Part 43 (1/2)
”Oh, no one will take any notice, and there is plenty of time before dinner. Take a walk with me in the park; it is not so warm as it was.”
”I cannot, my child; I have a letter to write.”
”As you please;” and she adds, in an undertone, ”You are changed towards me.”
Before he can reply, she is gone.
The path along which she has disappeared is flecked with crimson,--the petals of the rose that she had worn in her girdle.
Lato feels as if rudely awakened from unconsciousness. He walks unsteadily, and covers his eyes with his hand as if dazzled by even the tempered light of the afternoon. The terrible bliss for which he longs, of which he is afraid, seems so near that he has but to reach out his hand and grasp it. He stamps his foot in horror of himself. What! a pure young girl! his wife's relative! The very thought is impossible!
He is tormented by the feverish fancies of overwrought nerves. He shakes himself as if to be rid of a burden, then turns and walks rapidly along a path leading in an opposite direction from where the scattered rose-leaves are lying on the ground.
As he pa.s.ses on with eyes downcast, he almost runs against the Pole.
The glances of the two men meet; involuntarily Lato averts his from Fainacky's face, and as he does so he is conscious of a slight embarra.s.sment, which the other takes a malicious delight in noticing.
”Aha!” he begins; ”your long interview with the fair Olga seems to have had a less agreeable effect upon your mood than I had antic.i.p.ated.”
Such a remark would usually have called forth from Lato a sharp rejoinder; to-day he would fain choose his words, to excuse himself, as it were.
”She was much agitated,” he murmurs. ”I had some trouble in soothing her. She--she is nervous and sensitive; her position in my mother-in-law's household is not a very pleasant one.”
”Well, you certainly do your best to improve it,” Fainacky says, hypocritically.
”And you to make it impossible!” Lato exclaims, angrily.
”Did the fair Olga complain of me, then?” drawls the other.
”There was no need that she should,” Treurenberg goes on to say. ”Do you suppose that I need anything more than eyes in my head to see how you follow her about and stare at her?”
Fainacky gives him a lowering look, and then laughs softly.
”Well, yes, I confess, I have paid her some attention; she pleases me.
Yes, yes, I do not deny my sensibility to female charms. I never played the saint!”
”Indeed! At least you seem to have made an effort to-day to justify your importunity,” Treurenberg rejoins, filled with contempt for the simpering specimen of humanity before him. ”You have offered her your hand.”
Scarcely have the words left his lips when Treurenberg is conscious that he has committed a folly in thus irritating the man.
Fainacky turns pale to the lips, and his expression is one of intense malice.
”It is true,” he says, ”that I so far forgot myself for a moment as to offer your youthful _protge_ my hand. Good heavens! I am not the first man of rank who, in a moment of enthusiasm and to soothe the irritated nerves of a shy beauty, has offered to marry a girl of low extraction. The obstacle, however, which bars my way to her heart appears to be of so serious a nature that I shall make no attempt to remove it.”
He utters the words with a provoking smile and most malicious emphasis.
”To what obstacle do you refer?” Lato exclaims, in increasing anger.