, and offered with such cheerful alacrity to procure me the news I wished for. What do you object to in Herr Wilberg?"

"Nothing--but he plays on the guitar and writes poetry."

"That does not seem to be any special advantage in your eyes," said she, half-jesting; "and I hardly think you would be guilty of it, if you were to change places with him. But we will leave that! It was for something else I sent for you. I hear," she played in rather an embarra.s.sed way with her fan, "I hear from the Director that you have declined a mark of our grat.i.tude, which he was commissioned to offer you from us."

"Yes," Ulric a.s.sented briefly, without adding one word to soften the harsh monosyllable.

"I am sorry if the offer, or the way in which it was made, has offended you. Herr Berkow,"--a faint flush overspread Eugenie's face as she uttered the untruth--"Herr Berkow certainly intended personally to express to you his thanks and mine. He was prevented from doing so, and therefore begged the Director to represent him. It would grieve me much if you were to see in that any proof of ingrat.i.tude or indifference on our part towards our deliverer. We both know how deeply we are in your debt, and you would hardly now refuse me too, if I were to beg you to receive from my hands"----