For in the first place no one concerns himself about it, and even if anyone did, why, it is so all the same. And why not? What harm does it do? They have nothing to cast up at one another, and each one is just like the rest."

Lena looked straight before her and kept silence.

"And really, child, you will find it out for yourself, really all this is simply tiresome. For a while it goes well enough, and I have nothing to say against it, and I will not deny it myself. But time brings weariness. Ever since you are fifteen and not even confirmed. Truly, the sooner one gets out of all this the better. Then I shall buy me a distillery (for I get plenty of money), and I already know where; and then I shall marry a widower and I already know whom. And he is willing too. For I must tell you I like order and propriety and bringing up children decently, and whether they are his or mine, it is all the same to me.... And how is it really with you?"

Lena did not say a word.

"Heavens, child, you are changing color; perhaps something in here (she pointed to her heart) is involved and you are doing everything for the sake of love? Ah, child, that is bad, then there is sure to be some sudden smash."

Johanna followed with Margot. They purposely kept at some little distance and plucked twigs of birch, as if they meant to make a wreath of them. "How do you like her?" said Margot. "I mean Gaston's ..."

"Like her? Not at all. The very idea that such girls should take a hand in the game and come to be the fashion! Just see how her gloves fit.

And her hat doesn't amount to much. He ought not to let her go like that. And she must be stupid too, for she has not a word to say."

"No," said Margot, "she isn't stupid; it is only that she has not struck her gait yet. And it is rather clever in her to make up to our stout friend so promptly."

"Oh, our stout friend. Get out with her. She thinks she is the whole show. But she is nothing at all. I don't believe in backbiting, but she is false, false as the wood of the gallows."

"No, Johanna, she is not really false. And she has pulled you out of a hole more than once. You know what I mean."

"Good gracious, _why_ did she do it? Because she was stuck in the same hole herself, and because she always gives herself airs and thinks she is so important. Anyone as stout as that is never good."

"Lord, Johanna, how you do talk. It is just the other way around, stout people are always good."

"Well, have it your own way. But you cannot deny that she is a comical figure to look at. Just see how she waddles; like a fat duck. And always b.u.t.toned up to her chin because otherwise she would not look fit to be seen among decent people. And, Margot, I will not give way on that point, a slender figure is really the princ.i.p.al thing. We are not Turks, you know. And why wouldn't she go with us to the churchyard?

Because she is afraid. Heaven forbid, she isn't thinking of any such thing, it's because she's b.u.t.toned up so tight and she can't stand the heat. And yet it isn't really so terribly hot to-day."

So the conversations went, until the two couples came together again and seated themselves on a moss-grown bank.

Isabeau kept looking at her watch; it seemed as if the hands would never move.

But when it was half past eleven, she said: "Now, my friends, it is time; I think we have had enough of nature and may quite properly pa.s.s on to something else. We have never had a bite to eat since early this morning at about seven. For those ham sandwiches at Grunauer do not count.... But the Lord be praised, self-denial brings its own reward, as Balafre says, and hunger is the best cook. Come, ladies, the saddle of venison is beginning to be more important than anything else. Don't you think so, Johanna?"

The latter shrugged her shoulders, and sought to turn aside the suspicion that any such things as venison and punch could ever matter to her.

But Isabeau laughed. "Well, we shall see, Johanna. Of course the Zeuthner churchyard would have been more enjoyable. But one must take what one can get."

And hereupon they all started to return from the woods through the garden, where a pair of yellow b.u.t.terflies were fluttering together, and from the garden to the front of the house where they were to take luncheon.

As they were pa.s.sing the dining-room Isabeau saw the host busily repairing the damage where a bottle of Moselle had been spilt.

"What a pity," said she, "that I had to see just that. Fate really might have afforded me a more pleasing sight. And why must it be Moselle?"

CHAPTER XIV

In spite of all Isabeau's efforts no genuine cheerfulness would return to the group since the walk. But the worst of it was, at least for Botho and Lena, that they could not regain any real cheerfulness even after they had bidden good-bye to Botho's comrades and their ladies, and were beginning their homeward journey quite alone in a coupe that they had engaged. An hour later they had arrived, somewhat depressed, at the dimly lighted depot at Gorlitz, and here, as they were getting out, Lena had at once asked quite urgently to be allowed to go the rest of the way through the city alone. "She was tired and out of sorts,"

she said, "and that was not good." But Botho would not be turned aside from what he considered to be his duty as an escort, and so the two together had traversed in a rickety old cab the long, long road by the ca.n.a.l, constantly trying to keep up a conversation about the excursion, and "how lovely it had been"--a terribly forced conversation, which had made Botho feel only too plainly how right Lena's feeling had been, when in an almost imploring tone she had begged him not to escort her further. Yes, the excursion to "Hankel's Ablage" from which they had expected so much, and which had actually begun so charmingly and happily, had ended only in a mingling of ill humor, weariness and discontent; and only at the last moment, when Botho, with a certain feeling of being to blame, had bidden Lena a friendly and affectionate "good night," did she run to him, take his hand and kiss him with almost pa.s.sionate impetuosity: "Ah, Botho, things were not as they should have been to-day, and yet no one was to blame ... not even the others."

"Never mind, Lena."

"No, no. It was n.o.body's fault, that is the truth, and it cannot be altered. But the worst of it is, that it is true. If anyone is to blame, he can ask pardon and so make all good again. But that is no help to us. And then too, there is nothing to forgive."

"Lena ..."

I "You must listen for a moment. Oh, my dearest Botho, you are trying to hide it from me, but the end is coming. And quickly too, I know it."

"How can you say so!"

"To be sure, I only dreamed it," Lena went on. "But why did I dream it?

Because all day long it had been in my mind. My dream was only what my heart told me. And what I wanted to tell you, Botho, and the reason why I ran after you a few steps was, that what I said last night holds good. That I could pa.s.s this summer with you was a joy to me, and always will be, even if I must be unhappy from this day forth."

"Lena, Lena, do not say that ..."

"You feel yourself that I am right; only your kind heart struggles against it and will not admit the truth. But I know it: yesterday, as we were walking across the meadow, chattering together, and I picked you the bunch of flowers, it was our last joy and our last beautiful hour."

With this interview the day had ended, and now it was the following morning, and the summer sunshine was streaming brightly into Botho's room. Both windows stood open and the sparrows were quarreling in the chestnut tree outside. Botho himself was leaning back in a rocking-chair, smoking a meerschaum pipe and striking with his handkerchief now and then at a big blue-bottle fly that came in at one window as fast as he went out of the other, to buzz persistently around Botho.

"If I could only get rid of the creature. I should enjoy tormenting it.

These big flies are always bearers of bad news, and then they are as spitefully persistent as if they took pleasure in the trouble that they announce." And he struck at the fly once more. "Gone again. It is no use. Resignation then is the only help. On the whole, submission is the best. The Turks are the cleverest people."

While Botho was thus soliloquising, the shutting of the little wicket gate led him to look into the garden, where he saw the letter carrier who had just entered and with a slight military salute and a "Good morning, Herr Baron" first handed him a paper and then a letter through the low window. Botho threw the paper aside, and looked at the letter, on which he easily recognised his mother's small, close, but still very legible handwriting. "I thought as much ... I know already, before I have read it. Poor Lena."

And he opened the letter and read:

"Schloss Zehden, June 29, 1875."

"My dear Botho:

"The apprehension of which I told you in my last letter, has now proved well founded: Rothmuller in Arnswalde has demanded his money on October 1 and only added 'Because of our old friendship' that he would wait until New Year, if it would cause me any embarra.s.sment. 'For he knew very well what he owed to the memory of the departed Baron.' The addition of this expression, however well it may have been meant, was doubly humiliating to me; it showed such a mingling of pretentious consideration, which never makes a pleasing impression, least of all from such a source. You can perhaps understand the care and discomfort that this letter gave me. Uncle Kurt Anton would help me, as he has already done on former occasions. He loves me, and you best of all, but always to claim his benevolence again, is somewhat oppressive and all the more so because he lays the blame for our continual difficulties on our whole family, but especially on us two. In spite of my honest efforts at good management, I am not thrifty and economical enough for him, in which opinion he may be right, and you are not practical and sensible enough for him, in which opinion also he may be quite correct.

Well, Botho, that is how things stand. My brother is a man of very fine feeling in regard to justice and reason, and of a perfectly remarkable generosity in money matters, which cannot be said of many of our n.o.bility. For our good Mark of Brandenburg is a province characterized by economy and even, when help is needed, by nervous anxiety. But however kind my brother is, he has his moods and his obstinacy, and finding himself continually crossed in his wishes has for some time past put him seriously out of humor. He told me, the last time I took occasion to mention the demand for the payment of our debt which was then threatening again: 'I am very glad to be of service, sister, as you know, but I frankly confess that to be constantly obliged to help, when one could help oneself at any minute, if only one had a little more foresight and a little less self-will, makes great claims on the side of my character which was never the strongest: I mean on my indulgence....' You know, Botho, to what these words of his referred, and I ask you to take them to heart to-day, just as your Uncle Kurt Anton wished me to take them to heart then. There is nothing which causes you more cold shivers, as I conclude from your own words and letters, than sentimentality, and yet I fear that you are yourself more deeply involved in something of the kind than you are willing to confess, perhaps than you know yourself. I will say no more."

Rienacker laid down the letter and walked up and down the room, while he half mechanically exchanged the meerschaum for a cigarette. Then he picked up the letter again and read on:

"Yes, Botho, you have the future of all of us in your hands, and it is for you to decide whether this feeling of constant dependence shall continue or cease. You have our future in your hands, I say, but I must indeed add, only for a short time yet, in any case not very much longer. Uncle Kurt Anton spoke with me about this also, especially in connection with Katherine's Mamma, Frau Sellenthin, who, when he was last in Rothenmoor, expressed herself not only very decidedly but with some access of irritation, as to this matter which interested her so keenly. Did the Rienacker family perhaps believe that an ever-diminishing property increased constantly in value, after the manner of the Sibylline books? (Where she got the comparison, I do not know.) Katherine would soon be twenty-two, had had enough social experience to form her manners, and with the addition of an inheritance from her Aunt Kielmannsegge would control a property whose income would not fall far behind that of the Rienackers' forest land and the eel pond together. It was not fitting to keep such young girls waiting, especially with such coolness and placidity. If Herr von Rienacker chose to drop all that had formerly been planned and discussed by the family and to regard agreements that had been made as mere child's play, she had nothing to say against it. Herr von Rienacker would be free from the moment when he wished to be free. But if, on the contrary, he did not intend to make use of this unconditional freedom to withdraw, it was time to make his intentions known. She did not wish her daughter to be talked about.

"You will not find it difficult to see from the tone of these words, that it is absolutely necessary to come to a decision and to act. You know what my wishes are. But my wishes ought not to bind you. Act as your own intelligence dictates, decide one way or the other, only act.

A withdrawal is more honorable than further procrastination. If you delay longer, we shall lose not only the bride, but the whole Sellenthin house as well, and what is worst of all, the friendly and helpful disposition of your Uncle also. My thoughts are with you, and I wish that they might guide you. I repeat, this is the way to happiness for you and for us all. And now I remain, your loving Mother,

"Josephine von R."