Part 19 (1/2)
”The unwillingness is mutual. I have not the least desire to know anything of him,” she says, with emphasis.
”Ah!--indeed!” he says, with a lowering glance from beneath his s.h.a.ggy eyebrows. ”Shall I tell him so, from you?”
”If you choose!” she replies. Suddenly an idea strikes her; she observes him in her turn more keenly than hitherto, his face, his figure, his hands, tanned and neglected, but slender and shapely, with almond-shaped nails. There is something familiar in his features.
Is he really the brewer Studnecka, the fool? And if no fool, who can it be that ventures thus to address her? Something thrills her entire frame. A portrait recurs to her memory,--a portrait of the elder Leskjewitsch, which, since the family embroilment, has hung in the lumber-room at Zirkow. There is not a doubt that this crazy old creature is her grandfather.
He sees that she has recognized him.
Her bearing has suddenly become haughty and repellent. She adjusts her large straw hat, which has been hanging at the back of her neck.
”Then I am to tell him from you that you do not wish to have anything to do with him?” the old man asks again.
”Yes.” Her voice is hard and dull.
”And besides,” he asks, ”have you nothing else to say to him?” He looks at her as if to read her soul.
She returns his look with eyes in whose brown depths the tears so lately shed are still glistening. She knows that she is putting the knife to her own throat, but what matters it? The gathered bitterness of years overflows her heart and rises to her lips.
”And besides,”--she speaks slowly and provokingly,--”besides, I should like to tell him that I consider his conduct cold-hearted, petty, and childish; that after he has tormented to death two people, my father and my mother, he might, in his old age, attempt by love and kindness to make some amends for his wickedness, instead of going on weaving fresh misery out of his wretched hatred and obstinacy, and--that never whilst I live will I make one advance towards him!” She bows slightly, turns, and leaves him. He looks after her graceful figure as it slowly makes its way among the underbrush and is finally lost to sight.
”A splendid creature! What a carriage! what a figure! and what a bewitching face! No wonder she has turned the brain of that silly lad at Komaritz. He knows what's what. The child shows race,” he mutters; ”she's a genuine Leskjewitsch. All Fritz.--Poor Fritz!”
The old man pa.s.ses his hand across his forehead, and then gazes after her once more. Is that her blue dress glimmering among the trees? No, it is a bit of sky. She has vanished.
Zdena manages to slip up to her own room un.o.bserved when she reaches Zirkow. She makes her first appearance at table, her hair charmingly arranged, dressed as carefully as usual, talkative, gay. The most acute observer would hardly suspect that a few hours previously she had all but cried her eyes out.
”And did you bring us the piece of news from Dobrotschau?” asks Frau Rosamunda during the soup, which Zdena leaves untasted.
”Oh, yes. And most extraordinary it is,” she replies. ”Paula Harfink is betrothed.”
”To whom?”
”To Harry,” says Zdena, without the quiver of an eyelash, calmly breaking her bread in two as she speaks.
”To Harry? Impossible!” shouts the major.
”Not at all,” Zdena declares, with a smile. ”I saw him with her. She already calls him by his first name.”
”I do not understand the world nowadays,” growls the old soldier, adding, under his breath, ”That d--d driving about in the moonlight!”
Frau von Leskjewitsch and her cousin Wenkendorf content themselves during the remainder of the meal with discussing the annoying consequences for the family from such a connection, partaking, meanwhile, very comfortably of the excellent dinner. The major glances continually at his niece. It troubles him to see her smile so perpetually. Is it possible that she is not taking the matter more seriously to heart?
After dinner, when Frau von Leskjewitsch has carried her cousin off to the greenhouse to show him her now gloxinias, the major chances to go into the drawing-room, which he supposes empty. It is not so. In the embrasure of a window stands a figure, motionless as a statue,--quite unaware of the approach of any one. The major's heart suffers a sharp pang at sight of that lovely, tender profile, the features drawn and pinched with suppressed anguish. He would like to go up to his darling,--to take her in his arms. But he does not dare to do so. How can one bestow caresses upon a creature sore and crushed in every limb?
He leaves the room on tiptoe, as one leaves the room of an invalid who must not be disturbed.
”G.o.d have mercy on the poor child!” he murmurs.
CHAPTER X.