"The deuce take your prudence and your hesitation!" interrupted the
chief-engineer hotly. "Excuse me for any rudeness, Herr Schäffer, but
it is quite evident that you have been accustomed to office life, and
have never had great masses of workmen under your command. He just hit
the right nail on the head. He awed them, and, in a case like this,
that is everything. They would have taken a kindly exhortation as a
proof of weakness, and a cold and distant address for pride. You must
put it to them in their own language, 'make your choice between this
and that,' and our principal knows right well how to do it. You could
see that by Hartmann."

"I only fear that, with it all, he under-estimates the struggle before
us," said the Director gravely: "If our people were alone, they would
declare themselves satisfied with the concessions made to them, but,
with a leader like Hartmann, it will be different. He will admit of no
sort of arrangement, and they all follow him blindfold. But our
principal is right. He has gone as far as he possibly can. To overstep
these limits would be to deliver himself, his position, and all of us,
up into their hands."

They began to speak now of "our principal," as if it were a thing of
course. In one hour Arthur had won the title for himself; it seemed now
the only proper designation for him. He must indeed have shown himself
well fitted to rule.

The three delegates had left the house, and walked away in the
direction of the works. Ulric spoke no word, but Lawrence said in a low
voice:

"You were saying a little while ago that if some one knew when to show
his teeth, and when to give them good words, then .... Well, Ulric, I
think there is some one up there that does know."

Ulric did not answer. He cast a look up at the windows, and a
thunder-cloud gathered on his brow.

"So all that lay hidden behind those sleepy eyes of his, which looked
fit for nothing in the world but napping," he murmured between his
tightly set teeth. "'So long as I stand here, I am master of these
works!' I really believe the man has the making of it in him."

They here met a group of miners, special partisans of Ulric, who had
not made the descent into the mine with the others, and who now pressed
round the three ambassadors with much noisy questioning.

"Ulric will tell you all about it," said Lawrence, drily. "I think we
have gone to the wrong man. He does not mean to give way."

"Not?"

All the miners looked disappointed. They had evidently reckoned on
another answer. Some angry exclamations and menaces against the young
proprietor were heard, and his name was several times mentioned in
terms of undisguised contempt.

"Hold your tongues, lads!" called out Ulric imperiously. "You don't
know the man we have just seen. I thought we should have had easy work,
now that the father is out of the way. We have all been mistaken in the
son. He has got something no one would have looked for in such a
milksop; he has got a will of his own. I tell you, he will give us some
trouble yet."

                              CHAPTER XV.

It was quite early morning. Mountains and woods were sparkling in the
dewy freshness of the young spring day, and the air was full of balmy
odours, as Eugénie Berkow rode alone and unattended along the forest
path. She was an excellent horsewoman and passionately fond of riding,
yet here in the country she had indulged in it much less frequently
than had been her wont.

At first the weather had not permitted of any long excursions, later on
she had lacked all inclination for it; but the chief reason, no doubt,
was that her beautiful mare had been a present from her husband in the
days of his courtship, and that her dislike to the donor was habitually
transferred to everything that came directly from him. On her wedding
day it had cost her a struggle to put on the costly diamonds which had
been his bridal gift, and, since that day, they had never been taken
from their cases.

In the midst of the luxury and splendour which had surrounded her since
her marriage, she had moved as one constrained and ill at ease. Even
the beautiful creature, which had cost a fabulous sum, and had excited
the admiration of the whole city when Eugénie appeared on it for the
first time, riding by her betrothed's side, was neglected by its
mistress in a remarkable manner, and altogether given over to the care
of the domestics.

These latter were, therefore, not a little surprised when her ladyship
that morning ordered Afra to be saddled, and intimated to the servant
who was preparing to accompany her that she wished to ride alone.
Though her commands caused no little wonder, they were, of course,
obeyed, and she set out on her journey without any attendant.

Arthur, naturally, knew nothing of it. She saw him now more rarely than
ever, for he frequently excused himself from dining with her, and their
lives were so entirely separate, that it was a most unusual thing for
one to know what the other intended doing on such and such a day.

Eugénie trotted quickly through the forest, without meeting a human
being. It was, indeed, most solitary up here in the woods, but the
freshness and beauty of the morning, the very solitude itself, had a
reviving effect upon the young wife, who for several days had not been
beyond the park-gates.

The works lay idle; an unnatural calm brooded over the whole
settlement, contrasting with its usual restless activity, for now the
centre of action was transferred to the master's study, which the
latter but rarely left.

The officials came and went, conferences were held, books and papers
were examined; Schäffer was continually on the road between the capital
and the estates; letters and despatches flew backwards and forwards;
but a shade of sombre gravity hung over all this zeal and busy
movement, as though some misfortune were looming in the distance, which
they were striving to avert or, at all events, preparing to meet.

Eugénie knew, of course, that a disagreement existed with the
work-people; Arthur had told her so himself, and had added that the
matter was of no importance and would very soon be settled. He had
spoken very quietly and coolly, and had only begged her, if she went
out to drive, to avoid the miners' villages as much as possible, a
somewhat irritable spirit being abroad just now. The officials must
have received hints not to alarm her ladyship, for when Eugénie
endeavoured to learn from them something more definite, she was always
met by a polite evasive answer, or by some comforting assurance.

They told her there was really nothing to be uneasy about, the
difficulty was not of a serious nature, and an arrangement might be
looked for any day. Yet Eugénie had a distinct perception of the danger
which was thus denied, and a perception as keen of the change which had
come over her husband since the elder Berkow's death, though his
behaviour to her was just the one point which remained unaltered.

The young wife was of too fearless and too proud a nature not to feel
as a sort of offence the being thus shut out, and so obviously spared
all unpleasant knowledge. True, she had no right to exact a frank and
open statement, no right to share the anxieties and, perhaps, perils,
which might assail her husband. That privilege, to which other women
could assert a claim, lay immeasurably removed from her.

When once the decisive word of separation has been spoken, when people
are only bearing with one another for a few months "for appearances'
sake," and in order to give the world as little matter for gossip as
possible, there can hardly be any interests in common. She understood
this, and, had she not understood it, Arthur's conduct would have made
her sensible of the fact. For, as he every day roused himself more and
more from his former indolence, and applied himself to the most
strenuous exertion, so in proportion did he become colder and more
distant in his manner to her. She was grateful to him, really, that by
thus treating her already as a perfect stranger, he should seek to
render the step they proposed taking easier and less painful to her.

Eugénie did not conceal from herself that Berkow's death had cleared
away a great obstacle to the fulfilment of her wishes. He would hardly
have consented to the dissolution of a marriage for which he, in his
ambition, had so long striven, and which he had bought so dearly. His
son viewed the matter in another light. To him the marriage was as
indifferent as the wife, whom he, in his former easy passivity, had
suffered to be forced upon him.

He had voluntarily offered her the separation before she had made any
attempt to obtain his consent to it, and the step, which almost
invariably costs so many a struggle, such tears and bitterness of
feeling, which, not unfrequently, rouses from their depths all the
passions of the human heart, would, in this case, be taken quietly and
temperately, with perfect mutual accord, and in so thoroughly cold,
polite and heartless a manner, it was really worthy of all admiration.

All at once Afra reared high in the air. She was not accustomed to the
touch of the whip, much less to so very smart a cut as she had just
received. Her mistress's impatience tried her greatly this morning, and
if Eugénie had not been perfectly at home in the saddle, the fiery
excitable animal would have given her trouble enough. As it was, she
bridled in her horse with some little effort, but her delicate eyebrows
were knitted and her lips firmly set, as if in anger. Whether this
anger were aroused by Afra's opposition, or by the failure of
opposition in another quarter, must remain undecided.

Meanwhile she had reached the farm, distant a mile or two from the
works, and lying farther up the valley. Now she must begin to climb,
not indeed by the steep footpath by which she and Arthur had made their
descent, and which would have been impracticable on horseback, but by a
carriage-road leading not far from thence up, by long but easy
windings, to the not very elevated summit. Her horse, unused to
mountain-climbing, chafed at the exertion required, and on reaching the
top of the hill, she was obliged to halt to give it time to recover
itself.

The veil of mist, which had hovered over the country when last she was
there, had vanished now, and the clear sunshine flowed down brightly
warm upon the earth, as though there had never been a time when the
rain and the wind had here striven for the mastery, and when the whole
landscape around had been shrouded in one grey shapeless mantle of fog.

The valleys lay once more blue and vaporous in the cool morning shade,
and the mountains stood out in bolder relief by the contrast, their
countless crests rising one above the other, seeming to press each
other into the background; nothing but one great sea of forest,
stretching right away to the range of blue peaks in the horizon. The
dark pines had dressed themselves in a tender light green. Blossoms of
a thousand hues and forms bloomed, not only in the fruitful soil within
the woods, but in the rocky ground without, in every nook and cranny
where a reed could find room for itself or a tiny plant take root, and
the air was full of their sweet fragrance.

Then the brooks ran foaming down into the valleys below, the springs
rippled gently, and overhead was spread a cloudless azure canopy of
sky. All around was so golden clear, so grand and free, it seemed as
though the newly awakened life of Nature must have power to heal every
wound, to break every fetter, as though here nothing could draw breath
that was not allied to freedom and to happiness.

And yet Eugénie's look was strangely thoughtful. There was a tension of
pain in her face, as if for her there lay some secret torture in all
this surrounding beauty. She should have breathed freely now,
remembering the promised liberty which would be hers before the earth
had been greeted by another spring.

Why could she feel no relief? Why, at this thought, did a sensation
nearly akin to pain dart through her soul? Was the memory of that
troubled hour still so potent within her, of that hour when, for the
first time, the word of separation had been spoken and accepted? She
longed so ardently for this separation, to be free to go back to her
own people; she suffered so cruelly from her chains, she felt as if she
could hardly bear them any longer; since their conversation up here it
had become impossible for her to bear them.

Up to then she had been firm and steadfast in her self-sacrifice for
her father's sake, in her resignation to the lot forced upon her and in
her hatred to those who had so forced it, but, from that hour, all her
feelings seemed to have undergone a change. From that hour dated the
secret contest within her, the struggle against something which lay
obscure and unexpressed down in the farthest depths of her soul, and
which, she was determined, should never gain dominion over her.

Yet it was this indefinite something that had driven her out this
morning and dragged her almost against her will up to this spot; it
alone was to blame for the fact that Baron Windeg's daughter had so far
lost sight of all etiquette as to leave behind the groom who always
attended her on her expeditions.

She neither could nor would have any observant eyes upon her to-day,
and it was well that she had none, for, as she halted there alone upon
the heights, there came over her, in the midst of all this bright
spring sunshine, a sort of vague longing for the mysterious charm of
that hour when clouds and fog encircled her, when the pine crests
rustled above them and the storm raged in the ravines and valleys
below, when those great brown eyes, unveiling themselves for the first
time, awakened within her a dim intuitive consciousness that of the man
before her much, nay almost anything, might perhaps have been made, if
only--before his own father's hand had drawn him down into that vortex
where so many a life is wrecked--if only he could have loved and been
loved in return.

And, with the remembrance of this, there welled up within her a feeling
which Eugénie Windeg had never known, which it was reserved for Arthur
Berkow's wife to experience, a sorrow far quieter, but also far deeper,
than any she had yet endured. She laid her hand over her eyes, as a
torrent of hot tears burst irrepressibly from them.

"My lady!"

Eugénie started, and, at the same moment, Afra, taking fright at the
sound of a strange voice, sprang violently to one side. In an instant a
powerful hand had seized her bridle, forcing the animal to be still.
Ulric Hartmann stood close by its side.

"I did not know the horse was so easily scared, but I caught hold of
the bridle at once," said he apologetically, casting a look half
anxious, half admiring, at the young rider who had kept her seat so
steadily in spite of the surprise.

Eugénie brushed her hand quickly across her face, trying to wipe away
all trace of tears, but it was too late, her fit of weeping must
already have been observed, and the thought of this drove a deep
crimson to her cheeks and lent a tone of vexation to her voice, as she
said quickly and rather imperiously:

"Let go the reins. Afra is not accustomed to be held by strangers, and
it frightens her to feel their touch. You are bringing danger on me and
yourself too by standing so near."

Ulric obeyed and stepped back. Eugénie passed her hand caressingly over
the animal's neck, and Afra, who had never ceased snorting and fretting
while she felt a strange hold on her rein, a hold too powerful, as she
at once knew, to be resisted, soon quieted down under the influence of
her mistress's petting.

In the meantime Hartmann's gaze had never swerved from the young
horsewoman, and, in truth, few of her sex, when mounted, could show to
such advantage as she. The dark habit, the little hat and veil set
lightly on the rich plaits of her fair hair, and crowning becomingly
the beautiful face with its heightened colour, her easy and assured
bearing, quite unruffled by Afra's restlessness, all served her
admirably and brought the just proportions of her slender figure into
fullest evidence. As she sat her handsome horse there in the bright
full sunlight, she looked a perfect picture of graceful strength.

"You were up here, Hartmann?" asked she, in the faint hope that he
might only just have reached the heights at the moment he had first
addressed her, and so not have seen her tears. "I did not notice you
before."

"I was standing up there," he pointed to an opening in the forest which
had certainly not attracted her attention. "I saw you riding up and
stayed waiting for you."

Eugénie, about to ride past him into the wood, stopped at these words
in surprise.

"Waiting for me?" she repeated. "And why?" Ulric evaded a reply.

"You are alone, my lady, quite alone? you have not even a servant with
you as usual?"

"No, you can see I am by myself." Ulric stepped up quickly, but more
cautiously this time, to the horse's side again.

"Then you must turn back at once. I will go with you, at all events
until we come in sight of the works."

"But why all this?" asked Eugénie, more and more amazed at the proposal
and at the young miner's darkly knitted brows. "Is there any danger
here in the woods, or what else is there to be afraid of?"

Ulric cast a scrutinising look at the road below, which could be seen
in most of its windings from the spot where they stood.

"We have been up to the forges in the hills, I and some of my mates,"
he said at last slowly. "I took the shorter cut because I wanted to get
back sooner, the others followed the high road. You might come upon
them, my lady, and I would rather be with you--any way."

"I am not timid," Eugénie declared firmly, "and I should suppose they
will hardly go so far as to insult me. I know there is a disagreement
with the miners on the works, but they tell me it is of no importance
and will soon be settled."

"Then they lie to you!" broke in Ulric roughly. "It is no trifling
matter, and it is not likely to be settled. Herr Berkow has declared
war upon us, or we upon him, it comes to the same thing; any way, we
are at war, and there will never be an end to it until one side or the
other is fairly worsted. I tell you so, my lady, and I ought to know."

A slight pallor overspread the young wife's face as she heard this
confirmation of the fears which had so long haunted her; but his
arrogant tone and rough manner of disclosing facts offended her, and
she replied with some haughtiness:

"Well, if that is the case, I cannot possibly accept the company, still
less the protection, of a man who so openly avows himself to be my
husband's enemy. I shall go on alone."

She would have given her horse the rein, but Ulric started forward at
the movement, and, with a hasty imperious gesture, placed himself
before her, barring the road.

"Stay, my lady, you must take me with you."

"I must?" Eugénie raised her head proudly. "What if I will not?"

"Then .... I implore you to yield."

Again there was the same abrupt transition from ruthless menace to
almost supplicating entreaty which had disarmed her once already. It
melted her anger now as she looked down on the young miner, dark and
wrathful, but yet gazing up at her in unmistakable anxiety.

"I cannot accept your offer, Hartmann," said she gravely. "If your
comrades are stirred up to such a pitch of irritation that I cannot
meet them without being exposed to insult, I fear it has been your
doing alone, and a man who bears us so deadly a hatred" ...

"Us!" interrupted Ulric impetuously. "I bear you no hatred, my lady,
and I'll take care _you_ are not insulted. Not a man among them dares
say a word against you when I am by, and if he dared to do it once, he
would not a second time. Let me go with you!"

Eugénie hesitated a few seconds, but her fearless nature and the
thought of his former hostile tone turned the scale against him.

"I will turn back and avoid the high road," said she quickly. "You must
stay here, Hartmann. Consideration for Herr Berkow requires it."

At the sound of this name his long pent-up anger burst forth. His eyes
flashed, and a gleam of savage hatred darted like lightning from them.

"Consideration for Herr Berkow!" he broke out, "for Herr Berkow, who
shows you such tender care, allowing you to ride out alone, when he
knows we have been up at the forges and must be about the woods now.
But the truth is, he never has given himself any concern about you. It
is all the same to him whether you are unhappy or not, and yet the
whole responsibility of it lies at his door."

"Hartmann, how dare you speak so!" exclaimed Eugénie, glowing with
anger and indignation, but she strove in vain to stop him. He went on
with ever-growing excitement.

"No doubt, it is a great crime to have caught you crying, when you
thought there was not a soul about to notice it; but I am pretty sure
that you have shed tears enough, my lady, since you came here, only no
one has been by to see, as I was just now. I know who is to blame for
it, and I will make him" ...

He stopped suddenly, for Eugénie had drawn herself up erect in her
saddle, and was looking at him with that air of crushing haughtiness
she could assume at times to keep others at a distance. The tone of her
voice was sharp and freezing; worse still, she spoke as a mistress
addressing an inferior, ordering him now imperiously.

"Be silent, Hartmann. Say one word, one single word, more against my
husband, and I shall forget that you saved his life and mine, and
answer your outbreak as it deserves."

She turned her horse's head quickly, and would have ridden past him;
but Ulric's giant form stood before her in the path, and he would not
yield a step. At that tone of command, which he then heard for the
first time from her lips, he had grown deadly pale, and the hate
burning in his eyes seemed now to include her also.

"Out of my way!" commanded Eugénie still more imperatively than before.
"I will pass."

But she was dealing with a man who cared little for orders given him,
and who was stung to fury at receiving one from her mouth. Instead of
obeying, he took one step forward, which brought him close up to her
side, and again, this time with a grasp of iron, seized the bridle,
paying no heed to the rearing horse or to its rider's danger.

"You should not speak so to me," he said in a deep low voice. "Don't
urge on your horse," he continued desperately, as she was about to
touch Afra with her whip, in the hope of breaking free from him and
getting away. "You cannot ride me down; but, by Heaven, I will drag the
beast to the ground, as I did that day with the other two."

The threat contained in his words was terrible enough, but there was a
still worse menace in his look. For the first time Eugénie saw turned
against herself that savage temper so feared by all, and she suddenly
awoke to a full sense of the danger of her position. Instantly,
however, with quick presence of mind, she caught at the only means
which could save her.

"Hartmann," said she reproachfully, but her voice had grown gentle and
almost soft, "not long ago, you offered me your protection, and now you
use threats towards me yourself. Yes indeed, I can see what there might
be to fear from your comrades, if you can behave so to me. I should not
have ridden out to the forest if I could have had the least suspicion
of it."

The reproach and, still more, the voice, brought Ulric to his senses
again. His wild fury subsided, when he no longer heard that imperative
tone which had exasperated him.

"Up to this time I have never feared you," continued Eugénie softly,
"in spite of all the bad things they say of you. Do you wish to make me
fear you now? We are close to the edge, and it is very steep below. If
you go on irritating the mare in this way, if you attempt to carry out
your threat, there will be an accident. Will the man who once threw
himself under my horses' hoofs, that he might rescue a perfect
stranger, actually bring danger upon me now? Let me go, Hartmann."

A quiver shot through Ulric. He looked down at the steep slope and saw
how very near it they were. Slowly he let go his hold on the bridle,
very slowly, as though yielding to some irresistible force, he stepped
to one side and let her pass.

Eugénie looked back involuntarily. He was standing there silent and
still, his fiery eyes fixed on the ground; without a syllable of
response or of leave-taking he let her go on her way unhindered.

                              CHAPTER XVI.

Eugénie drew a deep breath of relief, as Afra's swift pace soon carried
her from that dangerous neighbourhood. Fearless as she was by nature,
she had trembled. Our heroine would have been no woman, if, after such
a scene, she had not known that which she had long suspected, namely,
that the man's behaviour to herself, so enigmatical and full of
contradictions, concealed some other and far more dangerous feeling
than hate.

Once again he had yielded to her influence, but he had been on the very
point of bursting his bonds. She had a proof now that, when once the
barriers were broken down, he was no whit inferior in blind and raging
fury to that "untamed element of Nature" to which she had likened him.

She had reached the valley, and, bearing in mind the warning she had
received, was about to turn out of the main road, when she heard the
sound of a horse's hoofs, and, looking round, saw that its rider was
galloping towards her at a speed which soon brought him to her side.

"At last!" cried Arthur, out of breath and reining in his horse. "What
imprudence to ride out alone to-day of all days! But, to be sure, you
had no notion of the risk you ran."

Eugénie looked at him in surprise, as, panting and glowing from his
hasty ride, he walked his horse by her side. He was not dressed for
riding, he wore neither spurs nor gloves. He must have mounted just as
he was, in his house-dress, and set out in her pursuit.

"I only heard of your fancy half-an-hour ago," he continued, mastering
his excitement. "Frank and Anthony are looking for you in different
directions, I was the only one to find the right track. They told me at
the farm you had ridden by here a little while ago."

Eugénie did not inquire as to the reason of all this uneasiness; she
knew it well enough, but the uneasiness itself surprised her a little.
He might simply have sent the servants out after her. No doubt, the
idea that his wife might be insulted by the miners would be very
distasteful to the proprietor of the works, and it was probably in his
character as master of the place that he had rushed after her himself.

"I have been up there," said she, pointing to the goal of her
expedition.

"Up on the heights? Where we took refuge from the storm that day? You
have been up there?"

Eugénie grew crimson. Once again she saw in his eyes that strange gleam
of light which had been absent from them for weeks, and then, why did
he question her so eagerly, so breathlessly? Had he not long ago
forgotten that hour, the remembrance of which still troubled her so
often?

"I came upon the place accidentally," said she hurriedly, as though
trying to acquit herself of blame. Her plea succeeded, and was at once
followed by the desired result.

The light vanished from his eyes, and his voice was cold and steady
again as he returned:

"Accidentally? Ah, yes, I might have known that such a mountain
excursion as that would not form part of your plans. Afra always shows
so much dislike to climbing. But you might also accidentally have taken
the road to M----, and that was what I feared."

"And what was there to be afraid of there?" asked Eugénie, looking
keenly at him, while together they left the broad high-road and entered
a path which led through the woods.

Arthur tried to evade her look.

"Something unpleasant might have occurred there on this particular day.
Our miners have been up to the forges in the hills to try and stir up
resistance there also. Hartmann's fulminating speeches have made them
all red hot. I hear there were already disturbances up there yesterday,
and a band of men, returning in an excited state from the scene of such
disorders, may, unfortunately, be ready for anything. They must be on
their way back now."

"I should have avoided the high road in any case," said Eugénie
quietly. "I had been warned already."

"Warned! By whom?"

"By Hartmann himself. I met him not a quarter of an hour ago up in the
forest."

This time it was Arthur's horse which reared violently. Its rider had
startled it by a sudden twitch at the reins.

"Hartmann? And he dared to go near you--to address you, after all that
has happened during the last few days?"

"He only did it to warn me, to offer me his escort and protection. I
declined both. I thought it was due to you and your position."

"You thought it due to me," repeated Arthur in a cutting tone. "I am
immensely indebted to you for such consideration, and you did well
to take it into account; for, if you had allowed yourself to be
escorted by him--much as I try to avoid giving any pretext for an open
conflict--I should have had to make him feel that the author and chief
instigator of the whole revolt must keep himself at a distance from my
wife."

Eugénie was silent. She knew him now well enough to be aware that, in
spite of his apparent coldness, he was greatly irritated; she
understood the close setting of the lips and the slight tremor of the
hand. Just so had he stood opposite her on the first evening of their
arrival, only now she knew better what lay concealed behind that calm
demeanour.

They rode on in silence through the sunny woods, the horses' hoofs
falling noiselessly on the yielding moss. Here, as up yonder, the scent
and breath of spring were everywhere; here as there, was the clear
deep-blue sky, vaulting in the pine trees overhead, and here too the
secret sorrow at her heart, but keener now and far more poignant than
it had been up on the heights above.

The horses walked side by side in the narrow path; as they went, the
heavy folds of Eugénie's habit brushed against the bushes, and her veil
went fluttering back over Arthur's shoulder. Brought into such close
neighbourhood as this, she could not fail to observe that her companion
was looking terribly pale, now that the exertion of his hasty ride was
over. True, he had never had the fresh, healthy colour of youth, but
this was quite a different pallor from that of the young dandy who
spent his evenings in heated salons and his nights in play, and then,
wearied out and satiated, would lie all day long on the sofa, with the
curtains closely drawn, because his weakened eyes could not endure the
sunlight.

His present paleness came, no doubt, from the same source as the dark
lines of care upon his brow, and the grave, almost sombre, expression
of his face which formerly bore an expression of lazy indifference
only. To most men such a change would have been unfavourable, but to
Arthur Berkow it proved an infinite gain.

Eugénie now saw plainly for the first time that her husband had claims
to be considered handsome. In earlier days she had not been willing to
see this. His languid air and evident want of interest in all around
him had outweighed for her those advantages which were now, all at
once, brought out into bold relief by the new and unaccustomed stamp of
energy imprinted on his countenance and entire bearing; an energy which
possibly may have been long latent within him, but which, like so many
other qualities had been repressed, and well-nigh crushed, by too early
and too satiating an experience of life and its enjoyments. Ah, yes!
the world lying perdu beneath was indeed rising from its depths at
last, roused by the sound of the approaching storm which alone ...!

Eugénie felt something like bitterness at the thought that she herself
had had no share in this awakening, that hers was not the magic charm
which had loosed the spell. He had broken through it of his own
strength, and needed no help from a stranger's hand.

"I am sorry I had to spoil your ride," said Arthur, breaking the
silence at last, but addressing her in his usual tone of distant
politeness. "It is a glorious day."

"I am afraid you stand more in need of a ride in the open air than I."
The young wife's voice betrayed a perhaps unconscious anxiety. "You are
looking pale, Arthur."

"I am not used to work," said he with a kind of bitter pleasantry.
"That comes from being so effeminate. I cannot do what the people I
employ have to do every day of their lives."

"It seems to me, rather, that you are doing too much, you are pushing
it to the very extreme," returned Eugénie, quickly. "All day long you
hardly leave your study, and, at night, I see the light burning there
until morning."

A sudden flush passed over the young man's face.

"And how long is it since you have favoured the windows of my room with
so much attention?" asked he with quiet sarcasm. "I did not suppose you
knew of their existence."

She reddened a little now in her turn, but soon overcame her confusion,
and answered with firmness:

"Since I have known that the danger you are so determined to make light
of is drawing nearer day by day. Why did you deceive me as to the
importance of this dispute and its possible consequences?"

"I did not wish to alarm you."

She made an impatient gesture.

"I am no timid child to be so carefully spared, and if there is
anything threatening us"----

"Us!" interrupted Arthur. "Excuse me, the danger threatens me alone. I
have never intended to treat you as a child; but I thought it my duty
not to importune the Baroness Windeg with matters which must be quite
indifferent to her, and which, before long, will be as completely
removed from her as the name she now bears."

The tone of his reply was frigid in the extreme. It was her own tone,
one she had often enough adopted towards him, when she found it
necessary to remind him of her descent or of the compulsion to which
she had yielded in marrying; and now it was used as a lesson to
herself! Something like anger shot up into her dark eyes as she fixed
them on her husband.

"So you decline giving me any information about your affairs for the
future?"

"No, not if you wish for it."

Eugénie struggled a moment with herself; at last she said,

"You have refused your people's demands?"

"All that it was possible for me to grant, and all that the people
themselves required, I have granted; but Hartmann's terms are so
extreme, they will not bear discussion. They would, of necessity, lead
to the complete destruction of all discipline, to a state of positive
anarchy, and they are in themselves a downright insult. He would hardly
have ventured to propose them, if he had not known all that is at stake
for me in this struggle."

"And what is there at stake?" asked Eugénie, listening with breathless
attention. "Your fortune?"

"More even, my existence as a mine-owner."

"And you will not give way?"

"No."

She looked up at her husband, at the man who, barely three months
before, could not endure a "scene" with her, because it affected his
"nerves," and who now quietly faced a struggle on which his whole
future depended. Was he really the same being? That "No" of his had an
iron clang about it; she felt that the most violent threats would
extract from him no other answer.

"I fear Hartmann will go all lengths," she returned. "He hates you."

Arthur smiled contemptuously.

"I know it, and the feeling is certainly mutual."

Eugénie thought of the eyes which had flashed so wildly when she
pronounced her husband's name up there on the heights, and a sudden
terror took possession of her.

"You must not under-estimate that man's hatred. He is terrible in his
passions as in his energy."

Arthur looked her steadily in the face, frowning as he did so.

"Are you so well acquainted with him? You certainly always have had an
admiration for this hero in a blouse. A cheap sort of energy, his,
defiantly setting itself to work to bring about the impossible, and
preferring to drag hundreds down into misfortune rather than listen to
a word of reason. But even Hartmann may find a rampart against which
his obstinate will may spend its strength in vain. From me, at least,
he will obtain nothing, though I should have to fight on until I am
completely ruined."

He reined in his horse all at once, and Eugénie instantly did the same.
The path through the woods was here intersected by a bend in the high
road, and there, drawn up just before them, they saw the very men they
had wished to avoid. A troop of miners had come to a halt at that spot
and appeared to be waiting for some one.

Arthur knitted his brows.

"It seems we are not to be spared a meeting."

"Shall we turn back?" asked Eugénie in a low voice.

"It is too late, they have seen us already. We cannot avoid them now;
to turn back would savour of flight. It is a pity we are on horseback,
that will irritate them still more, but we must show no weakness; we
must go on."

"And yet you feared this encounter?"

Arthur looked at her astonished.

"I? It was only you who were not to meet them. It cannot be helped now;
but, at all events, you are no longer alone. Keep Afra well in hand,
and stay close by me. Perhaps there will be no conflict, after all."

These words were exchanged quickly and almost in a whisper as they
paused for one minute. Then they rode slowly forward and out into the
high road, where their approach had evidently been remarked.

Arthur was right. The circumstances of the meeting could hardly be
worse. The men were in a turbulent mood, embittered and excited by the
scenes which had taken place up at the forges. They were already
beginning to suffer from the consequences of their resistance, and now
they came face to face with the master who had refused to yield to
their demands. They saw him well mounted, riding by the side of his
high-born wife, and returning, as they supposed, from some excursion of
pleasure.

It was a dangerous sight for men already battling with want. A
significant growl of discontent was heard, some muttered threats and
insulting words were spoken; but, as the two emerged from the forest on
to the main road, there was silence, the troop, as if by a preconcerted
movement, forming itself into a compact mass ready to bar the passage.

Arthur's lips showed that slight nervous quiver which, with him, was
the only outward mark of emotion, but his hand was perfectly steady as
he grasped Afra's bridle, so as, come what might, to keep her close at
his side.

"Good day."

The greeting was unanswered. Not a man of the whole troop responded to
it; on all sides hostile glances were showered upon the new-comers, and
the men standing nearest to them pressed round more closely.

"Will you not let us through?" asked Arthur gravely. "The horses will
grow restive if you press round them so. Give way."

In spite of the danger of their situation, a danger she thoroughly
understood, Eugénie looked up at her husband in wonder. It was the
first time she had ever heard this tone from his lips, very quiet, no
doubt, but nevertheless conveying all the authority of a master over
his subordinates.

This behaviour on Arthur's part was certainly full of danger at such a
moment, but it would have been attended with complete success, if the
troop had remained without a leader; the men would have obeyed him. But
now all eyes were turned in one direction, as though awaiting from
thence alone the signal for compliance or resistance.

Some little distance off stood Ulric Hartmann, who had just come down
from the heights, and whom they had probably expected to meet here. He
stood motionless, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on Berkow and his
wife with an expression which boded them little good.

Arthur's looks had followed those of the men about him. He faced round
now.

"Hartmann, are you in charge to-day? It is for you to see, then, that a
way is made for us. We are waiting."

If, in these words, there had been the slightest trace of command or of
entreaty, no matter which, it would have been as a spark falling into a
powder-magazine, and Ulric seemed really to be only waiting for some
such spark; but by thus recognising his authority and coolly calling on
him to keep order, as if it were a well-understood part of his duty,
Arthur took him by surprise, without, however, disarming him. He drew
near slowly.

"Oh, so you want to ride on, Herr Berkow?"

"Certainly, you see we wish to pass through to the other side."

A look of withering contempt crossed Ulric's features.

"And you call on me to help you? You are master of your works and of
your men. Why do you not order them to make way? Or"--here his voice
took a hollow, threatening sound, "or, perhaps, you think that here _I_
am master, and that I need only say one word to prove it to you--to
prove it to you both!"

Eugénie had grown very pale, and pressed her horse still closer to
Arthur's. She knew that the menace in those glittering eyes was not for
her, but it was not for herself she trembled. She had no courage now to
try and use that power before which Ulric had so lately bent; besides,
she felt the spell would not work while he beheld her at her husband's
side.

"In case of assault, a hundred can always have the mastery over one,"
said Arthur coldly, "but I suppose you hardly mean that, Hartmann. You
would feel no uneasiness yourself, would you, if you came, alone and
unexpectedly, into the midst of my officials? I consider myself as safe
here as in my own house."

Ulric made no answer. He looked up with a scowl at the man before him,
who was facing him with such perfect composure and steadily scanning
his face with those clear brown eyes, just as on the day when the
strife had first broken out.

On that occasion, however, he had stood in his own committee-room,
surrounded and protected by his agents; now he was alone in the midst
of an excited crowd, only awaiting the signal to proceed to insults,
possibly to deeds of violence, and yet not a muscle of his face
quivered; his bearing was as proud and assured, his look as fearless,
as though he felt and knew himself to be master even here.

This quiet confidence of his did not fail to have its effect upon the
crowd, trained in the habit of obedience. The only question for the men
now was to know whom they should follow. They turned another inquiring
glance on Ulric, who stood by in silence. He looked up once more, then
aside at Eugénie's white face. Suddenly he stepped back.

"Make way, let the horses through! To the left, face about!"

The order was executed with a celerity which showed it was not
unwelcome. In less than a minute a broad path was opened, and Berkow
and his wife rode through unhindered. They turned from the high-road
into the forest again, and soon disappeared among the trees.

"I say, Ulric," Lawrence went up to his friend with a sort of
good-natured remonstrance, "you flew at me just now because I preached
peace up at the forges. What have you been doing here, yourself?"

The other was still gazing over at the trees. Now that the young
proprietor's personal influence was no longer felt, he seemed to repent
him of his fit of generosity.

"'A hundred to one,'" he murmured bitterly, "and 'I am safe among you.'
Yes! they are never wanting in fine speeches when there is anything
that frightens them, and such as we are always ready to catch at the
old bait."

"He did not look as if he were frightened," said Lawrence decidedly.
"He is certainly not at all like his father. Ulric, we ought" ...

"What ought we to do?" interrupted Ulric hastily. "To give way, don't
you mean? So that you may have peace and quiet again, and that he may
go on worse than his father ever did, when he sees he can succeed in
everything. If I let him go to-day, I did it because he was not alone,
because his wife was with him, and because" ...

He broke off suddenly. The proud self-contained man would rather have
bitten out his tongue than have confessed to his comrade what influence
had really compelled him to forbear.

Meanwhile, Arthur and Eugénie had ridden on in silence. Perhaps the
common danger they had just passed through had linked them more closely
together, for their horses went on side by side, and Arthur still held
Afra's rein, though the widening path would now have afforded them room
enough, though there was nothing more to fear, and all further care of
so consummate a horsewoman was plainly superfluous.

"Do you understand the danger of to-day's excursion now?"

"Yes, and also the danger of your situation."

"I must bear it. You see yourself what blind obedience Hartmann can
command. One word from him, and they let us ride on; not a man ventured
to murmur, yet they were only waiting a sign from him to turn against
us."

"But he did not give the sign," said Eugénie emphatically.

Arthur turned the same strange, searching gaze upon her.

"No, not to-day. He knows best what held him back, but it may happen
to-morrow, or the next day, or whenever we meet. I am quite prepared
for it."

Leaving the wood now, they set their horses into a trot and arrived a
quarter of an hour later at the terrace before the château. Arthur
swung himself from his saddle--with what elasticity compared with his
former languid movements! He offered his hand to help his wife
dismount. Her face was still deadly pale, and she trembled a little as
he placed his arm round her, trembled still more as it held her firmly
a second longer than was usual on such occasions.

"Were you frightened?" he asked softly, as he took her arm to lead her
into the house.

Eugénie gave no answer. Yes, she had been a prey to mortal terror all
through that scene, but she would rather he should think her a coward
than let him guess it was for his sake she had felt alarm. A suspicion
of this seemed, however, to dawn upon him.

"Were you frightened, Eugénie?" he asked again in soft, low tones,
pressing her arm more and more firmly to his breast. She raised her
eyes to his, and, once more, saw that bright illumining, more radiant
now and more significant than she had ever seen it yet. He bent down to
her, as if to lose no syllable of her reply.

"Arthur, I----"

"Baron Windeg and his eldest son arrived half-an-hour ago," announced a
servant, hastening forward, and the words were hardly spoken when the
young Baron, who had probably been watching for them from the window,
rushed down the stairs with all the ardour of his eighteen years, eager
to greet his sister whom he had not seen since her marriage.

"Ah, Con, is it you?"

She felt something like a pang at this arrival of father and brother,
an arrival for which she had before so earnestly longed.

Arthur had let her hand fall as the name of Windeg was mentioned. She
saw the glacial expression which stole over his features, and heard the
freezing tone of his voice as he greeted his young brother-in-law with
distant politeness.

"Will you not come up with me?" she asked, seeing that he remained
standing at the foot of the staircase.

"Excuse me if I ask you to receive your father alone. I had ...
forgotten something which has just been recalled to my memory. I will
wait on the Baron as soon as I possibly can."

He stepped back while Eugénie and her brother went up the stairs by
themselves. The latter seemed rather surprised, but a glance at his
sister's pale face made him suppress the question which was on his
lips. He knew pretty well, he thought, how matters stood here. Perhaps
during their ride that parvenu had taken occasion to inflict some fresh
mortification on his wife. The young fellow cast a threatening look
below, and turned to his sister with impetuous tenderness.

"Eugénie, I am so happy to see you again, and you"----

She forced herself to smile.

"And I too am happy, infinitely happy!"

She looked down into the vestibule again. It was empty. Arthur must
already have left it.

She drew herself up with a movement of wounded pride.

"Let us go to my father. He is waiting for us."

                             CHAPTER XVII.

Among the dwellers on the Berkow estates there was probably only one
person who viewed the strife, which had so violently broken out between
master and men, in any but its most alarming aspect. This person was
Herr Wilberg. In that official's foolish young head there lurked so
much vague exaggerated romance that he could not help thinking it all
highly interesting. His fancy was taken by this situation so fraught
with peril, by the knowledge that the low ferment of discontent
reigning all around might at any moment explode and bring about a
catastrophe.

The admiration he had felt for Hartmann had been promptly transferred
to the new proprietor, when the latter had placed himself at the head
of affairs, grasping the helm with a vigour which no one expected from
so weak and effeminate a hand. But in Arthur's strenuous efforts to
make himself thoroughly at home in the new field of labour and to stem
the torrent of dangers and losses pouring in upon him on all sides, the
superior officials alone were called on to aid by their sympathy and
support. The younger members of the establishment enjoyed an
involuntary leisure in consequence of the general lull, and Herr
Wilberg employed his idle hours in plunging deep into his so-called
passion for his liege lady, and by doing his very best to feel as
unhappy in it as possible.

To tell the truth, this last was somewhat difficult, for he was, in
reality, quite in his element and extremely proud of this hopeless
attachment. His idea was that love, to be poetical, must of necessity
be unfortunate, and a happy affection would have been really
embarrassing to him. This adoration from afar suited him perfectly, and
he found ample opportunity of indulging in it, for he now seldom or
ever saw the object of his idolatry.

Since the day on which he had accompanied Eugénie through the park, he
had only spoken to her once. Accidentally meeting him one day, she had
tried to learn from him something more definite about the strike then
just breaking out. Strict orders had, however, been issued by Herr
Berkow to the effect that his wife was in no way to be alarmed, and
Wilberg obeyed them so far as to avoid all reference to the actually
existing state of affairs; on the other hand, he could not resist
giving a faithful description of the scene which had taken place in the
committee-room between her husband and Hartmann.

Coming from his lips, the whole history naturally took a dramatic
colour, and Arthur, in his suddenly awakened energy, rose to such a
pitch of heroism, it was really incomprehensible how such a story could
have entirely failed in its effect.

Eugénie had listened, it is true, with evident and eager attention, but
she was pale and unusually still while listening; and, when he came to
the end, the narrator waited in vain for a word of remark from her
lips. She thanked and then dismissed him with cool politeness, and the
young man left her, feeling rather surprised and a good deal hurt at
such a want of sympathy on her part.

So she too had no perception of the poetical, or perhaps the situation
had appeared less imposing to her, from the fact that her husband had
been the hero of the hour. Another would very likely have triumphed in
this thought, but Wilberg's romantic fancies generally distinguished
themselves by the complete reversal of all natural sentiments.

He felt injured that his recital had produced no greater effect. When
in Eugénie's company, he was apt to feel something of that glacier-like
atmosphere which, according to the chief-engineer, constantly
surrounded her. She was so high, so distant, so unapproachable, and
never more so than when she condescended to some act of kindness.

In presence of such condescension, no choice was left a man but either
to bow down in absolute adoration, or for ever to bear about with him
the sense of utter insignificance and nothingness. As the latter
alternative could not possibly suit Herr Wilberg, he was fain to choose
the former.

Buried in such thoughts as these, he had strolled on in the direction
of the Manager's house; it being his habit to look neither to the right
nor to the left, he came, as he stepped on to the bridge, into violent
collision with a lady who was crossing from the other side. Startled at
the sudden shock, she gave a little cry and sprang for safety to one
side. Wilberg looked up now, and stammered an excuse.

"I beg your pardon, Fräulein Mélanie, I did not see you. I was so taken
up with my thoughts, I paid no heed to where I was going."

Fräulein Mélanie was the daughter of the chief-engineer, at whose house
the young clerk occasionally visited; but his ideas had confessedly
taken so high a flight that he had bestowed but small notice on the
girl of sixteen who, with the exception of a graceful figure, a sweet
young face, and a pair of roguish eyes, had nothing in the least
romantic to recommend her.

She was far from his poetical standard, and the young lady, for her
part, had up to this time troubled herself very little about the
fair-haired Herr Wilberg; she had even thought him rather tiresome. But
now he evidently considered it his duty to make reparation for his
involuntary rudeness by addressing to her some polite speeches.

"You are coming back from a walk, Fräulein Mélanie? Have you been far?"

"Oh no, not far. Papa has forbidden me to take long walks, and he does
not much like my coming out alone. Tell me, Herr Wilberg, is all this
about our miners really so dangerous?"

"Dangerous? How do you mean?" said Wilberg diplomatically.

"Well, I don't know, but papa is so grave sometimes, it makes me feel
quite nervous and frightened. He has talked too of sending mamma and me
into town on a visit."

The young man's face assumed an expression of deep melancholy.

"The times are full of grave earnest," he said, "of terrible earnest! I
cannot blame your father for wishing to place his wife and child in
safety. We must stand and fight to the last man!"

"To the last man?" cried the girl, horrified. "Good Heavens, my poor
papa!"

"Well, I only meant that in a figurative sense," said Wilberg
soothingly. "There is no question of personal danger; and even if it
should come to that, your father's years and his duties as head of a
family would exclude him from all perilous service. In that case, we
young ones should step into the breach."

"Would you?" asked Mélanie, looking at him rather distrustfully.

"Certainly, Fräulein Mélanie, I should be the very first."

With a view to giving greater emphasis to this declaration, Herr
Wilberg was about to lay his hand solemnly on his breast, when all at
once, he jumped back and hurried as fast as possible over to the other
side, Mélanie following him with equal speed. Close behind them stood
Hartmann's gigantic form. He had come over the bridge unnoticed, and
smiled now a contemptuous little smile as he saw the evident emotion of
the young people.

"You need not be afraid, Herr Wilberg," said he quietly. "I am not
going to hurt you."

The young clerk seemed to feel the absurdity of his sudden retreat, and
to perceive also that, as the companion and protector of a young lady,
he was bound to adopt a different line of conduct. He summoned up all
his courage and, placing himself before the no less intimidated
Mélanie, answered with some show of firmness,

"I hardly suppose, Hartmann, that you mean to attack us in the open
street."

"That is what you gentlemen seem to expect," said Ulric derisively.
"You run away, all of you directly I show myself, just as if I were a
highwayman. Herr Berkow does not, he is the only one," the miner went
on speaking with a growl now as he uttered the hated name. "He holds
his ground, no matter if I have the whole gang at my back."

"Herr Berkow and her ladyship are just the only two who do not suspect"
... began Wilberg imprudently.

"Who do not suspect what?" asked Ulric, turning a dark look on him.

Whether the young official were exasperated by the derision with which
he and his colleagues had been treated, or whether he considered it
necessary to play the hero for Mélanie's benefit, is uncertain; suffice
it to say that he yielded to one of those fits of passion which not
seldom carry timid natures into extremes.

"We do not run away from you, Hartmann, because you are stirring up the
people to rebellion and making it impossible to come to an
understanding with them. It is not on that account we get out of your
way, but because,"--here he lowered his voice so that the girl could
not overhear his words--"because the ropes broke that day when you went
below with Herr Berkow--if you must know the reason why every one
avoids you."

They were very thoughtless, very rash words, particularly to be spoken
by a man like Wilberg, but he little dreamed of the effect they would
produce. Ulric started, uttered a half-suppressed cry of rage which was
full of menace, then grew ashy pale, and letting fall his clenched
fist, caught convulsively at the iron railings of the bridge. He stood
there with heaving breast and teeth tightly ground together, gazing
down at the two before him in speechless fury.

This proved too hard a trial for the young folks' courage. Neither knew
which ran away first, dragging the other with him or her; but they both
made off with all possible speed, and only slackened their pace when
they had put several houses between them and the object of their fear,
and convinced themselves that they were not followed.

"For Heaven's sake, what did it mean, Herr Wilberg?" asked Mélanie
anxiously. "What did you say to that dreadful creature Hartmann, that
made him start like that? How rash of you to provoke him!"

The young man smiled, though his lips were still colourless. It was the
first time in his life he had ever been accused of rashness, and he was
conscious that the reproach was merited. Now only did he clearly see
the full measure of the risk he had run.

"Offended pride!" he gasped. "The duty of protecting you, Fräulein! You
see he dared not attack us after all."

"No, we got away in time," returned Mélanie naïvely, "and it was a good
thing we did, for our lives would have been in danger if we had
stayed."

"It was only on your account I ran," said Wilberg, feeling a little
hurt. "I should have held my ground if I had been alone, even at the
risk of my life."

"That would have been very sad though," remarked the girl. "You who
write such beautiful poetry!"

Wilberg blushed with agreeable surprise.

"Do you know my poems? I did not think in your house ... Your father
has rather a prejudice against my lyrical tendency."

"Papa was talking to the Director about it a little while ago," said
Mélanie, and then suddenly came to a full stop. She could not tell the
poet that her father had read aloud to his colleagues those verses,
which to her sixteen-year-old imagination had seemed so touching,
adding many a biting jest and malicious comment as he read, and finally
throwing down the paper with the words:

"And the fellow can spend his time now on such rubbish as that!"

At the moment she had thought it rather cruel and unjust to the young
man. He no longer seemed tiresome to her, now that she knew he had been
crossed in love, as clearly as appeared from his verses. That explained
and excused all the peculiarities of his behaviour. She hastened to
assure him that, for her part, she thought his verses lovely, and in
shy but fervent sympathy, tried to console him somewhat for his
supposed misfortune.

Herr Wilberg suffered himself to be comforted. He found it
indescribably refreshing to meet at last with a being who could
understand him, and still more refreshing to feel himself
compassionated by the said being. It was quite a misfortune that they
had by this time reached the chief-engineer's house, and that the
master of it, in his august person, stood at the window, watching them
with surprised and rather critical looks. Wilberg had no wish to expose
himself to his superior's jokes, which, he knew, would be inevitable,
should it occur to Mélanie to relate their meeting with Hartmann and
their common flight. He took leave of the young lady therefore, and
Fräulein Mélanie ran up the steps, racking her brains to try and find
out who the object of this interesting and unfortunate attachment could
be.

Old Manager Hartmann sat at home in his cottage, leaning his head on
his hand; not far from him, at the window, stood Lawrence and Martha.
As Ulric suddenly opened the door, the three broke off their
conversation so abruptly, that the new-comer might easily have guessed
they had been talking of him. He did not notice it, however, but closed
the door, flung his hat on the table and threw himself without a word
of greeting into the great arm-chair by the fireside.

"Good day," said the Manager, turning slowly round to him. "Don't you
think it worth your while now to say a civil word when you come in? I
should have thought you might have kept that up, at least."

"Don't worry me, father," exclaimed his son impatiently, throwing back
his head and pressing his hand to his forehead.

The Manager shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Martha left her
place by the window and sat down by her uncle, taking up the work she
had laid aside while talking with Lawrence. For some minutes there was
an oppressive silence in the room, then the younger man went up to his
friend.

"Deputy Wilms has been here to speak to you, Ulric. He will come back
in an hour. He has been making the round of all the neighbouring
works."

Ulric passed his hand over his brow, as though to chase away some
tormenting dream.

"Well, and how goes it?" he asked, but in a listless mechanical way; he
seemed hardly to know what the other was speaking of.

"They are going to join us. Our example appears to have given them
courage, for the game is beginning everywhere now. The forges will
strike first, and the other works will follow suit, unless all they ask
is granted to them at once. That is out of the question, so in a week
all the miners and works in the district will be empty."

"At last!" Ulric started up, as though electrified; all his dreamy
listlessness and lack of interest had vanished. The man had regained
his old elasticity. "At last!" he repeated, heaving a deep sigh of
relief. "It was time; they have left us alone long enough!"

"Because we began alone in the first instance."

"May be so, but we could not wait. Things were not on the same footing
here as on the other works. Each day's labour brought the Berkows a
step forward and took us a step back. Has Wilms gone over to the
villages? He ought to let the others know at once, it will raise their
spirits."

"Not before they want it," said the Manager quietly. "Their courage
seems to be on the wane. For the last fortnight not a stroke of the
hammer has been heard. You are waiting and waiting, fancying that you
will be asked to come back, or that, at least, some attempt at a
bargain will be made up yonder, and yet they make no sign. The
officials avoid you, and the master does not look as if he meant to
give way an inch. I tell you, Ulric, it is high time you should find
assistance somewhere."

"Nonsense, father," cried the young man. "We have hardly been off work
a fortnight, and I told them beforehand, they might make up their minds
to be idle a couple of months, if we meant to conquer, and conquer we
must."

The old man shook his head.

"A couple of months! You and I and Lawrence, may hold out that long,
but not those who have a wife and children to keep."

"They must," said Ulric coldly. "I did think, certainly, we should have
managed it faster and with less trouble. I was mistaken in that. But,
if they are determined up yonder to drive us to an extremity, we will
let them have a thorough good taste of what it means."

"Or they us," put in Lawrence. "If the master really"----

Ulric gave an angry stamp with his foot.

"'The master,' always 'the master!' Can't you find another name for
this Berkow? You used not to call him so, but ever since he has told
you to your faces that he is, and will be, the first person here, you
have not an opinion of your own about it. I tell you, if we go through
with the thing, we shall be masters, he will only have the name then,
and we shall have the power. He knows it very well; that is why he
resists so strongly, and that is why we must persevere until he grants
us all we ask. We must go on at any cost."

"Try it," said the Manager briefly. "See if you can turn the world
topsy-turvy all by yourself. I have given up talking about it this long
while."

Lawrence took his cap from the window-sill, and prepared to go.

"You must know best, if we are likely to succeed or not. You are our
leader."

Ulric's face grew dark.

"Yes, I am, but I thought it would have been easier to keep you in
hand. You make the work hard enough for me."

The young miner exclaimed indignantly,

"We! you can hardly complain of us. Every word you say is obeyed
instantly."

"Obeyed!" And Ulric turned a dark and searching gaze upon his friend.
"Yes, obedience is not wanting, and it is not that I am complaining of.
But we are not as we used to be. Even you and I, Karl, are not as we
used to be together. You are all of you so distant now, so cold and
shy; it seems to me often as if you were all afraid of me, and--and
that's all."

"No, no, Ulric!" Lawrence resented the reproach vehemently, it almost
appeared as if the other had hit the right mark. "We have perfect trust
in you, and you alone. No matter what you may have done, you did it for
us, not for yourself. We know that, all of us, we none of us forget
that."

"No matter what you may have done, you did it for us!" The words
sounded harmless enough and may have contained no hidden meaning, but
Ulric seemed to detect one in them, for he looked hard at the speaker.
Lawrence avoided his gaze, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

"I must go," he said hastily. "I will send Wilms over to you. You will
stay here, so that he will be sure to find you?"

Ulric made no answer. The flow of emotion of the last few minutes had
subsided, and his face was pale again as at his entrance. He nodded
affirmatively, and turned to the window.

The young miner took leave of the Manager and left the room, Martha
rose and went out with him. During the whole of the foregoing
conversation she had spoken no word, but had observed the two men
attentively. She stayed rather long outside, but that could excite no
wonder. Her uncle and cousin knew well enough that a newly-engaged pair
have much to whisper to one another, and they seemed, indeed, to
trouble themselves not at all about it.

The father and son remained alone together, and the silence now
intervening was even more painful than that which had ensued on Ulric's
entrance. He stood at the window now, leaning his forehead against the
panes, and staring out without seeing anything before him.

The Manager still sat at the table resting his head on his hands; his
sorrowful, care-worn face plainly showed the ravages which the last few
weeks had made. The lines graven on it by old age were furrowed more
deeply now, and his eye had grown dim. All the old animation and
pugnacious vigour, with which he had been wont formerly to administer
many a sermon to his son, had vanished; he sat there, quiet and
depressed, making no attempt to renew the conversation.

At last the silence became intolerable to Ulric. He turned round
hastily.

"And you say nothing to the news which Wilms has brought us? Is it
really all the same to you whether we succeed, or whether we are
beaten?"

The old man raised his head slowly.

"It is not all the same to me, but I can't take delight in your threats
and your violence. Best wait and see who is most hurt by them, the
gentlemen or ourselves. You do not care much about that, you have got
your own way. It is for you to command now throughout the works. Every
one appeals to you, every one bows down before you, obeys your
slightest word. That was what you wanted from the first, what the whole
business was set on foot for."

"Father!" cried the young man.

"Let be--let be," said the Manager, interrupting him. "You will not
confess it to me, and perhaps not to yourself, but it is so. You took
them all along with you, and me with the rest, for of what use to hold
back alone? Take care where you lead us. The responsibility is yours."

"Did I begin the thing alone?" broke out Ulric vehemently. "Was it not
decided unanimously that there must be a change, and have we not given
our word to stand together until the change is made?"

"In case your demands were not granted--yes. But everything has been
granted, or as good as everything, for what has been refused has really
nothing to do with the demands of our people. You were the one to bring
in all that, Ulric, and it is you alone who hold them to it. If it were
not for you, they would have been at work long ago, and we should have
peace and quiet on the works again."

Ulric threw back his head defiantly.

"Well, yes, I did start it, and I take no shame to myself that I can
see farther, and provide for the future, better than the rest. If it
will satisfy them that the old poverty should be made a little more
bearable, and their miserable lives a little safer in the mines, it
will not satisfy me, or any man of spirit among us. We ask for much,
that is true, we ask for nearly everything, and if Berkow were the
millionaire the world takes him for, he would never dream of giving
himself into our hands. But he is that no longer, and his whole weal or
woe depends upon whether these hands of ours are busy for him now or
not. You don't know the state of things up there in the bureaus, and
the reports which are read at the meetings, father, but I do, and I
tell you, struggle against it as he may, he will have to yield when he
is attacked on all sides at once."

"And I tell you he will not!" declared the Manager. "He will close the
works first. I know Arthur well; he was like that as a child, quite
different from you. You stormed at everything, and were always for
using force, if your work, or your play-fellows, or even your garden
hedge, did not please you. He never set about anything willingly, and
sometimes it would be a long time before he made up his mind to it;
but, when once he began, he would never leave off until he had mastered
the thing, whatever it might be. He is roused now, and he means to show
you the stuff he is made of. He holds the reins, and no one will be
able to drag them out of his hands; there is something of your own
obstinacy in him. Think of what I say, when some day he makes you feel
it."

Ulric stood gloomy and silent. He did not contradict in his usual
vehement way, but the fact that contradiction was impossible stirred up
a feeling of wrathful resentment within him. Perhaps he had already
felt something of his adversary's mettle.

"And however the thing may turn out," continued his father, "do you
suppose that you can stay on here as Deputy, that they will suffer you
to remain on the works, after what has happened?"

The young man laughed scornfully.

"No, certainly not, if it depends upon the gentlemen up yonder. They
will never take me into favour again, that is very sure. But there will
be no question of favour. We shall dictate our terms to them, and the
first condition made by all the men unanimously will be that I am to
remain."

"Are you so certain of that?

"Father, don't insult my mates," exclaimed Ulric. "They would never
desert me."

"Not if the first condition up yonder is that you should go? The master
will insist on that, depend upon it."

"Never; he will never obtain that from them. They know all of them that
I have not done it for my own sake. I was not badly off, I have no need
to starve, I can earn my bread anywhere. It was their misery I wanted
to lessen. Don't talk to me, of it, father. They give me trouble enough
often, but when things come to be serious, I shall pull through; there
is not one of them who will desert me then. Wherever I lead they will
follow, and where I stand they will stand by me, yes, that they will,
to the very death!"

"They would have some time ago, they won't now." The old man had risen,
and only as he turned to the broad daylight could it be fully seen how
careworn his features were, and how bowed the figure which, but lately,
had been so strong and vigorous.

"You said to Lawrence yourself that things are not as they used to be,"
he went on in a very low voice, "and you know well the day and hour
when the change came about. I hardly need tell you so now, Ulric, but
that day cost me the bit of peace and rest I had hoped for in my old
age. It is all over with that now, for ever!"

"Father!" cried the young man again. The Manager stopped him with a
hasty gesture. "Let it be as it is. I know nothing of what happened, I
will know nothing of it, for, if I had to listen to the story in so
many words, then all would be up with me indeed. The mere thought is
enough; it alone has almost driven me out of my senses."

Ulric's eyes flashed angrily again, as when his friend had made that
allusion a short time before.

"And if I were to tell you, father, that the ropes gave way, if I were
to tell you that my hand had never been near them"----

"Tell me nothing rather," broke in the old man bitterly. "I should not
believe you, and the others would not believe you either. You were
always savage and prone to use violence. You would have felled your
best friend to the ground in your wrath. Try it, go among your mates
and say to them: 'It was nothing but an accident.' There is not one of
them who will believe you!"

"Not one?" repeated Ulric, hoarsely. "And you doubt me too, father?"

The Manager fixed his dimmed eyes on his son.

"Can you look me in the face and declare that you were in no way to
blame for the accident, in no way? that you"----he did not finish the
question, for Ulric had not been able to bear his gaze. The eyes, which
a minute before had flashed with anger, now sought the ground, a sharp
quiver passed over him, he turned away and--was silent.

A great stillness fell upon the room. Nothing was heard but the old
man's heavy breathing. His hand trembled, as he passed it across his
brow, and his voice trembled still more, when at last he spoke in a low
tone.

"Your hand was not near? Whether it were your hand precisely, or
however it may have come about, they are all of opinion, thank God,
that inquiries are useless, and that nothing can be proved, at all
events in a court of justice. Settle it with yourself, Ulric, as to
what befell down below, but don't bully your mates any more. You were
quite right. They have been afraid of you since then, and nothing else.
See how long you can manage them with fear alone."

So saying he went out. Ulric made a rapid movement as though about to
rush after him, but stopped suddenly, striking his forehead with his
clenched fist, while a sound like a suppressed groan escaped his
breast.

Ten minutes may have passed before the door was again opened and Martha
came in. Her uncle was gone, and Ulric lay back in the arm-chair, his
head buried in his hands. That did not appear to surprise her much; she
cast one glance at him, then went up to the table and began to put
together her work. Ulric had raised himself as she approached. He stood
up now slowly and went over to her. In general, he paid but little heed
to the girl's doings, and would still less trouble to speak to her of
what concerned herself. But now he did both these things.

Perhaps a moment had come when even his reserved unbending nature
longed for a word, for a token of sympathy, at a time when all fled
from him, all avoided him.

"So you and Lawrence have made it up?" he began. "I have not spoken to
you about it yet, Martha, I have had so many other things in my head of
late. Are you engaged?"

"Yes," was the short and not very encouraging answer.

"And when is the wedding to be?"

"There is time enough for that."

Ulric looked down at the girl, who with quick-coming breath and
trembling fingers was busying herself with her work, without even
raising her eyes to him. A sort of reproachful feeling rose up in his
mind towards her.

"You have done right, Martha," he said, in a low voice. "Karl is a good
fellow, and very fond of you, fonder, perhaps, than .... than others
might have been. Yet you sent him away again without an answer after
our last talk. When did you promise to marry him?"

"Yesterday three weeks."

"Yesterday three weeks! Why, that was the day after the accident. So it
was then you promised?"

"Yes, it was then. I could not do it before. It was only on that day I
felt as if I ever could be his wife."

"Martha!"

The man's voice swelled half in anger, half in pain. He would have laid
his hand on her arm, but she started back involuntarily. He let his
hand fall and moved away.

"You too?" he said hoarsely. "Well, yes, I might have known it."

"Oh, Ulric!" exclaimed the girl in wild despairing accents, "what have
you done to yourself, to us all!"

He was still standing opposite her. His hand shook as it rested on the
table, but his face had grown stern and hard again.

"Whatever harm I may have done myself, I shall take the consequences of
it without troubling any one else. As for you all, why, there is not
one of you that will even listen to me. But I tell you now, once and
for good," here his voice grew hard and menacing, "I have had enough of
your endless hinting and tormenting. I won't bear it any longer.
Believe what you will and whom you will, it shall be just the same to
me in future. What I have begun, I shall go through with, in spite of
every one; and if there is really to be an end of all confidence, I
shall, at least, know how to enforce obedience."

So saying he went out. Martha made no attempt to detain him, and she
would certainly have tried in vain. He crashed to the door of the room
behind him, making the little house shake in its foundations. Next
minute he had left the cottage.

                             CHAPTER XVIII.

The arrival of the guests up at the château had brought some animation
to that divided household, but it had hardly drawn the young couple
more closely together. Although the visitors' stay was limited to a few
days, Arthur continually found pretexts and opportunities for
withdrawing from their society, an attention for which his father and
brother-in-law were both sincerely grateful.

The Baron was but now returning after a sojourn of several weeks on the
Rabenau property, his own from this time forth. Notwithstanding the
frightful catastrophe which had occurred on the occasion of his first
visit, he had been forced to leave his daughter on the following
morning, a nearer duty calling him to his cousin's grave. Even when the
last offices were over, there remained much to be set in order, and the
heir's presence had been indispensable.

He was now returning in company of his eldest son, whom he had sent for
to join him, and, this time also, they made the short détour round by
the Berkow estates, all the more readily that the young Baron Conrad
had not seen his sister since her marriage.

More was intended by this visit than a mere family meeting, or so it
appeared from a conversation which took place in Eugénie's boudoir on
the day after their arrival, Arthur being absent as usual. His wife sat
on the sofa listening to her father, who was standing before her, and
just winding up a long peroration, while Conrad, leaning against a
chair at a little distance from them, watched his sister with a look of
eager expectation.

Eugénie sat resting her head on her hand so as to shade her face. When
her father ceased speaking, she did not alter her position or look up,
but replied in a low voice:

"No hints or allusions are needed for me to understand what you mean,
papa. You are speaking of a separation."

"Yes, my dear," said the Baron, earnestly, "to a separation, no matter
under what pretext, or at what cost. What is obtained by force must be
kept by force, the Berkows should have remembered that. Now that I am
once more master of my own actions, that I need be their debtor no
longer, I will employ every means to free you from those chains which
you took upon yourself solely on my account, and which, deny it as you
may, are making you wretched in the extreme."

Eugénie did not answer. Her father took her hand and sat down by her.

"The thought is new to you and takes you by surprise? It flashed upon
me directly I received the weighty news which brought about such an
unexpected change in our circumstances. At that time it would have been
difficult to realise it. The elder Berkow had left nothing undone to
secure an alliance with our family. It was out of the question that he
should consent to a dissolution of the marriage, for that would have
shut him out from those circles to which he hoped to gain access
through us; and with such a man as he, capable of anything in his utter
unscrupulousness, we could not well proceed to open fight. His death
put an end to all the difficulties at a blow, for his son's resistance
can be got over. He has played a merely passive rôle throughout the
business, and simply lent himself to be his father's tool. He will
yield, I hope, to energetic action on our part."

"He will yield," affirmed Eugénie under her breath. "Have no fear on
that score."

"So much the better!" replied Windeg. "We shall attain our end the more
speedily."

He was, it seemed, desirous of pushing forward to that end without loss
of time, and such was indeed the fact. To the poor nobleman, heavily
laden with debt, there had been no choice left but to accept Eugénie's
sacrifice, and so save his own and his sons' name and position;
whatever it may have cost him, he bent to a hard necessity, and the
very necessity of the case taught him how to bear it.

But, to the Lord of Rabenau, who had regained complete independence,
and with it all his old sense of dignity, who could pay back with ease
the sums he had received, this bond of restraint appeared a burning
disgrace, and he looked upon his daughter's marriage as an act of
injustice committed to her prejudice, and which he must repair at any
cost. During his stay at Rabenau this thought had haunted him, and had
gradually shaped itself into a plan which was now ripe for execution.

"It will certainly meet both your wishes and ours that this painful
affair should be entered into and settled as quickly as possible," he
continued. "I was going to propose that you should accompany us to the
city under some pretext or other, and, when there, take the necessary
steps to accomplish it. You need simply refuse to return to your
husband, and insist upon a separation. We will take care that he does
not make good his claims by force."

"Yes, by Jove, that we will, Eugénie!" broke in Conrad passionately.
"If he should find he has made a bargain to his liking, and refuse to
give it up, your brothers will compel him to yield at the point of the
sword. He cannot threaten us now with shame and public humiliation as
his father did. That was the only thing the Windegs feared, the only
argument by which a daughter of their house could ever have been won
from them."

His sister stopped him almost impatiently.

"There is no occasion for threats. Con, and none for your anxiety,
papa. Both are equally uncalled for. That which you expect to have to
fight for and win by force has long been a settled thing between Arthur
and myself."

Windeg started up, and Conrad came a step nearer impetuously in his
surprise.

Eugénie strove to give firmness to her voice, but she could not
succeed; it quivered audibly as she went on:

"Before Herr Berkow's death we had come to an agreement about it, but
we wished to avoid the éclat of too early and sudden a rupture, and so
we imposed on ourselves the restraint of living for a time under the
same roof."

"Before Berkow's death?" interrupted her brother. "Why, that was soon
after you were married!"

"So you introduced the subject yourself?" said the Baron with equal
animation. "Did you insist upon it?"

They neither of them seemed to understand the pain which was so plainly
written on the young wife's face. She called up all her self-command
and answered steadily.

"I never alluded to the matter. Arthur voluntarily offered me a
separation."

The Baron and his son looked at one another, as though such a piece of
intelligence overstepped their powers of comprehension.

"Indeed! I was not prepared for that," said the Baron, at last, slowly.
"He himself! I should not have expected it!"

"No matter," cried Conrad with a sudden burst of tenderness, "no
matter, so long as he gives you back to us, Eugénie. We have none of us
been able to take any pleasure in the inheritance which has come to us,
because we knew that you have been made unhappy for our sakes. My
father will not be fairly at ease in the new life until you come back,
no more will any of us. We have missed you so in everything."

He threw his arm round his sister, and she hid her face for a few
seconds on his shoulder. It was as deadly white and cold in its beauty
as it had been when she stood before the altar; yet now she was on the
eve of returning to her father's house, from which she had that day
been torn away.

The Baron looked at his daughter in some surprise, as she now raised
her head and passed her handkerchief over her brow.

"Excuse me, papa, if I seem rather strange to-day. I am not quite well,
not well enough, that is, to discuss this subject. You must let me go
to my room, I"----

"You have had too much to bear of late," said her father tenderly. "I
see it, my dear, even though you will not confess it. Go, and leave all
to my care. I will spare you as much as possible."

"It is odd though, is it not, sir?" said the young Baron, as the door
closed behind his sister. "Do you understand this Berkow? I don't."

Windeg paced up and down the room with a frown on his brow. He was not
merely surprised, but wounded in his pride by this disclosure. To the
aristocrat it had seemed quite explicable that a parvenu owning
millions of money should employ all the means at his disposal,
hesitating neither at intrigue nor sacrifice, to obtain a connection
with himself, even though such endeavours were met with unbounded
hatred and contempt. But that his plebeian son-in-law should have
received the hand of a Baroness Windeg with perfect equanimity, as if
there had been nothing extraordinary in such a marriage; that, as time
went on, he should have shown himself as insensible to the honour done
him as his father was the reverse;--these were things he never could
forgive. And now this man, this Arthur Berkow, retired from the
connection of his own free will, before any inducement to do so had
been held out to him. This was too much for the haughty Windeg. He had
been eager to struggle for, to re-conquer, his daughter's freedom, but
that he should owe it to her husband's generosity or indifference was
intolerable to him.

"I will speak to Berkow," he said presently, "and if he really does
agree, which I doubt, in spite of what Eugénie has told us, we must set
to work without delay."

"Without delay?" asked Conrad. "They have hardly been married three
months, and I think they are right in wishing to avoid too early a
rupture."

"No doubt they are, and I should give my complete approval, if I had
not other reasons of my own for hurrying on the affair. Things are not
as they should be here on the works. I have received a hint from a
friendly source that these disturbances, which have broken out among
the hands employed, may inflict a deadly injury upon the Berkow
property, enormous as it is supposed to be. If a crash should come, his
wife could hardly leave him at such a moment; for the sake of public
opinion she must stay on. Though we have deeper and far more serious
reasons for desiring a separation, his ruin would be looked upon as the
real cause, and that must not be. Better we should be thought to stir
in the matter prematurely than suffer our hands to be tied, as they
would be, should a catastrophe occur. A vast undertaking like this does
not fall to pieces in a few weeks. It would take a year at least, and
in half that time a divorce may be obtained, if he puts no difficulties
in the way. Eugénie must return to our house, must be free again,
before the state of things here gets known in the city."

"I should have thought my sister would have taken up the idea more
cheerfully and with greater zest," said Conrad meditatively. "To be
sure, if they had settled the matter before between themselves, there
was nothing in it new to her, but she seems as quiet and silent about
it, as if it were no concern of hers, as if her liberty did not depend
upon it."

The Baron shrugged his shoulders.

"She does not like the thought of the unavoidable talk it will excite,
of all the unpleasant details of the law-suit which cannot be spared
her. It is always a painful step for a woman to take, and yet it must
be taken. In this case we shall, at any rate, have the whole city on
our side. It was unfortunately no secret why this marriage was
arranged, and but little surprise can be felt that we should hasten to
dissolve it."

"Here comes Berkow," whispered Conrad, as the door of the adjoining
room was opened. "You wish to speak to him. Shall I leave you
together?"

Windeg shook his head.

"You are the eldest son of our house, and at such discussions the
presence of a third person often acts as a wholesome restraint. Stay
here, Conrad."

While these words were being quickly exchanged in a low voice, Arthur
had crossed the ante-room. He came in now, and the greetings on either
side were polite and frigid as usual. The conversation began with the
customary flowers of rhetoric. The guests regretted they should enjoy
so little of their host's company, the latter put forth as an excuse
the accumulation of business which deprived him of the pleasure, etc.,
mutual formalities believed in by neither party, but behind which each
sheltered himself as affording, at least, some subject matter for talk.

"I hope Eugénie's constant company will make up to you for my enforced
absence," continued Arthur, glancing through the salon as though in
quest of his wife.

"Eugénie is slightly indisposed; she has just left us," returned the
Baron, "and I should be glad to make use of this opportunity to express
to you a wish of mine, the fulfilment of which depends mainly on
yourself."

"If its fulfilment depends on me, you have but to command."

The young man took up a position opposite his father-in-law, while
Conrad, who knew what was coming, withdrew, as though accidentally,
into a window recess, and appeared to be steadfastly gazing out on the
terrace below.

Windeg's bearing was full of stately calm and aristocratic dignity. He
desired to be as impressive as possible, and so do away at once with
any possible resistance on the part of his daughter's plebeian husband;
for he looked upon Arthur's offer of a separation, at the most, as a
hasty speech made in a moment of passion. He could not believe it to be
serious.

"People seem to attach a greater degree of importance to this
revolutionary movement on your estates than it probably has in
reality," he began. "As I came by the town yesterday and paid a visit
to the commandant of the garrison there, a very old friend of mine, the
feeling among the hands over here was described to me as most
dangerous, and an outbreak of disturbances was said to be extremely
probable."

"They appear to take more interest in my works and in my people than I
had supposed," said Arthur, coldly. "I have, at all events, not
besought the Colonel for help in case of need."

The Baron understood the hint.

"As for me, of course, I can form no opinion on the subject," he
replied quickly. "I only wished to draw your attention to the fact that
there would be impropriety in exposing Eugénie to any such possible
scenes of disorder. It is my desire to take my daughter with me to the
city, just for a time, until the situation here has cleared a little."

A shade fell on the young man's face. Again he cast a quick glance over
to the door which led to his wife's apartments, as though trying to
divine whether the wish came from her. His reply was quite calm,
however.

"Eugénie is mistress of her own actions. If she considers it necessary
to leave she is perfectly at liberty to do so."

Windeg, highly pleased, bent his head affirmatively.

"She will accompany us then to-morrow morning. As to the length of her
absence, there we approach a subject which is equally painful to us
both, but I prefer to touch upon it by word of mouth, particularly as I
know our wishes to be identical with regard to the main point at
issue."

Arthur seemed about to start from his chair, but he controlled himself
and kept his seat.

"Oh! so Eugénie has already been making communications to you?"

"Yes, does that surprise you? Her father would, of course, be the first
person in whom she would confide."

Arthur's lips twitched nervously.

"I supposed that the matter would remain between ourselves until the
time for action had arrived. I see I was wrong."

"Why postpone things when once a decision has been come to?" asked the
Baron quietly. "The present time is most favourable for carrying it
into execution. The existing state of affairs here affords the best,
the most unexceptional pretext for my daughter's leaving. It need not
be known at first that she is leaving definitively. In these summer
months, when every one is away from the city, the preliminary steps can
be taken with least notice. When an éclat cannot be avoided, it is
preferable to give people at once an actual event to talk about. In
that way gossip is soonest exhausted."

A long pause followed. Arthur looked again, this time with rather an
enigmatical expression, at the door of his wife's apartments; then he
turned slowly to her father.

"Did the wish that this affair should be hurried on come from Eugénie
herself?"

The Baron thought proper to withhold the truth on this occasion. By so
doing, he would attain his end more quickly, and Eugénie would
certainly be grateful to him for it.

"I speak in my daughter's name," he declared gravely.

Arthur rose suddenly, and so hastily that his chair was thrown to the
ground.

"I consent to everything, Baron, to everything! I thought I had
explained to your daughter my reasons in favour of a delay. They were
entirely dictated by consideration for herself, and did not concern me
in any way. If, notwithstanding these, she still desires to hasten on
the matter--be it so!"

The tone in which these words were spoken was so peculiar, that Conrad,
who had all along been apparently intent on the terrace below,
although, in reality, he had not lost a word of the discussion, turned
round suddenly and looked at his brother-in-law in astonishment.

Windeg himself felt surprised. What reason was there for any show of
temper? He simply wished that a tie, burdensome to both parties, should
be loosed a little earlier than had been intended.

"You fully agree to a separation then?" he asked, a little uncertain.

"Fully."

The Baron breathed freely. So Eugénie had been right in declaring that
her husband would consent at once. What remained to be settled would,
he thought, hardly present a difficulty.

"I am very much indebted to you for meeting me thus," said he politely.
"It will facilitate matters for both sides. There is one other thing
which I must mention, though it has no bearing upon the subject in
hand. Your father"--the present Lord of Rabenau flushed crimson at the
remembrance--"your father was good enough to take up certain
obligations of mine which I was not then in a position to discharge. I
am able to do so now, and I should wish as speedily as possible"----

He paused, for Arthur had turned his eyes full upon him with a look
which forbade him to go on.

"Had we not better let this subject rest? I really must beg that it may
not be touched upon."

"It might be allowed to rest so long as our mutual relations
subsisted," returned Windeg gravely, "but not when they cease to exist.
You will not oblige me to remain your debtor?"

"There was no question here of a debt in the ordinary sense of the
word. Those obligations, which my father agreed to meet were, in
reality, held by himself alone. The documents relating to the
transaction were destroyed, so far as I know, when"--here the young
man's extreme irritation broke for an instant through his enforced
calm--"when you paid the price for them."

The Baron rose offended.

"The marriage was concluded at that time, in pursuance, certainly, of
Herr Berkow's wish; it is now about to be dissolved, more particularly
at our desire. The circumstances are completely reversed."

"Is it absolutely necessary that we should keep up the business point
of view and make a bargain of the divorce also?" interrupted Arthur
with cutting sarcasm. "I hope that I and my wife may not be made the
subject of traffic a second time. Once was quite sufficient."

The Baron altogether misunderstood these words, as he also
misunderstood the agitation which prompted them. He answered with his
haughtiest air.

"Remember, if you please, Herr Berkow, that the word traffic, which you
are pleased to employ, can only have reference to one of the parties
concerned. It cannot apply to us."

Arthur stepped back; his attitude was proud and dignified, such as the
nobleman opposite him could but rarely assume.

"I know now how this marriage was brought about, and I know too how
those obligations came to exist which forced you into giving your
consent. You will therefore understand why it is I request that not
another syllable may be said about this debt. I require of you, Baron,
that you do not make a son blush for his father's memory."

Once before Windeg had been disconcerted by his son-in-law's behaviour,
on the occasion when the latter had thought fit to decline the peerage
offered him, but that had been done in a cool, half negligent manner,
and quite in the former Arthur Berkow's style. The present scene and
the way in which he now bore himself fairly petrified the Baron.
Involuntarily he glanced at his son, who had come out of the recess,
and on whose youthful countenance was depicted a boundless astonishment
which he gave himself no trouble to conceal.

"I was not aware you viewed the matter in that light," said Windeg at
last "It was not my intention to wound your feelings."

"I suppose not, so we will let the subject drop into the past. With
regard to the divorce, I will give my solicitor instructions to meet
yours in a friendly spirit, and to render him any assistance in his
power. Should a personal application to myself be necessary at any
time, pray consider me as quite at your disposal I will do all I can to
bring the matter to an end as speedily and with as little
unpleasantness as possible."

He bowed to both gentlemen and left the room. In an instant young
Conrad was at his father's side.

"What can it all mean? What, in the name of goodness, has come over
this Arthur Berkow during the last three months? I thought yesterday
evening he was graver and had a more decided way with him than
formerly, but I never should have imagined he would be capable of
behaving with so much dignity."

The Baron had not yet recovered from his astonishment. His son's
exclamation roused him. "He really appears not to have been aware of
the part his father was acting towards us. That certainly alters the
case," said he in some confusion. "If only he had not required me to
remain in his debt!"

"He does perfectly right," said Conrad, firing up, "now that he knows
by what a system of usury Berkow drove us to our ruin. Not a quarter of
the prodigious sums, afterwards arrayed against us, was ever advanced
or expended by him in buying up those bills, and not a penny can the
son receive if he will not bring dishonour on himself too. One could
see that he was filled with shame at the whole disgraceful story. But
this interview of ours took a very strange turn. The painful, the
humiliating rôle in it was, unquestionably, his, and yet he managed to
make us feel almost ashamed of our offer."

Windeg seemed disposed to take this last observation rather
ungraciously, perhaps because he could not gainsay it.

"If we were unjust to him before, I am ready now to do him full
justice," said he, "and the more so that we really owe him some thanks
for his conduct with regard to this divorce business. I did not expect
it would be so easy, notwithstanding the indifference he has always
shown about the marriage."

Conrad's face again assumed a meditative expression, which, certainly,
was not proper to it.

"I don't know, sir; it strikes me that the thing is by no means so
settled. Berkow was far from being as calm as he tried to appear, and
it was the same with Eugénie. There was no indifference in that violent
start of his when you declared that she insisted on an immediate
separation, and in Eugénie's face, when she left us, there was still
less. A very odd idea has occurred to me in consequence!"

The Baron smiled with great superiority.

"You are quite a child still in some things. Con, in spite of your
epaulets and your twenty years. Do you imagine that the determination
which, as it now appears, they have both long since come to, could have
arisen without previous quarrels and unpleasantness? Eugénie has
suffered much from these scenes; perhaps Berkow may have suffered also.
What you so sagely remarked was the reverberation of storms gone by,
nothing more. Thank God, there is plain sailing between us now, and the
storms are over for good and all."

"Or perhaps they are only just beginning!" said Conrad to himself under
his breath, as he left the room with his father.

                              CHAPTER XIX.

Evening had come, and throughout the house there was a feeling of
disquiet and much busy movement. Baron Windeg had had another and a
longer interview with his daughter in the afternoon, and directly
afterwards the lady's maid had received orders to pack up her
mistress's wardrobe. Herr Berkow had previously informed the servants
that his wife would leave in the morning with her father for a stay of
several weeks in the capital, and had desired that the necessary
preparations should be made.

Of course, this piece of news at once made the round of all the
officials' dwellings, and there, as at home, excited more uneasiness
than surprise. It was clear as day that the master was only sending
away her ladyship because he was convinced there would soon be "a row"
on the works. He wished to know that she was in safety, and had
probably himself sent for her father to fetch her away. Windeg was
right. The pretext was so plausible, it occurred to nobody to doubt it.

At first, the strangely cold relations between the young married pair
had been much discussed and commented on; but that had gradually
ceased. It was known that the marriage had not been one of inclination,
but as no quarrels or violent scenes were ever heard of--and, had there
been any such, they could hardly have escaped the servants' notice--as
Berkow was always politeness itself in his behaviour to his wife, and
Eugénie tranquillity itself in her manner towards him, it was concluded
that they must have become accustomed to and satisfied with each other:
the usual result of these marriages of convenience. Their peculiar way
of life seemed to be only what was practised in the great world.

In the higher circles of the capital it was usual to live thus apart
and on a politely cool footing, and it could therefore be a matter of
no surprise that the Baroness Windeg and the son of Berkow the
millionaire should adopt the same course. That this journey, which had
been preceded by no quarrel, should contain in it the germs of a final
separation, was suspected by no one, and it struck no one as strange
that the family did not spend that evening in company as usual.

Dinner was served for the two guests in the dining-room; her ladyship,
being unwell, ordered tea in her boudoir, and then, to her maid's
astonishment, left it untouched. As to Herr Berkow, he did not dine at
all, but retired to his study where he had "business" to attend to,
giving strict orders that he should not be disturbed.

Without all was pitch darkness, and here within the lamp on the
writing-table shed its light on a man who, for more than an hour,
had been pacing restlessly to and fro. Behind those closed doors the
mask of indifference he had worn so long, was thrown off at last,
and an outlet given to the storm silently raging within him. This
was no longer the blasé young heir, nor the resolute leader whose
suddenly-aroused energy and presence of mind had impressed his
subordinates with respect and inspired the officials with courage.

In this man's face were visible traces of a great passion, the extent
of which had been unknown even to himself, until the moment when the
object of it was about to be lost to him. That moment had now come,
and, for a while, his passion claimed its right to be heard.

The pallor of his brow, his quivering lips and burning eyeballs told a
tale of what that day's interview had cost him, though the Baron had
asserted of it that he could not have supposed the matter would be so
easily arranged.

It had come at last then, that much-dreaded day of separation! and it
was well that another had stepped in and effected that which his will
lacked strength to undertake. How often during the last fortnight had
Arthur himself thought of using the pretext which the Baron now
suggested to him, and so of shortening the torture of this life under a
common roof; for that measured calm of exterior, belying at every
moment, as it did, the inward glow at his heart, could no longer be
sustained. It exceeded his powers of endurance! And yet he had taken no
step.

It is an indisputable truth that what is unavoidable had best be done
at once; but not every one who would, if necessary, courageously use
the knife to a poisoned bodily wound, can pluck up resolution to tear a
devouring passion from his breast. With it there comes irresistibly the
dread of losing the much loved object.

They had been long separated, these two, but, at least, he could still
behold that fair face with the dark, speaking eyes, and the proud and
delicate features which had grown so grave of late, and then there came
moments of bliss, fleeting as lightning, which made amends for whole
days and weeks of bitterness; such as that time in the forest the day
before yesterday, when, with evident anxiety, she had pressed her horse
close to his, when she had trembled in his arms as he lifted her from
her saddle.... It might be cowardly, but he could not voluntarily
renounce all this before it was demanded of him. And now the demand was
made!

The door was gently opened, and a servant appeared hesitating on the
threshold.

"What is it?" exclaimed Arthur. "Did I not give orders"----

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man timidly.

"I knew you did not wish to be disturbed, but as her ladyship
herself"----

"Who?"

"Her ladyship is here herself, and wishes"----

The man had no time to finish. To his astonishment, his master tore the
door from his hand and hurried past him into the ante-room. There he
saw his wife, apparently waiting; in an instant he was at her side.

"You have yourself announced? What unnecessary etiquette!"

"You wished to see no one, I hear, and Frank told me the order applied
to every one without exception."

"Arthur frowned, and turned to the servant, who said apologetically,

"I really did not know what to do. It is the first time my lady has
come here."

He stammered these words in his confusion, meaning them as an excuse
and nothing more, but Eugénie turned quickly away, and the reprimand on
her husband's lips remained unspoken.

The man was right after all; he had received no instructions for such
an exceptional case as that of his mistress paying a visit to his
master's room. It was truly the first time she had been there.
Hitherto, they had only met in her boudoir, at table, or in the
drawing-rooms. The present visit might well create surprise among the
servants.

Arthur signed to the man to go, and came back into the study with his
wife. She hesitated a little on the threshold.

"I wished to speak to you," she said, in a low voice.

"I am quite at your service."

He closed the door and pushed forward an armchair, inviting her by a
gesture to be seated. These few minutes had sufficed to give him back
all that self-control which he had so constantly exercised during the
past few weeks. He spoke and moved in a cool measured way, as though
showing politeness to a strange lady in a strange salon.

"Will you not sit down?"

"Thank you, I shall not detain you long."

There was something shy and uncertain in her manner which contrasted
oddly with her usual composure. Perhaps in these rooms she felt ill at
ease, or perhaps she found it hard to open the conversation.

Arthur did not come to her assistance. He saw that she twice tried to
find words and failed, but he stood at his table silent and
constrained, and waited.

"My father has told me of his talk with you," she began, "and also of
its result."

"So I expected, and--excuse me, Eugénie--it was just on that account I
was surprised to see you here. I thought you were occupied with the
preparations for your departure."

These words were probably intended to counteract any impression his
agitation at seeing her might have produced, and they had the desired
result. Some seconds clasped before she continued.

"You had already spoken of my journey to the servants in the
afternoon?"

"Yes, I thought you would wish it, and it seemed best that the order
for the necessary preparation should come from me. Had you thought of
introducing the subject in any other way? If so, I regret that I was
not earlier made acquainted with your views."

His tone was frigid, and Eugénie felt as though an icy breath had been
wafted over to her. Involuntarily she retreated a step.

"I have no observation to make, only it surprised me that my departure,
the date of which had once been fixed, should now be hastened on. You
had, I thought, reasons which would have induced you to keep to our
arrangement."

"I? On this point I yielded to a wish, to a request of yours. Baron
Windeg gave me to understand, at least, that it was so."

Eugénie started. She drew a long breath of relief, and all shyness and
uncertainty vanished, as though, with this one answer, her courage had
wholly returned to her.

"I thought so! My father went too far, Arthur; he spoke in my name,
when he was only setting forth his own wishes. I have come now to clear
up this misunderstanding, and to tell you that I shall not go, at least
not until I hear from your lips that you wish me to do so."

Eugénie watched him with breathless attention, as though striving to
read in his eyes what was passing in his mind; but they were downcast
still, and her words produced no visible effect. His features relaxed
once as she spoke of a misunderstanding, or so she fancied, but the
change in him was but momentary, and, after a pause of a few seconds,
he replied coldly and composedly as ever: "You will not go? And why
not?" She stepped up to him and said resolutely: "You told me yourself
the other day that all your future is involved in the coming struggle.
I know since our last meeting with Hartmann that it will be fought out
to the uttermost, and that your position is even more critical than you
will allow. At such a time I can and will not leave you, it would be
cowardly, and" ...

"You are very generous," interrupted Arthur with ill-concealed
bitterness. "But to perform an act of generosity, some one must be
found willing to accept it, and I certainly am not willing to accept
yours."

Eugénie's hand grasped the chair near her, she pressed her fingers
tightly into its velvet cushions, as though in repressed anger.

"Not?"

"No. The plan was of your father's making, so be it. He is doubtless
right in requiring that his daughter, who will shortly be his
altogether again, should be placed in safety and protected from those
rough scenes and excesses which, in all probability, may take place
here. I am quite of his opinion, and I agree fully to to-morrow's
separation."

She raised her head and said with spirit,

"And I only agreed to it when I thought it was your wish. I cannot
yield in this matter to my father's will alone. I have taken upon
myself the duties of your wife, in the sight of the world at least,
and, so far, I shall fulfil them. They command me not to desert you
basely in the face of that which threatens you, but to remain at your
side until the worst has been tided over, and the date originally fixed
for our parting has come. Then I will go, and not before."

"Not if I expressly ask you to do so?"

"Arthur!"

He stood half turning from her, and crushing in his hand a paper he had
mechanically taken up from his bureau. The self-control he had regained
by so violent an effort was not proof against that look and tone.

"I have begged you once already not to play at generosity with me. I
have no liking for such scenes. Duties! It may be the duty of a woman,
who has willingly given her husband both hand and heart, to stay by him
and share his misfortune, perhaps his ruin, as she has shared his
prosperity. That is not our case. We have no duties to each other, for
we never had any rights one upon the other. The only thing which I
could offer you in our compulsory union was the possibility of
dissolving it; it has been dissolved from the moment that we decided
upon a separation. That is my answer to the offer you have made me."

Eugénie's dark eyes were still fixed on his face. The tell-tale
lightning-like flash, which at times seemed to discover the unknown
depths of his being, came not to-day, and yet to-day of all days did
she long to conjure it up at any cost.

Whatever she may have seen or guessed by it--and something she must
have divined, or her proud spirit would never have so far bent as to
allow her to come hither with her proposal--he would not grant her the
triumph of again beholding it or of convincing herself of its true
meaning.

He remained perfect master of himself, and left her a prey to torturing
doubt. Her woman's instinct had spoken unhesitatingly when Ulric
Hartmann's look had glowed upon her yesterday up on the forest heights,
and, with the knowledge of what lay behind, horror of it had seized her
as well. Yet she had been quite calm then, through all the danger with
which she was threatened by an insane passion.

Here, where there was nothing to fear, she shook from head to foot in a
fever of emotion, and a thick veil seemed to fall on all around, just
as the brown eyes opposite were veiled before her. The inward voice was
silent now, and yet at this moment she would have given her life to
have acquired a certainty.

"You should not make it so hard for me to stay." Her voice betrayed
something of the perplexity within her; it wavered between pride and
soft submission. "I had much to fight against and much to conquer
before I came here. You know it, Arthur, and should spare me."

The words were almost supplicating, but Arthur had reached such a pitch
of irritation, he could no longer understand this. The bitter rage,
which had taken possession of him and now shook his whole frame, gave
its own interpretation to her words, and he answered sharply.

"I do not doubt that the Baroness Windeg is making an immense sacrifice
in resolving to bear a hated name yet three months longer, and to
remain at the side of a man she so thoroughly despises, notwithstanding
that immediate freedom is offered her. I had to hear once how repugnant
both are to you, and can judge therefore of what the victory over
yourself must have cost you."

"You are reproaching me with the conversation we had on the night of
our arrival," said Eugénie in a low tone. "I ... I had forgotten it!"

His eyes blazed now, but not with the light she had sought and hoped
for. He was too distant from her, too full of hostility, for that.

"Really? And you do not ask whether I have forgotten it. I was forced
to listen then, but that was the limit of what I could bear. Do you
think a man will allow himself to be trampled in the dust with
impunity, as I was by you on that evening, and then rise from it
without further ado when it pleases you to alter your opinion? I was
not quite so miserably weak as you imagined; from that time forth I was
not weak at all. That hour was decisive for me, but it was decisive for
our future also. Whatever may befall me, I will bear it alone. During
the last few weeks I have learnt so much, I shall be able to go through
with that too, but"--he drew himself up with a glow of pride--"but the
woman who on the day after our wedding repulsed me with such haughty
contempt, without condescending to ask whether the husband to whom she
had given her hand were really as culpable as she believed him, who
received my assurance, my given word, that she was in error as the
ready pretext of a liar, who, to my question as to whether it might not
be worth while to try and redeem so lost a man, flung at me that
contemptuous 'No'--that woman shall not stay by me; I will not have her
at my side while I am fighting for all my future in this world. I will
stand alone!"

He turned away from her in his wrath. Eugénie stood overwhelmed and
speechless. Great as had been the change in her husband of late, she
had never before seen him roused to passion, and at this moment his
violence almost frightened her. By the storm, now bursting over her
head, she could measure all that had lain hidden behind the
indifference which had so revolted her, all that had smouldered within
him for months together, until at last it drove him out of that apathy
which had become a second nature.

Ah yes, that cold disdainful No! She knew now better than any one how
unjust she had been to him, and now that she saw how that word of hers
had mortified him, she might have allowed the present hour to make
amends for all the evil the other had wrought, if only those last
unfortunate words had remained unspoken. They touched her pride, and,
when once that was called into play, all clear judgment and reflection
were at an end, even though she knew herself to be in the wrong.

"You will stand alone," she repeated. "Well, I will not impose my
presence on you. I wished to convince myself that my father's plan was
yours also. I see it is so, and therefore I shall leave."

She turned to go. At the door she stopped a moment. It seemed to her
that, as she touched the handle, he made a rapid movement as though
about to spring after her; but it must have been an illusion, for, when
she looked round, he was still standing at the table, deadly pale
indeed, but with that answer of hers, that harsh inexorable "No,"
clearly written on his face and entire bearing.

Eugénie summoned up all her courage for one farewell speech.

"We shall only see each other to-morrow in my father's presence, and
never again perhaps after that, so ... Good-bye, Arthur."

"Good-bye," said he hoarsely.

The door closed behind her; she was gone. The last few moments they
could spend alone together had fled; the last bridge between them had
broken down. Neither had been willing to yield an inch; neither would
speak the word which alone had power to help and save, the one word
which would have made good everything, even had the breach between them
been ten times as wide. Pride had won the day and sealed their fate.

Grey and gloomy the morning dawned over the hills. In the house all was
stirring at an unaccustomed hour. It was necessary to start early, so
that the travellers might reach the nearest railway junction in time
for the train which should take them on to the capital the same
evening. At present there was no one in the breakfast-room but Conrad
von Windeg. The Baron was still in his apartment, Eugénie was not
visible either, and the young officer appeared to be very impatiently
waiting for something or some one. He had paced up and down, had
stepped out on to the balcony, and finally flung himself into an
arm-chair, but he jumped up quickly as Arthur Berkow came in.

"Oh, you are here already!" said the latter, greeting his youthful
brother-in-law with the cool politeness usual between them.

Conrad hurried up to him.

"I wanted to say a few words to you; but, good Heavens! what is the
matter with you? Are you ill?"

"I?" said Arthur quietly. "What can you be thinking of? I am perfectly
well."

"Are you?" returned Conrad with a look at the pale drawn features which
told of a sleepless night. "I should not have thought so!"

"I am not used to get up so early, it always makes one look only half
awake. I am afraid you will have a bad journey. There is a terrible fog
this morning."

He went up to the window to look out at the weather, and also to escape
from his companion's unpleasant physiognomical observations. Conrad was
not to be put off so. He stepped up to his brother-in-law's side.

"I wanted to be down first," began he, hesitating a little, "because I
should like to say a few words to you while we are by ourselves,
Arthur."

Berkow turned round, surprised as much by the mode of address as by the
wish expressed. Conrad had never before called him by his Christian
name. He had hitherto followed his father's example and employed the
formal "Herr Berkow."

"Well?" said Arthur, surprised indeed, but friendly.

The young officer was evidently divided between doubt and confusion on
the one hand, and some unexpressed feeling on the other.

After the pause of a minute or so, he raised his frank handsome face
and looked at his brother-in-law earnestly.

"We have been unjust to you, Arthur, and I perhaps more than the rest.
I was indignant at the marriage and at the compulsion we had been
subjected to, and I honestly confess I have hated you with all my heart
ever since the day you married my sister. I found out yesterday that we
had been mistaken in our opinion of you, and so it is all up with my
hatred. I am sorry, very sorry, and--and that is what I wanted to say.
Will you shake hands, Arthur?"

He held out his hand heartily. Arthur grasped it.

"I thank you, Con," he said, simply.

"Well, thank God, that is over. I could not sleep for it all night!"
exclaimed the young fellow, greatly relieved. "And, believe me, my
father does you justice too. He won't own it to you, I daresay, but I
know it is in his mind."

A fleeting smile crossed Arthur's face, but it did not clear his brow
or bring a sparkle to his eyes. A heavy shadow lay on both as he
answered quietly,

"I am glad of it. So we shall not part as enemies."

"Oh, about the journey," broke in Conrad, hastily. "My father is still
up in his room, and Eugénie is all by herself in hers. Will you not go
in and speak to her?"

"What for?" asked Arthur in surprise. "The Baron may come in at any
moment, and Eugénie will hardly"----

"I will stand before the door and not let any one in. I will manage to
keep my father here until you are ready."

Arthur's face flushed under the other's earnest gaze, but he shook his
head gravely.

"No, Con, that is not necessary. I spoke to your sister yesterday
evening, and we said all there was to say."

"About her leaving?"

"About her leaving."

The young officer looked disappointed, but he had no time to press his
offer, for the Baron's step was just then heard outside, and
immediately afterwards he came in.

Conrad retreated into the back ground with an air of vexation,
murmuring to himself as he did so:

"But the thing is not on the square, for all that."

The inevitable meeting at breakfast was over, helped through by the
Baron's formal politeness, and by the constant presence of the
servants; and now the carriage drove up to the terrace below. The
gentlemen took their overcoats, and the maid brought Eugénie's hat and
shawl. Arthur offered his arm to his wife to lead her down, for the
appearance of a perfectly good understanding between them must be kept
up to the last.

Grey and gloomy the morning had dawned over the hills; grey and gloomy
it descended now into the valleys below. Before the windows a sea of
mist ebbed and flowed, and here within doors the cold frosty morning
light streaming already into the great rooms gave to them a weird and
desolate look. The splendour of their decorations seemed suddenly to
have lost all lustre and colour, now that they were about to be left
empty once more--very empty would they be, for their young mistress was
leaving them without thought of return.

Conrad noticed that his sister had precisely the same look on her face
as that which just before had startled him on Arthur's; but, beyond
this, he could discover nothing unusual in their appearance or
behaviour. They were both fully capable of playing the parts they had
undertaken, although their features betrayed that the effort to do so
had cost them a sleepless night. Perhaps this icy composure of theirs
was not all assumed.

When a storm has spent itself, there follows that dead calm which so
often helps us with relative ease over the most dreaded passages in
life. It casts a veil over the soul, and this veil obscures from it all
clear consciousness of the decisive moment. The struggle and combating
subside into a dull prevailing sense of pain, through which, now and
again, darts a fierce sudden pang, making the sufferer reflect as to
the reason of his anguish.

Eugénie, leaning on her husband's arm, went down the stairs without
really knowing why or whither they were going. As in a dream she saw
the carpeted steps over which her dress rustled, the tall oleander
trees standing in the hall, the faces of the servants bowing as she
went by. It all passed before her in an indistinct shadowy way.

Then all at once something sharp and almost painful smote her forehead;
it was the cold morning air, and she shuddered as she went out into it.
Before her stood the carriage ready to bear her away; she saw this and
nothing else, for terraces, flower-beds and fountains, all had
vanished, and the pale morning twilight gleamed only on a thick curtain
of vapour. Once again the eyes of husband and wife met, but they spoke
no word to each other. The cloud lay heavy and thick between them too.

Then Eugénie felt that a hand, cold as ice, was laid in hers, heard
some distant polite farewell speech, the words of which she did not
comprehend; but it was Arthur's voice which spoke, and, at that sound,
the sharp stinging pain darted once more through her dull dream. After
that came the stamping of horses' hoofs and the roll of wheels, and
away they went out into the faintly illumined mists which surged and
swelled around them, as on that spring day when, up on the forest
heights, the separation had been decided on, in the hour of which the
old legends say: "What parts then, parts for all eternity."

                              CHAPTER XX.

"We shall have it in earnest now, I tell you," said the chief-engineer
to the Director, as they were walking together towards their respective
homes. "Their august leader seems to be only waiting for us to furnish
him with a pretext, in order to give the signal for attack. They
regularly challenge us now, and insults are the order of the day. The
whole district has been raised by them; the same thing is rife now on
all the works around, only we had the honour of being first in the