“Lieutenant von Werben—my cousin, Fräulein Ferdinanda Schmidt.”
Ottomar bowed, hat in hand. Ferdinanda returned the bow, very formally it seemed to Reinhold.
“I have often had the pleasure of seeing Fräulein Schmidt at the window when I have been riding by. I will not presume to think that I have been honoured by any such notice in return.”
Ferdinanda did not answer. There was a gloomy, almost severe, expression upon her face, which made her look like her father.
“I will not detain you,” said Ottomar; “I hope to have the pleasure of meeting my fellow-traveller again. Goodbye, Fräulein Schmidt.”
He bowed again and walked quickly away. Some knots of people collected at the entrance came between them.
“Oh, do come!” said Ferdinanda.
She had taken Reinhold’s arm and suddenly pressed forward impatiently.
“I beg your pardon, but I could not help introducing that man to you. You did not seem to like him?”
“I? Why should I mind it? My father cannot bear waiting.”
“Who was that?” asked Uncle Ernst.
“A Herr von Werben—a soldier. I knew him during the war, and fell in by accident with some of his people on my way here.”
“A son of the General’s?”
“Yes.”
Reinhold felt a touch from the hand which lay on his arm, and a low voice said in his ear, “My father hates the Werbens—at least the General—since —”
“Yes, by the way,” said Reinhold.
Ferdinanda’s shrinking from the introduction, her haste to put an end to it—all was clear to him; and then he felt that sensation which is common to everyone who has suddenly seen a vista of pleasure opening out before him, and as suddenly seen it withdrawn.
“There is my carriage,” said Uncle Ernst. “Friedrich!”
A large carriage with two strong brown horses drove up. Uncle Ernst stepped in; Reinhold helped in Ferdinanda. As he was following, casually glancing on one side, he saw Ottomar von Werben standing at some distance, with a soldier servant near him holding a dog in a chain. Ottomar waved his hand. Reinhold answered the friendly greeting with equal cordiality.
“I do not hate the Werbens,” thought he to himself as he sank back in the carriage.
II
From the short letters which he had received from his relations during the last ten years, Reinhold had gathered that at all events his uncle’s business prospered fairly. Ferdinanda’s handsome dress, and the smart carriage in which they dashed at a tremendous pace through the long, crowded, twilight streets, led him to expect that his uncle must have become a well-to-do, if not a rich man, and the entrance to the house quite fulfilled these expectations. The broad marble steps before which the carriage stopped, at the entrance; the square marble staircase, decorated with flowers, divided from the entrance by a glass door, and which led, in three flights, to the gallery that ran along two sides of it, whence various doors opened to the living rooms; the spare room on the upper floor, to which his uncle himself led him, with the request that he would make himself comfortable and then come down to supper—everything was of the best; rich, without show, showing taste even; but still it struck Reinhold as not comfortable. There was a chilliness about it, he thought, and then felt that this was but imagination, the result of that state of mind so common to anyone suddenly coming without much preparation to a new place, where he is expected to be at home at once, amongst people who, without being absolute strangers, are yet strange enough to lead one to anticipate at any moment something odd and chilling, because unexpected, unhoped-for, or even undesired.
“But in fact that is how it always is in this life,” said Reinhold to himself, as he put the finishing touches to his dress. “And if I did not know it before, the last few days might have taught it to me. How much that was unexpected and unhoped for have they not brought! And just now again, a good-looking young fellow, tired out with a long day’s shooting and a little too much wine, after sleeping for an hour, at the last moment discloses himself as a fellow-soldier and her brother! It is like a romance, and yet it all comes so naturally! And to think that she is living close by, that the boughs of the trees which rise above the gables of the house are perhaps in her garden, that she whom I never hoped to see again—Reinhold, tell the truth!—you know that you have always cherished a hope that you would see her again! You certainly did the day before yesterday, the last time that you gazed into her eyes. Those loved and lovely eyes showed you a faint glimmering of hope which must not, cannot be extinguished, even if there should be but slight sympathy in this house with your aristocratic tastes, unless it come from Aunt Rikchen.”
Uncle Ernst’s sister had hastened to him with open arms, and embraced him over and over again, with an exuberance of emotion which could hardly find sufficient vent in tears and exclamations, a wonderful contrast to the suppressed emotion with which her brother had received him. Even this scene Uncle Ernst speedily put an end to with a short gruff, “If you have cried enough, Rike, I might perhaps take Reinhold to his room.” Whereupon his aunt, taking advantage of a final embrace, whispered to Reinhold: “He still calls me Rike! but I shall be Aunt Rikchen to you, shall I not?”
“Poor old aunt! For indeed she has grown quite old, though, by the way, I suspect she really is younger than her stately brother! And passing years do not seem to have improved the terms on which they are together. He still calls her Rike! But no doubt they unite in spoiling my pretty cousin.”
Reinhold carefully combed out his beard, and then punished himself for his vanity and for the grievous wrong thus
