Quisisana, or Rest at Last Part 3

He was standing in the semi-darkness, his back turned to the verandah; a gentle rustling sound was coming up the steps. He turned. Framed in by one of the doors against the brighter background of the evening sky, appeared the shadowy outline of a lady, lingering a moment or two on the threshold, then hastening with raised arms towards him, as he stood motionless, spellbound.

Before he could prevent it, she had sunk on her knees before him, had seized his hands which he was involuntarily stretching forth to lift her up, and now she was pressing them to her bosom, to her lips. A dense cloud of violet perfume came floating up to him.

"Mercy, Charles, mercy!"

"I entreat you, My Lady, ... for Heaven's sake ..."

He had been barely able to stammer out these words; he felt the most acute physical anguish at his heart; cold beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead; ice-cold were the hands which Lydia had held till then, and which now she dropped, terrified, rising as she did so from the ground.

"My Lady!" she murmured, "My Lady ... Ah, I knew it!"

The convulsive pain at his heart had ceased now; it beat on, but slowly, heavily; even so his anger and pain were giving way to compa.s.sion.

"Let bygones be bygones," he said.

"If it were possible!" whispered Lydia.

"It must be possible."

She knew from his gentle but firm tone that, for the moment, she dare go no farther; and though she had to confess to herself that she had been deceived in her fond hope of reconquering his affections by one grand a.s.sault at starting, something was secured anyhow, and something desirable and even necessary--a fairly satisfactory footing when they met in society.

"The dear voice!" she whispered; "the old, dear, gentle voice! But ...

those hard, cruel words! Yet I have no right to complain, and I will not lament; it must, indeed, be possible!"

Much to his relief Bertram was spared the necessity of replying, for his host and hostess were just then coming in from the garden, accompanied by Erna and Baron Lotter. At the same moment a servant opened the folding-door which led to the dining-room; the two gentlemen were introduced to each other; the Baron offered his arm to the lady of the house, Lydia was clinging to the master, and thus Erna fell to Bertram's share. They were lingering a little behind the rest.

"How good you are!" whispered Erna.

"Am I?" he made answer. "I feel most contemptible."

V.

In very truth the feeling that he had done wrong in thus opening his heart to Erna had come back in renewed strength to Bertram, since he had to admit to himself that he had emphatically broken his own dictum that bygones were to be bygones. The past was no longer a secret between those concerned; and what would henceforth happen--each word, each look which they exchanged, all, all would have a sense, a meaning for somebody else--for the beautiful girl who was so grave beyond her years, the girl with the great, still, G.o.dlike eyes.

Thus Bertram was profoundly in earnest when he declined to accept Erna's praise; but, anyhow, he hoped that the worst was over now.

How greatly he was mistaken in this, came most painfully home to him with the first stolen glimpse which he ventured to take of Lydia's face in the pitiless radiance of the bright candles which shone upon the round table in the dining-room, where he sat opposite her. Was that really ... Lydia? Or had some mischievous imp, by cruel witchcraft, put a caricature of herself in her place, and changed the picture of the bright and gifted girl, overflowing with jest and fun, with humour and wit; the girl with the somewhat irregular but most piquant features, with the big, light-blue, mischievous eyes, fresh and rosy of colour, with wild, fluttering, blonde locks, into the picture of an aging coquette, for ever pouting her thin lips, even when she laughed, so as to hide her false teeth; now lowering, now lifting her eyelids, like an actress, in vain endeavouring to give some light to her eyes--a light as treacherous as the all too bright pinkiness of the lean cheek, the all too dark carmine of the ears, adorned though they were with sparkling diamonds? An ugly old woman, who now let the gold embroidered white silk shawl glide from the scraggy shoulders, only to draw it up again immediately and attempt a more picturesque drapery--which was not a success, so that the game had to be renewed forthwith!

And he had once loved this painted, dressed-up, revoltingly coquettish person; had loved her with the best, purest strength of his heart, as, but a little while ago, he had a.s.sured Erna with pa.s.sionate eagerness.

It was horrible! Would Erna believe that yonder withered shrub had ever blossomed in vernal brightness and beauty? How could she believe it, when she looked at the friend of Lydia's youth, her own mother, whose majestic beauty was barely touched by Time in his flight? Her great brown eyes had lost none of their velvety softness, her raven hair still shone in undimmed splendour. And if the difference in appearance, in manner, was now so great between the two ladies, must it not always have existed? And must not the taste of a man, whose feelings could at any time have led him so far astray, have been at all times most lamentable?

And if the pitiless brightness had brought so terrible a discovery to him, how would he himself appear before Erna's searching gaze? Had not some horrible change taken place with him too? Why, these twenty years had altered Erna's father, who at college had been rightly surnamed 'The Beauty,' into an excessively stout gentleman, with a somewhat bloated countenance, and a mighty skull, which was getting painfully bald in the region of the temples! And he himself had never been distinguished for personal attraction; true, his hair was as dark as ever; and, before supper, in the gla.s.s, he had thought that he saw a pale and grave, but not a worn, face. But then the complaisant mirror of vanity might make one fancy one saw all sorts of things. No doubt Lydia had just such a mirror in her room!

Bertram felt more and more sad at heart. He no longer dared lift his eyes, but kept them fixed upon the plates, which the servants changed without his having tasted any of the dishes to which he helped himself mechanically. So he sat on, scarcely hearing a word of the conversation, which was princ.i.p.ally carried on by Lydia and the Baron.

Apparently they were talking about some Court affairs, and very amusing and piquant they would appear to be. Anyhow, there was much laughter, chiefly on the part of Lydia and the Baron, and My Lady held up her hand once or twice, and reminded the two of the respect due to the Grand Ducal family. Then the conversation touched upon the approaching man[oe]vres, and the Baron proclaimed his minute knowledge of every detail, and endeavoured to explain to the ladies, with the help of spoons and forks and what not, the original positions both of the attacking party and the attacked, and duly weighed the various events which might or must occur, according whether the commanding officers did or did not take certain steps. Under any circ.u.mstances, the decisive portion of the sham-fight must come off in the immediate neighbourhood of Rinstedt itself, if not in Rinstedt itself; unfortunately, the ground being singularly unsuitable for cavalry, the ultimate issue would lie between artillery and infantry. He himself, said the Baron, having formerly been a cavalry officer, was very sorry for that; but, anyhow, the ladies, could look forward to a glorious sight. What, a pity, he added, that in spite of his having so many friends in the army, he did not chance to have any personal acquaintances among the officers of this particular regiment.

"Well, I know a number of them," said the host. "The 99th were stationed at Erfurt until a twelvemonth ago. I used to meet the officers over and over again out shooting."

"Then," said the Baron, turning to Lydia, "you must know some of them too. They are sure to have attended some of our Court b.a.l.l.s."

"Of course," the lady replied; "and they were also in the habit of coming over in shoals to the play; but who is to distinguish one red collar from another? Not I! I love plain, quiet, civilian colours. Ask Erna; she is sure to know. She spent six weeks last summer with her Aunt Adelheid in Erfurt, and there the officers, are constantly coming and going. Is it not so, Erna?"

"You are forgetting," said Erna, "that aunt was in mourning at the time. Of course there were no parties then."

"But still," the Baron observed, "people go to a house without being actually bidden to parties, inspire of the family being in mourning, if there are six marriageable daughters in it, as is the case in your aunt's house."

"Possibly; then my power of discriminating between different red collars is not more strongly developed than Aunt Lydia's; anyhow, I do not remember any one of the gentlemen."

This was uttered in such a stern tone, as of one who would decline to pursue the subject, that Bertram looked up involuntarily. Her dainty features were perfectly composed, but the blue eyes, which she was bending upon him, not upon her interlocutor the Baron, seemed to have a deeper radiance than that of suppressed annoyance. This was the first time that their looks had met across the table, and a curious thrill pa.s.sed through his frame. He felt the hot blood surging to his temples; and to mask his growing embarra.s.sment, he asked who was in command of the regiment in question.

"Colonel von Waldor," the Baron replied promptly.

"I knew an officer of that name," said Bertram, "long ago, in Berlin; at that time he had been told off to the Military Academy of that town.

For some years I kept up a correspondence with him, but somehow I lost sight of him afterwards. But I rather think that was not his regiment?"

"No," replied the Baron. "You are quite right; he used to be in the 210th. He got the colonelcy of the 99th about a year ago. He made quite a name for himself in the '70 campaign."

"Even at the time I recall, my friend was considered a very smart officer," said Bertram.

"No doubt, no doubt," replied the Baron; "it must be the same man. As far as I know, there are not two Waldors in the army, at least not among regimental commanders, for I think I know all their names by heart. Your Colonel is a queer fish, anyhow."

"What is a 'queer fish'?" asked Lydia, touching the Baron's arm with her fan.

He laughed, and said: "Well, that question is more easily asked than answered."

"Then, pray, do not answer it at all," said Hildegard, the hostess, glancing at her daughter Erna.

"Why not, my Lady?" the Baron exclaimed. "It is harmless enough to let the facts speak, and it is a fact that Waldor who--I do not know him personally, but Dr. Bertram will a.s.suredly confirm my statement--was known throughout the army not only on account of his gallantry, but also on account of his manly beauty, and who had consequently broken countless hearts, is still a bachelor."

"You say 'consequently,'" exclaimed Lydia, "and consequently you think very meanly of our s.e.x."

"How so?"

"Well, you seem to a.s.sume that manly beauty suffices to touch--or, as you are pleased to call it, to break--female hearts. Alas, my dear Baron, how little do you know our s.e.x!"

"I beg a thousand pardons--but I really said nothing of the kind. Venus and Mars--the alliance of valour and beauty, you know--your poets know something of this. Why, there is a poet here among us--let him speak up for me!"

With these last words the Baron had turned to Bertram; his tone and the accompanying gesture had something insultingly patronising about them; in fact, in Bertram's eye the whole demeanour of the young man, almost a giant in stature, was saturated with an arrogant sort of self-complacency, which seemed to take unanimous applause for granted.

Nevertheless he replied with calm politeness:

"I neither consider myself a poet, nor am I, to the best of my knowledge, considered one by anybody who has read the few miserable trifles in verse which I published years ago."

"I protest against this most emphatically," exclaimed Lydia. "I have read those 'miserable trifles in verse,' as you call them--what a horrible expression. I know them by heart, and I consider the author to be a poet--a poet by grace divine."