Clear the Track! A Story of To-day

"Do you actually demean yourself so far as to make me such a communication?" asked Dernburg slowly. "I hardly believed it. The surprise intended would have been more complete, if I had learned it through the newspapers."

"What, you know already–" exclaimed Egbert.

"What you have found good to hide from me until today. Yes, I knew it and wish you good luck in your schemes. You are not timid, with your eight-and-twenty years; you already boldly grasp at an honor which I first felt to be my due after the toil of a lifetime. You have barely left apprentice-years behind you, and already allow yourself to be lifted upon the shield, as tribune of the people. Well, good luck to you!"

Listening to the bitter sarcasm of this speech, Runeck's complexion changed rapidly, the color coming and going, while his voice had not its wonted firmness, when he replied:

"I have feared that you would take such a view of the matter, and this makes yet more painful the position into which I have been forced by the action of my party. I resisted to the last moment, but at last they–"

"Forced you, did they?" interrupted Dernburg with a bitter laugh, "of course you are nothing but a victim to your convictions. I foresaw that you would screen yourself thus. Give yourself no trouble, I understand."

"I speak truth, I think, you know that," said Egbert, solemnly.

Dernburg got up and stood close in front of him.

"Why did you come back to Odensburg, if you knew that the difference between us was an irreconcilable one? You did not need the position that I offered you. The whole world stood open to you. Yet why do I ask? The thing was to prepare for the contest with me; to undermine the ground upon which I stand; to betray me first on my own soil, and then strike–"

"No, I did not do that!" impetuously declared Runeck. "When I came here, nobody dreamed of the possibility of my election, and I least of all. Landsfeld was alone in our eye. This plan did not loom up until last month, and culminated only within the last few days, despite my opposition. I durst not speak sooner, because it was a party-secret."

"Really! Well, the calculation is very cleverly made. Neither Landsfeld nor any other person would have had the least prospect of success. Where the matter in hand was to unseat me the plan would have been wrecked at the very outset. You are the son of a workman, have grown up among my people, gone forth from among their midst, and, in short, they are all proud of you. If you make it clear to them that I am, at bottom, a tyrant, who has been oppressing them and consuming all their substance all these years, if you promise them a return of the golden age–it takes hold upon and leads the people astray–you they will believe, perhaps; doubtless you are a distinguished orator. If the man, who has been treated almost like my own son, puts himself at their head, to lead them into battle against me, then their cause must be the right one, then they will swear by it."

These were almost the identical words which the young engineer had heard months ago from the mouth of Landsfeld, and his eyes fell before the piercing looks of Dernburg, who now drew himself up to his full height, as he continued:

"But we are not at that point yet. It still remains to be seen if my workmen have forgotten that I have labored with them and cared for them these thirty years, if a bond that has been forging for a whole generation is so easily broken. Try it. If any one can succeed, it will be you. You have been trained in my school and mayhap have learned how to strike down the old master."

Egbert had turned pale as death; upon his features was mirrored the conflict that was raging within his soul. But now he slowly raised his eyes.

"You condemn me, and yet, if put in my place, would perhaps not act differently. I have often enough heard from your own mouth that discipline is the first and highest law of every great undertaking. I have bowed and must bow to this iron law–what it has cost me, nobody but myself knows."

"I ask obedience from my men," said Dernburg coldly. "I do not compel them to commit treason."

Egbert writhed, and a glance almost threatening flashed from his eyes.

"Herr Dernburg, I can take much from you, especially in this hour; but that word–that word I cannot bear."

"You will have to bear it. What have you done out yonder at Radefeld?"

"What I can answer for, to you and myself."

"Then you have performed your task poorly and they will have their revenge upon you. Yet, why bring up the past? The question is about the present. You are the candidate of your party, then, and have accepted the nomination?"

"Since it is a party measure–yes! I must submit to it."

"You must!" repeated Dernburg with bitter scorn. "That is every third word with you, now; formerly you were a stranger to it. Then it was only you would. You deemed me a tyrant, because I would not forthwith adopt your sublunary ideas about the welfare of the people, and rejected this hand, that would have guided you. You wanted your course in life to be unimpeded. And, lo! now you bow your neck to a yoke, that enchains your whole being, forcing you to break with all that is dear to you, that lowers you even down to treachery–do not flare up so, Egbert, it is so! You should not have come back to Odensburg, if you had known that such an hour as the present must come. You should not have remained when you learned that they would force you to heed the opposition against me–but you did come back, and stayed because they bade you do it. Call it what you like, I call it treachery! And now go, we are done with one another!"

He turned off. Egbert, however, did not obey, but drew nearer, yielding to an irresistible impulse.

"Herr Dernburg–do not let me go thus! I cannot part from you in this way–you have been like a father to me!"

There was in this outbreak of long-pent-up anguish, an intensity of grief that was truly appalling in one usually so self-contained as Runeck, but the sorely provoked man, who stood before him did not, or would not, see it, but drew back; and his whole attitude and manner were expressive of repulse, when he said:

"And the son lifts his hand against the 'father.' Yes, I would gladly have called you son–you above every one else in the world; I showed it to you, too, plainly enough. You might have been lord of Odensburg. See if your comrades will thank you for the immense sacrifice which you have made for their sakes. And now this is all over–go!"

Egbert was effectually silenced; he made no further attempt at reconciliation, slowly he turned to go; only one last agonized glance he sent back from the threshold, then the door closed behind him.

Dernburg threw himself back in a chair and put his hands over his eyes. Of all the trials that had come down upon him to-day, like an avalanche, this was the heaviest. In Egbert he had admired the brave, strong spirit, so like his own, that he had wanted to bind to himself for the rest of his life, and now it seemed to him that in parting from this young man, the best part of his own power and his own life had also taken their departure, never to return.

With heavy heart Runeck hurried through the entrance-hall, rushing along as though the ground burned beneath his feet. It was plain how much this hour had cost him, the hour in which he had torn loose from all that was dear to him, how dear, he now felt fully for the first time when he had lost it. "You might have been lord of Odensburg!" In that one sentence lay the greatness of the sacrifice, which he had offered up–and offered up to whom?

It had been long since he had felt any of that joyful enthusiasm which neither asks questions nor doubts. However, to resolve and act were no longer left to his free choice; it was no longer for him to will–he must.

Just then there was heard, quite close to him, the rustling of a woman's silk skirt: he looked up and found himself face to face with Baroness Wildenrod. For one instant he stood as it were, transfixed, then was about to pass by with a profound bow. But Cecilia stepped close up to him and said, in a low tone:

"Herr Runeck!"

"Gnädiges Fräulein?"

"I must speak to you."

"Me?" Egbert thought that he could not have heard aright, but she repeated in the same tone:

"Speak with you alone–please let me!"

"I am yours to command."

She took the precedence, he following her into the parlor. There was nobody there, and even if any one had appeared, the meeting might have passed for an accidental one. Cecilia had stepped up to the fireplace, as though she wanted to take refuge from the sunshine, which poured in its bright golden rays, through the lofty windows. A few minutes passed ere she spoke. Runeck, too, was silent; his eyes scanning her countenance, which was so entirely different from what it had appeared earlier.

Eric was right; the radiantly beautiful creature that he had brought home as his promised bride had strangely altered. She was no longer the gay, captivating girl, whose whole being sparkled with high spirits and the joy of existence. A pale, trembling girl leaned against the marble pillars upon which rested the mantelpiece, with downcast eyes, a painfully drawn look about the mouth, and she sought after words that would not cross her lips.

"I wanted to write to you, Herr Runeck," she finally began. "Then I heard to-day that you were in the Manor-house, and determined to speak to you in person. There is need of an explanation between us."

She paused, seeming to expect an answer, but as Egbert only bowed in silence, she continued with visible effort: "I must recall to your mind our interview on the Whitestone; you will have forgotten it as little as I have forgotten the words, the threats which you hurled at me. They were darkly mysterious to me at the time and are still so, even now; but, from that hour, I have known you to be the implacable foe of my brother and myself–"

"Not of you, Baroness!" exclaimed Egbert. "I had been in grievous error, which was explained away at that time. I begged your pardon, which, however, you would not grant. My words like my threats had reference to another."

Cecilia lifted her eyes to him, and the deprecatory look in them was touching to behold.

"But that other is my brother, and what touches him touches me as well. If you ever confront him as you did me that time, the issue will be a bloody, a horrible one. For weeks I have been trembling at the thought of it, and now I can stand it no longer. I must have certainty,–what do you intend to do?"

"Does Herr von Wildenrod know of that scene on the Whitestone?" asked Egbert with strong emphasis.

"Yes!" This word was well-nigh inaudible.

Runeck asked no farther. In the first place, he had no need to hear what Wildenrod's answer had been, it was written clearly enough in Cecilia's distressed looks, and he spared her the painful question.

"Compose yourself," said he earnestly. "The meeting which you fear will not take place, for to-morrow morning I quit Radefeld and Odensburg. And inasmuch as you are going to the South with Eric, Herr von Wildenrod will have no further occasion nor pretext for remaining longer after your marriage. That will rid me of the necessity for meeting him in a hostile manner. But that there is no need to protect Odensburg and the Dernburg family against you, I well know now."

He little suspected what a blow these words inflicted upon Cecilia. She knew Oscar's vaulting schemes, she knew that through her betrothal, he had only paved the way for the accomplishment of his own aims, that the knot between him and Maia, would, sooner or later, be tied, and make him master of Odensburg; but she kept her lips tightly closed, closed although fully conscious of the wrong that she committed, in order that the specter of dread which had just been exorcised, should not again be called up, to haunt her again with new terrors.

It was still as death through the length and breadth of that vast apartment, only the monotonous ticking of the great standing-clock made itself heard, marking the flight of seconds, of minutes–how fast they did fly in that farewell hour!

Then Egbert drew one step nearer, and with a peculiarly vibrant sound in his voice said:

"I did you great injustice, with those unsparing words of mine, so great that you cannot forgive me. I had to believe that you stood, with open eyes, in the midst of the relations that encircled you; how could I imagine that they had left you in perfect ignorance? Will you, in spite of all that has happened, hear from me, one last entreaty, one warning?"

The young girl silently nodded her head in the affirmative.

"Your marriage sunders all such connections, and frees you from your brother's control–then free yourself from his influence, at any price! Let him no longer have any power over your future life, for it is unwholesome and brings destruction. What I only suspected formerly, I now know for a certainty. The Baron's path leads to an abyss–who can say where it will end?"

Cecilia shuddered at these last words. She thought of Oscar's dark threat, when she refused to stay at Odensburg, and the image of her dead father loomed up before her.

"No farther, Herr Runeck," said she, forcibly recovering her self-control. "You are talking of my brother!

"Yes, of your brother," repeated he, with marked emphasis. "And you have nothing to say in refutation of my charge. You know then–"

"I know nothing, will know nothing–Oh! my God, have pity on me!"

She clasped both hands before her face, and tottered, as though she would fall. The same instant Egbert was already at her side, supporting her; just as that time on the Whitestone, the beautiful, fair head, with closed eyes, lay upon his shoulder.

"Cecilia!"

It was only a single word, but it escaped Egbert's lips in the fervent tone of passion, and at its sound, the large dark eyes opened and met his. For a second their looks mingled–rather an eternity. With loud, clear strokes, the clock told the midday hour. Egbert let his arm drop and drew himself up erect.

"Make Eric happy!" said he, with difficulty, in a hollow tone: "Farewell, Cecilia!"

In the next minute he had left the room, and Cecilia, pressing her hot brow against the cold marble of the mantel-piece, wept and wept, as though her heart would break.

CHAPTER XIV.

HOW AN OLD BACHELOR MAKES LOVE

The dwellings of the numerous officials attached to Odensburg, formed quite a little town of themselves; there also was Dr. Hagenbach's house, a small villa, in the Swiss style. It had evidently been built for a larger family, but this elderly bachelor had not thought of marrying, and had been living alone here for years, with an old housekeeper, to whom was now added his nephew. As physician in chief of Odensburg, Hagenbach's professional services were constantly in requisition, but he also frequently had calls from abroad.

To-day, for instance, there sat in his office a patient from abroad, who, to be sure, did not look at all like a sick man. The man was about forty years old, and very rotund in person, his hands were folded over a very capacious paunch and his eyes almost disappeared behind full, puffy, red cheeks. Nevertheless he had a long tale of miseries to relate, counting up a whole list of ailments, until Hagenbach abruptly cut him short in the midst of it.

"Oh, I know all that you are telling me, by heart, Herr Willmann. I have already told you for the last time, that you take too good care of Number One. If you will not be moderate in eating and drinking, and take no exercise, the remedies that I have prescribed for you cannot take effect."

"Be moderate?" repeated Willmann in a soft, melancholy tone. "Dear me! Doctor, I am moderation itself. But a hotel-keeper, alas! is in that particular a victim of his calling. I must occasionally sit with my guests, chatting and drinking–it brings business, you know, and–"

"You take upon yourself this martyrdom with wonderful self-denial. For all that I care–but then you have given up wanting any help from me, I perceive. I do not care at all to have outside practice; I have my hands full here at Odensburg. Why do you not consult my colleague, who has a great deal more time?"

"Because I have no faith in him," said Herr Willmann solemnly, without looking the least disconcerted by this harsh declaration. "There is something about you, Doctor, that inspires a body with confidence."

"Yes, thank God, I throw in the needful grains of rudeness," answered Hagenbach with composure of soul. "Then people always have confidence in you. You will take my prescriptions, then? Yes or no?"

"Dear me, I submit to you in every particular. If you knew what I have stood these last days–those terrible pains in the stomach–"

"For which those good meats and soups are to blame," interposed the doctor in cold blood.

"And that want of breath, that dizziness in my head–"

"Comes from the beer, to which you daily treat yourself, your own most regular customer. If you omit the beer, and limit your meals to what is absolutely necessary to sustain life–" then he began to count off a list of remedies that almost drove Herr Willmann wild.

"Why, Doctor, that is a veritable hunger-cure," lamented he. "It will put an end to me!"

"Would you rather fall a victim to your calling?" asked Hagenbach. "It is all right; but there, go off and leave me in peace!"

The patient sighed deeply and painfully. However, the doctor's faith-inspiring roughness must have won the victory over his love of good-living, for he folded his hands and looked up at the ceiling.

"If there's no help for it–in God's name!" said he unctuously.

The physician suddenly started, fastened a sharp glance upon him and then asked, wholly irrelevantly:

"Have you a brother, Herr Willmann?"

"No, I was the only child of my parents."

"Singular! I was struck with a likeness, that is to say, not exactly a likeness–on the contrary, you have not a feature like the person I am referring to."

Herr Willmann softly shook his head, in token that these dark words were unintelligible to him, while Hagenbach continued: "Can you tell me whether you have a relative who has been in Africa, in Egypt, in the Sahara or in some part of a desert in those parts?"

Herr Willmann's full cheeks lost something of their rosy tint, and he fumbled in an embarrassed way with his gold watch-chain as he answered: "Yes–a cousin."

"Was he a missionary?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"And then he died of fever?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Was his name Engelbert?"

"Yes–"

"And what is your own name, pray?"

"Pan–cra–tius," answered Willmann, drawling it out, while he still kept playing with his watch-chain.

"A fine name! Well then, Herr Pancratius Willmann, in three weeks come again, and meanwhile, if I should be passing by the 'Golden Lamb' I'll give you a call to see how you are getting along. Adieu!"

Willmann took his leave with mild thanks for the advice wasted on him, and Hagenbach was left alone.

"The thing agrees," murmured he to himself. "He is a cousin, then, of that much lamented Engelbert, whose picture is draped in mourning. They both have that pious way of turning up their eyes; it seems to be a family-failing. Shall I tell her about it? I'll take good care not to! She would send for the dear kinsman on the spot, and then there would be a repetition of that tale of woe, and a fresh eulogium of eternal constancy. As for the rest, I must give Dagobert the prescription I promised, to take with him, as he is about to set out for the Manor-house."

So saying he went across to his nephew's room, whom he was glad to find still in. The young man had already made his preparations for going out. His hat and gloves lay on the table beside a bulky blue note-book, but he himself stood before the looking-glass, carefully considering his own precious person. He tied his cravat straight, drew his fingers through his fair locks, and tried to give a bold air to his newly-budding mustache.

Finally Dagobert seemed content with the appearance of his outer man: he retired a few steps, laid his hand most touchingly upon his heart, sighed profoundly, and then began to say something in a whisper that could not be heard by the doctor, who gazed upon the scene from the threshold of the door, with increasing astonishment.

"Fellow, have you turned crazy?" asked he, in his gruff manner.

Dagobert started and turned crimson from embarrassment.

"I believe your brain is cracked, all of a sudden," continued his uncle, advancing nearer. "What is the meaning of these preparations?"

"I–I am learning English words," declared Dagobert, the doctor, meanwhile, shaking his head suspiciously.

"English words, with such heart-breaking sighs? That is a remarkable way to learn."

"It was an English poem, that I was once more–Please, dear uncle, give it to me–those are my exercises!"

Like a bird of prey Dagobert swooped upon the table, clutching at the blue pamphlet, but too late, the doctor had already opened it and begun to turn over its leaves.

"Why so excited? You evidently need not be ashamed of your work and seem to have gotten tolerably far. Miss Friedberg, too, has given herself a great deal of trouble about you, and I hope you are grateful for it."

"Yes, indeed, she has given herself trouble–I have given myself trouble–we have given ourselves trouble," stammered Dagobert, who, manifestly did not know what he was saying, for his eyes were directed in agony to the hand of his uncle, who turned over one page after the other, while he dryly remarked:

"Well, if that is the way you are going to stammer out your thanks, she will not be greatly edified by them–yes, what is this, pray?"

He had stumbled upon a page laid loosely in, at the sight of which his unhappy nephew was ready to expire.

"'To Leonie!'" read Hagenbach aghast. "Here are verses!

"'Oh! be not angry if I fallA suppliant at thy feet–'

"Oh! Oh, what does that mean?"

Dagobert stood there like a surprised criminal, while the doctor read the poem through, which was nothing more nor less than a full declaration of love to the secretly adored preceptress, vowing that these feelings should last forever, with the most solemn of oaths.

It was some while before Hagenbach could take in the idea, so monstrous did it seem to him. But when he finally apprehended the true significance of all this, a storm as of thunder and lightning burst forth upon Dagobert's devoted head. He patiently submitted to being lectured for a long while, but since it seemed as if the tempest was to know no end, he made an attempt at retort.

"Uncle, I owe you gratitude," said he solemnly, "but when the question concerns the most sacred feelings of my heart, there is an end put to your power as to my obedience. Yes, I love Leonie, I worship her–and that is no crime."

"But it is a folly!" cried the doctor, angrily, "a folly, such as has never been before! A youth who is just out of school, and not yet a student–and in love with a lady, who could be his mother. Such, then, were your 'English words'! It was a declaration of love, then, that you were studying before the looking-glass! Well, I shall open Miss Friedberg's eyes to the character of her pretty scholar, and you may be thankful to be out of the way when she learns the story. She will be indignant, infuriated."

He grimly folded the fatal sheet together and put it in his pocket. The young man saw the verses that he had forged, in the sweat of his brow, disappear in the coat-pocket of his unfeeling relative, and the spirit of despair gave back to him his self-possession.

"I am no longer a boy," declared he, smiting upon his breast. "You have no appreciation of the feelings that stir in a young man's bosom. Your heart has long since been dead. When the hoar-frost of age already covers your head–"

He suddenly stopped and took refuge as speedily as possible behind the great arm-chair, for the doctor, who could not stand the allusions to his gray hair, advanced upon him threateningly.

"I forbid such personalities!" cried he, raging. "Hoar-frost of age, forsooth? How old do you think I am? You are fancying that this old uncle will soon be departing this life, but I shall not think of such a thing for a long while to come, mark that! I am now going to Miss Friedberg with your scribbling, and meanwhile you can let the feelings in your youthful breast storm and bluster away; it will be quite a nice little entertainment!"