CHAPTER XIX.
The Lover's Accusation
Fernow had not counted too much on the hospitality of his comrades; the major more than fulfilled his promise. The journey could under no circumstances be pursued, but all were ready to receive the strangers for the night into the castle, where a number of finely-furnished unoccupied apartments stood at their disposal. Unfortunately, the hopes of the younger gentlemen as to a nearer acquaintance with the beautiful millionaire were doomed to disappointment. They only saw enough of her to verify the doctor's words that she was young and very beautiful; but Miss Forest did not seem inclined to receive the homage of this warlike circle. She was weary from excitement and the long journey, and after the unavoidable greeting and presentations, she withdrew at once to her chamber.
Doctor Behring looked melancholy, the other gentlemen disconcerted; but the young lady had really been pale as marble, and the few words she had spoken had cost her such apparent effort, that they could not seek to deny her the repose she so much needed. But her two companions could not decline the invitation of the gentlemen to join their social circle. Atkins, as usual, shone through his sarcastic humor, which to-night was more brilliant than ordinarily, since the test was imposed upon it of atoning for the silence of his companion. Here Alison's ignorance of German came to his aid, but the doctor, who politely assumed the office of interpreter, could scarce draw the simplest answers from the melancholy guest. He laid the fault of this persistent silence to his own defective English, and consoled the young man with assurances of the speedy return of his friend Fernow, who was perfect master of the language. Henry's lips quivered; with icy politeness, he begged the doctor to give himself no anxiety on his account, and as for Lieutenant Fernow, his rounds to-night, seemed endless, he did not come. But the major received an evidently important piece of tidings in place of the Lieutenant; he beckoned to the adjutant, and withdrew with him. This was a signal for the breaking up of the party; and the two American gentlemen were at liberty to withdraw.
The carriages had meantime arrived, and the baggage was brought in. It was already quite dark when the two Americans entered the apartment assigned them, and which, like that given to Jane, lay in the second story of the castle, while the officers were quartered in the first, so as to be at hand in case of alarm. Atkins, with a sigh of relief, threw himself upon a sofa, Alison began to pace silently up and down the room. In vain did his companion wait for a word, a remark; not a syllable came from his lips; he still paced dumbly to and fro, his arms crossed, his head bowed. The continuous silence at length became oppressive to Atkins.
"Things cannot go on in this way, Henry!" he said. "Your betrothal must be acknowledged. You saw that strange meeting in the village as well as I. What do you think of it?"
Alison paused, and lifted his head. "Why did you come here with Miss Forest?" he asked in a cutting tone.
"Henry, I beg you–"
"Why did you come here with Miss Forest?" repeated Alison, but this time a repressed fury pulsed through his voice.
"To look after a family affair!"
Henry laughed bitterly. "Spare yourself this deception. I now know all!"
"Then you know more than I!" declared Atkins gravely. "I at least only half understood that scene. This Fernow–well, his sentiment scarce needed expression, he betrayed it plainly enough; but why Miss Jane, at sight of him, shrank back horrified as if she had seen a ghost, is incomprehensible to me."
"And to me also," said Alison with icy scorn. "One is not usually frightened at sight of anything reached at last after such a painful effort."
Atkins frowned. "It is fortunate that Miss Jane does not hear you; she would never forgive you this suspicion. You ought to know her too well to suppose she would start out on a mere aimless adventure, and now you accuse her with a contempt for all the proprieties and moralities, with having come here in pursuit of a man almost a stranger. Do you believe this of Miss Forest? Fie, Henry!"
Alison remained immovable at this reproach; but the old, chilling irony was in his voice, as he replied:
"I know that Miss Forest would die sooner than make the slightest advance of this kind to me; but, well this is not the first time that a woman's pride has been annihilated before a pair of dreamy blue eyes like these."
"You are going too far!" cried Atkins, indignantly. "I promised to be silent, but in answer to accusations like this, Jane herself ought to speak, and if she will not speak, I will! Well then, we are seeking some one here in France; we are in pursuit of a man, but this man is not named Fernow, and does not offer you the least occasion for jealousy. He bears Miss Forest's name and is her brother!"
"Her brother?" repeated Alison in bewildered surprise.
"Yes!" And Atkins now began in a brief, lucid way, to tell the young man all; of Mr. Forest's dying request, of the trace found in Hamburg, and of the subsequent investigations, up to the time of their departure from N. Alison listened in silence for a moment, he seemed to breathe more freely, but his brow remained clouded.
"You are right," he said, "I believe you now; that meeting was not pre-arranged."
Atkins gazed at him in speechless astonishment. And was this all? He had expected another reception of his tidings.
"You seem to quite forget, Henry, how nearly this matter concerns you," he said impressively. "If, as we have reason to believe, this young Mr. Forest lives; if we find him, as we hope to do, it will cost you half the fortune you expect with your bride."
"Ah, is that so?" muttered Alison. "And I would give the other half if she had never set foot on this German soil!"
Atkins started back. He had not thought this possible. If Henry could so entirely forget and deny the merchant in his character; if he could speak in this way of the loss of a fortune, he must be terribly in earnest. He approached the young man and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Jealousy makes you blind," he said in a pacific tone. "Whatever there may between these two, and it is doubtless some secret, it cannot be love; Jane's terror at the unexpected meeting, betrayed anything but that."
Alison glanced at him coldly and derisively. "You are very unfortunate in your powers of observation, Mr. Atkins. Who was it that in B. derided my presentiment that I saw danger to my hopes in this consumptive professor? Does he still seem to you laughable and of little account, or do you know at least what powers have lain dormant in this man?"
"I have misjudged him, but I defy anyone to estimate justly the character of a man who for years long, plays the role of a misanthropic hermit and learned investigator, then all at once really explodes as a poet, soars aloft as a hero in war, where to all human foresight it seemed clear that he would subside at the first roar of the cannon; and, at an unexpected meeting, flames up like an eighteen-year-old enthusiast. I tell you it takes a long time to find out these Germans! Once tear them from their commonplace ruts in which they have been wont to tread, and they go on in unaccountable ways. It is so with solitary individuals, it is so with the whole nation. They hurl the pen into a corner, and draw the sword from its scabbard, as if this had been their sole business their whole life long. I fear that for the next hundred years we shall not forget in what hand the pen lay!"
Atkins said all this in a peculiar tone of grumbling admiration; but he remembered at the right time, that such observations were not designed to pacify his young companion, and dropping the subject, he said consolingly:
"But Henry, however things may turn out, Jane remains yours. You have her promise; you have received it of her own free will, and the Forests are wont to keep their word to themselves and others. In whatever manner this Fernow may cross her path, I know her, she will be yours notwithstanding."
"She will!" replied Alison morosely. "You may rely upon that, Mr. Atkins! Either with or against her consent; my determination is irrevocable, even though–" and here the former ill-omened expression reappeared upon his face–"even though a pair of blue eyes should have to close forever!"
Atkins recoiled in horror; he made no reply. Darkness had fallen; from the village, in tones long drawn out, came the evening signal; Henry started up and took his hat from the table. With a hasty step the old man stood at his side, and grasped his arm.
"Where are you going?"
"Out into the open air. To the park."
"Now? It is quite dark."
"But I must go out for all that; the air here oppresses me. Perhaps–" he smiled strangely–"perhaps I shall bring better thoughts in with me. Good-night."
Freeing his arm by a hasty movement, he left the room. Atkins gazed uneasily after him.
"Something terrible may happen. If they should chance to meet just now!–Foolishness!" he cried interrupting himself. "Just as if Henry were such a lunatic as to stake life, honor, and future for a mad jealous whim! If he were to meet this Fernow alone in the mean time, I would answer for nothing; but hero among his comrades, where discovery would be inevitable, and revenge sure–no, he would not venture it!"
He opened his door to listen if any sound came from Jane's chamber which lay opposite. "She shut herself in immediately upon our arrival," he said to himself, "and called out to me that she had already lain down–a pretence! I heard her plainly pacing to and fro; but it is of no use to renew my effort to force a conversation with her; perhaps her intervention would only make matters worse.–I had better see that we leave early to-morrow morning, for no matter where; if things come to the worst we can go back to B. When this Fernow is only out of sight, it will be an easy matter to keep our betrothed couple together, and until then–well in any event they can only sleep one single night under the same roof!"
With this consoling thought, Mr. Atkins closed the door, and returned to his chamber.
CHAPTER XX.
The Fateful Hour
The silence that ruled throughout the castle was in striking contrast to the merry, animated life of the afternoon. A light already burned in the major's chamber, the adjutant and another of the officers were there; the other gentlemen seemed to have withdrawn, for the large ante-room, which opened upon the terrace and usually served as the evening rendezvous, was quite solitary, except that for the moment Frederic was there trying to light a fire in the grate as a protection against the cool, evening air. He undertook this service very unwillingly, and with much grumbling against the castellan who had remained behind, but saw fit to shirk the duties he had been ordered to perform, and as usual, was nowhere to be found.
Frederic had at last succeeded in kindling the dry wood heaped up in the grate; the flames leaped forth merrily, and Frederic had just resigned himself to melancholy reflection over the worthlessness of French servants in general and the shortcoming of French stewards, in particular, when a light hand was laid upon his shoulder, and turning around he saw that Miss Forest stood close behind him.
"Has Lieutenant Fernow yet returned?" she asked.
"Yes," answered Frederic greatly surprised at the question; "ten minutes ago."
"Tell him that I wish to speak with him."
Frederic was still more surprised. "With my master?"
"Yes, I wish to speak with your master. Tell him that I await him here.–Hasten!"
An imperious wave of the hand accompanied the command, for command it was, and Frederic trudged away. Just as he was outside the door, it occurred to him that it was no longer fitting for him, one of the heroes of this glorious Prussian army, to be ordered around in this way by that American Miss; but it was with him as with Mr. Atkins; his will sank powerless before her imperious tone and glance; so, growling and muttering, but obedient, he went to his master's room on the required errand.
Jane had remained back alone in the large gloomy apartment which was only partially lighted by a chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Outside profound darkness already reigned; the moon had not yet risen, the winds sighed through the trees, and through the one open window floated the cold evening air. She shuddered involuntarily, and approaching the grate sank down into an arm-chair, whose richly carved back displayed an French coat of arms.
She was now just on the verge of certainty! All must become clear between them,–the next fifteen minutes would unveil the long buried secret! With what emotions Jane looked forward to his unveiling was known to her alone. The flames as they rose and fell lighted up a face upon which was now mirrored one only expression, firm, unyielding decision. "It must be!" With these words, Forest had taught his daughter to endure every conflict and to bear every sorrow; but in his lifetime she had known little of sorrow or conflict. Now the trial had come; but dumbly, without lamentation, she bowed to the iron law of necessity.
For one moment, that unexpected reunion had overpowered her; but it had been for only a moment, it was not in Jane's nature to recoil from any decisive step; she was no coward, and she would now have a certainty, even though that certainty was to prove her destruction. The features wrought to their fullest energy, the compressed lips, and the determined icy glance, at this moment, gave her a really frightful resemblance to her dead father. There was not a breath of weakness, of submission; all was hard, rigid, icy; these features said–"let come what will, it shall be borne!"
The door opened from the outside, and Fernow entered. He closed the door behind him, but remained standing close to the threshold.
"You wished to see me, Miss Forest!"
"I wished an interview with you, Lieutenant Fernow. Shall we be undisturbed here?"
"I hope so for the next fifteen minutes."
"Ah–I beg you to come nearer."
He approached her slowly, and paused at the fireplace, directly opposite her. Between them crackled and glistened the flames, their lurid reflection sharply lighting up both these forms. They alone were visible in the half-darkened room; visible also to him who was pacing up and down the terrace just outside.
"I was not prepared for this summons, Miss Forest. After our meeting in the village it seemed to me as if you wished to avoid every approach on my side. I followed your command; it is you now who have summoned me."
There lay perhaps some bitterness in these words, but Fernow's bitterness was seldom cutting or harmful. Jane recognized only a gentle, deeply painful reproach nothing more.
"My conduct may seem enigmatical to you Lieutenant Fernow," she said; "I owe you an explanation; but before I make it, I beg you to answer a few questions."
He nodded in silent assent.
"In the first place, will you tell me your given name?"
Of all questions, Fernow seemed least to have expected this. "My given name?"
"Yes."
"I am called Walter."
"Walter?" A deep breath of relief came involuntarily from Jane's breast. "Walter! I do not know that name."
"And why should you know it, Miss Forest?" he asked in evident surprise. "We were strangers until the moment you trod the soil of Germany."
"Perhaps so!" Her glance fastened itself gloomily upon the lurid flame-images which in endless transformations darted forth and fell back dissolved in nothingness; "and perhaps not! You told me once that you had been thrust out into life without parents and without a home; that you had fallen into the hands of a learned man who had led you also into the paths of science.–Was this learned man a clergyman?"
"Yes; but after a time he left his parish and his vocation to give himself entirely up to science."
Jane convulsively pressed her left hand against her breast. "And–his name?"
"Pastor Hartwig!"
A deep, momentous pause! The flames darted yet higher and threw their quivering light upon a deathly-pale, deathly-cold face; not a syllable came from her lips; she remained motionless in her place.
"Miss Forest, what does all this mean?" Walter's voice was low and anxious. "Why these strange questions? Did you know my foster-father? Were you in any way connected with him?"
At these last words, he had stepped nearer, and now stood close to her; Jane seemed not to have heard the question; she gave no answer.
"Johanna!"
A light shudder passed over her. This name! Only once before had she heard it from his lips, in that parting-hour, and it sounded like a melody out of the sweet, faraway days of her childhood. Her mother had once called her so, but only for a short space; the German name of his child had fallen a sacrifice to the rigid will of her father; it had been changed to the English, "Jane." Never since then, had she heard it again, and now as it came from his lips, it had such a soft, entreating tone–all her strength gave way before this one word.
Slowly she lifted her glance to him; it met his eyes, and for a moment, rested in them. Those blue eyes that with mournful tenderness hung upon her face–even now they exerted their mysterious power, a power which, at this moment, when all doubt must be solved, when the inevitable decision must be made, forced this proud, obstinate woman to forget the desire which had so long haunted her, to forget the momentous decision, which wrested her from all the conflict and torture of the few past hours, and with irresistible might, impelled her on into the dream he himself was dreaming at this moment.
She sat again by the willow-hedge where the first green buds of spring were opening, and he stood at her side. All around them brooded the fog, weaving its gray veil over tree and shrub; the rain-drops fell lightly upon the thirsty sod, strange whisperings and echoes thrilled the air, while above all, fell upon their ears the undulating murmurs of the distant Rhine. The present and the real dissolved in nothingness; she knew nothing, felt nothing, but that dumb, inexplicable anguish she had there experienced. She was willessly, powerlessly under the spell of these eyes.
They both started with a sudden tremor, affrighted at the same moment, by an unknown something.
The dream-picture dissolved with its swaying mists and its soft, tender reminiscences of the spring; they were again in that lofty, gloomy apartment of the gray stone castle; inside the fire blazed and crackled, outside, the autumn wind murmured through the trees; perhaps it was the wind that drove a bough against the window, and recalled them from this dream of remembrance. Jane was first to glance out in that direction, and Walter's eyes followed hers.
"We are observed!" she said softly.
"Hardly! But I will find out!"
He walked to the window, opened it wide and bent far out into the darkness, Jane had risen and leaned heavily against the back of the easy chair blazoned with its coat of arms. Now the most difficult thing was to come! He must learn that which to her was no longer a subject of doubt.
"I will see whether he is able to bear it." Perhaps only the voice of nature spoke in this tenderness; perhaps–there was a convulsive shudder at her heart–"he will smile at the discovery. Well, then, if he can bear it, I will not betray my weakness even though I should die at my brother's first kiss!"
Walter had closed the window, and now came back to her. "It is nothing," he said calmly. "Who could have interest enough in our affairs to watch us?" Jane knew already the way in which she had to go; she entered upon it with unfaltering step.
"Who? Mr. Alison!"
Walter started back and glanced at her in consternation.
"Mr. Alison? Your travelling companion?"
"Yes."
That deep glow, sudden and fiery, again mounted his face, until it covered forehead and temples.
"And he is not a stranger to you, this man? I thought it must be so the first moment I met him–Johanna–" his voice trembled in feverish excitement–"and what relation does Alison stand to you? What right has he over you?"
"I am his betrothed."
The flush vanished from his face, quickly as it had come, and a deep pallor look its place.
"His betrothed!" repeated he in a hollow voice.
"And do you love him?"
"No!"
"And still have you given him your promise–your future?"
There lay a bitter lament in this reproach. Jane's glance fell. "I have done so," she replied in a low voice.
"Then would to God we had never met!" said Walter despairingly.
Jane was silent for a moment "And why?" she asked at length almost inaudibly.
He stepped close to her, and his voice also fell to a low, but impassioned whisper.
"And do you ask? Need I tell you in words what you long since must have divined, or–is it I alone who will be wretched through your confession?"
Slowly Jane again turned her face to him; her voice sounded unnaturally calm, but her eyes were fixed upon his face with an unremitting, anxious inquiry, as if every fibre of his inner being must answer her.
"We need not make ourselves wretched on this account, we must not. Destiny has brought us together cruelly, perhaps, but if it denies us the highest happiness, it has not ordained our separation. Perhaps–" her glance sank deeper and deeper into his–"perhaps I can persuade my future husband to a long residence upon the Rhine. I know that a single word from my lips will make him approach you as a friend. You need not thrust back this hand! Walter. You will learn to control your emotions, you will learn to regard me as a friend as a–brother should–"
"Johanna!" interrupted he with a wild, passionate outcry. She was silent, but her eyes did not leave his face; it had now the same expression as upon that first meeting in N., as if the next moment would bring with it a decision for life or death.
"And you say this to me!" he broke out in uncontrollable anguish. "Must I hear it from your lips? Would you deride the enthusiast, the dreamer, in me, or do you yourself dream of a tie of ideal friendship, where love becomes sacrilege? Do not deceive yourself! Between spirits such a tie may be possible, but not between hearts; there it could spring only from coldness or from crime. Once in the solitude of my study, shut out from all the world, I too indulged in just such sickly fancies; then came this love to you, impelling me out into active life, into earnest, glowing reality. And this life and this reality now demand their right; I must either possess you or lose you eternally! No third person can come between us."
It was the deep, ardent tone of passion, a passion that thrilled his whole being, that palpitated through every word he uttered, and before this onrushing tide of emotion, fell the last prop to which Jane had clung. But all at once, she stood erect and without support. Right through the certainty of her infinite misfortune, broke a feeling that was mightier even than despair. His words only echoes the sentiment of her own soul; she was beloved even as she herself loved.
She heaved a sigh, "You are right, Walter!" she said. "In our case love becomes sacrilege; I see it now! Between us two there can henceforth be but one command–separation!"
He shuddered at the words. "And can you speak this so calmly! and do you think I shall yield to it without having sought the utmost? Johanna, no sacred oath binds you; a promise can be dissolved, a word can be taken back–are your vows irrevocable?"
"They are!"
"Reflect"–his voice trembled in anguished entreaty–"this concerns the happiness of my whole life and yours also! You can save us both by one only decision. Can you not rend the tie which binds you to this Alison?"
Here with a violent noise the door was burst open, and Frederic's powerful voice was heard.
"Herr Lieutenant, the major begs you to come to him this instant!"
Walter turned around. "What is it!" he asked bewildered. "Where am I to go?"
"To the Herr Major; all the officers are gathered there."
"Very well, I will come."
The door closed again, and Frederic's heavy receding step was heard. Yet once more Walter turned back to Jane; his face was pale as death, but a wild unrest glowed in his eyes.
"You hear; I must go! We are in the midst of war, the next hour, the next moment may rend us asunder. Johanna, I ask you for the last time, can you, will you not be mine?"
"Never, Walter! Even though Alison set me free, and every other barrier fell–never!"
"Then farewell!" he sobbed despairingly, and stretched out his arms, as if he would clasp her to his breast; but with a trembling movement Jane recoiled from him, and raised her hand with a repelling gesture. For a moment he stood as if petrified before her; then he bowed low and distantly.
"You are right, Miss Forest–farewell!"
He was gone, and Jane remained alone–alone with this stony burden on her breast, for the final veil had not been lifted, the final word not spoken. It had pressed violently to her lips, but a strange might had held it back, the fear of seeing him suffer still more, than through her mere no. She who usually spared none, because she was always pitiless against herself, trembled now before a strange sorrow. For the first time the hard "it must be!" of her father lost its power; for the first time she felt that she could not yield to an inevitable necessity. She had firmly faced all conflicts and tortures; but when, as it now happened, she must also deliver him to this struggle, the woman in her rose in all its anxiety, all its timidity, she shrank back trembling and cowardly before the decisive word–for his sake.
To-morrow! Until then, he must school himself to familiarity with the loss; he would then more easily bear the "why." Now it had crushed him utterly.–And Jane's powers of endurance were also at an end. She broke out into a low sobbing; but amid the sobs she moaned softly. "I should have died if he could have borne it!"