Ding-dong--ding-dong! the Angelus bells are ringing through the evening air with their message of rest for weary mortals.

The long shadows of the trees grow paler, and vanish, taking with them all the glory of the world and leaving only a dull, borrowed twilight to hover above the earth.

The sun has set. Ding-dong! rings the bell of Komaritz, near at hand, as Lato rides past; the bells of the other villages echo the sound dreamily, to have their notes tossed back by the bells of the lonely chapels on the mountain-sides across the steel-gray stream, whose waters glide silently on ward. Ding-dong! each answers to all, and the tired labourer rejoices in unison.

The hour of rest has come, the hour when families reassemble after the pursuits and labours of the day have ceased to claim and separate them,--when mortals feel more warmly and sensibly the reality of family ties. Thin blue smoke is curling from the chimneys; here and there a woman can be seen standing at the door of a cottage, shading her eyes with her hand as she looks expectantly down the road. Upon the doorstep of a poor hut sits a brown, worn labourer, dirty and ragged, about to eat his evening meal with a leaden spoon from an earthen bowl; a young woman crouches beside him, with her back against the door-post, content and silent, while a chubby child, with bare legs somewhat bowed, and a curly head, leans against his knee and, with its mouth open in expectation, peeps into the earthen bowl. The father smiles, and from time to time thrusts a morsel between the fresh, rosy lips. Then he puts aside the bowl and takes the little fellow upon his knee. It is a pretty child,--and perhaps in honour of the father's return home--wonderfully clean, but even were this not the case---- Most of the children tumbling about before the huts on this sultry August evening are neither pretty nor clean; they are dirty, ragged, dishevelled; many are sickly, and some are crippled; but there is hardly one among them to whom this hour does not bring a caress.

An atmosphere of mutual human sympathy seems to brood in silence above the resting earth, while the bells ring on,--ding-dong, ding-dong.

Lato has left the village behind him, and is trotting along the road beneath the tall walnuts. The noise of wagons, heavily laden with the harvest, and the tramp of men upon the road fall upon his ear,--everything is going home.

There is a languor in the aromatic summer air, somewhat that begets in every human being a desire for companionship, a longing to share the burden of existence with another. Even the flowers seem to bend their heads nearer to one another.

Now the bells are hushed, the road is deserted; Lato alone is still pursuing his way home. Home? Is it possible that he has accustomed himself to call his mother-in-law's castle home? In many a hotel--at "The Lamb," for example, in Vienna he has felt much more at home. Where, then, is his home? He vainly asks himself this question. Has he ever had a home?

The question is still unanswered. His thoughts wander far back into the past, and find nothing, not even a few tender memories. Poor Lato! He recalls his earliest years, his childhood. His parents were considered the handsomest couple in Austria. The Count was fair, tall, slender, with an apparent delicacy of frame that concealed an amount of physical strength for which he was famous, and with nobly-chiselled features. His duels and his love-affairs were numerous. He was rashly brave, and irresistible; so poor an accountant that he always allowed his opponents to reckon up his gains at play, but when his turn came to pay a debt of honour he was never known to make an error in a figure. It is scarcely necessary to mention that his gambling debts were the only ones the payment of which he considered at all important. He was immensely beloved by his subordinates,--his servants, his horses, and his dogs; he addressed them all with the German "thou," and treated them all with the same good-humoured familiarity. He was thought most urbane, and was never guilty of any definite intentional annoyance; but he suffered from a certain near-sightedness. He recognized as fellow-mortals only those fellow-mortals who occupied the same social plane with himself; all others were in his eyes simply population,--the masses.

There is little to tell of his wife, save that she was a brilliant brunette beauty, with very loud manners and a boundless greed of enjoyment. She petted little Lato like a lapdog; but one evening, just as she was dressed for a ball, she was informed that the child had been taken violently ill with croup, whereupon she flew into a rage with those who had been so thoughtless and unfeeling as to tell her such a thing at so inopportune a moment. Her carriage was announced; she let it wait while she ran up-stairs to the nursery, kissed the gasping little patient, exclaimed, with a lifted forefinger, "Be a good boy, my darling; don't die while mamma is at the ball!" and vanished.

The little fellow was good and did not die. As a reward, his mother gave him the largest and handsomest rocking-horse that was to be found in Vienna. Such was the Countess Treurenberg as a mother; and as a wife--well, Hans Treurenberg was satisfied with her, and her behaviour was no one else's affair. The couple certainly got along together admirably. They never were seen together except when they received guests.

Peace to her ashes! The Countess paid a heavy price for her short-lived joys. When scarcely twenty-six years old, she was attacked by a mortal disease. Her condition was all the more painful because she persisted in concealing her malady from the world, even denying its existence. Up to the last she went into society, and she died in full dress, diamonds and all, in a glare of light, on a lounge in her dressing-room.

The widower at first took her death so terribly to heart that his associates remarked upon it.

"Treurenberg is really a very good fellow!" they said, and so he was.

For a time he kept little Lato with him constantly. Even on the evenings when gambling was going on, and they played long and high at Hans Treurenberg's, the boy was present. When hardly twelve years old he was fully initiated into the mysteries of all games of chance. He would sit silent and quiet until far into the night, watching the course of the game, trembling with excitement at any sudden turn of luck. And how proud he was when he was allowed to take a hand! He played extremely well for his age, and his luck was constant. His father's friends made merry over his gambling ability. His father would pat his cheeks, stroke his hair off his forehead, take his face between his hands, and kiss him. Then, with his fingers beneath the lad's chin, he would turn his face this way and that, calling his guests' attention to the boy's beauty, to his eyes sparkling with eagerness, to his flushed cheeks. Then he would kiss the boy again, make him drink a glass of champagne, and send him to bed.

Then was sown the seed of the evil passion which was in after-years to cause Lato so many an hour of bitter suffering. Calm, almost phlegmatic, with regard to all else, as soon as he touched a card his excitement was intense, however he might manage to conceal it.

When Count Hans grew tired of the constant companionship of his son, he freed himself from it after a perfectly respectable fashion. He sent him to Prague, a city renowned for the stolidity of its institutions, committing him to the care of relatives, and of a professor who undertook to supply the defects of the boy's neglected education. When Lato was eighteen he entered a regiment of hussars.

Hereafter, if the father took but little pains about his son, he certainly showed him every kindness,--paid his debts, and laughed while he admired the young man's mad pranks. Moreover, he really loved him, which did not, however, hinder him from contriving to have Lato declared of age at twenty, that the young fellow might have possession of his maternal inheritance, since he himself needed money.

It was at this time that the elder Treurenberg's view of life and the world underwent a remarkable change. He became a Liberal, and this not only in a political sense, but socially, a much rarer transformation. He appeared frequently at the tables of wealthy men of business, where he was valued not merely as an effective aristocratic decoration, but as a really charming companion. His liberal views took on more magnificent dimensions: he announced himself a heretic with regard to the exclusiveness of the Austrian aristocracy, smiled at the folly of Austrian court etiquette, and then, one fine day he made friends with the wealthy parvenu, Conte Capriani, and, throwing overboard as useless ballast impeding free action the 'noblesse oblige' principle, he devoted himself blindly and with enthusiasm to stock-gambling. The result was hardly encouraging. When Lato applied to his father one day for a considerable sum of money, it was not to be had. Melancholy times for the Treurenbergs ensued; thanks, however, to the friendship of Conte Capriani, who sometimes helped him to a really profitable transaction, Count Hans was able to keep his head above water. And he continued to hold it as high as ever, to preserve the same air of distinction, to smile with the same amiable cordiality in which there was a spice of hauteur; in a word, he preserved the indefinable prestige of his personality, which made it impossible that Conte Capriani's demeanour towards him should ever partake of the nature of condescension. The only thing required of Count Hans by Capriani was that he should spend a couple of weeks with him every year in the hunting-season. This the Count seemed quite willing to do, and he therefore appeared every year, in August or October, at Heinrichsdorf, an estate in West Hungary, where Capriani had preferred to live since his affair with young Count Lodrin had made his castle of Schneeburg impossible for him as a place of residence.

One year the Count asked his son to accompany him to Heinrichsdorf.

Will Lato ever forget the weeks he spent there, the turning-point as they were of his existence? How foreign and tiresome, how hard and bald, it all was! how uncomfortable, how uncongenial!--the furniture, among which here and there, as was the fashion, some costly antique was displayed; the guests, among whom were various representatives of historic Austrian nobility; the Conte's secretary, a choleric Hungarian, who concealed the remnant of a pride of rank which ill became his present position beneath an aggressive cynicism, and who was wont to carry in his pocket, when he went to walk, a little revolver, with which he shot at sparrows or at the flies creeping upon some wall, by way perhaps of working off the bitterness of his soul. There, too, was the master of the house, showing the same frowning brow to all whom he met, contradicting all with the same rudeness, hunting to earth any stray poetic sentiment, and then, after a violent explosion of pure reason, withdrawing gloomily to his cabinet, where he could give himself over to his two passions,--that for money-making, and that for setting the world at naught.

The only person in the assemblage whom Lato found attractive was the mistress of the mansion, with whom he often talked for hours, never ceasing to wonder at the melancholy grace and quiet dignity of her bearing, as well as at the well-nigh morbid delicacy and high moral tone of her sentiments.

Above all did Lato dislike those among the guests of a like rank with his own, men who were like himself in money difficulties, and who hovered about this deity of the stock market in hopes of obtaining his blessing upon their speculations.

Count Hans moved among all these aristocratic and un-aristocratic luminaries with the same unchanging grace that carried him victoriously over all annoyances,--always genial and courtly; but the son could not emulate his father's ease of mind and manner; he felt depressed and humiliated.

Then the Baroness Harfink and her daughters made their appearance. The two striking, pleasure-loving girls had an enlivening effect upon the wearied assemblage.

Paula was the cleverer of the two, but she talked too much, which was tiresome, and then she had a reputation for learning, which frightened men away. Selina, on the other hand, knew how to veil her lack of cleverness beneath an interesting taciturnity; she had a fashion of slowly lifting her eyelids which appealed to a man's fancy. With a degree of prudence frequently displayed by rather dull girls, she forbore to appeal to the crowd, and concentrated her efforts to charm upon Lato. She accompanied him in the pheasant-shooting parties, took lessons from him in lawn-tennis,--in a white dress, her loosened hair gleaming in the sunlight,--or simply lay quietly back in a rocking-chair in the shade in front of the castle, gazing at him with her large, half-closed eyes, while he, half in jest, half in earnest, said all sorts of pretty things.

There was always play in the evenings at the castle, and usually very high play. The atmosphere about the gaming-tables was hardly agreeable, and the Conte moved about among them, taking no share in such "silly waste of time," while every one else was eager to win. Lato took part in the unedifying pastime, and at first fortune befriended him; then he lost. His losses embarrassed him, and he withdrew from playing. He was not the only one to avoid the gambling-tables after a short trial of luck; several gentlemen followed his example. The Conte took triumphant note of this, and arranged a party for five-kreutzer whist, in which he joined.

Lato bit his lip. Never before had his unfortunate pecuniary circumstances so weighed upon him. The thirst for gold--the prevailing epidemic at Heinrichsdorf--demanded a fresh victim.

There had been a hunting-dinner; Conte Capriani's wine had been unusually fiery; every one was gay; Heinrichsdorf could remember no such brilliant festivity. The windows of the drawing-room where the company were assembled were open and looked out upon the park. The intoxicating fragrance of the sultry August night was wafted into the room; the stars sparkled above the black tree-tops, twinkling restlessly, like deceitful will-o'-the-wisps, in the blue vault of heaven; the sweet, wild music of a band of Hungarian gypsies came floating into the apartment with the fragrance of the night. Selina looked wonderfully beautiful on that evening, a sultana-like beauty, nothing more, but she harmonized with the spell of the August night. She wore a red crape gown, red as flickering fire, red as benumbing poppy-blossoms, very dÉcolletÉe, and its decided colour heightened the white, pearly lustre of the girl's neck and arms. The lines about her mouth had not then settled into a stereotyped smile; her nose was not sharp; the sheen of her hair had not been dimmed by perpetual powdering. Essentially commonplace as she was, for the moment there was about her a mingling of languor and excitement, which betrays an accelerated movement of the heart. Selina Harfink was in love. Lato was perfectly aware of it, and that she was in love with him. He bestowed but little thought upon this fact, however. What could come of it? And yet, whenever he was with her, a cold shiver ran through him.

The mysterious shades of night were invaded by music and the summer breeze; wherever Lato was he saw that red gown. A hand was laid upon his arm, and when he turned he gazed into a pair of eyes veiled yet glowing.

"Why do you avoid me?" Selina whispered.

"Southern Roses!" one of the gentlemen standing near a window called to the musicians, and immediately there floated out into the night, to mingle with the low whisper of the linden leaves, the notes of the first bars of that most beguiling of all Strauss's beguiling waltzes.

He danced with her, and then--almost rudely--he left her. It was the only time he had danced with her that evening, and now he left the room, hurrying away to be somewhere where that red dress was not before his eyes. And yet he had the sensation of overcoming himself, of denying himself at least a pleasant excitement.

Why? What could ever come of it?

For the first time in several days he joined the gamesters. He played high, with varying luck, but when he left the gaming-table he carried with him the consciousness of having lost more than he was at present in a condition to pay.

He went to his room and began mechanically to undress. A fever seemed burning in his veins; how sultry it was! through the open windows he could see black thunder-clouds gathering in the skies. The air was damp and laden with a fragrance so sweet as to be almost sickening. A low murmur sighed among the leaves of the shrubbery in the park,--melancholy, mysterious, alluring, yet mingled with a soft plaint, breathing above the late summer roses. "Enjoy! enjoy! life is brief!" He turned away, lay down, and closed his eyes; but still he seemed to see the red dress. He could not think of marrying her. A girl from such a family and with such a crowd of insufferable connections! Had she only been a poor little thing whom he could snatch away from her surroundings; but no, if he married her, he was sufficiently clear in his mind for the moment to understand, he must adjust himself to her social position. The power was hers,--money!

Oh, this wretched money! At every turn the lack of it tormented him; he had tried to retrench, to economize, but how paltry such efforts seemed to him! What a good use he could make of it if he had it! She was very beautiful----

A light footfall made itself heard in the passage outside his door. Was not that his father's step? Lato asked himself. The door opened; Count Hans entered, straight, tall, and slender, with haughty, refined features and sparkling blue eyes, very bald, very gray; but what vitality and energy he showed in his every movement! At this moment Lato felt a great admiration for his father, beside whom he himself seemed pitiably weak. He took shame to himself; what would his father say could he know of the ideas which he, Lato Treurenberg, had just been entertaining?

"Still awake, Lato?" the knightly old man asked, kindly, sitting down on the edge of his son's bed. "I saw from below your light still burning, and I wanted to ask if anything were troubling you. You are not wont to suffer from sleeplessness."

Lato was touched, and doubly ashamed of the low, mean way of extricating himself from his difficulties which had but now seemed to him almost possible.

"One's thoughts run such riot, sometimes," he murmured.

"H'm!" The father put his cigar between his lips and puffed forth a cloud of smoke to float upward to the ceiling. "I think you lost at baccarat to-night," he remarked.

"Yes."

"Much?"

"More than I can pay at present," Lato replied, with a weary smile.

"As if that were of any moment!" Count Hans consoled him. "I am at your service, and am, besides, your debtor."

"But, father----"

"Yes, yes, I tell you it is so. I am your debtor. Do you think I forget it? Indeed I do not. I am sorry that I cannot help it; but 'tis the fault of circumstances. The estates yield absolutely nothing; they require money enough, but when it comes to looking for any return I look in vain. No one who has not tried it knows what a sinking-fund land is. It cannot go on thus; we must make a fundamental effort, or we shall be ruined!"

"Yes, father," Lato murmured, "we must be in earnest, instead of enjoying ourselves thoughtlessly and with a dread of work. We have lost our force; we have been faithless to our principles; we must begin a new existence, you and I." As he uttered these high-sounding words, Lato had the unpleasant sensation of repeating something learned by rote; the big phrases confused him; he was embarrassed by the consciousness of his father's too ready satire. He looked up at him, but the old Count did not seem to have heard him. This was a relief; he sighed, and was silent. Suddenly the red dress fluttered before his eyes again.

Count Hans raised his head, and murmured, "She looked very lovely this evening."

"Who?" asked Lato, slowly. He did not need to ask; he knew that his father had shared his thoughts. He was terribly startled. Something seemed to be crumbling away which he had believed would always stand firm.

"Selina, of course,--the only really pretty woman in the house," said Count Hans. "Her beauty has expanded wonderfully in the last few days. It is always becoming to pretty women to be in love."

"In love?" Lato repeated, his throat contracted, his tongue dry.

The old Count laughed. "Ah, you're a sly fellow, Lato."

Lato was mute.

His father continued: "They are all jealous of you, Lato. Did you not see what happened this evening in the conservatory, just after dinner? Pistasch Kamenz proposed to her, and she refused him. He told me of it himself, and made light of it; but he was hard hit. I can quite understand it. She is an exceedingly beautiful woman; she does not carry herself well, 'tis true,--with women of her class the physical training is sure to be neglected,--but all that can be changed."

Lato was still mute. So, then, Pistasch Kamenz had tried that of which he, Lato, had been ashamed, and had failed. He should not fail.

The old Count waited a moment, and then went on: "I am sorry for Kamenz; the match would have been an excellent one for him; he would have settled down."

"Settled down--upon his wife's money!" Lato muttered, without looking at his father.

"Is there anything new in that?" exclaimed the Count, with unruffled composure. "A man of honour can take nothing from a woman whom he loves, but everything from his wife. 'Tis an old rule, and it is comical,"--Count Hans laughed softly,--"how here in Austria we require that a rich wife should always belong to the same sphere with her husband; he is forgiven for a mÉsalliance only if he marries a beggar. It is pure folly! We shall never amount to anything unless we toss aside the entire burden of prejudice which we drag about with us. It weighs us down; we cannot keep step with the rest; how can a man run sheathed in mail? With the exception of a few magnates among us who are able to enjoy their prestige, we are wretchedly off. We spend our lives sacrificing ourselves for a position which we cannot maintain respectably; we pamper a chimera to be devoured by it in the end. Most of all do I admire the bourgeoisie, whom we impress, and whose servility keeps bright the nimbus about our heads. Bah! we can do nothing more with the old folly! We must mingle in the fresh life of the present."

"Yes," Lato muttered again, but more indistinctly than at first, "we ought to work, to achieve somewhat."

Count Hans did not, perhaps, hear this remark; at all events he did not heed it.

"All the huge new fortunes in England marry into the aristocracy," he said.

Outside, the same strange alluring murmur breathed above the thirsty flowers; the breeze of the coming storm streamed into the room.

"To marry a woman for the sake of her money is detestable," Count Hans began afresh, and his voice was almost as soft and wooing as that of the summer night outside; "but, good heavens! why should one refuse to marry a girl whom he loves just because she is rich?"

He paused. Lato had closed his eyes.

"Are you asleep?" his father murmured.

Lato shook his head, without speaking. The old Count arose, extinguished the candle on the table, and softly withdrew.