Debit and Credit Part 83

replied Fink. "We call it good-nature in men and sensibility in women."

He looked at Lenore. "How has the poor pony sinned, that you will never ride him more?"

Lenore blushed as she replied, "I find that riding gives me headache."

"Indeed!" said Fink, tauntingly; "you once had the advantage of being less delicate. I do not think this lachrymose mood is suitable for you; you will not lose your headache thus."

Lenore, quite subdued, turned to Anton: "Have the newspapers arrived? I came to ask for them for my father."

"The footman has taken them to the baroness's room."

Lenore turned away with a slight inclination, and went back to the castle.

Fink looked after her and said to Anton, "Black does not become her; she is much faded. Hers is one of those faces which only please when they are full and blooming."

Anton cast a dark glance at his friend. "Your behavior toward her has been so strange for the last few weeks, that I have often felt indignant at it. I do not know what your purpose may be, but you treat her with a nonchalance which does not offend her alone."

"But you too, Master Wohlfart, eh?" asked Fink, looking Anton full in the face. "I was not aware that you were this lady's duenna too."

"This tone will not avail you," replied Anton, more quietly. "I do right to remind you that you are behaving worse than ungently toward a n.o.ble creature who has now a double claim upon the tender consideration of us all."

"Be good enough to pay her that consideration yourself, and don't trouble yourself about me and my manner," returned Fink, dryly.

"Fritz," cried Anton, "I do not understand you. It is true, you are inconsiderate."

"Have you found me so?" interpolated Fink.

"No," replied Anton. "Whatever you have been to others, to me you have always shown yourself generous and sympathizing; but for this very reason it pains me inexpressibly that you should have thus changed toward Lenore."

"Leave that to me," returned Fink; "every one has his own way of taming birds. Let me just add, that if your Fraulein Lenore be not soon shaken out of this sickly way of life, she will be utterly ruined. The pony alone will not do it, I know; but you, my son, and your melancholy sympathy, won't do it either; and so we will just let things take their course. I am going to Rosmin to-day; have you any commands?"

This conversation, although it led to no estrangement between the friends, was never forgotten by Anton, who silently resented Fink's dictatorial tone, and anxiously watched his bearing toward Lenore, whom Fink never sought nor avoided, but simply treated as a stranger.

Anton himself had some unpleasant experiences to go through. Much as he avoided communicating what was unwelcome to the baron, there was one thing he could no longer spare him, and that was the settlement of his son's debts. Soon after Eugene's death, numberless letters, with bills inclosed, had arrived at the castle, been given by Lenore to Anton, and then by him all made over, Sturm's note of hand included, to Councilor Horn, whose opinion and advice he craved to have respecting them. This opinion had now arrived. The lawyer did not disguise that the note of hand given by young Rothsattel to the porter was so informal that it amounted to nothing more than a mere receipt, and did not in any way bind the baron to pay the debt. Indeed, the sum was so great that immediate payment was out of the question. Then Anton himself had lent the young prodigal more than eight hundred dollars. As he drew out Eugene's note of hand from among his papers, he looked long at the handwriting of the dead. That was the sum by which his imprudence had purchased a share in the fate of this n.o.ble family. And what had this purchase brought him? He had then thought it a fine thing to help his aristocratic friend out of his embarra.s.sments; now, he saw that he had only abetted his downward course. He gloomily locked up his own note of hand in his desk again, and with a heavy heart prepared for a conversation with the baron.

At the first mention of his son, the baron fell into a state of painful excitement; and when Anton, in the flow of his narrative, chanced to call the departed by his Christian name, the father's pent-up anger found a vent. He interrupted Anton by sharply saying, "I forbid you to use that familiar appellation in speaking of my son. Living or dead, he is still Herr von Rothsattel as far as you are concerned." Anton replied with great self-command, "Herr Eugene von Rothsattel had contracted debts to the amount of about four thousand dollars."

"That is impossible!" broke in the baron.

"The accredited copies of notes of hand and bills of exchange which Councilor Horn has procured, place the matter beyond doubt. With regard to the largest debt, one of nineteen hundred dollars, the certainty is the more complete, as the lender, the father of the bailiff Sturm, happens to be a man of peculiar uprightness. A letter to me from the departed expressly acknowledges this obligation."

"Then you knew of this debt," cried the baron, with increasing anger, "and you have kept it back from me! Is this your much-vaunted fidelity?"

It was in vain that Anton sought to explain the circ.u.mstances of the case. The baron had lost all self-control. "I have long ago found out,"

said he, "how self-willed your whole line of conduct is. You take advantage of my situation to get the disposition of all my means; you make debts, you allow debts to be made, you draw money, you charge it to my account, just as you see fit."

"Say no more, baron," cried Anton. "It is only compa.s.sion for your helplessness which at this moment prevents me from answering you as you deserve. How great that compa.s.sion is, you may infer from the fact that I will endeavor to forget your words, and still ask you for your decision: will you or will you not acknowledge your late son's debts, and give legal security to the porter Sturm, or to his son, your bailiff?"

"I will do nothing," cried the baron, beside himself, "that you require of me in so peremptory and pretentious a tone."

"Then it is useless to speak to you any longer. I implore you, baron, to reconsider the affair before you p.r.o.nounce your final decision. I shall have the honor of receiving your ultimatum this evening, and I hope that ere then your sense of honor will have triumphed over a mood to which I should not wish a second time to expose myself."

With these words he left, and heard the poor baron upsetting chairs and tables in his wrath. Scarcely had he reached his room when the confidential servant appeared, and asked for the deeds and account-books, which had hitherto been kept in Anton's room. Silently the latter made them over to the affrighted domestic.

He was dismissed, then--rudely and summarily dismissed; his uprightness questioned: this breach was final. It was a bitter hour. Even now, while indignantly pacing up and down, he felt that this insult offered him was a punishment. True, his aim had been pure, and his actions blameless; but the enthusiastic feelings which had led him hither had not availed to establish proper relations between him and the baron--those of employer and employed. It was not the freewill, the rational choice of both, that had brought them together, but the pressure of mysterious circ.u.mstances and his own youthful romance. And thus he had claims beyond what his situation gave him, and by these the baron was oppressed and c.u.mbered.

These reflections were interrupted by Lenore's sudden entrance. "My mother wishes to speak to you," she cried. "What will you do, Wohlfart?"

"I must go," said Anton, gravely. "To leave you thus, with your future so uncertain, is what I never could have believed possible. There was but one thing which could have induced me to part from you before I had made over the property into stronger hands. And this one thing is come to pa.s.s."

"Go!" cried Lenore, in utmost excitement. "All is crumbling around us; there is no help to be looked for; even you can not save us; go, and free your life from that of our sinking family."

When Anton joined the baroness, he found her lying on the sofa. "Sit down beside me, Mr. Wohlfart," whispered she. "The hour is come in which I must impart what, to spare myself, I have reserved for the hour when we speak most openly to each other--the last hour spent together. The baron's illness has so affected him that he no longer appreciates your faithful help--nay, your presence aggravates his unhappy state. He has so hurt your feelings that reconciliation is become impossible. Even could you forget, we should consider the sacrifice you would be making far too great."

"I purpose leaving the property on an early day," replied Anton.

"I can not," continued the baroness, "atone for my husband's offenses toward you, but I wish to give you an opportunity of revenging yourself in a manner worthy of you. The baron has attacked your honor; the revenge that I, his wife, offer you, is to a.s.sist him to retrieve his own."

Hitherto the baroness had spoken fluently, as was her wont in society; now she stopped, and seemed to lack words.

"Years ago," she said, "he pledged his word of honor, and--and broke it in a moment of desperation. The proof of this is probably in the hands of some low man, who will use this knowledge to ruin him. That I should communicate this to you at a time like this will show you the light in which I regard your connection with our house. If it be possible to restore his peace of mind, you, I know, will do it." She drew a letter from under the pillow, and placed it in Anton's hand.

Anton took it to the window, and saw with surprise that it was in Ehrenthal's handwriting. He had to read it twice before he could master its contents. In a lucid interval the imbecile had happened to recall his former dealings with the n.o.bleman, and wrote to remind him of the stolen notes of hand, to demand his money, and to threaten the baron.

The letter was full, besides, of laments over his own weakness, and the wickedness of others; and what its confusion left unexplained was cleared up by the copy of a note of hand--probably from the draught of one agreed upon by the baron and Ehrenthal, for the letter mentioned the existence of the original, and threatened to use it against the baron.

Folding up the letter, Anton said, "The threats which Ehrenthal connects with the copy inclosed need not disturb you, baroness, for the note of hand seems to have no signature, and the sum which it represents is a small one."

"And do you believe that it is a true statement?" asked the baroness.

"I do," was the reply. "This letter explains to me much that hitherto I never could understand."

"I know that it is true," whispered the baroness, in so low a voice that Anton scarcely heard it, while a faint blush overspread her face. "And you, Mr. Wohlfart, will you endeavor to get back the stolen papers for us?"

"I will," replied Anton, earnestly. "But my hopes are small. The baron has no existing claim upon these missing doc.u.ments. They belong to Ehrenthal, and an understanding with him is necessary in the first instance. It will be difficult to bring about. And again, I very imperfectly understand the circ.u.mstances, and must request you to try and inform me of all you can connected with the robbery."

"I will endeavor to write to you," said the baroness. "You can draw up a list of the questions you wish answered, and I will do so as well as I can. Whatever may be the result of your efforts, I now thank you with all my soul. Our house will never pay the debt it owes you. If the blessing of a dying woman can shed a brightness over your future, take it with you on your way."

Anton rose.

"We shall not meet again," said the invalid; "this is our final leave-taking. Farewell, Wohlfart! this is the last time I shall see you on earth." She held out her hand. He bent over it, and, deeply moved, quitted the room.

Yes, she deserved to be called a n.o.ble lady. Her nature was n.o.ble, her insight into the character of others clear, and her mode of recompensing Anton's zeal dignified--very dignified. In her eyes, at least, he had always worn a powdered wig and silver knee-buckles.

In the evening Fink's step was heard in the corridor, and, entering Anton's room, he cried, "Halloo, Anton, what's up now? John slinks about as if he had broken the great china vase; and when old Barbette saw me, she began to wring her hands."

"I must leave this house, my friend," returned Anton, gloomily. "I have had a painful scene with the baron to-day." He then proceeded to relate it, and concluded by saying, "The position of this family was never so desperate as now. They need the command of twenty thousand dollars to avert new misfortunes."

Fink threw himself into a chair. "First of all," said he, "I hope you availed yourself as little as possible of this fine opportunity of being angry. We won't waste words over the scene; the baron is not accountable; and between ourselves, I am not surprised. I have seen all summer that you could not retain your romantic connection with this family. On the other hand, it is plain that you are indispensable as father-confessor to the ladies, and confidential man of business to all the people around. And I need not tell you that your sudden departure cuts up many a plan of mine. But now for the question, What will you do?"

"I shall return as soon as possible to our own capital," replied Anton.