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Countess Erika's Apprenticeship

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<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> If Erika could have known anything of the unpleasant scene in Charlottenburg Avenue, her warm-hearted indignation would immediately have developed into vigour the germ of affection for Goswyn that already, unknown to herself, slumbered in her heart. She would certainly have committed some exaggerated, irresponsible act, which would have overthrown at a blow Goswyn's rudely-aroused, tormenting pride. She never could have borne to have another inflict upon him pain or humiliation. The entire disagreeable complication would have come to a crisis in a most touching scene, and in the end two people absolutely made for each other would have been sitting hand clasped in hand on the lounge beneath the fan-palms in Countess Lenzdorff's drawing-room, conversing in low tones, and Erika would have arrived at the sensible and agreeable conviction that there could be nothing better in the world than to share the life of a strong, noble husband to whom she could implicitly confide her happiness. The problem of her life would have found its solution, and she would have been spared the perilous errors and hard trials awaiting her in the future. But the ugly story never reached her. The three men who had been auditors of Dorothea's coarse cruelty would have considered as a breach of honour any report of it, and the Princess Dorothea contented herself with a giggling declaration to all who chose to listen that her brother-in-law Goswyn had had the mitten from Erika Lenzdorff, without referring to the way in which her information had been procured. Thus Erika passed the rest of the day with a rather sore, compassionate feeling in her heart, never doubting that she should have her usual ride with Goswyn the next morning, when she promised herself to be particularly amiable. All would come right, she said to herself. But that same evening, when she was taking tea with her grandmother, old Lüdecke brought his mistress a letter which she read with evident surprise and then laid down beside her plate. She did not eat another morsel, and scarcely spoke during the meal. Observing that Erika, distressed by her silence, had also ceased eating and was anxiously glancing towards her grandmother from time to time, she asked, "Have you finished?" Her voice was unusually stern. Erika was startled. "Yes," she stammered, and, trembling in every limb, she followed her grandmother out of the dining-room and into the Countess's cheerful, cosey boudoir. There the old lady began to pace thoughtfully to and fro: she looked very dignified and awe-inspiring. Erika had never before seen her thus, walking with short impatient steps, frowning brow, and a face that seemed hewn out of marble. She began to be frightfully uncomfortable in the presence of the angry old woman, and was trying to slip away unobserved, when her grandmother barred her way and said, harshly, "Stay here: I have something to say to you, Erika." "Yes, grandmother." "Sit down." Erika obeyed. The room looked very pleasant, with its light furniture revealed in the shaded brilliancy of coloured hanging lamps. One window was open; a low rustle of leaves was wafted in through the pale-green silken curtains upon the warm languorous breath of the spring night. Her grandmother seated herself in her favourite arm-chair beside her reading-table, with Erika opposite her on a frail-looking little chair, bolt upright, with her hands in her lap, and a very distressed expression of countenance. "This letter is from Goswyn," the old lady began, tapping the letter in her lap. "Yes, grandmother," murmured Erika. "You guessed it?" the old lady asked, in a hard, unnatural voice, and with an exaggerated distinctness of utterance, which were very strange to her granddaughter. "I know his handwriting." "H'm! You know what is in the letter?" "How should I?" Erika's pale cheeks flushed crimson. "How should you? Well, then, I must tell you"--she smoothed down her dress with an impatient gesture--"that you refused his offer to-day: that is what the letter contains. Surely you should know it. Such things are not done in sleep." "Ah, yes, I know that," Erika murmured, beginning to be irritated in her turn; "but how was I to suppose that he would write it to you? I cannot see what he does it for?" "What for? He informs me that he must deprive himself of all intercourse with us for a time, that he has obtained leave of absence and is going away from Berlin." "But why?" exclaimed Erika. "This is perfect nonsense! It was settled that we should ride together to-morrow as usual." "Indeed! You expected him to ride with you after you had rejected him?" "He was perfectly agreed," Erika eagerly declared: "we parted the best of friends. I do not want to marry him, but I prize his friendship immensely. I told him so. He has surely put that in the letter. He is never unjust; he must have told you that I was nice to him. How could I help being so, when I pitied him so much?" The girl's voice trembled. "You have missed something in the letter; you must have missed something," she persisted. Her grandmother opened the letter again, and read, first in an undertone, then aloud: "Yes, here it is: 'Never was man rejected more charmingly, with greater sweetness, than I by the Countess Erika; but it did me no good. I only thought her more bewitching than ever before in her tender kindliness,--yes, even in all her dear, child-like, awkward attempts to reconcile what in the very nature of things is irreconcilable. "'For a while I shall be very wretched; but you know me well enough to feel sure that I shall not go through life hanging my head, any more than I shall now butt that same head against the wall. I trust that the time will come when I shall be of some use to you, my dear old friend, and, it may be, to her; but at present I am good for nothing. "'It is best that I should retire into the background. To-morrow I leave Berlin. Forgive me for finding it impossible to take leave of you in person, and believe in the faithful devotion of yours always, "'G. Von Sydow.'" After the old lady had finished the reading of the letter, not without a certain pathetic emphasis, she looked up. Erika's face was bathed in tears. Her grandmother was dismayed, and after a pause began again, but in a very different and a very gentle tone. "This affair annoys me excessively, Erika." The girl nodded. "The fact is,"--the grandmother laid her hand on Erika's arm,--"you are very inexperienced in such affairs. Another time you must not let matters go so far. One must do everything in one's power to spare an honourable gentleman such a humiliation. Your conduct would have given the most modest of men reason to suppose you cared for him. You misled me completely." "Misled!--cared for him!" Erika repeated, tapping the carpet nervously with her foot. "But I do like him very much." Her grandmother all but smiled. "My dear child, I do not quite understand you. Consider! Shall I write and tell Goswyn that you were a little unprepared, and that you are sorry,--there's no disgrace in admitting that,--and--Heaven knows I shall be glad enough to write the letter!" She rose to go to her writing-table, but Erika detained her, nervously clutching at her skirts. "No! no! oh, no, grandmother!" she almost screamed. "I do like him; I know how good he is; but I do not want to marry him, I am still so young. For God's sake do not force me to do so!" She had grown deadly pale, as she clasped her hands in entreaty. Her grandmother looked at her with a grave shake of the head. "As you please," she said, no longer stern, but depressed, worried,--a mood very rare with her. "Now go and lie down: rest will do you good; and I should like to be alone for a while." Far into the night did the old Countess pace restlessly to and fro in her boudoir, amidst all the graceful works of art which she had collected about her with such satisfaction and which gave her none at present. At last she seated herself at her writing-table, and before Goswyn left Berlin the next day he received the following letter: "My Dear Boy,-- "This matter affects me more than you would think. I was so sure of my case. At first I was disposed to scold the girl; but there turned out to be no reason for doing so. Not a trace did she show of vulgar love of admiration, nor even of heartless thoughtlessness. Everything that she said to you is true: she likes you very much. I tried to set her right,--in vain! For the present there is nothing to be done with her. "In the course of conversation I perceived that there was nothing for which the child was to blame; the fault was all mine. Can you forgive me? "But that is a mere phrase. I know that it never will occur to you to blame me. "My words will not come as readily as usual, and I am very uncomfortable. I am writing to you not only to tell you how much I pity you, but also to relieve my anxiety somewhat by talking it over with you. "I have come to see that my grandchild, whom I so wrongly neglected--the words are not a mere phrase--for so long, and for whom I now have an affection such as I have never felt for any one in my life hitherto, will give me many an unhappy hour. "Her sad, dreary youth has left its shadow on her soul, and has exaggerated in her a perilous inborn sensitiveness. "There are depths in her character which I cannot fathom. She is good, tender-hearted, noble, beautiful, and rarely gifted; but there is with her in everything a tendency to exaggeration that frightens me. I forebode now that my long neglect of the child from mere selfish love of ease will be bitterly avenged upon me. "If I had watched her from childhood, I should now know her; but, fondly as I love her, I cannot but feel that I do not understand her, and the great difference in our ages makes any perfect intimacy between us impossible. Moreover, in spite of my trifle of sagacity, of which I have availed myself for my own pleasure and never for the benefit of others, I am an unpractical person, and shall make many a stupid mistake in my treatment of the child. And it is a pity; for I do not over-estimate her: she is bewitching! "Yet, withal, I cannot help thinking that you have not acted as wisely as I should have expected you to,--that with a little more heartfelt insistence you might have prevailed where my persuasion failed. In especial your sudden flight is a perfect riddle to me. I looked for more perseverance from you. But this is your affair. "I am very sorry not to see you again before your hurried departure. I shall miss you terribly, my dear boy, I have become so accustomed to refer to you in all my small perplexities. Still hoping, in spite of everything, that sooner or later all may be as it should be between Erika and yourself, I am your affectionate old friend, "Anna Lenzdorff." Chafed and sore in heart as Goswyn was at the time, this letter did him good. After reading it through he murmured, "When she thus reveals her inmost soul, it is easy to understand how, with all her faults and follies, one cannot help loving the old Countess." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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