Kitabı oku: «The Alpine Fay», sayfa 15

"You must stop here, Alice," said Erna. "The last part of the way is too steep and rough; you must be careful not to overtask your strength. Do you think you are equal to it, Molly?"

"I am equal to anything," declared Molly, half offended at the question. "Do you suppose that Herr Waltenberg and yourself are the only mountaineers? I can outclimb either of you."

Waltenberg smiled rather derisively at this audacious statement, casting a significant glance the while at the speaker's little high-heeled boots. "There is no danger in this ascent," he said: "the path is made quite easy with steps and hand-rails here and there. But then an accident is always possible, as my secretary found to his cost on the Vulture Cliff. He was lucky to escape with only a sprained ankle."

"Oh, that immensely tall Herr Gronau!" exclaimed Molly. "What has become of him? I did not catch even a glimpse of him in Heilborn."

"He asked for leave of absence for a few weeks, but I am now expecting him back again," replied Ernst, who had, in fact, been rather puzzled by Veit's long absence. He knew that his secretary had no relatives left in Germany, and he could not understand his sudden journey. Gronau had not even told him where he was going.

Alice agreed to await the return of the party; and whilst the others pursued their way to the summit of the height, she seated herself on a mossy bit of rock at the foot of the ascent. The spot was a peaceful little nook in the forest depths which no autumnal blast seemed as yet to have touched. The dark pines and the soft moss had preserved their fresh green, and the noonday sun had dispelled the mists which were so apt to linger here and there among the trees. It was as sunny and warm as on a day in spring.

Alice had been sitting alone about ten minutes, when she perceived at a little distance the familiar figure of Dr. Reinsfeld striding along among the trees. He was coming from a patient at one of the mountain-cottages, and was so lost in thought that he emerged upon the little clearing without perceiving the young girl until she called to him: "Herr Doctor, are you really going to hurry past without even a look for your patient?"

Benno started at the sound of her voice, and paused in surprise: "You here, Fräulein Nordheim, and entirely alone?"

"Oh, I am not so unprotected as you suppose. Herr Waltenberg, with Erna and Molly, has just left me. I only stayed behind–"

"Because you are tired?" was the anxious question.

She shook her head, smiling: "Oh, no; I only wanted to husband my strength for the walk back, in accordance with your orders. You see how obedient I am."

She moved slightly aside, and seemed to expect that the doctor would take his seat beside her. He hesitated for a few seconds, and then accepted her unspoken invitation, and sat down upon the mossy resting-place. They were no longer strangers to each other; in the last few months they had seen and talked with each other almost daily.

Alice went on conversing cheerfully. There was an innocent delight in her gaiety, the delight of a freshly-aroused vitality asserting itself, still half timidly, after years of depressing ill health. No one could be more childlike and simple-minded than this young heiress, who was so little adapted to fill the position assigned her by her father's millions. Here, resting upon her mossy seat, free from all the splendour and pomp which fatigued her, with the golden sunlight playing upon the soft blond hair and the delicately-tinted face, there was an indescribable refinement and charm in her appearance.

The young physician, on the other hand, was unusually grave and silent; he forced himself to smile and to reply gaily now and then, but the effort he made was perceptible. Alice observed it at last, and she too became more silent, until after a long pause, which Reinsfeld made no attempt to interrupt, she asked, "Herr Doctor, what is the matter?"

"With me?" Benno started. "Oh, nothing,–nothing at all."

"I am afraid that is not quite true. You looked very grave and sad as you were striding along so hurriedly, and it is not the first time I have seen you so. For weeks I have fancied that something has been depressing and troubling you, although you take great pains to conceal it. Will you not tell me what it is?"

The girl's voice was so entreatingly sweet, and her brown eyes looked with so sympathetic a glance of inquiry into those of the young physician, that it was hard to withstand her, and yet Nordheim's daughter ought to be the last to learn the cause of Reinsfeld's mood. She had indeed seen aright; Benno had been suffering for weeks under the burden of the suspicion which Gronau had implanted in his soul. Nothing indeed had as yet been discovered to confirm it, but Reinsfeld divined that Veit's sudden departure and prolonged absence were connected with some clue which was being followed up. He hastily collected himself, and replied, "I find it hard to leave Oberstein. Fatiguing as my practice has been sometimes, and much as I have longed for a more extended sphere of activity, I feel now how attached I have become to the people whose joys and sorrows I have shared for years, and to the mountains where I have had my home. I leave so much behind me that it is hard to go away."

His eyes were cast down as he spoke the last words, or he would have become aware of the instant change in the girl's face. She turned pale and her look of innocent gaiety vanished, while the wild-flowers that she had plucked on her way up the height dropped upon the moss at her feet. "Is your departure so near at hand?" she asked, gently.

"It is indeed; I am only waiting for my successor to arrive, and he is expected in a week."

"And then you go–forever?"

"Yes,–forever!"

Question and answer sounded sad enough, and a silence ensued. Alice stooped and picked up her scattered flowers, beginning to arrange them mechanically. She knew, of course, of the doctor's acceptance of his new position, but it had not occurred to her that he would leave before her own departure, beyond which her thoughts had not strayed. She had been so happy in the mountains, had resigned herself entirely to the enjoyment of the present, without a thought that it could come to an end, and now she was reminded how near at hand was this end.

"I may go without anxiety," Benno began again. "The health of my district at present leaves nothing to be desired, and you, Fräulein Nordheim, need me no longer. Only be careful for some time to come, and I think I can guarantee your entire recovery. I am very glad to have been able to keep my promise to my friend and to restore him his betrothed well and happy."

"If indeed it makes much difference to him," Alice said, in a low tone.

Reinsf–eld looked amazed: "Fräulein Nordheim?"

"Do you imagine, then, that Wolfgang cares for me? I do not think he does."

There was no bitterness in her words; they were only sad, and the eyes which Alice raised to the young physician were as sad.

"You do not believe in Wolfgang's love?" he asked, dismayed. "But why, then, should he have–" He broke off in the middle of his sentence, knowing well enough that love had borne no share in his friend's wooing. He remembered only too distinctly how the young engineer had coldly determined to win for a wife the president's daughter, and the contemptuous shrug with which he had repudiated the idea of sentiment in the affair. It was a speculation,–nothing else.

"I have no fault to find with Wolfgang, none at all," Alice went on. "He is always most attentive, and so anxious about me, but I feel nevertheless how little I am to him, and I can see how his thoughts wander whenever he is with me. Formerly I scarcely perceived this, and if I did perceive it, it did not hurt me. I was always so weary; I had no pleasure in life,–it was one long illness for me. But when health began to relieve me of the oppression that had weighed down soul and body, I saw, and understood. Wolfgang loves his calling, the future to which he aspires, his great work, the Wolkenstein bridge, of which he is so proud. He never will love me!"

Benno for a moment could find no reply to these words, which both startled and amazed him, from the girl whom he had supposed entirely indifferent in this matter, and who now thus clearly defined the true state of affairs.

"Wolf's is not an ardent nature," he said at last, slowly. "With him ambition outweighs sentiment; it was his character as a boy, and it is far more evident in the man."

Alice shook her head: "Herr Gersdorf's nature is cool and calm, and yet how he loves Molly! Awhile ago Ernst Waltenberg cared for nothing save untrammelled freedom, and see how love has transformed him! Frau Lasberg, to be sure, says such sentiment is the merest nonsense which hardly outlives the honey-moon, that there is no such thing as the enduring affection of a romantic girl's imagination, and that a woman, if she is wise and hopes for happiness in marriage, must banish all such ideas from her mind. She may be right, but such wisdom is terribly depressing. Do you share it, Herr Doctor?"

"No!" said Reinsfeld, with so decided an emphasis that Alice looked up at him in surprise and with a sad smile.

"Then we are both dreamers and fools, whom sensible people would despise."

"Thank God that it is so!" Benno broke forth. "Never let 'such sentiment' be snatched from you, Fräulein Nordheim; it is all that can make life happy or even worth the living. Wolf has always prophesied that I should never come to good, or make myself a fine position in the world. So be it. I do not care! I am happier than he with all his wisdom and his schemes. He takes no real pleasure in anything,–sees nothing anywhere save bare, forlorn reality, transfigured by no ray of inspiration. I have had a hard life. When my parents died I was knocked about the world, with scant favour from any one, and sometimes, as a student, was hard put to it for bread to eat; even now I possess merely the necessaries of life; but I would not exchange lots with my friend for all his brilliant future."

He was carried away by his emotion, and did not perceive how his words accused Wolfgang; nor did Alice appear to take note of it, for she looked up with sparkling eyes at the young physician, wont to be so quiet and calm, who seemed for the moment transfigured. Usually shy and reserved; as is the case with all introspective natures, when once the barrier of reserve was overleaped he forgot that any such had ever existed, and went on, with what was almost passionate ardour, "When the sum of our lives is reckoned up, the gain may after all be mine. I question whether Wolfgang would not give all the results he has achieved for one draught from the fountain which flows inexhaustibly for me. We poor, ridiculed dreamers are, after all, the only happy human beings, for in spite of all experience we can love with all our hearts, can hope, and trust, and have faith in truth and goodness. And whatever of disappointment this world may have in store for us, nothing can deprive us of the belief in something higher. We attain heights to which others cannot soar; wings to reach it are worth all their vaunted worldly wisdom!"

Alice listened in breathless silence to these words, the like of which she had never heard beneath her father's roof, but which nevertheless she comprehended at once with the instinct of a warm young heart thirsting for love and happiness. She did not dream that the consciousness of the man who spoke thus in eager defence of faith in all that is best in humanity was burdened with the knowledge of the bitterest failure in the faith and honour of her own father.

"You are right!" she exclaimed, holding out both hands to him as in gratitude. "This faith is the highest, the only happiness in life, and we will not allow it to be snatched from us."

"The only happiness?" Benno repeated, while, scarcely knowing what he did, he clasped and held fast the hands held out to him. "No, Fräulein Nordheim, other joys also await you. Wolfgang's is a noble nature in spite of his ambition; in time you will learn to understand each other, and then he will make you truly happy, or he is utterly unworthy of you. I"–here his voice grew slightly unsteady–"I shall often hear from him and of his married life,–we are faithful correspondents,–and sometimes, perhaps, you will allow me to recall myself to your memory."

Alice made no reply; her eyes filled with tears. Unable to conceal the first profound grief in her young life, at Benno's last words she hid her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

For Benno this moment was one of intoxicating delight and of intense pain. Another man might perhaps have forgotten all else in the rapture of the revelation thus made, but for him Alice was sacred as the betrothed of his friend; not for the world would he have uttered one of the thousand expressions of love that rose to his lips. He slowly retreated a few paces, and said, almost inaudibly, "It is well that I am to go to Neuenfeld. I have long known how it was with me!"

Neither of the pair had any idea that they were overheard. Just as the doctor had clasped the young girl's hands in his, the shrubbery at the foot of the rock had parted, and Molly, who had intended in jest to startle Alice by her sudden appearance, noiselessly emerged. Her merry face assumed, however, an expression of extreme surprise upon finding her friend, whom she had supposed alone, in Benno's society, and in such evident agitation.

Among the praiseworthy qualities of Frau Gersdorf might be reckoned intense curiosity. She was instantly eager to know how this interesting interview would terminate. She therefore retreated unperceived, as noiselessly as she had appeared, and, hid among the bushes, overheard all that ensued, until Waltenberg's and Erna's approaching footsteps became audible as they descended the rocky pathway.

Fortunately, the little lady was not lacking in presence of mind, and, moreover, since she had before her own marriage peremptorily claimed Alice's services as guardian angel, she felt called upon now to requite her after the same manner. So she retreated still farther into the shrubbery, and then called out aloud to the approaching couple that she had easily outstripped them. The result was all that could be desired, and when some minutes later the three new-comers reached the mountain-meadow, Alice was sitting as they had left her, and Benno, grave and silent, was standing beside her. Molly was, of course, immensely surprised at finding her cousin Benno, of whom she straightway took possession. She was resolved to extort a confession from him as soon as they should be alone, and from Alice also,–as guardian angel she had a right to their unreserved confidence.

The little party took its way homewards, and Benno was plied by his young relative with questions, to which he replied absently and mechanically, while his eyes sought the slender, delicate figure walking silently beside Erna; he had not waited until to-day to know that she was dearer to him than aught else on earth.

CHAPTER XIX.
NEMESIS

The president made his appearance at the appointed time; until the opening of the railway he was obliged to drive over from Heilborn, and he brought with him Herr Gersdorf, who was to come for his wife. The engineer-in-chief was 'accidentally' absent at a distant post, and could not receive his future father-in-law as usual. Nordheim knew what this meant,–he no longer reckoned upon Wolfgang's compliance,–but he also knew that matters must come to a final explanation.

Molly immediately after dinner invited her husband to walk with her in the grove at the foot of the garden, that she might open her heart to him; but when she would have told her secret she prefaced the revelation by so many mysterious hints, such oracular sentences, that Gersdorf grew uneasy.

"My dear child, pray tell me outright what has happened," he begged her. "I noticed nothing whatever unusual upon my arrival; what have you to tell me?"

"A secret, Albert," she replied, with much solemnity,–"a profound secret, which I adjure you not to reveal. Incredible things have been happening,–here and at Oberstein."

"At Oberstein? Has Benno anything to do with them?"

"Yes!" And here Frau Gersdorf made a long, artistic pause, to give due effect to what was to follow. Then she said, in a tone of the deepest tragedy, "Benno–loves Alice Nordheim."

Unfortunately, the revelation did not produce the desired effect; the lawyer merely shook his head, and observed, with exasperating indifference, "Poor fellow! It is well that he is going to Neuenfeld, where he will soon get such nonsense out of his head."

"Nonsense, do you call it?" Molly exclaimed, indignantly. "And you suppose it can be easily got rid of? You probably could have done so if you had not married me, Albert, for you are a heartless monster!"

"But an excellent husband," Gersdorf, who was quite used to such tragic outbursts from his wife, asserted with philosophic serenity. "Moreover, the case was not similar. I knew that in spite of obstacles I could win you, and then I was sure of your love."

"And so is Benno. Alice loves him also," Molly explained, gratified to perceive that her husband took this announcement much more seriously. He listened in thoughtful silence, while, after her usual lively fashion, she told of the scene on the mountain-meadow, of her concealment among the trees, and of her extremely vigorous efforts to smooth matters, as she expressed it.

"An hour later I had Benno alone by himself," she continued. "At first he would not confess,–not a word; but I should like to see any one conceal from me what I have resolved to find out. Finally I said to him, frankly, 'Benno, you are in love, desperately in love,' and then he denied it no longer, but said, with a sigh, 'Yes, and hopelessly so!' He was in despair, poor fellow, but I told him to take courage, for I would undertake to arrange the affair."

"That must, of course, have consoled him greatly," the lawyer interposed.

"No; on the contrary, he would not hear of it. Benno's conscientiousness is positively something frightful. Alice was the betrothed of his friend,–he could not even allow his thoughts to dwell upon her,–never would he see her again, but if possible he would start for Neuenfeld to-morrow, and a deal more of such nonsense. He forbade me to speak to Alice. Of course, as soon as his back was turned, I went to her and extorted a confession from her too. In short, they love each other dearly, intensely, inexpressibly. So there is nothing for them to do but to be married!"

"Indeed?" said her husband, rather surprised by this conclusion. "You seem to have quite forgotten that Alice is betrothed to the engineer-in-chief."

Frau Molly turned up her little nose contemptuously; that betrothal never had found favour in her eyes, and at present she was inclined to make short work of it.

"Alice never loved that Wolfgang Elmhorst," she asserted, with decision. "She said yes because her father told her to, because she had not the energy then to say no, and he–well, what he wanted was a wealthy wife."

"A very good reason, as you must admit, for disinclination to relinquish her."

"I told you just now, Albert, that I was going myself to undertake the adjustment of the affair," Frau Molly declared, with dignity. "I shall see Elmhorst, and appeal to his generosity, representing to him that unless he wishes to make two people wretched he must withdraw. He will be touched and softened, he will bring the lovers together, and–"

"There will be a most romantic scene," Albert concluded her sentence. "No, that is just what he will not do. You little know the engineer-in-chief if you credit him with such sensibility. He is not the man to withdraw from a connection that insures him the future possession of millions, and he will soon console himself for lack of affection in his wife. And what do you suppose Nordheim will say to your romance?"

"The president?" Molly asked, dejectedly. In the contemplation of her scheme in which she played the part of beneficent fairy, joining the hands of the lovers with all the emotion befitting the occasion, she had quite forgotten that Alice had a father whose word might be decisive in this matter.

"Yes, President Nordheim, who brought about this betrothal, and who will hardly consent to dissolve it, and to bestow his daughter's hand upon a young country doctor, who, with all his courage and capacity, has nothing to give in return. No, Molly, the affair is perfectly hopeless, and Benno is quite right to resign all hope. Even if Alice really loves him, she has promised her hand to Wolfgang, and neither he nor her father will release her. There is no help for it, they must both submit."

He might have gone on thus forever without convincing his wife. She knew what her own obstinacy had effected in uniting her with her lover, and she would not see why Alice could not persist in the same manner. She listened, indeed, attentively, and then cut short any further remarks from her husband by declaring, dictatorially,–

"You do not understand it at all, Albert! They love each other. Then they ought to marry; and marry they shall!"

What could Gersdorf say to refute such logic as this?

Meanwhile, Alice Nordheim was in her father's study, which she rarely entered, and which she must have sought now for some important purpose, for she looked pale and agitated, and as she stood leaning against the window-frame, seemed to be undergoing an inward struggle; yet there was nothing in prospect save an interview between the father and daughter. There was, to be sure, nothing of confidence or intimacy in the relation existing between them. Nordheim, who had surrounded his daughter with all the luxury and splendour that wealth could procure, took, in fact, very little interest in her, as Alice had always felt, but in her docile compliance with whatever her father desired, there had never been any collision between them.

For the first time this was otherwise; she was about to go to her father with a confession, which must, she knew, provoke his wrath, and she trembled at the thought, although her resolution never wavered.

All at once the president's step was heard in the next room, and his voice said, "Herr Waltenberg's secretary? Certainly. Show him in!"

Alice stood hesitating for a moment; her father, who did not suspect her presence here, was not alone, and, agitated as she was, she could not confront a stranger. Probably the man brought some message from Waltenberg, and his business would shortly be despatched. The young girl, therefore, slipped into her father's bedroom, which adjoined his office, and the door of which remained ajar. Nordheim immediately entered the room she had left, and was shortly joined there by his visitor.

The president received him with affable ease. He knew that Ernst in his travels had picked up somewhere an individual who, ostensibly his secretary, played the part of his confidential friend, but he took further interest in the matter. He either had not heard or had not heeded his name; at all events, he did not recognize his former friend. Twenty-five years are long in passing, and such a life as Gronau's had been is a great disguiser. This man with his brown, deeply-furrowed face and gray hair had nothing in his appearance to recall the fresh, merry youth who had gone out into the world to seek his fortune.

"You are Herr Waltenberg's secretary?" It was thus that Nordheim opened the conversation.

"Yes, Herr President."

Nordheim started at the sound of the voice, which aroused dim memories within him. He directed a keen glance towards the stranger, and, motioning to him to be seated, he went on:

"I suppose we shall not see him to-day? Have you a message from him? Your name, if you please."

"Veit Gronau," was the reply, as the speaker calmly seated himself.

The president looked extremely surprised; he examined the weather-beaten features of his former friend, but the memories thus unexpectedly awakened seemed far from agreeable, and he was apparently not inclined to admit that there had ever existed any friendship between himself and his visitor. His manner distinctly indicated the inferior position which he chose to assign to his friend's secretary.

"We are not, then, entire strangers to each other," he remarked. "I was acquainted in my youth with a Veit Gronau–"

"The same who has the honour of waiting upon you at present," Gronau concluded the sentence.

"It gives me pleasure to hear it." The pleasure was but coldly expressed. "And how have you thriven in the mean while? Well, it would seem, your position with Herr Waltenberg must be a very agreeable one."

"I have every reason to be contented. I have hardly reached your heights, Herr President, but one must not expect too much."

"True, true. Human destinies are very various."

"And when men undertake to control them, it all depends upon who can best steer his own boat."

The remark displeased the president as being too familiar; he desired no intimacy with his former comrade, so he said, evasively,–

"But we are straying from the object of your visit. Herr Waltenberg sends you to–?"

"No," Gronau replied, drily.

Nordheim looked at him in surprise: "You do not bring me a message from him?"

"No, Herr President. I have just returned from a journey, and have not yet seen Herr Waltenberg. I announced myself in my capacity of his secretary in order to make sure of your receiving me. I come about an affair of my own."

At this disclosure the president became several degrees colder and more formal, for he suspected some favour to be asked; yet the man seated so calmly before him, looking at him with so searching an expression in his clear, keen eyes, did not look like a suppliant; there was something of defiance in his bearing which impressed Nordheim disagreeably.

"Go on, then," he said, with perceptible condescension. "All relations between us are far in the past, nevertheless–"

"Yes, they date from five-and-twenty years ago," Gronau interrupted him. "And yet it is precisely of what then occurred that I wish to speak,–to pray you to inform me what has become of our–excuse me–of my former friend, Benno Reinsfeld?"

The question was so sudden and unexpected that Nordheim was silenced for a moment, but he was too entirely accustomed to self-control to be long disconcerted by such surprises. One suspicious glance he shot at his questioner, and then, with a shrug, he replied, coldly,–

"You really demand too much of my memory, Herr Gronau. I cannot possibly call to mind all the acquaintances of my youth, and in this instance I do not even remember the name you mention."

"Indeed? Then let me assist your memory, Herr President. I allude to the inventor of the first mountain-railway locomotive,–the engineer, Benno Reinsfeld."

The men looked each other in the eye, and instantly the president knew that there was nothing accidental in his visitor's presence, that he was confronting a foe, and that the words which sounded so innocent barely disguised a menace. He must next know whether the man appearing thus after years of exile were really dangerous, or whether this were merely an attempt to extort money from his possible fears. Nordheim seemed inclined to the latter belief, for he said, frigidly, "You must be falsely informed, I invented the first mountain-locomotive, as is shown by my patent."

Gronau suddenly rose, his dark face flushed still darker. He had devised a regular scheme of action, arranged in his mind how he should attack his opponent and drive him into a corner, until not a chance of escape was left him, but at such audacious falsehood all his prudent plans fell to pieces, and honest indignation got the upper hand of him.

"You dare to tell me that to my face!" he burst out, angrily. "To me, who was present when Benno showed us his invention, and explained it, and you admired it, and praised him! Does your memory play you false there also?"

The president calmly reached for the bell-rope: "Will you leave the house, Herr Gronau, or must I call the servants? I am not inclined to submit to insult beneath my own roof."

"I advise you to let the bell alone," Gronau burst forth, furiously. "Take your choice, whether what I have to say shall be said to you alone, or to all the world. Refuse to listen,–I can find a hearing everywhere else."

The threat was not without effect; Nordheim slowly withdrew his hand. He saw that it would not be easy to deal with this resolute, determined man, and that it would be best not to provoke him further, but his voice was still impassive as he said, "Well, then, what have you to say to me?"

Veit Gronau stepped up to his former comrade, and his eyes flashed: "That you are a scoundrel, Nordheim, neither more nor less!"

The president started, but in an instant burst out, "What! you dare?"

"Oh, yes; and I dare far more, for this is not a matter to be hushed up easily. Poor Benno, indeed, neither could nor would defend himself; he bowed his head beneath the stroke, and suffered more, I fancy, from the consciousness of the treachery of a friend than from the treachery itself. Had I been here at the time you would not have got off with your booty so easily. Don't trouble yourself to look indignant. 'Tis of no use with mc. I know you, and we are alone; no need for play-acting. You had better make up your mind what answer to make when I accuse you in public."

In his excitement his voice rang out clear and distinct. Nordheim made no further attempt to check his words, but he must have felt quite secure, for he never for an instant lost his bearing of calm superiority.

"What answer to make?" he said, with a shrug. "Where are your proofs?"

Gronau laughed bitterly: "I thought you would ask that. Therefore I did not come instantly to you when I heard the sorry tale from poor Benno's son in Oberstein. I have spent three weeks in following up traces. I have been in the capital, in Benno's last place of residence,–even in the town where we were all three born."