The Eichhofs: A Romance

"Let me tell Thea that for at least a year she ought never even to condescend to look at that husband of hers," she wrote upon the last page, "and then perhaps he may come to learn that she is a thousand times prettier and better and lovelier than this detestable Frau von Wronsky. For I have learned thus much of the world, that men like to be ill-treated; they make all the good women unhappy, but they will lay down their lives for the worthless ones. Papa is the only exception; it does not spoil him to be loved and petted. He is kinder and dearer than words can tell; but all other men are monsters, your Bernhard as well as the rest." Then there was a postscript:

"Dearest Alma, for heaven's sake don't give Thea my message. I have reflected that it can only do mischief. She is married to him, and they must get along together as they best can. It can do no kind of good for other people to meddle and talk. I would tear up this letter, but it is well that you at least should know what men are worth, and every word that I have written is true. So I send my letter just as it is, and only beg you to say nothing to Thea about it.

"P. S. the second. À propos, yesterday I met Walter in the street, and I stopped him and asked him to come and see us. Do you know what his reply was? 'I am very sorry, Fräulein von Hohenstein' (that is what he called me), 'that my studies leave me no time for visiting.' What do you think of that? Just like men in general, and the Eichhofs in particular."

At another time this letter of Adela's might not have made such an impression upon Thea as it had produced to-day, when her heart was filled with doubts and fears with regard to Bernhard. Had she not foreboded all that Adela had written?

Still, after she had re-read the letter, it might perhaps not have affected her so deeply as at first had not the tidings it contained been confirmed by Lothar's wild words. Bernhard's conduct was then striking enough to be a theme for Berlin gossip! Oh, if only his devotion had been shown towards any other woman! But that he should turn to this Frau von Wronsky, with whom he had at first denied all acquaintance, and afterwards confessed to it under such strange circumstances; that it should be she, the woman with whom Bernhard had desired that his wife might have as little intercourse as possible! Thea's thoughts were in a whirl, – an abyss seemed yawning between Bernhard and herself which all her love could not bridge over. She raised her eyes. Above her trembled the mysterious fantastic blossom of the orchid to which Bernhard had once compared the Countess Wronsky. Ah, whither had they gone, those bright summer days when he had called Thea his rose of May and had promised to surround her with perpetual sunshine?

"If this is all true, he does not deserve that I should weep for him," she said, aloud. "No, he does not deserve it," she repeated, firmly, closing her quivering lips. But then she thought of her child, of her lost happiness, of her lonely youth, and she wept bitterly.

Thus Alma found her at length, and led her back to the bow-windowed room, where a lamp was now lighted.

"Do not speak," Thea entreated, and Alma only put her arms about her and held her in a tender embrace. But Thea was restless. She sprang up and went to her child. Even there she could not stay long, but returned to the bow-windowed room, and paced it hurriedly to and fro. She could not talk to her young sister of what was agitating her. Why, she seemed to herself almost guilty when she remembered Lothar's passionate words. Lothar, – there was another dark spot in her thoughts! Ah! from all sides black clouds were gathering above her, and she could do nothing save wait quietly until the tempest broke. She was condemned to quiet, and what could be more horrible in her present agitation?

Alma felt that the struggle in Thea's soul must be fought out alone. She went silently hither and thither, looked after the child, presided at the tea-table, and only now and then approached her sister to press her hand or to imprint a kiss upon her forehead. She went to the window and looked out into the night, now illumined by the rising moon. Her heart was filled with a yearning melancholy, and, reproach herself for it as she might at such a time, she could not restrain her thoughts from deserting Thea and centring about Lothar. He had looked so strange, so disturbed, when he had spoken that last 'farewell.'

Suddenly her attention was attracted towards the avenue, which lay like burnished silver beneath the moon. Was there not a shadow stirring there? And could she not distinguish the sound of horses' hoofs? She peered eagerly out, but the moonlight was deceptive, – she might be mistaken. Then she heard doors closing below and steps coming through the antechamber. Thea had sunk into the arm-chair at her writing-table, and with pen in hand was pondering upon a letter which she believed it her duty to write, and for which she could find not only no words but not even one clear idea. Alma hastened to the door.

"Who is there?" she asked, so quickly that Thea looked up startled.

"Herr Lieutenant von Werner begs-" the entering servant began.

"Lieutenant Werner, – how, so late?" Alma repeated, and her slight figure trembled as she added, beneath her breath, "That means misfortune."

Thea had risen. "What, what is coming now?" she thought. "Show Herr von Werner up!" she said, in a sharp tone of command very unlike her. But Herr von Werner had followed close upon the footman's heels, and stood at the door. Alma could not utter a word; she only gazed anxiously into his pale face, and steadied herself by an arm-chair as though she were afraid of falling. Thea went firmly to meet him. She had never borne herself so proudly, her dark eyes had never been so haughty and cold, as, without seeming to notice Werner's agitation, she asked, calmly, "What brings you to us so late, Herr von Werner? It must be something very unusual."

"Yes, madame, it is so, and very sad."

Alma could hardly stand. Thea still looked at Werner with an unnaturally calm expression, and with not the faintest suspicion of what was to come.

"Lothar!" came breathed like a sigh from Alma's pale lips.

Thea's thoughts were not of him. "Tell me. I need no preparation; I am prepared," she said.

"Your brother-in-law met with an accident in riding home from Eichhof, and is severely injured."

Now Thea too grew pale.

"Was he thrown? Is his life in danger?" she asked, in low, uncertain tones, while Alma's eyes never for one moment left Werner's face.

"His condition leaves little room for hope. He was not thrown, – an accident, probably the result of carelessness-"

"He is dead! he has shot himself!" Alma suddenly gasped. Her gloomy forebodings had at last found distinct expression.

Thea looked at Werner. He was very pale, but he uttered no contradiction.

Alma sank on her knees and buried her face in her hands. Thea slowly passed her hand across her forehead. "Dead, – shot," she repeated softly, as if hardly able to apprehend the meaning of the words. The erect figure tottered, and before Werner could spring forward to support her she fell fainting on the floor.

Alma raised her head at Werner's exclamation of terror, and saw her sister's unconscious form. She called the servants and did all that was necessary to restore Thea, while she herself felt hardly aware of what had happened.

She, the younger and weaker of the two sisters, had not fainted, while to Thea the thought that she might have had some share in Lothar's death had been like a destroying flash of lightning. Alma did not succumb, but deep darkness seemed to envelop her, in which she was aware only of the present moment and its duties; all else was a blank. She felt a dull pain in her head and heart, and would fain have cast herself on the earth and have wept passionately. But shame lest she should betray feelings that only the closest and dearest ties with Lothar could justify, restrained her, and Thea's helpless condition gave her a power of self-control of which she never could have believed herself capable.

"I instantly telegraphed to your brother-in-law," Werner said to Alma, "and then hurried hither, because I knew that, with the garrison so near, you must hear the fatal news before to-morrow."

Alma bent her head in silent assent, and in her eyes alone could be read the entreaty that he would tell her all he knew of this terrible calamity. He went on, in a low tone: "I only reached home at dusk, and I saw a light in Eichhof's room. It therefore surprised me to find it locked, and to receive no answer to my call when I had knocked at the door in vain. I was about to descend the staircase, when I met Eichhof's servant, who, in reply to my questions with regard to his master, told me that the Herr Lieutenant had returned from Eichhof half an hour previously, and had seemed very unwell; that he had sent him ten minutes before to the apothecary's for some soothing draught, which he was just taking to him. Why the door should be locked he could not possibly comprehend. We tried again to open it, and finally broke it open. He sat upon the sofa, his head lying on the table before him. As I raised him up, the revolver fell on the floor. Death must have been instantaneous."

Alma covered her face with her hands and burst at last into a flood of tears, weeping so passionately, so uncontrollably, that Werner could not but comprehend what this death was to this girl. In his agitation he had said more than he meant to, and he reproached himself for so doing. Almost in a whisper he began again: "He probably intended to clean the revolver. I feel convinced the pistol was discharged through carelessness, for-for-there were materials for cleaning it lying upon the table." Werner was so unaccustomed to say what was not true that he succeeded but ill in this attempt.

Suddenly Thea entered the room; her eyes glowed with an unnatural feverish brilliancy. She hastily approached Werner and held out her hand as if to clasp his, then instantly withdrew it, and asked, standing close to him, as if to prevent him from evading her question, "Do you know why he shot himself?"

"It is not impossible that it was an accident, madame."

Thea shook her head. "That you do not believe," she said. "You know of no reason for this deed?"

"He was ill, and perhaps a momentary insanity-"

"Yes, a momentary insanity. And you think my husband will come to-morrow?"

"I am sure of it."

She cast down her eyes and was silent for a moment, while a shudder seemed to pass through her delicate frame.

"Can anything be done to-night?" she asked.

"Nothing by you, madame."

"Well, then farewell, Herr von Werner. It is best you should return to town."

"In fact, I still have much to arrange there."

Agitated as Werner was, he could not but observe the strange alteration in Thea's manner towards him.

"Lothar was really like an own brother to her; the shock and her great suffering have thus changed her," he thought, without dreaming of the real state of her mind.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE SHADOWS GATHER

In a first-class carriage of an express-train from Berlin sat Bernhard Eichhof. Upon his return quite late from a ball, he had received the despatch informing him of Lothar's sudden death. He had spent the rest of the night in writing a letter to Julutta Wronsky and several others to political associates, and was now hastening to his home by the early train. He had scarcely found it possible to believe the sad tidings brought by the despatch. Lothar dead! – Lothar, whom but a few weeks previously he had left in the pride of youth and strength, a picture of blooming health. And yet the despatch left no room for doubt. He thought of every possible accident that could have befallen Lothar. He saw before him his brother's smiling merry face, and the thought that he was to look upon it cold and stiff in death seemed to him inconceivable. In Berlin the hurried preparations for his departure had scarcely left him time to appreciate his loss.

But now, during his lonely ride, with Lothar's image constantly before him, now he first comprehended how near this brother had been to him, and how terribly he should miss him. In the consciousness of his position as the future head of the family, upon whom the others must more or less depend, Bernhard had developed, when quite young, a certain liking for the part of a protector, – a part that became him excellently well, because he was naturally warm-hearted and good-natured. And precisely because Lothar had so constantly appealed to him for aid, and, in his lack of self-dependence, had always turned to his brother in his troubles, he had grown very, very dear to Bernhard. Lost in melancholy reflection, he leaned back in a corner of his coupé, without bestowing the faintest notice upon two ladies who had entered the coupé just after him. He had closed his eyes in his revery, and had entirely forgotten his travelling companions.

Suddenly the name of 'Eichhof,' uttered by one of the ladies, aroused his attention.

"Is the member of the Reichstag your son-in-law's neighbour?" the other lady asked.

"Yes; Rollin is in the midst of a very aristocratic neighbourhood," was the reply. "Good heavens, the Barons von Hohenstein have lived upon the estate for hundreds of years, and all the neighbours are old noble families, – my daughter's surroundings will be really 'feudal.' It is well to give one's children an education that fits them for any rank in life. Only a few days ago Count Dornat said to me, 'Your daughter, the Baroness von Hohenstein, is a charming woman.' And my son-in-law is delightful. Indeed, my dear, it is really a model marriage. Between ourselves, many an aristocratic family might take example by it, – these Eichhofs, for instance."

Bernhard, who had ceased to pay any heed to the speakers, now listened again.

"Is it possible, Frau Kohnheim, that the Eichhofs-" Thus the conversation continued.

Frau Kohnheim said in a low voice a few words that Bernhard could not understand, and then went on, in a louder tone, "Yes; I was at Rollin a couple of weeks ago with a Berlin upholsterer to see to the furnishing there, and the housekeeper from Eichhof was paying a visit to our housekeeper, – I mean to my son-in-law's housekeeper, – and I learned all about it from her. The young Countess at the castle was an innocent young creature at first, but she has grown to be very different, especially since her husband has been away. Only fancy such a young woman's giving entertainments to which the young men for miles around are invited, while a young unmarried brother-in-law of the Countess plays the part of host! And he is in garrison only half a mile from Eichhof, and of course is there constantly. So there you have a young man and a young woman alone together in the country in a big castle, and you may imagine what it must lead to!"

"Good heavens! how can the Count be so thoughtless as to allow it?"

"How indeed? Of course the young brother-in-law is over head and ears in love. The housekeeper, who seems to be a very sensible person, has often watched him. He never takes his eyes off the Countess, and, naturally enough, she is not blind to the attractions of a handsome young officer. There they sit in the conservatory talking together, or they take long walks arm-in-arm, and the housekeeper-" Here the voice sank to a whisper.

Bernhard could no longer sit quietly in his corner. He stirred and altered his position, so that the conversation was carried on in still lower tones.

"Infernal old women's gossip!" he thought, flushing angrily. "Contemptible lies! – Lothar to-" Anger and pain possessed him. How dared any one assail his wife's reputation? How could the innocent relations between Thea and Lothar give rise to such calumnies? Was he not false to the memory of the dead even to listen to such talk? He arose and opened the window, only to close it again noisily; then dragged out his portmanteau, and so bestirred himself that the ladies involuntarily ceased to speak. But when he leaned back in his corner again, all the 'old women's gossip,' all the 'contemptible lies,' recurred to his mind word for word. Thea was young and beautiful, and Lothar was thoughtless and susceptible, therein lay the justification of the 'old women's gossip.' But Thea was his wife, and Lothar was his brother. Nonsense, nonsense! why dwell upon such thoughts for an instant? And yet they would intrude; they even came between Bernhard and his sorrow for the loss of his brother; they suggested wild images that showed some connection between what he had just heard and Lothar's sudden death; they sent the blood seething through his veins, and kept him awake, when weariness from sorrow and want of repose would have bidden him to sleep.

After a while the two ladies left the train, and Bernhard was alone with his torturing doubts and suggestions.

At the station he was met by Werner, who had meanwhile been informed of the result of Lothar's gambling on the previous evening. As gently as possible, but without withholding a single detail, he told Bernhard the truth: Lothar had contracted gambling-debts, and had, in consequence, shot himself. Fearful as the calamity was, it was by no means without parallel, – the same cause had often led to the same desperate resolve. Still, to Bernhard, it did not seem to explain Lothar's act. The amount of this last debt did most certainly exceed the amount of Lothar's usual deficits, but yet it did not seem to Bernhard large enough to have been paid by a life, unless there had been other motives in Lothar's mind to prompt him to self-destruction. Why had he not applied to his brother, as he had so often done before? Had he despaired of himself and of his capacity for improvement? That was so unlike Lothar that Bernhard could not believe it to be so. What, then, had prevented him this time from appealing to his brother for aid?

"He had been to Eichhof just before?" Bernhard, arousing himself from gloomy reflections, asked of Werner, who was driving from the station with him. Werner assented.

"And you never spoke with him afterward?"

"No; none of his comrades saw him. His servant was the only one who did so, and he says that Eichhof was very unwell. The calamity occurred almost immediately after his return."

"Immediately after his return-" Bernhard bit his lip; he would ask no more questions. Arrived in garrison, he made all the necessary arrangements, promised to return in a few hours, for Lothar's body was to be taken to Eichhof in the evening, and then drove on alone.

He had had some hope that Thea would come to meet him, but she did not do so; she did not even receive him as usual at the hall door.

"The Frau Countess is not well," the servant said.

Bernhard hurried up the stairs to Thea's room. At the door he met the family physician.

"Is my wife ill?" he asked, hastily.

"Nothing serious at present," the old man replied. "Countess Eichhof cannot for the moment sustain the terrible nervous shock. I have ordered perfect rest, – her best medicine next to your arrival, my dear Count. A sad time, indeed. Your brother was never ill in his life, and now-"

Bernhard pressed the good doctor's hand, and, leaving him, entered Thea's room. In the first moment of reunion he forgot all his doubts. He clasped his pale, distressed Thea in his arms. At sight of her he felt something like remorse for having left her alone so long.

"This is a sad meeting, dear heart," he said with emotion, as he laid her head upon his breast. Thea shook as with a fever-fit, her lips quivered, but she could not speak.

Bernhard looked in her face in alarm. "My poor, poor Thea!" he whispered.

She extricated herself from his clasp, and withdrew her hand from his. "It will pass," she said, turning from him to draw a shawl over her shoulders. "Never mind me. Have you seen him, – I mean Lothar?"

"Yes; he looks perfectly unchanged. I shall have him brought here to-day."

Again Thea shuddered, and for a moment her look was fixed and wild. Bernhard tried again to draw her to him, but she pushed him away. "Leave me! leave me!" she cried. "Oh, my God!" And she burst into a passionate fit of sobbing.

Bernhard turned away and walked to the window. He felt that all his doubts would have vanished like morning mists if Thea had met him as usual and wept out her pain and grief upon his breast. Now they arose again before him, and took firmer, clearer shape. For a few moments he stood motionless at the window, then suddenly he approached Thea again.

"You know why Lothar shot himself?" he asked, in a voice that sounded hoarse and unlike his own.

She bent her head lower upon her hands and made no reply.

"He lost a large sum at play last night," Bernhard continued. "But-"

Then Thea looked up. For an instant her face looked transfigured with hope, like that of a criminal reprieved when under sentence of death. Involuntarily she seized Bernhard's hand, and asked, with a passionate excitement such as Bernhard had never before known her to express, "Do you believe that that was why he shot himself? Do you believe it? Can it be?"

Her eyes as she looked up at him were full of imploring anguish, and he, in his turn, thrust away her hand, and said, in a cold, hard voice, "No! I see you do not believe it, and I-neither do I believe it!"

At this moment Alma entered with Herr von Rosen, who had come over immediately upon hearing the sad news. This put an end to Bernhard's and Thea's tête-à-tête, and neither of them at this time could have wished it prolonged.

Nor was there any opportunity for renewing it during the next few days. The dowager Countess had hastened to Eichhof upon hearing of her son's sudden death, and her grief and suffering were of so exacting a nature as to employ the time and energies of at least one member of the family, and sometimes several of them, all the time. She called herself the unhappiest, the most sorely tried of women; but when Bernhard proposed that she should remain at Eichhof with Thea, she thought it but right to inform him that she had been offered the position of abbess in the aristocratic institution of B-, and that she intended to accept it and retire thither as soon as possible, since it seemed to offer her the advantages to which her birth and rank entitled her.

Thea suffered terribly, but she was cold and repellant towards Bernhard, who was very much occupied and rather avoided her than otherwise. The physician shook his head; he was far from satisfied with his patient's condition, although he still maintained that she was only suffering from prolonged nervous agitation.

On the day after Lothar's funeral Thea was lying back on her lounge, not sleeping, but with closed eyes. She could not sleep either by night or by day, for so soon as she began to dream she saw either Lothar or Bernhard before her, and the thought of them banished repose. Was she not guilty of Lothar's death? Ought she not, instead of turning angrily away, to have tried gently to lead him back to the right path? If there had been no shadow between Bernhard and herself, this torturing self-reproach would not have taken shape; her conscience would not have been so morbidly sensitive, inclining her to the gloomiest reflections. But the shadow was there, and it was therefore impossible for her to seek refuge with her husband, and be consoled and soothed in his arms. Agitated as she was, she saw Bernhard's relations with Frau von Wronsky in the darkest light. She attributed his altered demeanour entirely to these, and never for an instant suspected that he too was tormented by doubts and suspicions with regard to herself. And Bernhard? All through these days he scarcely thought of Julutta; he never suspected that his friendship for her could have given rise to remarks and comments which Thea had overheard, and if he had suspected this he would have been indignant that Thea should give ear to such scandal. In all that concerned that 'poor persecuted woman' his conscience felt perfectly pure, and the struggle between his love for Thea and his dead brother, and the hate which now threatened to arise within him for both of them, left no space for thoughts of aught else.

And now the time for his return to Berlin was at hand. He resolved that certainty should at least be his. Thea, apparently calmly passive, and yet wretchedly restless, had just adopted a resolve to entreat Bernhard to tell her frankly of his sentiments for Frau von Wronsky. She would make no claim upon his affection, since she had never possessed it, but she would be his true and honest friend, asking nothing from him save confidence and truth. For their child's sake they must remain friends, – friends, but nothing more! Yes, she would say all this to him to-day-this very hour. Suddenly she started: a cold, heavy hand was laid upon her shoulder. She raised her head. Bernhard had entered softly, and had only been aware when he stood close beside her that she was not sleeping. His hand was upon her shoulder, and he said, gazing at her the while with eyes so changed, so darkly stern, "I must speak with you, Thea, before I leave for Berlin. I have a question to put to you."