Clear the Track! A Story of To-day

Full of impatience the young husband hurried out to go and find his wife, but at the foot of the stairs he stood still a moment and gazed through the wide-open portals of the grand reception-hall.

Out of doors lay the landscape in the full splendor of the evening-sun, whose golden light flooded also the flower-bestrewn terrace, and a broad shining beam also crossed the hall. From the works over yonder, where the festivities for the workmen took place, came sounds of music and rejoicing; and from the open windows of the ball-room, where a pause in the dancing had occurred, penetrated the gay talking and laughing of the company.

Eric's heart beat high for joy, and he drew a deep breath of satisfaction. What a lovely day it had been, this his wedding-day! And now life just began for him–now there beckoned to him the wide world, the sunny South; he would be free from oppressive, irksome duties, and there on the shore of the blue Mediterranean, with a sweet wife by his side, dream an enchanting dream of happiness. In the depths of his soul, he was pierced with gratitude to the Giver of all good, who had showered upon him all these blessings.

With quick steps he mounted the stairs and was about to enter the small parlor which separated Cecilia's chamber from that of her brother, when he remarked that it had been bolted from the inside; also nobody opened in response to his light tap. He was impatient, and took another way.

Oscar's chamber had another peculiar entrance, a little tapestry-door, that was seldom or never used. Eric opened it and traversed the apartment of his brother-in-law and the adjoining parlor. His step was not audible upon the soft carpet, and moreover the door to Cecilia's chamber was close. Eric heard Wildenrod's voice from inside and stood still.

The brother, he supposed, had sought the bride in order to see her once more alone and to say farewell. This was natural and the parting–in any case so brief–ought not to be disturbed.

Yet what was that? The Baron's voice sounded stern and threatening, and now a wild, passionate sob was heard. Was it Cecilia's voice? It could not be she who was thus distressed, weeping so despairingly! Eric turned pale, the foreboding of a great sorrow suddenly fell upon him, as though an ice-cold hand had laid its weight upon his chest. He tarried motionless in his place, every word reaching him through the closed door.

"Be reasonable, Cecilia! Have you lost all power of self-control? You must show yourself again to the guests and bid them farewell, Eric may come in any minute. Do collect yourself!"

No answer, only convulsive, inconsolable weeping.

"I dreaded something of the sort, and therefore sought you, but I was not prepared for such an outbreak as this. Cecilia, you must compose yourself."

"I cannot!" gasped Cecilia with half-stifled voice. "Leave me, Oscar! I have been obliged to smile and lie this livelong day–must do so again when I sit in that carriage with Eric–I'll die if I cannot take my cry out this once–only this single time."

The brother must have perceived that he could effect nothing here by the assumption of a domineering tone, for his voice was milder, when he rejoined:

"There it is again, that wretched passionateness of your disposition, you should say to yourself, that this is the last of all hours, in which to abandon yourself thus. I have done everything to secure to you your happiness and you–"

"My happiness?" repeated Cecilia with sarcastic bitterness. "Why that lie, Oscar?–we are alone. You managed to deceive me so long as I was a thoughtless child, but you know the day that opened my eyes. You only wanted, through me, to pave the way to your own fortune, when you set yourself to make a match between Eric and me. You wanted to be master of Odensburg, therefore, I had to be the victim."

"And if I had this aim in view, I lifted you up with myself," cried Wildenrod with emphasis. "I have told you, often enough, that the question here for both of us is 'to be or not to be.' You consider yourself a victim do you? Why, to-day you received princely homage, and as those endless throngs of dependents marched past you, surely it must have become clear to you, what significance the name that you now bear, has in the world. That life in Odensburg, which you dreaded so, is to be spared you. You are to return to Italy. Eric worships you, he lives only in your looks, and will leave no wish of yours ungratified, showering upon you everything that wealth can give. What more can you ask of your marriage? This is good fortune, and one day you will thank me for it."

"Never! never!" cried the young woman, beside herself. "Oh! that I had fled from this good fortune! But you–you compelled my submission by the dreadful threat that you would follow our father's example, and I had to stay in order to save you. You have no idea, what torture I have endured since that time, in the midst of all Eric's goodness and tenderness. I never have loved him, never will love him, and now that the chain is irrevocably forged, I feel that it will crush me. I would rather lie down in death than in his arms!"

She suddenly hushed. "What was that?" she asked quickly.

"What?"

"I do not know–it sounded like a sigh!"

"Imagination! We are alone, I have secured ourselves against listeners. What means that desperate outbreak? Have you waited until your wedding-day to be certain that you love another? Do you not know the truth, or will you not? I have suspected it ever since that day when you and Runeck met on the Whitestone. It seemed as though you would lose your senses, at the bare idea of being despised by that man, of appearing before him in the light of an adventuress. I did not want to warn or frighten you–no one arouses a somnambulist upon his dangerous walk. But now it is time to wake up. Since that Egbert has crossed your path–"

"No! no!" interposed Cecilia repelling the imputation.

"Yes!" said Oscar with cold insistency. "Do you think, it has escaped me how, this morning, when I drove to church with you as bride-man, you turned deadly pale and then like one spellbound gazed at one particular spot in the woods? You had remarked him, who, I suppose, had come to take one last look at you. He was far enough off, it is true, half-hidden behind the trees. At such a distance one recognizes only his deadly foe or the man whom one loves–and we both recognized him."

His sister made no answer, but did not contradict his assertion. But now it was Oscar who started in affright. He had heard close by a noise as of a door falling gently to, and seized by an ill-defined apprehension, he hurriedly opened the door leading into the parlor. Delusion! the parlor was empty, the bolt still undisturbed. But a glance at the mantel-clock convinced the Baron that it was high time to terminate the interview; he returned to his sister.

"I must go back to the company," said he, in subdued tones, "and you too must prepare for your journey. You have had your cry out, now consider what you owe to yourself and me! You are Eric's wife, and tomorrow miles will already lie between you and that other, whom I hope you will never see again. I have seen to it, that he can do no more harm at Odensburg, and you will forget him, because you must."

He unbolted the door and rang for the lady's maid.

The tearful eyes of the bride could be explained by the pain of parting from her brother; nevertheless, he would not leave her by herself for a single minute. Not until Nannon entered did he leave the room.

Down in the front-hall the Baron met a man-servant, bearing Eric's hand-satchel and cloak, of whom he asked in passing:

"Can you tell me if Herr Dernburg is in his own room?"

"No, Baron, he is with his lady," answered the man in surprise.

"Oh, no, I have just left my sister."

"But I saw the young master go upstairs myself," the servant ventured to reply. "It was about a half hour ago. Have you not seen him yourself, sir? He went into your room through the little tapestried door."

Wildenrod turned pale to his very lips, for of this entrance he had not thought. Whether Eric had really been in the parlor, whether he had heard what Oscar dared not carry out the thought, he left the servant standing and hurried to his brother-in-law's apartments.

Nobody was in the first room, but when the Baron had opened the chamber-door, involuntarily he started back.

Eric lay stretched out on the floor, apparently lifeless, with closed eyes. The head had fallen back; and bosom, clothes, and the carpet round about were saturated with clear, red blood, that still flowed from his lips in single drops.

For the space of a few seconds Oscar stood like one transfixed, but then he pulled the bell-rope violently. With the aid of the servants, who came running up, he raised the unconscious bridegroom from the floor and laid him on his bed, at the same time ordering Dr. Hagenbach to be called, so as to excite as little attention as possible.

In a very few minutes the physician was at his post. He silently listened to Wildenrod's report, while he felt the pulse and listened to the beating of the heart; then he drew himself up and said softly:

"Bring your sister in, Baron, and prepare her for the worst. I shall have his father and Maia called."

"Do you fear?" asked Oscar just as softly, but Hagenbach shook his head.

"There is no longer room here for either fear or hope. Lead his bride here–perhaps he may once more recover consciousness."

A quarter of an hour later, the whole house knew that Eric Dernburg, whom they had just seen at the summit of human felicity, now lay on a bed of death. It had not been possible to suppress the dread tidings; they flew like wild-fire. In the ball-room, the music ceased abruptly, the guests stood around in awe-stricken silence or whispered in mournful accents, the servants, meanwhile, running to and fro, with distorted faces. Like a flash of lightning the stroke had fallen upon the festive scene.

The family had gathered around the death-bed. Dr. Hagenbach was still busied in the application of various restoratives, but it was evident that he expected nothing more from them. By the side of the couch knelt the young wife, in her white satin bridal robe that she had not yet laid aside when the message of misfortune came. She was tearless, but pale as death. She suspected some secret, strange coincidence.

On the other side stood Dernburg, in speechless grief, his eyes riveted upon his son, for the preservation of whose life he had been willing to make any sacrifice, and, in spite of it all, he was to be snatched from him. Maia sobbed on her father's bosom. Wildenrod did not dare to approach either her or the death-bed, but, silent and moody, kept in the background. He had believed his game to be lost, and now he should win anyhow. The poor man, whose life was bleeding away there so slowly, could never bring an accusation against him, but take to the grave with him what he had heard and what had given him his death-blow.

Motionless, Eric lay there with closed eyes, seeming hardly to suffer at all. His breathing became easier and easier, until presently the physician laid down the hand which he had been holding while he counted the pulse. Cecilia saw this and guessed the significance of the act.

"Eric!" she shrieked. It was a cry of despair, of deadly anguish; and it shocked the dying man out of his stupor. Slowly he opened his eyes, that, already dimmed by death, sought the beloved countenance that leaned over him, but those eyes expressed such infinite love, so deep and silent a lament, that Cecilia shuddered and shrank back. It was only an instant of consciousness–the last. One more deep sigh from that wounded breast–and all was over.

"The end has come!" said the physician softly.

With loud weeping, Maia sank upon the corpse of her brother, and over Dernburg's cheeks, too, rolled a few big tears, as he kissed the cold brow of his son.

But then he turned to the young wife, gently lifted her up and folded her in his arms.

"Here is your place, Cecilia," said he, with deep emotion. "You are my son's widow, and my daughter. You shall find in me a father!"

CHAPTER XVI.

SCENES AT THE "GOLDEN LAMB."

In the town, that was the railroad station both for Odensburg and the whole region round about, was situated the "Golden Lamb," a well-known and much-frequented inn. The immediate neighborhood of the railroad station and the lively intercourse that continually took place between this place and the Odensburg works, brought much custom to the house. All who came from Odensburg or went thither, used to turn in at the "Golden Lamb," which had the best repute, so far as accommodations were concerned.

The original proprietor had been dead for a long while, but his widow had given him a successor in the person of Herr Pancratius Willmann. He had once chanced to call here as a guest with the purpose of looking out for some small office in the town, but he had then preferred to court the rich widow and remain in that snug nest. He had succeeded in this plan, and was very comfortably off in consequence. He left it to his wife to manage in kitchen and cellar, reserving to himself the more pleasant duties of entertaining the guests and showing them, by his own example, how excellent was the cookery of the "Golden Lamb."

It was on a gloomy, raw October day, which made one feel that autumn had come in earnest, when Dr. Hagenbach's buggy stopped before the inn; the doctor himself, though, sat in the comfortable gentlemen's parlor upstairs which was only open to favored guests. Dagobert was equipped for a journey, since he was to take the next train for Berlin, where he was to enter the high school. In spite of his uncle's rigid discipline, the young man's stay at Odensburg did not seem to have been disadvantageous to him, for he looked more manly and healthier than in the spring.

Herr Willmann, who would not let the doctor be served by anybody but himself, had informed him, with woful visage, that his health had certainly been better since he had strictly followed his prescriptions, but that he was half-starved nevertheless. Hagenbach listened, quite unmoved, and ordered the continuation of the same treatment, without paying the least heed to mine host's dismay.

"Times seem to be lively with you to-day, Herr Willmann. The sitting room downstairs is swarming like a veritable bee-hive. You are having a grand political gathering. I hear the whole social democracy of the town meet at your house. At all events it is a sign for good that the gentlemen have selected the 'Lamb' for a place of rendezvous of their own accord. It indicates peaceful intentions, at all events."

Herr Willmann folded his hands, and his visage became very rueful.

"Ah, Doctor, do not laugh at me, I am in downright despair. I built the new hall last year, for innocent and instructive entertainment–it is the largest in the whole town–and now those radicals, those revolutionists, those anarchists hold their meetings in it–it is dreadful–"

"If it is dreadful to you, why do you take such characters into your house?" asked Hagenbach dryly.

"How am I to refuse them anything? They would ruin my business, maybe blow up my house with dynamite!" Mine host shuddered at this horrible idea. "I did not dare to say no, when that Landsfeld came and demanded my hall. I trembled before that man, yes, trembled in every limb."

"That must have been very flattering to Mr. Landsfeld," said the doctor, taking a huge draught from the beer mug standing before him, while Willmann continued his lamentation.

"But how am I to answer for it to my other customers–you may depend they'll make me pay for it–and what will Herr Dernburg say?"

"I suppose Herr Dernburg will be utterly indifferent as to whether the Socialists meet at the 'Golden Lamb' or elsewhere, and that you will not lose his custom by it either .... for that matter he never did take a meal at your house, did he?"

"Oh, Doctor, what are you thinking of? My little house, only imagine it! The Odensburg family always drive straight to the depot. All the subordinate officers, though, deal with me; why, I put my main dependence upon Odensburg, and would not for any money in the world–"

"Have it all spoiled for the sake of one party!" said Hagenbach, finishing his sentence for him.

"Of course, that is a matter of business, Runeck is to speak to-day; not a seat will be vacant in your big hall, and it will yield you a pretty profit."

Herr Pancratius Willmann lifted both hands in deprecation and cast his eyes up at the ceiling. "What am I caring for the profit? But I cannot let my business go to rack and ruin, these hard times. I am the father of a family, have six children–"

"Why, the hard times do not seem to have preyed heavily on you," laughed the doctor. "By the way, just at this moment, you bear a most remarkable resemblance to your sainted cousin, the man of the desert, who used to cast his eyes heavenward, in the same piteous manner. But come, Dagobert, we must break up now, else the train will leave you."

He drank out his mug of beer and stood up. The portly host of the "Lamb" attended them to the front-door, and once more, in woe-begone manner, begged that his most humble respects be presented to Herr Dernburg, with the assurance that he, for his part, was firmly devoted to the party of law and order, but that, as the father of a family and under these distressing circumstances–

"I shall tell him that you are once more the victim of your calling," exclaimed Hagenbach, breaking short his wail. "You just keep on trembling in quiet and pocket the jingling cash all the same. Your beer is excellent, and no doubt the gentlemen will know how to appreciate it. It will dispose them to be more humane and save the 'Golden Lamb' from destruction, if it comes to the worst."

Herr Willmann shook his head gently and reproachfully at this waggish aspect of the case, and took leave of his guests with a reverential bow, who, on their part, now repaired to the railroad station, where the train was already in waiting. While Hagenbach was crossing the platform with his nephew, he gave him one more impressive lecture, by way of farewell. "I would like to be certain of one thing, namely, that you will set yourself to studying steadily in Berlin, and not turn aside to the follies that played the wild with that fellow Runeck's prospects in life," said he with emphasis. "He had always been very sensible until he went among those Socialists. I tell you, my boy, if you let yourself be taken in by people of that sort–"

He put on such a ferocious look that the pale-faced Dagobert shrank back in affright and laid his hand upon his breast in protestation of his innocent intentions. "I am not going among radicals, dear uncle, certainly not," asserted he, with touching candor.

"They would not make much of a haul when they caught you," opined the doctor contemptuously. "But they take all that they can get, and you, alas! are ripe for any kind of folly. I only hope that your cursed poem 'To Leonie' was your first and will be your last. At all events I made clear enough to you, I trust, the undesirableness of writing such trash.–But the signal for the cars to start has already been given! Have you got your satchel in hand? Get in, then, and a pleasant trip to you!"

He shut the coach-door and stepped back. Dagobert really did not breathe freely until he saw himself separated from his uncle by the solid wall of the coach, for, upon his heart, in his vest-pocket rested a long, touching farewell poem "To Leonie." After the miscarriage of his first attempt, it is true that the young poet had not ventured to place in the hands of his inamorata this effusion of his sentiments, but he had made up his mind to send it in a letter, from Berlin, with the assurance that his love would be eternal, however cruelly the rude world might come in between himself and the object of his ardent affections.

This "rude world," in the shape of the doctor, stood upon the platform, waving another farewell greeting as the train now began to move. Then Hagenbach sought the station-master and inquired whether the fast-train from Berlin was behind time.

"No, indeed, Doctor, that train will be here punctually in ten minutes," answered that official. "Are you expecting any one?"

"Yes, young Count Eckardstein will arrive today."

The station-master's face expressed surprise. "What! Count Victor coming? It was said that an irreparable breach was made between his brother and himself, that time when he came here in the spring, and went away all of a sudden. So, the case at Eckardstein is a desperate one?"

"To this extent, at least, that Count Victor had to be informed of it. He is the only brother, you know."

"Yes, yes–the lord-proprietor is unmarried as well," wound up the railroad agent significantly. "Will you not step into the waiting-room, Doctor?"

"No, I thank you. I prefer to stay out of doors; it will be only for a few minutes."

Hagenbach was not the only expectant person there. Landsfeld appeared with a troop of workmen, who were also evidently awaiting the arrival of some one, for they planted themselves on the platform, conversing in loud, dictatorial tones about the approaching electorial assembly. Finally the train came rushing up. It brought a good many passengers, who got out here at the larger railway-station, so that, for a few minutes, there was a regular commotion in the great reception hall.

Hagenbach walked along the whole line of coaches, with scrutinizing glance, when suddenly he saw before him the tall figure of Runeck, who had just left the coach. Both stopped short, the first instant, when Egbert made a quick motion, as though he would approach the physician, but Landsfeld had already discovered him and pressed up to him with his followers. With noisy greetings they encircled the young engineer, took him into their midst and as they left the depot, raised a loud cheer for him.

"The tribune of the people sails in smooth waters," growled the doctor irritably. "A pretty surprise this, that he is preparing for Herr Dernburg! I am only curious as to what our Odensburgers are going to say. They are in it too, and, as it seems, in goodly numbers."

He quickened his pace, for he just now caught sight of Victor Eckardstein alighting from the last coach, in company with an elderly gentleman. The young Count also perceived him, and hastened to meet him".

"Nothing has happened yet at Eckardstein, has it?" asked he nervously.

"No, Count; the condition of the patient has not perceptibly altered since day before yesterday. But as I happened to be at the station, I thought I would wait to welcome you."

The young Count now turned and introduced: "Dr. Hagenbach, my uncle, Herr von Stettin."

Hagenbach bowed, recognizing the name and knowing that he had before him the brother of the deceased Countess Eckardstein. Stettin offered him his hand.

"You are treating my nephew, as I learn."

"I am, Herr von Stettin, being called in by the express desire of the family physician. My colleague did not want to undertake the responsibility alone."

"In that he did perfectly right. His report was so alarming that I determined to accompany Victor. The case is a serious one, is it not?"

"An inflammation of the lungs is always serious," answered the doctor evasively. "We must build upon the powerful constitution of the patient. We considered it a duty, at any rate, not to keep the Count in ignorance of the danger hanging over his brother."

"I thank you," said Victor with emotion. He looked pale and agitated, the thought of seeing that brother, from whom he had parted in anger, lying upon what was perhaps his death-bed, evidently oppressed him sorely. He kept silent, while Stettin asked the most particular questions, informed himself exactly as to the condition of his elder nephew. Out of doors in front of the railroad station stood an Eckardstein carriage, and the doctor took leave of the two gentlemen, promising to be at the Castle early the next morning. Then he went over to the "Golden Lamb" to bid his coachman prepare likewise for departure.

In the hall he once more met Runeck and Landsfeld, who had rid themselves of their comrades and were just inquiring of the host if he could not furnish them with a private room, as they wanted to confer about something.

This time Egbert bowed and paused hesitatingly, as though he were in doubt whether he should address the doctor or not. At the same time he cast an almost shy glance over at the steps where Landsfeld stood.