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SUCCESS

AND HOW HE WON IT

SUCCESS

AND HOW HE WON IT

FROM THE GERMAN OF E. WERNER

BY

CHRISTINA TYRRELL

LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST.
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1892

All rights reserved.

SUCCESS.

CHAPTER I.

It was growing late in the afternoon, yet the principal church of the capital was still densely filled. From the numbers present, the beautiful floral decorations of the altar, and the long line of handsome equipages waiting without, it was evident that the ceremony about to be celebrated had awakened interest and sympathy far and wide.

As usual on such occasions, when the sacredness of the place forbids any distinct utterance of curiosity, or other feeling, the spectators found vent for the restlessness of expectation by whispering, and the gathering together of heads in little groups, and by an eager attention to all that was going on in the neighbourhood of the vestry. A general exclamation of satisfaction was heard when its doors opened, and, as the first tones of the organ pealed forth, the wedding party appeared.

A numerous and brilliant company thronged round the bridal pair at the altar. Rich uniforms, heavy velvet and satin dresses, airy fabrics of lace, flowers and diamonds waved and rustled confusedly in a truly dazzling splendour. The aristocracy of birth, and the aristocracy of finance, represented each by its most distinguished members, had met, as it seemed, to enhance the prestige of the marriage ceremony.

To the right of the bride, first among the guests, stood a tall and stately officer, whose uniform and various orders bore witness to a long military career. His bearing was simple and dignified, suited to the solemnity of the occasion, and yet it seemed as though, behind the set gravity of the features, there lurked a something at variance with so joyful an event. His look was singularly gloomy as it rested on the young couple, and, when he turned from them and glanced through the crowded church, an expression of suppressed pain, or anger, passed over the proud face, and the firmly-closed lips trembled slightly.

Opposite him, and next to the bridegroom, stood a gentleman in plain clothes, also advanced in years, and also, as it appeared, closely related to the young people; but neither his lavish display of brilliants in watch, rings and pin, nor the extreme self-importance of his bearing, could procure for him a shade of that distinction which his opposite neighbour possessed in so eminent a degree. His whole appearance was decidedly ordinary, not to say vulgar, and even the unconcealed triumph now illumining his countenance could set no other impress on it.

The triumph was, indeed, great with which he gazed on the bridal pair, and he looked down the aisle on the closely-packed rows of chairs and on all the bright assembly, with the satisfaction of one, who, after long striving, sees and welcomes the fulfilment of his aims and hopes; clearly, no shadow troubled his gladness at the event now to be solemnised.

But of all present, these two men alone appeared to take a deep interest in what was passing; least of all were the principal actors moved. The most unsympathising of the guests, the greatest stranger, could hardly have shown a more complete indifference to the solemn act about to be performed than these two, who, in a few minutes, would be for ever united.

The bride was about nineteen, and of undeniable beauty, but around her there seemed to reign a sort of icy chill, which ill became the hour and the place. The light from the altar-candles played on the thick folds of her white satin dress, shone in the diamonds of her costly ornaments; but it fell on a face which, with the beauty of marble, seemed for the time being at least--a time when the most frigid calm might naturally yield and kindle--to have acquired also a statue-like coldness and fixity.

The flaxen hue of the heavy tresses, on which her myrtle wreath rested, contrasted strangely with the well-marked eyebrows, and dark, almost black eyes, uplifted to the priest but once or twice during the entire ceremony. The pale, regular features, shaded on either side by her flowing veil, bore that distinctive mark of breeding which birth, and birth alone, can give. Indeed this high-bred air was the chief characteristic of her appearance; it showed itself not only in her delicate and noble features, but was so plainly stamped on her carriage and entire being, that all other qualities, some, perhaps, striking even deeper root, were by it overshadowed and held in the background.

A young lady fitted only, it would seem, for the higher spheres of life, never to be brought in contact with those possible men and things which, perchance, may exist in its lower phases. Yet, in spite of all this, something in the dark eyes betrayed more energy and character than are usually found in a lady of fashion, and possibly the present hour was one to call such energy and such strength of nature to the front. As the ceremony proceeded, the gentleman in uniform to her right, and three younger officers who stood behind him, gazed, ever more intently, ever more anxiously, at her face; it remained, however, calm and impassible as it had been from the first.

The bridegroom at her side was a young man of about eight-and-twenty, one of those not very uncommon individuals who seem expressly created for the gilded surroundings of a salon, who there alone find their significance, obtain their triumphs and pass their lives. Blamelessly correct in mien and toilette, his whole being seemed to denote the extremity of languor. His features, fine and agreeable in themselves, bore an expression of apathy so complete, of so boundless an indifference to all and everything, that they lost their charm for the observer. He had led his bride to the altar with the air of a man leading a lady to the place destined for her in any ordinary assembly, and he now stood by her, and held her hand, in precisely the same apathetic fashion. Neither the importance of the step he was about to take, nor the beauty of the woman he was there to wed, seemed to make the slightest impression on him.

The priest's discourse came to an end and he proceeded to the actual marriage service. Loud and clear his voice rang through the church, as he asked Arthur Berkow and the Baroness Eugénie Maria Anna von Windeg-Babenau if they consented to take each other for man and wife.

Again the officer's face twitched nervously, and he darted a look almost of hatred across to the other side. Next minute the double "yes" was spoken, and one of the oldest, proudest of aristocratic names had been exchanged for the simple, plebeian Berkow.

Hardly was the service over and the last word of the concluding benediction uttered, when the gentleman wearing the handsome brilliants pressed hastily forwards, evidently intending to embrace the newly-married lady with much ostentation. Before, however, he could carry out his project, the officer stepped between them; quickly, as though claiming an indisputable right to be first, he took the young bride in his arms; but the lips which touched her forehead were cold, and his face, as he bent over her, remained hidden a few seconds from all around. When he raised it, his expression had changed to one of calm and quiet dignity.

"Courage, father, it had to be!"

These words, intelligible to him alone, were breathed so low as to be barely audible, but they gave him back his self-command. Again he pressed his daughter to him with a wistful tenderness, which had in it something like a prayer for pardon. Then he left her free, giving her over to the now inevitable embrace of the other, who had waited with visible impatience, and would no longer be deprived of his right to salute "his dear daughter-in-law."

She certainly made no attempt to withdraw herself from him, for the eyes of the whole church were upon her. Standing motionless, with no shade of disturbance on her beautiful face, she only raised her eyes to him; but in her look there was a haughtiness so unapproachable, so icy a repulse of that which could not be openly refused, that she made herself understood even here.

Somewhat disconcerted, her father-in-law changed his vehement demonstration of affection to an attitude of respectful politeness, and the embrace, which immediately followed, was in reality little more than a form, his arms touching nothing more substantial than the flowing drapery of her bridal veil. The new relation's assurance, though certainly far from small, had yet not held its ground before that glance.

Young Berkow made things easier for his father-in-law. Something passed between them which looked like shaking hands, but, in truth, his white kid gloves hardly came into contact with those of the Baron. It seemed, however, fully to suffice them both; he then offered his arm to his young wife and led her away. The bride's satin train rustled over the marble steps and down the aisle as the two passed out, followed by the guests in gay procession. Shortly afterwards the carriages outside were heard to drive away one by one.

The church was soon emptied. Some pressed to the doors to see the departing visitors once more; some hastened out to give vent to all their important observations and reflections with regard to the toilette, bearing and appearance of the young couple and those nearly connected with them. In less than ten minutes the vast place was empty and deserted; only the evening glow shone through the tall windows and flooded the altar and great altar-piece with its crimson light, so that the figures on the old golden background seemed quickened into life.

Fanned by a current of air, the candles flared unsteadily, and the flowers, lying crushed and trampled under foot on the ground, where they had been so prodigally strewn, breathed forth their dying odours. What better end could the poor flowers serve amid such a blaze of jewels, on so high a festival as this, when the daughter of an old baronial house had been given in marriage to the son of the city millionaire?

The carriages had already reached the Windeg mansion, and life and movement were beginning to circulate through the gaily lighted rooms. In the principal salon, radiantly illuminated by countless wax-lights, the young bride stood leaning on her husband's arm, cold, beautiful and haughty, as she had stood at the altar an hour before, and received the congratulations of the eager friends pressing round her with their good wishes.

Had she really set the seal on her own happiness by that "yes" she had so lately spoken?--the dark shadow still resting on her father's brow might perhaps have given the fitting answer.

CHAPTER II.

"Well, thank Heaven, we are in order at last! but it was high time, for they may be here in another quarter of an hour. I have given the people up on the hill full instructions; as soon as the carriage is visible on the heights, the first salute is to be given."

"Why, my dear Director, you are all fire and excitement to-day!"

"Keep some of your strength for the important moment of the reception."

"Indeed, your present position as Master of the Ceremonies and Lord High Chamberlain" ...

"Spare your pleasantries, gentlemen!" said the Director with some vexation in his tone. "I wish one of you had been honoured with this confounded post. I have had enough of it!"

The entire staff of officials connected with the great Berkow mines was assembled in full dress at the foot of the terrace running before the château. Built in the style of an elegant and modern villa with a handsome façade, great plate-glass windows and a fine entrance, the house produced a striking effect, which was still further heightened by the tasteful gardens surrounding it on all sides, and looking specially beautiful to-day in their fête-like dress.

The conservatories had evidently been stripped of their richest treasures for the decoration of the steps, balconies and terraces. The rarest and most precious plants, so seldom brought in contact with the outer air, unfolded here their wealth of colour, and perfumed the air with their sweet scents. On the broad lawns stood fountains, throwing high into the air their sparkling waters, and round them, most carefully cultivated, bloomed all the native beauties of spring in her first awakening. At the chief entrance a lofty triumphal arch was reared, all decked with flags and garlands, and the great gates, thrown wide open, were also twined with flowers.

"I have had enough of it!" repeated the Director, stepping up to the other gentlemen. "Herr Berkow demands the most brilliant reception possible, and thinks he has done everything when he gives us unlimited credit. As to the good-will of the people, he never takes that into account. Well and good, if we had the working men of twenty years ago to deal with! When, for once in a way, there came an off-day then, any kind of a holiday with a dance in the evening, one need never be anxious about the way they would cheer; but now--what with passive indifference on the one hand, and open hostility on the other, they were very near refusing to give any reception at all to their young master and his bride. If you go back to town to-morrow, Herr Schäffer, it would do no harm, in your report of our festive doings, to let a hint drop of the state of things. It seems they either do not, or will not, know of it there."

"That I certainly shall not!" returned the other. "Do you care to listen to our respected governor's very polite language when he has to hear of anything unpleasant? As for me, I prefer at such times to retire to the greatest possible distance from his august person."

The others laughed; it hardly seemed as though the absent master were held in much veneration among them.

"So he really has brought about the grand marriage," began the chief engineer. "He has given himself trouble enough about it. It will be some compensation for that patent of nobility which has been hitherto so persistently denied him, and for which, above all else, his soul yearns. He has, at least, the triumph of seeing that the noble old houses feel no prejudice against him as a plain commoner. The Windegs are willing to ally themselves with him."

Herr Schäffer shrugged his shoulders. "They had no choice left. The embarrassed state of the family affairs is no secret in the city. I doubt if it has been an easy thing to the proud Baron to give up his daughter on such a speculation. The Windegs have always been, not only among the oldest, but also among the haughtiest of the aristocracy; but even pride must bend to a bitter necessity."

"One thing is certain, this grand connection will cost us a famous sum of money," said the Director. "The Baron is sure to have made his conditions. Besides, I really do not see the object of all these sacrifices. I could understand it, if they were made with a view to buying rank and a title for a daughter, but Herr Arthur will be just as plebeian as before, in spite of his wife's ancient lineage."

"Do you think so? I would wager not. They will grant to the husband of a Baroness Windeg-Babenau, to the Baron's son-in-law, all that his father has striven for in vain; and, as for the latter, in his daughter-in-law's salon, nothing can hinder him from meeting all the people who have hitherto held him at a respectful distance. Don't tell me! The governor knows well enough what this marriage will bring him in, and so he can afford to pay something for the cost of it."

One of the officials, a fair young man with a tight-fitting dress-coat and irreproachable gloves, here thought fit to put in an observation.

"For my part, I don't understand why the newly-married pair should make their wedding trip to our solitudes, and not rather to the land of poetry, to Italy" ....

The chief-engineer laughed out loud.

"What an idea, Wilberg! Poetry in a match like this, between money and a title! Besides, wedding tours to Italy have become so general that they probably appear vulgar to Herr Berkow. At such times the aristocracy retire to their estates, and we must be aristocratic before everything."

"I fear there is another and a deeper reason," said the Director. "They suspect that the young fellow would continue in Rome, or Naples, the same sort of life he has led in the capital for the last few years, and it is high time to put an end to it. His expenditure latterly might be reckoned by tens of thousands! Most springs may be exhausted, and Herr Arthur was in the right way for trying this little experiment on his father."

Schäffer's thin lips curled sarcastically.

"His father has always encouraged him in it; he only reaps what he has sown! Perhaps you are right It will be easier for him to get used to the yoke up here in these wilds, and to learn to obey his wife. I am only afraid she may not fulfil her mission with much enthusiasm. It certainly is not a very enviable one."

"Do you think she has been forced to marry him?" asked Wilberg eagerly.

"Nonsense--forced! the thing is not done in a tragic way now-a-days. She has simply yielded to reasonable advice, and to a clear insight into the position of affairs. I have no doubt this marriage of convenience will turn out tolerably well. They do mostly."

The fair Herr Wilberg, who clearly had a leaning to the tragical, shook his head with a melancholy air.

"It may be--not! If, in the heart of the young wife, true love should awake later, if another .... Good heavens, Hartmann! cannot you lead your men farther off. You are covering us with a perfect cloud of dust, you and your regiment!"

The young miner, to whom these words were addressed, and who was passing at the head of about fifty of his comrades, gave a contemptuous glance at the carefully appointed dress of the speaker, and another at the sandy carriage-road, where the miners' heavy shoes certainly had raised some dust.

"Right about face!" he cried, and the column wheeled round with almost military precision, taking the direction indicated.

"What a bear that Hartmann is!" said Wilberg, fanning the dust from his coat with his handkerchief. "Not a word of excuse for his awkwardness! 'Right about face!' in a tone of command, like a general at the head of his troops. And then he takes so much upon himself! If his father had not put in his word, he would have forbidden the girl Martha to recite my poem composed for the bride's reception, my poem--which I" ....

"Have already read aloud to everybody," finished the chief-engineer in an undertone to the Director. "If only it were a little shorter! but he is right; it was audacious of Hartmann to wish to forbid it. You should not have posted him and his people just on this spot; there is no sort of welcome to be looked for from them. They are the most rebellious fellows on the whole works."

The Director shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, but then they are the finest men. I have stationed all the others in the village and on the road, the élite of our people ought to be at the chief entrance, the post of honour. On an occasion like this, one wishes to make a show of one's belongings."

The young miner, who was thus being discussed, had, in the meantime, stationed his comrades round the triumphal arch and placed himself at their head. The Director was right; they were fine fellows, but they were all surpassed by their leader, who towered high above them. He had a powerful, well-knit frame, this Hartmann, and he looked to full advantage in his dark miner's dress. His face would hardly have been called handsome, if judged by the strict laws of symmetry. The brow might have seemed too low, the lips too full, the lines not noble enough; but those sharply-cut and well-marked features were certainly no ordinary ones.

The light curly hair lay thick on the broad massive forehead, and a wavy brown beard encircled the lower part of the face, the manly bronze of which did not betray that it was so often deprived of air and sunshine. His parted lips had a defiant look, and in the rather sombre expression of his blue eyes lay a something which can hardly be defined, but which impressed itself at once on ordinary minds, and was respected by them, as the sure token of a superior mind. His whole appearance was that of energy incarnate, and however little sympathy his stiff, unbending bearing might excite, it yet commanded attention at the first glance.

An older man who, although wearing the miner's dress, did not appear to belong to the working-men, drew near now, accompanied by a young girl, and came close up to the group.

"Good day to you. Here we are ready to take our part. How do things go, Ulric? Are you all in order?"

Ulric assented shortly, while the others returned the old man's greeting with a hearty, "Good day, Manager Hartmann!" and the looks of most of them turned on his young companion.

The girl was about twenty and very comely. She wore the holiday costume peculiar to the locality, and it became her well. Rather below the middle height, her head hardly reached to the gigantic Hartmann's shoulder; her fresh young face, with its blooming cheeks and clear blue eyes, a little sunburnt and crowned with thick dark plaits, had strength in it as well as attractiveness. She had made a movement, as if to offer her hand to the young man, but he stood with his arms folded, and she let it fall quickly. The Manager noticed this, and looked sharply at them both.

"We are out of humour because we could not have our own way for once?" he asked. "Never mind, Ulric, it does not happen often, but when you push matters too far, your father must speak a word of authority."

"If I had anything to say about Martha, I should certainly have spoken out pretty plainly," declared Ulric decidedly, and a dark look fell upon the splendid bouquet in the girl's hand, which certainly owed its origin to a hothouse.

"I believe you," said the old man equably; "it would be exactly like you. For the present, however, she is my niece and has to conform to my wishes. But what is the matter with your arch up there? The great flag-staff is drooping; you must bind it up more firmly, or the whole concern will be tumbling down, wreaths and all."

Ulric, to whom this warning was specially addressed, looked up indifferently at the wreaths in danger, but made no attempt to come to their rescue.

"Don't you hear?" repeated his father impatiently.

"I thought I was hired to work in the mine, and not here at a triumphal arch. Is not it enough that we should have to mount guard in this place? Let those who built the thing set it to rights again."

"Can't you forget the old tune for one day?" cried the old man angrily. "Well then, one of you go up and see to it."

The miners all looked at Ulric, waiting for a sign of assent from him. As none came, they did not stir; one man only made a move, as though he would respond to the summons; the young leader turned silently and looked at him. It was but a single glance from the imperious blue eyes, but it had the effect of command. The man stepped back at once, and no other hand was raised to help.

"I wish it would fall on your obstinate heads," cried the Manager hotly, as he mounted with quite youthful activity and tied up the flag-staff himself. "Perhaps that would teach you how to behave on such a day as this. You have spoilt Lawrence already amongst you; he used to be worth something, but now he only does what his lord and master Ulric directs."

"Ought we to be so overjoyed that a new set of fine masters is coming?" said Ulric in a low tone. "I should have thought we had had enough of the old!"

The Manager, still busy with the flag, luckily did not hear this speech; but the young girl, who had stood silent on one side, turned hastily and cast an anxious look upwards.

"Ulric, for my sake!"

At this injunction the defiant young miner held his peace, but his features did not soften by a shade. The girl remained standing before him; she seemed to hesitate, having something to say and not liking to say it. At last she spoke in a low tone, half questioning, half entreating.

"So you really will not come to the fête this evening?"

"No."

"Ulric!" ...

"Let me be, Martha, you know I can't bear your dancing nonsense."

Martha stepped back quickly, her red lips pouting, and a glistening tear in her eyes which sprang even more from anger than from wounded feeling at his unfriendly reply. Ulric either did not notice it, or did not care; indeed, he seemed to trouble himself but little about her. Without wasting another word, the girl turned her back on him, and crossed over to the other side.

The eyes of the young fellow, who just before had been willing to help with the flag, followed her intently. Evidently he would have given much that the invitation should have been addressed to him. He, assuredly, would not have rejected it so cavalierly.

In the meantime, the Manager had come down, and was reviewing his work with much satisfaction, when the first volley burst forth from the hill opposite, followed, at short intervals, by another and another. As was natural, these signs that the expected visitors were approaching at last, produced some excitement. The gentlemen assembled out yonder became suddenly animated.

The Director hurriedly inspected all the preparations for the last time; the chief-engineer and Herr Schäffer buttoned their gloves, and Wilberg rushed over to Martha, probably to ask, for the twentieth time, whether she were sure she knew his verses, and would not endanger his triumph as a poet by inopportune shyness. Even the miners betrayed some interest in the young and, as it was said, beautiful bride of their future master. More than one drew in his belt, and pressed his hat more firmly on his head. Ulric alone stood quite unmoved, erect and disdainful as before, and did not even cast a glance over at the other side.

But the reception, prepared with so much thought and care, was to turn out differently from what had been hoped and expected. A cry of horror from the Manager, who was now standing outside the great arch, drew all eyes in that direction, and what they saw was certainly terrible enough.

CHAPTER III.

Down the steep road which led from the village, came, or rather flew, a carriage, the horses of which, startled probably by the salutes fired, had shaken off all control, and were careering wildly down the hill. The carriage rocked to and fro on the uneven ground, and was in imminent danger, either of being thrown down the precipitous incline to the right, or of being dashed to pieces against the great trees which bordered the road on the other side. The coachman seemed to have lost all presence of mind. He had let fall the reins, and was clinging desperately to his seat, while from the hill behind, the gunners, prevented by the trees from seeing the accident they had brought about, crashed forth report after report, spurring the terrified animals on and on in their mad course. What the fearful issue must be, was only too plainly visible. At the bridge below a catastrophe would be inevitable.

The people assembled before the house did what crowds mostly do on such occasions. They screamed, ran helplessly hither and thither, but it occurred to no one to give that practical help which was so urgently needed. In that moment upon which everything depended, not one, even among the miners, had the courage, or the quick wit, to rush forwards. Yes, there was a single exception, one man who preserved his self-possession! To take in the whole danger at a glance, to thrust aside his father and comrades, and to spring out from among them, was for Ulric the work of an instant.

In three bounds he had reached the bridge; a scream of horror from Martha rang out after him--too late! He had already thrown himself before the horses and had grasped the reins. High in the air reared the affrighted creatures, but instead of stopping, they set out with fresh fury, dragging him along with them. Any other man must have been thrown to the ground and trampled under foot, but Ulric, by his giant strength, succeeded, at last, in getting the mastery. A tremendous pull at the reins, on which he had never slackened his hold, made one of the horses stagger and lose its footing. It fell, and in its fall, dragged the other down with it. The carriage stopped.

Ulric went up to the door, confidently expecting to find its occupants, or at least the lady, in a swoon. According to his notions, that was the usual condition of fine ladies and gentlemen who found themselves exposed to any danger; but here, when, if ever, a fainting-fit might have been justifiable, there was absolutely nothing of the sort. The lady stood upright in the carriage, holding to the back seat with both hands, her eyes, fixed and dilated, still intent on the chasm before her, where the journey would, probably, next minute have come to a frightful end; but no sound, no cry of alarm, escaped her firmly closed lips. Ready, if it came to the worst, to risk springing out, an attempt which, however, would certainly have proved fatal, she had looked death in the face silently and without shrinking, with how thorough a sense of the peril incurred, her countenance showed.

Ulric seized her quickly and lifted her out, for the horses struggling on the ground, and striving wildly to free themselves, were still dangerous. It only took a few seconds to carry her over the bridge; but, during these few seconds, the dark eyes were fixed steadfastly on the man who, with such disregard of his own life, had almost thrown himself under her horses' feet. Perhaps it was all too unusual a sensation for the young miner to bear in his arms a burden clothed in silken sheen, to feel waving round him, fluttering over his shoulder, a gauzy white veil, for as his eyes rested on the beautiful pale face which had made so brave a stand in the moment of danger, a bewildered look passed over his features, and he set down his charge hastily almost roughly, in a place of security.

Eugénie still trembled slightly, and she drew a long breath of relief, but there was no other sign of the terrible alarm she must have undergone.

"I--I thank you. Pray look to Herr Berkow!"

Ulric, already turning to leave her, stopped with a shock of surprise. "Look to Herr Berkow," the young wife had said, at a time when most women would have called in anguish on their husband's name, and she had said it quite coolly and quietly. A dim notion of that which the gentlemen on the terrace had so freely discussed, dawned on the young man as he turned and went to look after "Herr Berkow."

This time there was, however, no need of his assistance. Arthur Berkow had got out of the carriage and crossed the bridge alone. The passive indifference of his nature had not belied itself during this critical time. When the danger had come upon them so unexpectedly, and his wife moved, as if about to spring out, he had laid his hand on her arm, and said in a low tone:

"Sit still, Eugénie; you are lost if you attempt to jump."

Then no further word was spoken. While Eugénie stood erect in the carriage, looking out for help, and resolved, at the last moment, to risk a spring, Arthur remained motionless in his place; as they neared the bridge, he just passed his hand over his eyes, and he would probably have allowed himself to be dashed to pieces with the carriage, if assistance had not been forthcoming at that decisive moment.

He now stood near the parapet of the bridge, perhaps a thought paler than usual, but perfectly steady, and without a trace of emotion; whether he had felt none, or whether he had already mastered it, Ulric was forced to confess to himself that such equanimity was, at least, something out of the common. The young heir had a moment ago looked Death full in the face, and now he stood, calmly scrutinising, as some curious phenomenon, the man whose energy had rescued him from mortal peril.

That help, which was no longer needed, poured in now on all sides. Twenty hands were busy raising the horses and helping down the coachman, still half stupefied with fright. The entire swarm of officials pressed round the young couple, giving utterance to their regrets, their sympathy, their profound sorrow. They fairly exhausted themselves with questions and offers of assistance, wondering how the accident could possibly have happened, ascribing it alternately to the report of the guns, to the driver and to the horses. Arthur stood a few minutes passive, and let the stream flow over him. Then he stayed it with a gesture.

"Enough, gentlemen, pray! You see we are both unhurt. Let us now go on to the house."

He offered his arm to his wife to lead her away, but Eugénie stood still and looked around.

"And our deliverer? I hope he has not been injured?"

"Ah yes, true!" said the Director, somewhat ashamed. "We had nearly forgotten that. It was Hartmann who stopped the horses. Hartmann, where are you?"

There was no answer to his call, but Wilberg, who, in his admiration for the romantic deed, quite forgot his old grudge against the doer, cried eagerly:

"He is standing out there yonder!" and rushed across to the young miner.

When the gentlemen had hastened up, Ulric had at once retreated, and he was now standing with his back turned to them, and leaning against a tree.

"Hartmann, you must come.... Good heavens! what is the matter with you? Where does all this blood come from?"

Ulric was visibly struggling against an attack of faintness, yet his face flushed angrily as the other made an attempt to support him. Indignant that he should be thought capable of such weakness, he raised himself hastily, and pressed his clenched hand still more firmly to his bleeding forehead.

"It is nothing--nothing but a scratch. If I had only a handkerchief!"

Wilberg was about to produce his, when suddenly a silk dress rustled close by him. Young Lady Berkow stood by his side, and, without speaking, held out her own little one, trimmed with costly lace.

The Baroness Windeg could never have been called upon to offer practical help to a wounded man, or she would have said to herself that this tiny embroidered morsel of cambric was ill-qualified to stanch such a stream of blood as now poured forth, the thick masses of light hair having, for a time, impeded the flow. Ulric must have known better how useless it was, yet he stretched out his hand for the proffered help.

"Thanks, my lady, but that will not serve us much," said the Manager, who had come up, and now laid his arm round his son's shoulder. "Keep still, Ulric!" and he drew out his own strong linen handkerchief, and applied it to what appeared to be a deep wound in the head.

"Is it dangerous?" languidly asked Arthur Berkow, coming over to the spot accompanied by the other gentlemen.

With one push Ulric freed himself from his father, and he stood erect, his blue eyes gleaming more darkly than ever, as he answered roughly:

"Not in the least. Nobody need trouble themselves about it, I can take care of myself."

The words had a disrespectful sound, but the recent service he had rendered was too great for any one to find fault with them. Herr Berkow seemed relieved that the answer spared him any further trouble about the business.

"I will send the doctor to him," said he, in his quiet indifferent way, "and we will reserve our thanks for another time. At present, there seems to be assistance enough. Will you not come, Eugénie?"

His wife took the arm he offered her, but she turned her head once again, as if to assure herself that the required succour was really there. It seemed as though she did not quite approve of the way her husband treated the matter.

"Our whole reception is a failure!" said Wilberg to the chief-engineer a few minutes later, as, quite dispirited, he joined the others in escorting the proprietor's son and his bride to the house.

"And your poem into the bargain!" joked the person addressed. "Who can think now of flowers and verses? Really, for any one who believes in omens, this first home-coming can hardly be called promising. Deadly peril, wounds and bloodshed! there is something romantic in it, just in your style, Wilberg. You should write a ballad about it, only this time you would have no choice but to take Hartmann for your hero."

"And what a bear he is after all!" said Wilberg excitedly. "Might he not have said a word of thanks to Lady Berkow when she offered him her own handkerchief? And then he replied to Herr Arthur in such an ill-mannered way. But the fellow has the strength of a giant! when I asked him why, for goodness sake, he had not put a bandage on sooner, he answered curtly that he had not noticed the wound at first. What do you say to that? He gets a blow on the head which would have stretched one of us senseless, and he first tames the horses, carries the lady away from the carriage, and only awakes to the fact that he is wounded when the blood rushes down in a stream. I should like to see any one else who could do it!"

The miners had gathered round their comrade in the meantime, and much dissatisfaction was expressed among them at the way their future master had behaved to him. It seemed to give them great offence that he should have, for the time being at least, eluded all expression of gratitude. Many dark looks, many cutting remarks passed; even the Manager wrinkled his brow, and, for a wonder, uttered no word in Arthur's defence.

He was still trying to stanch the blood, and was actively aided therein by Martha, whose face betrayed anxiety so unmistakable that it must have struck even Ulric, had not his eyes been turned in quite a different direction. Long and gloomily he gazed after the party which had just left him. Clearly his thoughts were taken up by something far other than the pain of his wound.

As the old man was placing a temporary bandage on his son's bleeding brow, he noticed that Ulric still held the lace handkerchief in his hand.

"That cobweb," said he, with unusual bitterness, "that embroidered cobweb would have been a great deal of use to us! Give it to Martha, Ulric, she can restore it to her ladyship."

Ulric looked down at the dainty little thing which lay so softly between his fingers; as Martha stretched out her hand for it, he raised it quickly and pressed it to his wound, staining the delicate lace a deep red.

"What are you about?" said his father, half-astonished, half-angry. "Are you going to stop up a hole in your head an inch deep with that thing? I should think we had handkerchiefs enough of our own."

"Yes, yes, I did not think what I was doing," returned Ulric shortly. "Let it be, Martha, it is spoilt now any way!" and, so saying, he thrust it into his blouse.

The girl's hands, which had been so busy, fell down idly all at once, and she stood by while the Manager adjusted and secured the bandage. Her eyes were fixed wonderingly on Ulric's face. Why had he been in such a hurry to spoil the pretty thing? Was it because he did not want to give it back?

The young miner certainly possessed no special aptitude for the rôle of a sick man. He had shown himself very impatient of the services rendered him, and it had needed all his father's authority to induce him to submit to them. Now he stood up and declared emphatically that it was enough, and that he must be left in peace.

"Let him alone, an obstinate fellow!" said the Manager. "You know well there is nothing to be done with him. We shall hear what the doctor says. You are a pretty sort of hero, Ulric! You would not lend a helping hand with the arch built in honour of the family; on no account, it would be demeaning yourself! but you can throw yourself under the horses' feet when they are running away with the said family, without one thought for the old father who has nobody in the world but his son to look to! You don't mind doing that! Ah! that is being what you call 'logical' in your new-fangled speech. Now, you lads who follow your lord and master in everything, it will do no harm this time if you take example by him."

With these words, through which, spite of their disguise of assumed grumbling, the pride he felt in his son and his tender love for him showed all too plainly, the old man seized Ulric's arm and led him away.

CHAPTER IV.

Evening was drawing on. The festivities on the Berkow estates had been participated in by the bridal pair, and, so far at least, had attained their end. After the happy termination of that perilous incident which had so nearly compromised the whole proceedings, the original programme had been strictly adhered to. The young couple, everywhere in requisition during the afternoon, found themselves at last at home, and left to each other's company. Herr Schäffer had just taken his leave, he was to return to the elder Herr Berkow in the city the following morning; and the servant, who had been busy with the arrangements of the tea-table, now disappeared in his turn.

The lamp on the table shed its clear mild light on the pale blue draperies and costly furniture of the little salon, which, like all the other rooms in the house, had been newly and splendidly decorated for the reception of the new mistress, and formed part of the suite appropriated to her use. The silk curtains, closely drawn, shut from it the outer world; flowers filled the stands and vases, perfuming the air, and on a table before a little sofa stood the silver tea-service ready for use. In spite of all the splendour, it was a perfect little picture of domestic comfort.

So far, at least, as the boudoir itself was concerned; but the newly married couple hardly seemed as yet to appreciate its home-like charm. The bride, still in full dress, stood in the middle of the room musing, and holding in her hand the bouquet which Wilberg, in Martha's stead, had had the happiness of offering her. The scent from the orange-blossoms engrossed her attention so completely, that she had none left for her husband, and he certainly made no very vigorous claim upon it. Scarcely had the door closed behind the footman, when he sank into an armchair with an air of exhaustion.

"It is enough to kill one, this making a show of one's self for ever! Is not it, Eugénie? They have not granted us a minute's respite since yesterday at noon. First the ceremony, then the dinner, then a most fatiguing journey by rail and post, which went on all through the night and forenoon of to-day, then the tragic episode; here again a reception, presentation of officials, dinner.... My father did not remember evidently, when he sketched out the programme, that we possess anything like nerves. I own that mine are completely unstrung!"

His wife turned her head and cast a very contemptuous glance at the man, who, in his first tête-à-tête with her, could talk of his nerves. Eugénie did not appear to have much knowledge of such ailments; not a trace of fatigue was to be seen on her fair face.

"Have you heard whether young Hartmann's wound is dangerous?" asked she by way of answer.

Arthur had exerted himself to make an exceptionally long speech; he seemed surprised that it had obtained so little notice.

"Schäffer says it is nothing," he returned indifferently; "he has spoken to the doctor, I think. By the by, we shall have to make the young fellow some sort of recognition. I shall commission the Director to see about it."

"Ought you not rather to take the matter into your own hands?"

"I? No, pray spare me that! I hear he is not a common miner after all, but the son of the manager, a deputy, or something of the kind. How can I tell whether money, or a present, or what would be the proper thing to give him? The Director will manage it admirably."

He let his head sink into the cushions again. Eugénie answered nothing; she sat down on the sofa and leaned her head on her hand. After the pause of a minute or so, it seemed, however, to occur to Herr Arthur that he owed his young wife some attention, and that he could not possibly remain silent and buried in his arm-chair during the entire hour the tea-drinking would be supposed to last. It cost him an effort, but he made the sacrifice and actually rose to his feet. Going over to his wife, he seated himself by her side, took her hand and even went so far as to attempt passing his arm round her. But it was only an attempt. With a quick movement, Eugénie drew her hand out of his and retreated from him, casting a glance at him like that which, yesterday in church, had so spoiled his father's first embrace. There was the same cold haughty repulse in her look which said better than any words: "I am not to be approached by you, or any like you."

But this high disdainful manner, so imposing to the father, proved less so when employed towards the son, probably because the latter was no longer to be awed by anything. He appeared neither intimidated nor disconcerted at this evident show of repugnance, but merely looked up with some faint surprise.

"Is that disagreeable to you, Eugénie?"

"It is new to me at least. You have hitherto spared me such marks of affection."

The young man was too apathetic to feel all the bitter meaning of these words. He took them as a reproach.

"Hitherto? Well, yes, etiquette was rather severely maintained in your father's house. During the whole two months of our engagement, I had not once the happiness of seeing you alone. The continual presence of your father or your brothers laid a restraint upon us which, now we are together quietly for the first time, may well be laid aside."

Eugénie retreated still farther.

"Well then, now that we are quietly alone together, I declare that such tender demonstrations, made just to satisfy appearances, and in which the heart has no share, are positively distasteful to me. I release you once for all from any such obligations."

The surprise in Arthur's face became a little more marked now; so far, however, he was not really roused.

"You seem to be in rather a peculiar humour to-day. Appearances! Heart! Really, Eugénie, I should not have expected to find such romantic illusions in you of all people."

An expression of deep bitterness passed over her features.

"I took leave of all illusions in life when I promised you my hand. You and your father were bent on uniting your name with that of Windeg, which is old and noble. You thought, by doing so, you would obtain those honours and that society from which you had hitherto been shut out. Well, you have gained your end. For the future, I must sign myself Eugénie Berkow!"

She laid a most contemptuous stress on the last word. Arthur had risen; he seemed to understand at last that this was something more than a bride's caprice, called forth, possibly, by his negligence during the journey.

"You certainly do not seem to like the name much. Until to-day, I had no idea that, in taking it, you had yielded to constraint from your family, but I begin to think"----

"No one has constrained me!" interrupted Eugénie. "No one has even persuaded me. What I did, I did voluntarily, with full consciousness of what I was undertaking. It was hard enough for them at home that I should be sacrificed for their sakes."

Arthur shrugged his shoulders; it was plain from the expression of his face that the conversation was beginning to weary him.

"I really do not understand how you can speak in such a tragic tone about a simple family arrangement. If my father, in making it, had other objects in view, I suppose the Baron's motives were not of a very romantic nature either, only he, probably, had still more cogent reasons for approving of a marriage by which he certainly was not the loser."

Eugénie started up, her eyes flashed, and a hasty movement of her arm threw the fragrant bouquet to the ground.

"And you dare to say that to me? After what occurred before your suit was accepted? I thought, at least, you would blush for it, if indeed you are still capable of blushing."

The young man's languid, half-closed eyes opened suddenly, large and full; there came a gleam into them, like a sudden spark shooting up from beneath dead ashes, but his voice retained its quiet matter-of-fact tone.

"First of all, I must beg of you to be a little clearer. I feel myself quite unable to make out these enigmatic speeches."

Eugénie crossed her arms with a rapid movement; her bosom heaved tumultuously.

"You know, as well as I do, that we were on the brink of ruin. Whose the fault may have been, I cannot and will not decide. It is easy to throw stones at one who is struggling with adversity. When a man has inherited estates overburdened with debt, when he has to maintain the repute of an old name, to keep up a position in society, and to assure his children's future, he cannot amass money as you do in your industrial world. You have always had gold to throw away, your every wish has been forestalled, every whim gratified. I have tasted all the misery of an existence, which, wearing of necessity the outward mask of splendour, was every day, every hour, drawing nearer inevitable ruin. Perhaps we might yet have escaped, if we had not fallen precisely into Berkow's nets. He fairly forced his help on us at first, forced it upon us until he had got everything into his hands, until we, pursued, entrapped, despairing, literally knew not which way to turn. Then he came and claimed my hand for his son as the sole price of deliverance. Rather than offer me up, my father would have braved the worst, but I would not see him sacrificed, his whole career destroyed, I would not have my brother's future blighted, our name dishonoured, so I gave my consent. Not one of my family knew what it cost me!--but, if I sold myself, I can answer for it to God, and to my conscience. You, who lent yourself to be the tool of your father's base designs, have no right to reproach me; my motives were at least nobler than yours!"

She paused, overcome by her emotion. Her husband still stood motionless before her; there was the same slight pallor on his face as had been visible at noon, when the danger was just overpast, but his eyes were veiled once more.

"I regret that you did not make these disclosures to me before our marriage," said he, slowly.

"Why?"

"Because you would not then have incurred the humiliation of signing yourself Eugénie Berkow."

The young wife was silent.

"I had not the slightest suspicion of these--these manipulations on my father's part," continued Arthur, "for my habit is in no way to interfere with his business concerns. He said to me one day, that if I chose to sue for the hand of Baron Windeg's daughter, my proposal would be accepted. I agreed to the plan, and I was formally presented to you, our betrothal following a few days later. That is my share of the business."

Eugénie turned away.

"I would rather have had a plain avowal of your complicity than this fable," she said coldly.

Again the man's eyes opened wide, and again that strange light gleamed in them, ready to kindle into flame, but ever anew quenched by the ashes.

"It seems I stand so high in my wife's estimation, that my words do not even find credence with her?" said he, this time with a decided touch of bitterness.

Eugénie's fair face expressed the most sovereign contempt, as she turned it towards her husband, and she answered slightingly:

"You really must excuse me, Arthur, for not meeting you in a spirit of perfect confidence. Until the day you entered our house for the first time on an errand I understood but too well--until then, I had known you only through the city gossip, and it"----

"Drew no flattering portrait of me? That I can well believe. Will you not have the goodness to tell me what people were pleased to say of me in town?"

She raised her large eyes and looked him steadily in the face.

"People said that Arthur Berkow only made so princely a display, only threw away thousands upon thousands, in order to buy the favour of the young nobility and the right to associate with them, hoping that his own humble birth would thus be forgotten. People said that in the wild, dissipated doings of a certain set, he was the wildest, the most dissipated of all. As to some of the other reports, it would ill become me as a woman to pronounce upon them."

Arthur's hand still rested on the back of the armchair on which he was leaning; during the last few seconds it had buried itself involuntarily deeper and deeper in the silken cushions.

"And you naturally do not think it worth while to attempt to reclaim this lost sinner, on whom sentence has been passed without appeal?"

"No."

She spoke this 'No' in a freezing tone. The young man's face twitched a little as he drew himself up quickly.

"You are more than sincere! Never mind, it is an advantage to know exactly on what footing we are to be together, for together we must remain for a time, at all events. The step we took yesterday cannot be recalled immediately, without exposing us both to ridicule. If you provoked this scene with a view to showing me, that though my presumption had won your hand, yet I must learn to hold myself at a respectful distance from the Baroness Windeg--and I fear this was your sole object--you have gained your end, but"----here Arthur relapsed into his old languid manner, "but I beg of you, let this be the first and last conversation of the kind between us. I detest everything which resembles a scene; my nerves really will not bear them, and it is always possible to regulate one's life without any such useless excitement. And now I think I shall best meet your wishes by leaving you alone. Allow me to wish you good evening."

He took up from the sideboard a silver candelabra, in which lights were burning, and left the room. Outside the threshold he stopped a moment and turned to look back. The gleam in his eyes was no longer faint, it blazed up for one second clear and bright; then all grew dull and lifeless once more, but the candles flared unsteadily as he crossed the anteroom, possibly from the current of air, or was it because the hand which carried them shook a little?

Eugénie remained alone. She drew a deep breath of relief as the portière fell behind her husband. As though needing some fresh air after so painful a scene, she drew the curtains back, half opened the window, and, stepping on to the balcony, looked out at the balmy spring evening. The stars shone faintly through the thin transparent clouds which veiled the heavens, and the landscape without looked indistinct and shadowy, for the deep twilight had already fallen, clothing it on all sides with its dusky garment The flowers on the terrace below filled the air with their fragrance, and the low splash of the fountains came refreshingly to the ear. Peace and rest were everywhere--everywhere but in the heart of the young wife, who, to-day, for the first time, had crossed the threshold of her new home.

It was over at last, the dumb torturing struggle of the last two months, through which she had been supported by the pain and by the ardour of the fight itself. For heroic natures there is something grand in the idea of giving up one's whole future for others, of buying their salvation with the happiness of one's own life, of sacrificing one's self in their stead to an inexorable destiny. But now when the sacrifice was made, when deliverance had been secured, when there was nothing left to fight for, and nothing to overcome, now all the romantic glamour, which filial love had hitherto woven round Eugénie's resolve, faded away, and she began to feel deeply the cold desolation of the life before her.

The breezy, balmy air of the spring evening seemed to stir in its depths all the long-repressed anguish of this young soul, which had demanded its share of love and happiness from life, and which had been so cruelly robbed of its lawful due. She was young and beautiful, more beautiful than most, she was of a noble old race; and the proud daughter of the Windegs had ever adorned the hero of her youthful dreams with all the brilliant chivalry of her forefathers. That he should be her equal in name and rank was a thing never questioned .... and now? Had the husband, who had been forced upon her, possessed that energy and strength of character which she prized above everything in a man, she might, perhaps, have forgiven him his plebeian birth; but this weakling, whom she had despised before she had known him----Had the insults, which she, with fullest intent, had heaped upon him, and which would have stung any other man to fury, even roused him from his apathetic indifference? Had this apathy of his been shaken even for one moment by the open expression of her contempt? Another, a stranger, must throw himself before the maddened animals this morning, at the risk of being trampled to death by them.

Before Eugénie's mental vision rose the face of her deliverer with its defiant blue eyes and bleeding forehead. Her husband did not even know whether this man's wound were dangerous, whether it might not prove mortal, yet both he and she must have perished but for that energetic, lightning-like deed.

She sank back into a seat and hid her face in her hands. All that she had suffered and fought against for months pressed in on her now with tenfold power, and found utterance in the one despairing cry, "My God! my God! how shall I bear this life?"

CHAPTER V.

Herr Berkow's very extensive mining works lay at some distance from the capital, in one of the remoter provinces. The neighbouring country offered no great attractions. Hills, and nothing but hills; for miles around only the uniform dark green of the pines, which clothed alike the heights and valleys; buried in their midst occasional villages and hamlets, and, here and there, a farm or a country-house. But the soil up in these parts could not yield much. The treasures of the land lay hidden under the earth, and therefore was it that all the life and activity of the neighbourhood congregated to the Berkow estates, where operations on a magnificent scale were carried on for bringing these treasures forth to the light of day.

The estates were rather isolated and cut off from the great lines of communication, for the nearest town was some miles distant; but the great labyrinth of buildings, store and dwelling houses, which had sprung up in these quiet valleys, with all their busy life and movement, formed almost a town in itself. Every appliance which industry or science could suggest, every assistance which machinery and men's hands could afford, was here brought into play to wring its treasures from the reluctant earth. A perfect host of officials, of engineers, inspectors, and superintendents, all under the control of the Director, formed a colony apart, and the men, to be counted by several thousands, only a small minority of whom could be lodged on the spot, lived in the adjacent villages.

The undertaking which, from a very insignificant beginning, had only been raised by the present proprietor to the vast proportions it had now attained, seemed almost too great for the means of any private individual. A gigantic capital was indeed needed to keep it on foot; it was by far the most important enterprise of the sort in the province, and took the lead, therefore, in its branch of industry. This settlement with its unlimited forces of machinery and hand labour, with its establishments and dwelling-houses, with its officials and working-men, formed a state in itself, and its master was as sovereign a lord as any ruler of a small principality.

It was somewhat surprising that a man at the head of such an undertaking should have hitherto failed to obtain a distinction for which he had striven, and which had been granted to others who had done less for the industry of the country. But whenever the decision on such matters emanates directly from a very high quarter, the character and conduct of the candidate for honours come into question. It was so here. Berkow enjoyed but little sympathy in the leading circles of society; there were so many dark spots in his past life, which his riches could veil, but not altogether efface. He had certainly never come into open conflict with the law, but he had often enough drawn very near those confines where the law's action makes itself felt. It was even averred by many that his operations in the distant province, on however grand a scale they might be, were yet not altogether exemplary.

Much was said of an unscrupulous system of working, which aimed only at increasing the proprietor's wealth, and took no heed of the ill or well being of those human agents impressed into its service, of arbitrary encroachments on the part of the officials, of a low ferment of discontent among the hands. But, after all, these were only reports, the settlement itself lay too far off for them to be verified; on the other hand, the fact remained certain that it proved an almost inexhaustible source of wealth to its owner.

Every one was forced, indeed, to confess that this man's perseverance, tenacity, and industrial genius, were at least equal to his unscrupulousness. Sprung originally from a very low condition, tossed hither and thither by the waves of life, he had at last succeeded in gaining a point of vantage, and now for some years had enjoyed the undisputed position of a millionaire. In fact, fortune had latterly seemed to follow in his footsteps; each time he put her to the test, she remained faithful to him, and the most precarious transaction, the most hazardous speculation, would invariably succeed if his hand were but at the helm.

Berkow had become a widower early in life, and had never re-married. To his restless mind, always bent upon the chances of gain, home-ties seemed more of a chain than a consolation. His only son and heir had been brought up in the capital, and nothing had been spared for his education in the way of tutors, professors, visits to the University, and home and foreign travel. But as for any peculiar preparation for his calling as the future head and leader of a great industrial enterprise, such a thing was not thought of.

Herr Arthur showed a decided distaste for learning anything beyond the usual fashionable curriculum, and his father was much too weak, and much too vain of the brilliant rôle his son was playing--to support which he himself cheerfully paid--ever to insist upon a more thorough course of study. If it came to the worst, there were always capable men enough to be had whose technical and commercial knowledge could be secured at a high salary. So the young heir came but once a year to his possessions in the far-off province, while his father, though he took up his residence occasionally in the capital, still retained the superintendence of the whole concern.

The young couple had not been specially favoured by the weather during their visit to the country. The sun showed itself but rarely this spring-time; after many rainy days it shone out at last, however, as if to greet the Sunday. The shafts were empty and the works at rest; but in spite of the Sabbath calm and the smiling sunshine, something of the gloomy monotonous character of the country seemed to weigh on the whole colony.

No attempt at embellishment, no attention to the convenience of the inhabitants, was noticeable in the buildings connected with the industry of the place, or in the dwelling-houses; they were all constructed on a strictly utilitarian principle. That a due sense of the beautiful was not wanting to the proprietor, his own house sufficiently attested. Care had been taken to build it at a suitable distance from the works, and so that it should command a full view over the wooded hills. Within and without it was fitted up and decorated in so luxurious a style as to be almost princely, and with its balconies, terraces and flower gardens, it looked like an oasis of fragrance and poetry lying in the midst of this busy region.

In the immediate neighbourhood of the shafts stood the cottage of Hartmann, the Manager. Its appearance plainly showed that the occupant enjoyed a position of peculiar privilege, and so indeed it was. In his youth the sturdy miner had married a girl in the service of the late Frau Berkow, and a special favourite of her mistress. Even after her marriage the young woman preserved something of her old relations with her former employers, and so it came to pass that her husband was favoured and preferred in every way, advanced from post to post, and finally even promoted to be working-manager. These relations and these favours ceased, it is true, at Frau Berkow's death; the widower was not the man to trouble himself about former members of his household, and when Hartmann's wife also died shortly afterwards, the old connection came altogether to an end.

But from that time forth, the Manager had cherished a strong devotion to the Berkow family, to whose support he owed his present position so devoid of care, whereas, without it, he would probably, like so many of his comrades, never have got beyond the laborious, poorly-paid work in the mines. Several years ago he had brought home his sister's orphan-child, Martha Ewers, and now she admirably filled the place of mistress of his house. As for the fulfilment of his secret desire that she and his son should come together as man and wife, there seemed so far but small prospect of it.

On this particular Sunday morning, the cottage, formerly so peaceful, had been the scene of one of those excited discussions which unhappily had ceased to be uncommon between father and son. The Manager, standing in the middle of the room, was declaiming violently at Ulric, who had just returned from the Director's house, and now leaned, silent and morose, against the door. Martha stood a little apart, watching the strife with unconcealed anxiety.

"Was such a thing ever heard of!" stormed the old man. "Have you not enemies enough up yonder, that you must set to work to hunt up more? A sum of money is offered to my gentleman there, large enough to begin housekeeping upon, and he sets his obstinate head against it, and says 'No!' without more ado! But what do you care about housekeeping and the like? Much you think of taking a wife! To bury yourself in your newspapers when you come home from work; to sit up half the night over your books, and stuff your head full of that new-fangled nonsense which an honest miner has no need to know anything about; to play the lord and master among your mates, so that soon we shall not have to ask the Director, but Herr Ulric Hartmann, what is to be done upon the works--that is all that pleases you. And when, for once in a way, we are reminded that, after all, we are nothing more as yet than a Deputy, then we talk of 'not taking payment,' and throw it back in our employers' faces. I should think if any one ever really earned money, it was you that day."

Ulric had listened in silence so far, but at the last few words he stamped his foot angrily.

"Once for all, I will have nothing to do with the set up there. I have told them that I want no payment for my 'courageous act,' which they make such a fuss about, and I'll take none, so there's an end of it."

The Manager's anger flamed out again; he was just beginning a still sharper remonstrance when Martha interrupted him.

"Let him be, uncle," said she shortly; "he is right."

The old man, quite disconcerted at this unlooked-for interference, stared at her open-mouthed.

"Oh! he is right, is he?" he repeated grimly. "I might have been sure you would take his part!"

"Ulric is angry that they should have tried to pay their debt through the Director, without giving themselves any further trouble about the matter," continued the girl firmly, "and it was not seemly. If Herr Berkow had spoken to him himself, and said just one word of thanks ... But he indeed! he troubles himself about nothing on earth. He always looks as if he were half asleep, and as if it cost him the most dreadful effort even to look at one; and when, for a wonder, he is not really asleep, he lies all day long on a sofa and stares at the ceiling" ...

"Let the young master alone!" broke in the Manager hastily. "All that lies at his father's door. From his childhood, Herr Berkow has given way to all his wishes, and encouraged him in his faults. He used to tell him constantly how rich he would be one day, and to send away the tutors and servants if they would not obey the youngster. Later on, when he grew older, he was only to associate with counts and barons. Money was handed over to him in heaps, and the madder his way of life was, the better his father was pleased. How could a young lad like that keep his own goodness of heart? For a good heart he had, young Arthur, as to that no one shall say me nay! I ought to know, for I have ridden him often on my knee--and he had some feeling too. I remember well when he had to go away to town after his mother's death, how he clung to me and cried bitterly, so that they could not get him away, though Herr Berkow was begging, and coaxing, and promising him everything in the world. I had to carry him to the carriage myself. No doubt, when he had been in the city a while with all those bonnes and masters, it was different; next time he just gave me his hand, and since then he has always grown prouder and cooler, until now"----an expression of pain passed over the old man's face, but he shook off the weakness quickly, and went on. "Well! it does not matter much to me, but I do not like to hear you rail at him, whenever you get a chance, especially Ulric, who has a downright hatred to him. If that obstinate fellow had had as much of his own way, and some thousands to spend into the bargain, I should like to know what he would have grown into! Nothing good, that is certain."

"Perhaps something worse, father," said Ulric, curtly, "but he would not have grown into a milksop like that, you may take my word for it."

The conversation, which again seemed taking a critical turn, was now fortunately brought to an end. There came a knock at the door, and a servant, in the rich and somewhat over-decorated livery of the Berkow family, entered without waiting for an invitation, and greeted the Manager with a "Good-day."

"Her ladyship sent me over. I am to tell your Ulric--oh! there you are, Hartmann! Her ladyship wishes to speak to you; I am to say she will expect you over there at seven o'clock sharp."

"Me?"

"Ulric?"

These two exclamations were uttered by the old man and his son, in a tone of equal surprise; as to Martha, she stood looking at the man in blank astonishment. He continued equably:

"There must have been something up between you and the Director, Hartmann. He was with her ladyship quite early to-day, though, in a usual way, she does not trouble herself about the gentlemen's business matters, and I was sent off to you at full speed. There is plenty to do up at the house, I assure you; all the gentlemen from the works are invited to dinner, and there are all sorts of grandees coming out from the town too.... But I have not a moment's time. Be punctual, seven o'clock, just after dinner."

The man seemed really in a hurry; he nodded shortly, by way of adieu to all present, and went.

"There!" burst forth the Manager. "They know already of your ridiculous refusal up there. Now look to yourself to find a way of settling the business."

"Shall you go, Ulric?" quickly and eagerly asked Martha, who had remained silent so far.

"What are you thinking of, child?" scolded her uncle. "Do you suppose he can say no again, when the mistress sends expressly for him. But you and he would both be capable of it, really!"

Martha did not attend to this speech. She drew nearer her cousin, and laid her hand on his arm.

"Shall you go?" she repeated in a low tone.

Ulric stood looking darkly at the ground, as though a struggle were going on within him. Presently he threw back his head hastily.

"Certainly I shall. I should be glad to know what her ladyship can be pleased to want with me now, after passing a whole week without once taking the trouble to inquire"----

He stopped short, as if he felt he had said too much. Martha's hand slid from his arm, and she stepped back, but the Manager said with a sigh,

"Well, Heaven save us, if you go behaving in that way up yonder! To make things worse, old Berkow came down yesterday evening. If you two get together, your time here as Deputy is over, and mine as Manager will not be long. I know the master well!"

A contemptuous expression played about the young man's lips.

"Make your mind easy, father. They know how fond you are of the 'family,' and what trouble your unnatural son causes you. He won't even bow down to his betters! No one will quarrel with you, and I"----here Ulric drew himself up to his full height, in defiant self-assertion, "I shall stay on here for a time, at least. They dare not send me away, they are far too much afraid of me."

He turned his back on his father, pushed open the door, and walked out. The Manager clapped his hands together, and was about to send another thundering reproof after his rebellious son, but Martha stopped him, by again, and still more decidedly this time, taking Ulric's part. Tired of the strife at last, the old man caught hold of his pipe, and prepared to go out likewise.

"Hark ye, Martha," said he, turning round in the doorway. "I can see this by you. There is no rebel living but can be over-matched. You have found your master in Ulric, and he will find his, too, as sure as my name is Gotthold Hartmann!"

CHAPTER VI.

Meanwhile preparations were being made up at the great house for the grand dinner which was to take place that day. Servants ran up and down stairs, cooks and maids bustled about the kitchens and pantries. There was everywhere something to be attended to, some alteration to be made, and the whole house offered that appearance of busy unrest which usually precedes a festivity.

The quiet reigning in young Berkow's rooms seemed even greater by the contrast. The curtains were let down, the portières closed, and in the adjoining apartments, the servants glided noiselessly about over the thick carpets, putting everything in order. Their master was accustomed to dream away the greater part of the day, lying at full length on his sofa, and he did not care to be disturbed by even the slightest noise.

The young heir lay, with half-closed eyes, stretched on a divan. He held a book in his hand, which he was, or rather had been, reading, for the same page had remained long open before him; probably he had found the trouble of turning the leaves too great. Presently, the book fell from his negligent hold, and slipped from his long delicate fingers on to the floor. It would not have been a great exertion to stoop and pick it up, still less to call for that purpose the busy servants near at hand, but he did neither. The book lay on the carpet, and Arthur passed the next quarter of an hour without changing his position or moving in the slightest degree. His face showed sufficiently that he was not meditating on what he had read, he was not even day-dreaming; he was simply feeling himself unutterably bored.

The somewhat ruthless opening of a door which led from the corridor into the neighbouring room, and the sound of a loud imperious voice within, put an end to this interesting state of things. The elder Berkow asked if his son were still there, and, on receiving a reply in the affirmative, he sent the servant away, pushed back the heavy portières, and entered the inner room. His countenance was flushed as though from vexation or anger, and the cloud resting on his brow grew darker as he caught sight of Arthur.

"So you are still lying on that sofa, just as you were three hours ago!"

Arthur was not accustomed, it seemed, to show his father even the outward forms of respect. He had taken no notice of his entrance, and it did not now occur to him to modify the extreme negligence of his attitude.

The lines on his father's brow grew deeper still.

"Your apathy and indolence really begin to pass belief. It is even worse here than in town. I hoped you would conform to my wishes, and take some interest in the success of a concern which was started solely on your account, but"----

"Good Heavens, sir!" said the young man, "you do not want me to trouble myself about workmen and machinery and such things, do you? I never have done so, and I can't, for my life, comprehend why you should have sent us here of all places. I am nearly bored to death in this wilderness."

He spoke languidly, but quite in the tone of a spoilt darling, accustomed everywhere, and under all circumstances, to see his caprices taken into account, and to whom even the suggestion of anything unpleasant was an offence. Something must have happened, however, to irritate his father too much for him to yield this time, as was his custom. He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"I am pretty well used to your being bored to death in every place and in all company, whilst I have to bear all the care and burden alone. Just now, worries are coming in upon me on all sides. It cost sacrifices enough to free the Windegs from their obligations, and here I find nothing but vexation and disagreeables without end. I have had a meeting this morning of all the superior officials with the Director at their head, and I was forced to listen to complaints, and nothing but complaints. Extensive repairs in the shafts--increase of wages--new ventilators. Nonsense! as if I had time and money for that now!"

Arthur listened without any show of sympathy; if his face expressed anything, it was the desire he felt that his father would go away. But the latter was not so obliging; he began to pace up and down the room.

"This comes of trusting to one's agents and their reports! For the last six months I have not been here in person, and everything is going to the deuce. They talk of a ferment of discontent among the hands, of grave symptoms and danger threatening, as if they had not full authority to draw the reins as tight as they choose. A certain Hartmann is pointed out to me as chief agitator. He is looked upon by the other miners as a sort of Messiah, and he is secretly stirring up the whole works to revolt. When I ask why, in Heaven's name, they have not sent the fellow about his business long ago, what answer do I get? They dare not! So far, he has given no grounds for dissatisfaction on the score of his work, and his comrades fairly worship him. There would be a strike on the works if he were sent away without sufficient motive. I took the liberty of telling these gentlemen that they were a set of timid hares, and that I would take the thing into hand myself. The shafts will remain as they are, and as to the question of wages, not an iota of difference shall be made in them. The least attempt at a rising will be met with the utmost severity, and I shall dismiss the plotter-in-chief myself this very day."

"You can't do that, sir!" said Arthur suddenly, half raising himself on the sofa.

Berkow stood still in surprise.

"Why not?"

"Because it was precisely this Hartmann who stopped our horses and saved us from certain death."

His father uttered an exclamation of suppressed wrath.

"The devil! it must just be that fellow! No, then, certainly we cannot send him off at a minute's notice, we must wait for an opportunity. By the by, Arthur," with a displeased look at his son, "it was rather too bad that I should have to hear of that accident from a stranger. You did not think it worth while to write a syllable to me about it."

"Why should I?" returned the young man, resting his head wearily on his hand. "The thing was happily over, and, besides, they have nearly worn the life out of us up here with their sympathy, their congratulations, their questions, and their palaver about it. I do not think one's life is so valuable it is worth making such a fuss about its being saved."

"You don't think it is?" said the father, looking keenly at him. "I should have thought, as you were only married the day before"----

Arthur answered only with a shrug. Berkow's eyes rested on him with a still more searching gaze.

"As we are on the subject--what is all this between you and your wife?" asked he, all at once, without anything by way of preface.

"Between me and my wife?" repeated Arthur, as though trying to remember who was meant.

"Yes, between you two. I expect to take by surprise a newly-married pair in their honeymoon, and I find a state of things here which I should never have supposed possible. You ride out alone, and she drives alone. You never go near each other's rooms, and when you are together, you have not half-a-dozen words to say to one another. What does it all mean?"

The younger man had risen now, and was standing opposite his father, but he had not thrown off his sleepy look.

"You seem to have mastered the details thoroughly, sir," said he. "You could hardly have learnt them all in the half-hour we spent together yesterday evening. Have you been questioning the servants?"

"Arthur!" Berkow's anger was breaking forth, but the habit of indulgence towards his son made him overlook this great offence. He forced himself to be calm.

"It appears you are not accustomed up here to the fashionable way of doing things," continued Arthur, quite undisturbed. "Now, in regard to this, we are eminently aristocratic. You know, sir, you are so fond of all that is aristocratic!"

"Leave your jests!" said Berkow, impatiently. "Is it your pleasure, too, that your wife should allow herself to ignore you in a way which is already the talk of the whole place?"

"I leave her free, that is, to do as she likes, just as I intend to do myself."

Berkow started up from his seat

"This is really going too far! Arthur, you are"----

"Not like you, sir!" interrupted the young man. "I, at least, should never have forced a girl into giving her consent by threatening her with her father's recognisances."

The colour faded suddenly from Berkow's face, and he stepped back involuntarily, asking in an unsteady voice,

"What--what do you mean?"

Arthur drew himself up erect, and some animation came into his eyes as he fixed them on his father.

"Baron Windeg was ruined, that every one knew. Who ruined him?"

"How should I know?" asked Berkow, ironically. "His extravagance, his love of playing the grand seigneur when he was head over ears in debt, was cause enough. He would have been lost without my help."

"Indeed? So you had no ulterior object in view when you gave him your help? The Baron was never offered the alternative of surrendering his daughter, or of preparing to meet the worst? He decided voluntarily upon this marriage?"

Berkow laughed, but his laughter was forced.

"Of course. Who has been telling you anything to the contrary?" But, in spite of his tone of assurance, his look fell. This man had probably never yet lowered his eyes when reproached with an unscrupulous act, but he could not meet his son's gaze on this occasion. A bitter expression passed over the young man's face; if he had had any doubt hitherto, he knew enough now.

After the pause of a second, he renewed the conversation.

"You know that I never had any inclination for marrying, that I only yielded to your incessant persuasion. Eugénie Windeg was as indifferent to me as any other woman. I did not even know her, but she was not the first who had been willing to give up her old name in exchange for wealth. At least, that was how I interpreted her consent, and that of her father. You never thought fit to inform me of that which preceded and followed my proposal. I had to hear of the barter that had been made of us both from Eugénie's mouth. We will let that be. The thing is done, and cannot be undone; but you can understand now that I shall avoid exposing myself to fresh humiliations. I have no wish to stand a second time before my wife, as I had to do the other evening, while she poured out all her contempt for me and my father, and I--I could but listen in silence."

Berkow had been dumb so far, and had half turned away, but at these last words he looked round at his son quickly with some astonishment.

"I should not have believed that anything could irritate you so much," said he slowly.

"Irritate? Me? You are mistaken, we did not reach the pitch of irritation. My lady-wife deigned from the first to mount on the high pedestal of her exalted virtues and of her noble descent, and I, who, in both respects, am equally unworthy, preferred to admire her only from a distance. I should seriously advise you to do the same, that is, if ever you attain to the happiness of her society."

He threw himself down on the sofa again with an air of contemptuous indifference, but even in his sneer there was a touch of that irritation his father had noticed. Berkow shook his head, but the subject was too embarrassing, and the rôle he played towards his son in this business too painful for him not to seize the first opportunity of putting an end to the discussion.

"We will talk it over again at a fitting time," said he, taking out his watch hastily. "Let us have done for to-day. There are yet two good hours before the people arrive; I am going over to the upper works. You will not come with me?"

"No," said Arthur, relapsing into indolence.

Berkow made no attempt to use his authority. Perhaps, after such an interview, the refusal was not disagreeable to him. He went away, leaving the young man alone once more, and, with the renewed stillness, all the latter's apathy seemed to return to him.

While the first bright spring day smiled on the world without, while the woods lay bathed in sunshine, and the sweet scent of the pines rose up from the hills, Arthur Berkow lay within in the darkened room, where the curtains were so carefully lowered, the portières so closely drawn, as though he alone were not created to enjoy the free mountain air and the bright light of day. The air was too keen for him, the sun too dazzling. It blinded him to look out, and he said to himself that his nervous system was shaken beyond all description. The young heir, who had at his disposal all that life and this world can give, thought, as he had often thought before, that after all both the world and life are horribly empty, and that it is assuredly not worth while to have been born at all.

CHAPTER VII.

The state dinner, prepared with lavish expense and on a most luxurious scale, was over at last. It had procured for Berkow one special triumph, independently of the pleasure he must have felt at seeing how numerous were the guests around him. The nobility of the neighbouring town, and its leading personages in particular, had always been exclusive to the last degree. No member of it had condescended as yet to enter the house of a parvenu, whose equivocal antecedents still shut him out from the highest circles of society; but the invitations bearing the name of Eugénie Berkow, née Baroness Windeg, had been universally accepted. She was, and would ever remain, a scion of one of the most ancient and noble houses of the land.