CHAPTER XXXII.
The Brand from the Burning
The formal part of the visit at Doctor Stephen's house was over. Alison had saluted the doctor and his wife, and exchanged with them the inevitable polite phrases, questions and answers; but this time he betrayed no glowing impatience to shorten the interview; he waited calmly until Atkins ended it, and conducted him to Jane, who although she knew of his arrival, had remained in her chamber.
Here, too, there was a cold, polite greeting, a few words in relation to the journey, the arrival, the different places of interest on the route; then Atkins withdrew. Henry and Jane were left alone.
She again sat opposite him as at that time when he had sued for her hand; but she was paler than then; she had become so much paler during this winter, but in this long space, she had regained complete mastery over herself. Her head was again upright, her features firm and cold, and her eyes met his with the old glance of defiance. This was not the bearing of intimidation or submission: Atkins was right; she would dare one more last conflict.
"Why this useless struggle? I will not let you go!"
Perhaps Jane read this thought in his face, for her brow grew dark, and her lips compressed. These two beings so soon to be united forever, stood now as hostilely arrayed, the one against the other, as if this were to be a struggle for life or death. Both knew it, they were equals in energy, in strength of will, in inflexibility; not a foot's-breadth would one yield to the other, and now it remained to be proved whose will was the stronger.
Henry had already arranged his tactics; he enveloped himself wholly in that cold politeness she had shown at the first greeting.
"I come, Miss Forest," he said, "to demand the fulfilment of a promise which I received a year ago, and which was repeated to me in this place. Your time of mourning for young Mr. Forest must now be at an end, and I must beg you to name the day for our union. Mr. Atkins wishes exact information so as to arrange all formalities for the marriage, and I too have various preparations to make for our departure. We had decided upon the first of next month; but the day and the hour, as well as the manner of the ceremony, are of course left to your decision. I await your commands."
Jane sighed deeply. He had entered upon the subject in a masterly way; he had made all evasion impossible, but still he was not to win the victory so easily.
"You have my promise, Mr. Alison, it is true, and I am ready to fulfil it, if, after what has come to your knowledge, you dare demand such a thing."
Word and glance, alike ineffectual, glided off from the icy indifference with which Alison had armed himself. He remained perfectly calm.
"And why should I not dare to demand a hand which was freely promised me, and would just as freely have been mine, if it had not been for that–episode, which is of very little import in my eyes? Miss Forest is too precious a treasure to be sacrificed for a mere romantic infatuation. I, at least, have no mind to make any such sacrifice."
"You forget one thing!"–Jane's voice involuntarily betrayed the fearful excitement that had taken possession of her whole being.–"Hitherto, you have had the power to torture me, but from the moment of our marriage, that power will fall to me. A woman can become a curse to her husband, if he has taught her to hate where she ought to love.–Force me to this marriage, and I become such a curse to you!"
But even this threat, so defiantly hurled at him, glanced powerless from that smooth, icy calm; Henry smiled at this as he had before smiled at Atkins' words.
"I hardly think we shall continue upon American soil, this romance, into which German sentimentality has drawn us against our will; the atmosphere there is not suited to such extravagances, we had better leave them behind here. I am convinced that Mrs. Alison will as brilliantly represent my house, and as unconditionally play the first role in the social circles of our city, as Miss Forest once did. To enable her to do this, she will find surroundings worthy of her, and a husband whose name and position will do her honor. Our marriage could certainly never have become a shepherd's idyl, and it need not become a tragedy; if you, Miss, have an intention to play a tragic part here, you will have to do so alone; for myself, I have not the slightest capability for such roles."
Jane trembled under this irony; she felt that Henry was not accessible on this side, and she felt also, that he was now making her atone for the haughty "I will not," she had once flung at him. Not in vain had Atkins warned her against this man, who never forgot nor forgave an injury even though he appeared so to do. He was now seeking his revenge, and Jane knew that she could reckon upon no pity; but this certainty, all at once, gave back her presence of mind. She rose resolute and cold, and there was an expression of contempt upon her lips. She must have foreseen the uselessness of this last effort; she had other, and in her opinion, more infallible weapons at command.
"Before we dwell upon this point," she said, "I beg you listen to a proposal I am about to make you."
Henry also had risen; he bowed assent.
"You know that since my brother's death, I have become sole heir to my father's fortune. His will also gives me full, lawful control of all."
"Certainly!" returned Henry, in astonishment, he had no idea where this would end.
"Well, then, I am ready to make over to you the whole fortune as the price of my freedom."
Alison started back, he had all at once become pale, and his glance, with a mysterious, threatening expression, fixed itself full upon her face.
Jane stepped hastily to her writing-desk, and drew a paper from a portfolio lying there.
"I have already drawn up the necessary paper; you will see from it that I keep back nothing except what is in my hands at this moment. It is a sum sufficient to afford me a support here in Germany, but scarcely worth mention in comparison with that which will fall to your share. The legal execution of this may take place any day, whenever you wish; the transaction naturally remains a secret to all save those immediately interested. I offer you all I possess; only leave me free!"
She reached him the paper. Silently Alison took it from her hands, silently he read it through; the paleness of his face grew yet deeper, and the paper rustled strangely in his hands. At last he laid it deliberately upon the table, and crossed his arms.
"Before all else, I request you, Miss Forest, to change the tone in which you see fit to speak to me. One does not meet a man who holds one's whole future in his hands, with such–contempt."
A hasty flush passed over Jane's face; her voice had unwittingly betrayed her sentiments as she made this proposal. "I do not see," she replied, "why we should seek to deceive each other. You won me for my fortune and hold fast the hand upon which it depends. I would relieve you from a troublesome appendage to this fortune, and myself from a hated tie. You are merchant enough to appreciate the advantages of my offer; and I have lived long enough in America to take into account the value it will be to you there."
Jane did not dream what a fearful game she was playing at this moment, and she did not suffer herself to be warned by the low, hissing sound that again came from Henry's lips, as upon that evening, when he had listened to her conversation with Walter. His calmness quite deceived her.
"I doubt it, Miss Jane; your proposal is too German for that. With us, at home, one does not throw away a million to escape a marriage! Besides, I scarce believe that you clearly understand what it means for one like you, reared in the lap of riches, to be really poor!"
Jane proudly lifted her head. "My father was once poor," she said, "and he thought nothing of sacrificing position and a future, for the joys of freedom; I give up his riches for like object. I too would be free!"
"Would you really?" Alison fixed his penetrating glance upon her, and there was a tone of annihilating irony in his voice. "And besides, do you think that in case of necessity you could live upon a professor's salary? May I ask if Herr Fernow has a share in this romantic decision? If not, I advise you not to assume too much from his ideality. The heroine of his romance was an heiress, and his sentiments might grow cold if she were suddenly to appear before him poor."
Jane eyes flashed; she forgot all discretion, forgot how fearfully this man had once already made her atone for an insult; his irony robbed her of all self-control.
"Do not measure such a nature by your own standard, Mr. Alison! Walter Fernow is not your equal!" she said.
This was too much! The deep, deadly contempt in her words tore away the mask under which, hitherto to his own self and to her, he had feigned indifference. He gnashed his teeth in rage; still he controlled the storm of passion; but it was only for a few moments.
"Not my equal! You are very honest, Miss Jane. In your eyes, Professor Fernow has perhaps no equal in the world, and you would never have dared approach him with the proposal to sell his bride for money. Keep your indignation to yourself, I see that your whole nature rises in arms at the very thought. You dared not propose it to him, but you have to me!" Here the self-mastery ended, and the old, uncontrollable passion broke forth fearfully from its depths.–"You have dared make this proposal to me! You suppose that I would take part in such an infamous transaction! You dare treat Henry Alison as if he were an extortioner, whose word and honor were to be sold for dollars! Jane Forest, by Heaven you shall answer to me for this insult!"
Jane drew back, she gazed at him in consternation. She had not been prepared for such a reception of her proposal.
Henry snatched the paper from the table, and furiously tore it in pieces. "With this wretched bit of paper you would purchase your freedom, and hurl the money and your contempt after me. Forever and eternally you have seen in me only the moneyed man. It may be that it was calculation that led me to you, but you soon enough taught me to reckon with another factor than the dollar. I have loved you, Jane loved you to madness, and I loved you only the more ardently the more coldly you repelled me, up to the moment when that blue-eyed professor crossed my path, and I learned to hate you both. You know nothing of my interview with him, only what I have told you myself; you do not dream what passed between us that night your brother died. Well, then, I meant to murder him because he denied me the duel. This money lover had carried his calculations so far that he forgot all, that he risked life, honor and future, for the sake of one treasure they sought to wrest from him. Do you now understand, Jane, what you have been to me, and why I now hold you fast? I know that I have no happiness to expect from you, that my house will be to me a hell; but I also know that no power on earth can tear you two asunder unless it is my arm. And my arm shall do it; let it cost you your whole inheritance, let it cost me my last dollar, I fling both from me, but he shall not have you!"
He tore the paper into bits and threw the pieces scornfully away; then he strode excitedly to the window and stared out with face turned away from her.
Jane stood motionless, horrified, bewildered, by this wild outbreak of an emotion she had never suspected in Henry. For the first time he showed her this aspect, and deep in her heart she felt it was the true one, and she felt also with burning shame the wrong she had done him; but through it all, this shame and horror, broke softly and faintly a ray of hope; she knew that the woman is all-powerful when she is beloved.
Henry felt a light touch on his shoulder; when he turned around, Jane stood right before him, but the obstinacy and the contempt had vanished from her manner; she had lowered her head as if conscious of guilt, and her glance was fixed upon the floor.
"I did you wrong!" she said softly, and almost an entreaty lay in her tone as she added, "I did not think that you could love."
Henry drew back; there came over him a suspicion of what was before him, and his brow grew yet more dark, his features yet more hard, his whole manner expressed grim, icy repulsion.
"Enough of confession!" he said roughly. "I request you once more, Miss Forest, to name the day of our nuptials. I expect your answer,–expect it immediately."
Jane yet stood before him with downcast eyes; now she suddenly laid both hands on his arm.
"Henry."
He trembled, and turned away.
"You have set a cruel choice before me, and fearful was the threat with which you forced me to silence, him to inaction. His life and my future now lie in your hands alone, Henry.–Give him back his unfortunate promise, and me freedom!"
With a violent movement he flung back her hand. "What do you mean by that tone, Jane? Do you think to compel me with it? Have you gathered nothing other from my words than that I would now play a magnanimous role and lead you to his arms? Not a word further, not a single word more, or–I forget myself!"
The forbiddal sounded wild and threatening enough, but it remained without effect; Jane was now conscious of her power; she felt no further fear.
"I no longer offer you my wealth, and all else I have to give, belongs to another. I can compel nothing from you, purchase nothing from you; well, then, I now entreat you; Henry, for your own salvation and for mine, release me from my promise!"
She had fallen on her knees before him, her voice trembled in anguished entreaty, in soft, moaning supplication, such as he had never before heard from these lips; the large dark eyes gazed upon him full and steadily, they were full of burning tears; her whole manner was so entirely changed, so different from the Jane Forest he had hitherto known, that for the first time, at this moment, Henry felt what he was to lose with her.
"At my feet! I might be proud of the triumph did I not know too well whom I must thank for it! Miss Forest once would sooner have taken upon herself a whole life full of torture and wretchedness, would sooner have died even, than allow a word of entreaty to fall from her lips. But his happiness is at stake, his future, and here she can take a thousand humiliations upon herself; and even if her pride bled from a thousand wounds, she could entreat, kneel even–and this she would never have done for herself.–Would you, Jane?"
This time, Jane remained proof against his irony; she felt only the infinite bitterness whence it came, felt that through all his grim resistance, her triumph was fighting its upward way.
"Yes," she said softly, still keeping her eyes fixed upon him.
He bent down to her, and lifted her gently in his arms. Those arms clasped the slight, delicate form as if they would hold it fast forever, and with strong, irresistible might he pressed her to his heart. His face was again distorted by all the tempestuous passion that had raged through its lineaments on that autumn night; his breast rose and fell as if in fearful conflict; but it was something nobler than fury or revenge that now plowed up the very soul of this man; it was a dumb, torturing sorrow, pulsing through his whole being, and stirring it to its inmost depths.
Jane saw the conflict, and had no heart to go on with her entreaties. She felt that a word from her would decide all, and yet she was silent. Her head sunk unresisting, upon his shoulder, but two heavy tears rolled slowly from her eyes down upon his hand.
Then suddenly, she felt Henry's lips, hot and burning, against her forehead; it was a kiss so unlike that first kiss she had received from him; it burned like a fiery brand upon her forehead. "Farewell!" vibrated in a half-stifled, yet ardent tone, through his voice. Then he let her loose from his arms. With this one word, he had freed her, renounced her forever!–When she glanced up, he had already left the room.–She was alone.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
An Unexpected Meeting
Spring upon the Rhine! How many a heart with fond, irresistible longing reverts to this thought! The spring comes everywhere. In the storms and billows of the ocean, in the soft, aromatic breath of leafy forests; in raging, devastating freshets from the mountains, in the blossoming splendors and jubilant lark-songs of the plain;–but nowhere does it so smile as here, by the cradle of German romance, where a breath of poesy hovers overall. The spring glides through the Rhineland, laying lightly her hand in blessing upon field and vineyard; and the blessing becomes a consecration. She floats sun-kissed, over forest and rocky cliff, and glances smiling down from hoary castles, gray with age. But never had the German spring been so greeted, so enjoyed as now, when she came bringing to a united people the festival of resurrection and of victory;–and peace to the world.
This spring had come to the land prematurely and unannounced, as if in haste to greet the new empire with its sunshine and its flowers. B., that "learned nest," was to-day full of joy and exultation, for it was to receive its university professor, Fernow, as a military hero; but the town being the centre of all rejoicings, its environs were silent as the dead. The day was magnificent, and yet the gentleman and lady who were climbing the path to the Ruènberg, seemed the only pedestrians far and near. Was it through accident or intention? Jane Forest had to-day, for the first time, laid aside her deep mourning; her dress was still sombre and without ornament, but it was no longer of that sable, hopeless black, and it almost seemed as if with the gloomy dress had vanished that stony, melancholy expression which, during the whole winter, had shadowed her face. There brooded over this face something like a breath of the spring; a tender, longing hope timidly ventured forth from beneath the scarce-broken icy covering, but had not as yet courage to look happiness and the future full in the face. There was a strange, wholly new expression on these once proud, resolute features, and it gave the face something which despite its beauty had hitherto been wanting–gentleness.
Mr. Atkins, who trudged along at the young lady's side, looked very grim and morose to-day; he seemed to feel this splendor of the spring a personal affront. Everything he saw annoyed him, and he was still more annoyed by what he did not see. He could not understand why this tender green had started forth so soon; it must certainly be destroyed by the night-frosts. This preposterous shining of the spring sun with a real June heat, only portended speedy and violent rains, and the Rhine, just now, was the object of his utter and supreme aversion. As Mr. Atkins walked along its banks, it had taken the liberty to wet his boots through and through, and had also shown an ardent longing to draw his whole person down into its watery depths, things which naturally excited the American's bitter ire.
"Your blood-thirsty Rhine grasps after every strange nationality that ventures near it!" he growled, and at that moment, he made up his mind to remain no longer upon this hated soil. "The sooner we return to America the better!" muttered he.
Jane paid little heed to Mr. Atkins' outbursts of ill temper, and she made due allowance for them all. She very well knew that their sole reason lay in the hollow thunders whose reverberations were heard even here, and which announced the return of Walter Fernow, the university professor and hero.–But as Atkins began to groan anew over the difficulties of the path and the excessive heat, Jane said with a touch of impatience.
"You should have remained in the town. My mourning excludes me from all share in the festivities. I did not wish to force my uncle and aunt to remain at home on my account, and so I undertook this walk. But no such consideration restrains you, and I need no escort to-day."
Atkins drew down his face. "I cannot say that I feel myself irresistibly drawn toward the city," he said, "where every little urchin you meet on the street is babbling of the 'new power,' and every student demands that I shall make my most humble obeisance to the genius of united Germany. These people are lost in admiration of themselves? Their beloved Rhine has become to them the one river of Germany, and they dream of enlarging its boundaries still more. German idealism is really beginning to become practical; but for these last weeks I have been so persistently entertained at all the clubs and societies with the prospective greatness and glory of the new empire, that I feel as if I would like, just for a little while, to hear something else spoken of. I wish–" Happily, just here he recalled the sharp reprimand he had once received from Jane, so he changed his pious wish into a sigh–"I wish I was back in America; but after all that has happened here in the fatherland, our Germans there will be so puffed up with conceit and vanity, that there'll be no getting on with them!"
Jane smiled at this outbreak of bitterness, and calmly replied:
"You will have to make up your mind to recognize the new power, Mr. Atkins, difficult as it may be to you. Nothing can now be changed, and you will at last reconcile yourself to paying some homage to our newly awakened German genius in your own land."
"Our? Your land?" drawled. Atkins. "Ah, yes! I keep forgetting that you have wholly and entirely gone over to the Germans, and are full of enthusiasm for your new countrymen. Well, just here we differ. I don't understand, Miss Jane, how you can enjoy the prospect here, the sun dazzles one so horribly, that one can see nothing but its beams; the river glares up at you so as to give you pains in the eyes, and this old wall glares at me just as if it would afford it an especial pleasure to fall down and crush us both. Just look before you!"
Jane made no answer; she sat down and left it to her companion to rail at the sun, the river and the ruin as much as he liked; but as Mr. Atkins found nothing more in his surroundings, over which he could growl, he came to her side.
"I only regret," he said, and the expression of his face betrayed how maliciously he rejoiced over it–"I only regret that B. must to-day be deprived of its principal hero. Lieutenant Fernow is really not with his regiment; the garlands with which Doctor and Mrs. Stephen have taken such a world of pains must wither, the stupendous reception which the students had planned must, like their enthusiasm, result in nothing; the learned salutation speeches of his colleagues will become somewhat antiquated. I am convinced that one of these evenings the professor will step quietly in at the back door, and the next morning will be found sitting at his writing-desk, pen in hand, placidly as if nothing had happened. That would be just like him, I think; he is the only German who now seems to have the least bit of sense left him."
Atkins, taking advantage of Jane's unusually gentle mood, ventured to speak a name which, during the whole winter, had not been mentioned between them, and he had his reasons. They had begun to treat him as they treated Doctor Stephen, to keep him in entire ignorance of the course of family affairs, revealing nothing to him until it was absolutely settled. This vexed him beyond measure; he wanted to know what had passed between Henry and Jane, wanted to know how matters really stood, and as he could venture no direct questions he tried this manœuvre.
But he missed his aim. Jane certainly blushed when Fernow was mentioned, but she remained calm and did not open her lips. It required more than the mere mention of a name to rob her of her self-possession. Atkins saw that no subterfuge would avail him; he must advance openly to his goal.
"Our travelling arrangements will perhaps require some change!" he began again in his sharp, searching tone. "Henry's sudden departure has disarranged all our plans; I have not been told,–I certainly have not been informed," he added with an irritation that showed his sensitiveness on this point, "why he last evening stormed so violently into my lodgings, demanded his travelling effects, and immediately drove to the station–and in such a humor too that I thought it best to keep as far away from him as possible; but, for my own interests I would now like to ask you, Jane, what you think of all this."
Jane's glance fell. "You are the first to inform me of Henry's departure," she said. "Did he leave no line for me?"
"No! not even a good-by; he declared that he should return to America on the first steamship that sailed from Hamburg."
Jane made no answer, but a deep sigh escaped her breast which had in it more of sorrow than relief.
"What had you done to Henry, Jane?" asked Atkins in a low voice, as he bent down to her. "He looked terribly when he came from you."
She glanced timidly up, but her voice was subdued and unsteady. "You always declared that he cherished a passion for me," she said. "I had never believed it. I thought the dollar the only divinity to which he knelt."
"It will perhaps be so in the future!" replied Atkins dryly. "Such weakness overpowers a man like Henry but once. He should have held to his American traditions; then the heir and future chief of the house of Alison & Co. would have received no refusal. It is not well, this mixture with German blood; you yourself very well see that now, Miss Jane, and Henry evidently has had enough of your German romances to last a lifetime. But his is not a nature to burden itself with an unhappy, love for any long time, and I do not doubt that within a year's time we shall hear of his marriage with one of our home heiresses."
"Would to God it might be so!" sighed Jane from the deepest depths of her heart, as she rose and stayed her arm against the wall.
For some moments, Atkins stood near her in silence. "Shall we continue our walk?" he asked at length. "This old castle is doubtless very interesting, but there is a draught about the romantic, mediæval haunt. I think we had best return to the sheltered valley."
"I shall remain!" declared Jane with her usual positiveness. "But I will not allow you to expose yourself longer to this 'romantic draught.' You will of course direct your walk to M. and we shall meet upon our return."
The hint was plain enough, and Atkins very readily accepted it. He thought it inexpressibly dull up here, and gladly availed himself of any excuse to withdraw.
"I have an idea that I shall have to return to America alone," he muttered to himself, as he took a by-path leading directly down into the valley. "And besides, I am to have the extraordinary pleasure of sending Mr. Forest's whole fortune across the ocean. The fortune Henry Alison made the object of all his energies and calculations, and which is now to fall into the lap of this German professor who was stupid enough to care nothing at all about it, and who would have married unhesitatingly upon his professor's salary! And he will have a brilliant career in the world–there is no doubt of that. They are now lauding him as the future poet, and there must be something in the uproar his verses cause. If a million stands behind them, and a wife like Jane sits near him–all this will urge him on more surely and speedily to the wished for goal. Our deceased Mrs. Forest would have been triumphant; but I'd like to know what Mr. Forest would say at seeing his riches exclusively in German hands and subserving German interests. I believe he would"–here Mr. Atkins bethought himself, and concluded with this emphatic ejaculation–"I believe he would say amen to it!"
Jane had remained behind alone. She drew a deep breath as if relieved of a heavy restraint, and sat down again in the old place. The bright spring radiance fell around the gray, ancient ruins of the castle, while above and beneath them, throughout all the landscape, reigned a thousand-fold life of fragrance and blossoming. The ivy again wove its green meshes around the dusky stone, and let its wavy tendrils flutter far out over the abyss. At her feet, lay a grassy expanse bathed in the sun's golden lustre, while far beyond flashed and shimmered the dear home river, as if only hours had passed since that day when they two had sat here; as if autumn and winter, with all their tears and conflicts, with their melancholy symbols of mourning, had been only an evil, oppressive dream.
And, as at that time, the gravel now creaked under advancing footsteps. Could Atkins have come back? Impossible! This was not his calm, deliberate tread. It came nearer; a shadow fell upon the sunny space before her; Jane sprang up, brow and cheeks suffused with a treacherous glow, trembling, incapable even of a cry of surprise. Walter Fernow stood before her!
In eager haste he had climbed the hill, but this time, he did not arrive breathless and exhausted, as once from his most quiet walks; such exertion was now sport to him, and it must have been something quite other than fatigue, which at this moment stopped his breath and sent that deep flush to his face. He would fain hasten to Jane's side, but he paused suddenly and gazed silently on the ground; it seemed as if with the old student's dress which he had to-day for the first time resumed, the old timidity had returned.
"Professor Fernow–you here?"
A shadow of painful disappointment passed over Walter's face; perhaps he had expected a different greeting. The deep flush vanished and the old melancholy expression again darkened his features. Jane had meantime in a measure recovered her self-control, although she could not overcome the agitation that thrilled her frame and gave a treacherous vibration to her voice. "I–we heard that you were not with your regiment; my uncle and Doctor Behrend at least declared that you were not," she said.
"I did not come with my comrades; I arrived an hour ago. Doctor Stephen and his wife were not at home, and I was not in the mood to enter at once into the festivities. I undertook this walk; it accidentally led me here–"