The Baron never liked to postpone what he had to do; it was against his principles and his nature. The matter must be attended to at once. As soon as the mid-day meal was over, he had the carriage brought, put on a black coat, and set out for Dobrotschau.

The fountain plashed dreamily as he drove into the castle court-yard. The afternoon sun glittered on the water, and a great dog came towards him as he alighted, and thrust his nose into his hand. He knew the old dog.

"How are you, old friend? how does the new rÉgime suit you?" he said, patting the animal's head. Two footmen hurried forward in drab breeches and striped vests. To one of them Baron Karl gave his card, and then awaited the mistress of the mansion in the spacious and rather dark drawing-room into which he had been shown.

He looked about him, and was very well pleased. The tall windows of the room were draped with pale-green silk; the furniture, various in shape and style, was all convenient and handsome; vases filled with flowers stood here and there on stands and tables; and in a black ebony cabinet, behind glass doors, there was a fine collection of old porcelain. The Baron was a connoisseur in old porcelain, and had just risen to examine these specimens, when the servant returned to conduct him to the Baroness's presence.

Baron Karl's heart throbbed a little fast at the thought of his mission, and he privately anathematized "the stupid boy" who had been the cause of it.

"Since he got himself into the scrape, he might have got himself out of it," he thought, as he followed the lackey, who showed him into a small but charming boudoir, fitted up after a rural fashion with light cretonne.

"I'm in for it," the Baron thought, in English. He liked to sprinkle his soliloquies with English phrases, having a great preference for England, whence he imported his clothes, his soap, and his political ideas of reform en gros. In the Reichsrath they called him "Old England."

As he entered the pretty room, a lady rose from a low lounge and came towards him with outstretched hands. Those hands were small, soft, and shapely, and the rings adorning the third finger of one of them--a ruby and a large diamond, both very simply set--became them well. Baron Karl could not help carrying one of them to his lips; thus much, he thought, he owed the poor woman in view of the pain he was about to inflict upon her. Frau von Harfink said a few pleasant words of welcome, to which he replied courteously, and then, having taken his seat in a comfortable arm-chair near her favourite lounge, the conversation came to a stand-still. The Baron looked in some confusion at his hostess. There was no denying that, in spite of her fifty years, she was a pretty woman. Her features were regular, her teeth dazzling, and if there was a touch of rouge on her cheeks, that was her affair; it did not affect her general appearance. The fair hair that was parted to lie in smooth waves above her brow was still thick, and the little lace cap was very becoming. Her short, full figure was not without charm, and her gown of black crÊpe de Chine fitted faultlessly. The Baron could not help thinking that it would be easier to give her pain if she were ugly. There was really no objection to make to her. He had hoped she would resemble his friend Doctor GrÜnbart, but she did not resemble him. While he pondered thus, Frau von Harfink stretched out her hand to the bell-rope.

"My daughters are both out in the park; they will be extremely glad to see you, especially Paula, who has been most impatient to know you. I will send for them immediately."

Karl Leskjewitsch prevented her from ringing. "One moment, first," he begged; "I--I am here upon very serious business."

Her eyes scanned his face keenly. Did she guess? did she choose not to understand him? Who can tell? Certain it is that no woman could have made what he had come to say more difficult to utter.

"Oh, let 'serious business' go for the present!" she exclaimed; "there is time enough for that. A mother's heart of course is full----"

In his confusion the Baron had picked up a pamphlet lying on the table between Frau von Harfink and himself. Imagine his sensations when, upon looking at it closely, he recognized his own work,--a pamphlet upon "Servility among Liberals,"--a piece of political bravado upon which the author had prided himself not a little at the time of its publication, but which, like many another masterpiece, had vanished without a trace in the yearly torrent of such literature. Not only were the leaves of this pamphlet cut, but as the Baron glanced through it he saw that various passages were underscored with pencil-marks.

"You see how well known you are here, my dear Baron," said Frau von Harfink, and then, taking his hat from him, she went on, "I cannot have you pay us a formal visit: you will stay and have a cup of tea, will you not? Do you know that I am a little embarrassed in the presence of the author of that masterpiece?"

"Ah, pray, madame!"--the democrat par excellence could not exactly bring himself to an acknowledgment of Frau von Harfink's brand-new patent of nobility,--"ah, madame, the merest trifle, a political capriccio with which I beguiled an idle hour; not worth mentioning."

"Great in small things, my dear Baron, great in small things," she rejoined. "No one since Schopenhauer has understood how to use the German language as you do. So admirable a style!--precise, transparent, and elegant as finely-cut glass. And what a wealth of original aphorisms! You are a little sharp here and there, almost cruel,"--she shook her forefinger at him archly,--"but the truth is always cruel."

"A remarkably clever woman!" thought Baron Karl. Of course he could not refrain from returning such courtesy. "This summer, in a little trip to the North Cape"--Leskjewitsch was wont always to refer to his travels as little trips; a journey to California he would have liked to call a picnic--"in a little trip to the North Cape, I had the pleasure of meeting your brother, Baroness," he cleared his throat before uttering the word, but he accomplished it. "We had known each other politically in the Reichsrath, but in those northern regions our acquaintance quickly ripened into friendship."

"I have heard all about it already," said the Baroness: "it was my brother who called my attention to this pearl." She pointed to the pamphlet. "Of course he had no idea of the closer relations which we are to hold with each other; he simply described to me the impression you made upon him. Ah, I must read you one of his letters."

She opened a drawer in her writing-table, and unfolded a long letter, from which she began to read, then interrupted herself, turned the sheet, and finally found the place for which she was looking:

"Baron Karl Leskjewitsch is an extremely clever individual, brilliantly gifted by nature. His misfortune has been that in forsaking the Conservatives he has failed to win the entire confidence of the Liberals. Now that I know him well, I am ready to use all my influence to support him in his career, and I do not doubt that I shall succeed in securing for him the distinguished position for which he is fitted. I see in him the future Austrian Minister of Foreign Affairs."

A few minutes previously Baron Karl had been conscious of some discomfort; every trace of it had now vanished. He was fairly intoxicated. He saw himself a great statesman, and was already pondering upon what to say in his first important conference with the Chancellor of the realm.

"Pray, give my warm regards to Doctor GrÜnbart when you next write to him," he began, not without condescension, when suddenly a young lady hurried into the room,--tall, stout, with Titian hair and a dazzling complexion, her chest heaving, her eyes sparkling. In the Baron's present mood she seemed to him beautiful as a young goddess. "By Jove! the boy has made a hit," he thought to himself. The vague sense of discomfort returned for a moment, but vanished when Paula advanced towards him with outstretched hands. He drew her to him, and imprinted a paternal kiss upon her forehead. Selina and Fainacky now made their appearance. It was quite a domestic scene.

The Baroness rang, and the tea-equipage was brought in for afternoon tea. Olga made her appearance, but Treurenberg was absent; Selina remarked, crossly, that he was again spending the afternoon with the officers at X----. Baron Karl was throned upon roses and inhaling sweet incense, when finally the Baroness, lightly touching his arm, asked before all present,--

"And the 'serious business' you came to consult me about?" He started, and was mute, while the lady went on, archly, "What if I guess its import? You came in Harry's behalf, did you not?"

Baron Karl bowed his head in assent.

"To arrange the day, was it not?"

What could the poor man do? Before he had time to reflect, the Baroness said, "We have considered the matter already; we must be in no hurry,--no hurry. It always is a sore subject for a mother, the appointing a definite time for her separation from her daughter, and every girl, however much in love she may be,"--here the Baroness glanced at her stout Paula, who did her best to assume an air of maidenly reserve, "would like to postpone the marriage-day. But men do not like to wait; therefore, all things considered, I have thought of the 19th of October as the day. Tell Harry so from me, and scold him well for not doing his errand himself. His delicacy of sentiment is really exaggerated! An old woman may be pardoned for a little enthusiasm for a future son-in-law, may she not?"

Shortly afterwards Baron Leskjewitsch was driving home along the road by which he had come. The shadows had lengthened; a cold air ascended from the earth. Gradually the Baron's consciousness, drugged by the flattery he had received, awoke, and he felt extremely uncomfortable. What had he effected? He was going home after a fruitless visit,--no, not fruitless. Harry's affairs were in a worse condition than before. He had absolutely placed the official seal upon his son's betrothal.

What else could he have done? He could not have made a quarrel. He could not alienate Doctor GrÜnbart's sister. The welfare of the government might depend upon his friendly alliance with the leader of the democratic party. His fancy spread its wings and took its flight to higher spheres,--he really had no time to trouble himself about his son's petty destiny. His ambition soared high: he saw himself about to reform the monarchy with the aid of Doctor GrÜnbart, whose importance, however, decreased as his own waxed great.

He drove through the ruinous archway into the courtyard. A light wagon was standing before the house. When he asked whose it was, he was told that it had come from Zirkow to take home the Baroness Zdena. He went to the dining-room, whence came the sound of gay voices and laughter. They were all at supper, and seemed very merry, so merry that they had not heard him arrive.

Twilight was already darkening the room when the Baron entered by one door at the same moment that Blasius with the lamp made his appearance at the other. The lamplight fell full upon the group about the table, and Baron Karl's eyes encountered those of his son, beaming with delight. Poor fellow! He had not entertained a doubt that everything would turn out well. Zdena, too, looked up; her lips were redder than usual, and there was a particularly tender, touching expression about her mouth, while in her eyes there was a shy delight. There was no denying it, the girl was exquisitely beautiful.

She had guessed Baron Karl's errand to Dobrotschau. She divined----

Pshaw! The Baron felt dizzy for a moment,--but, after all, such things must be borne. Such trifles must not influence the future 'Canning' of Austria.

Blasius set down the lamp. How comfortable and home-like the well-spread table looked, at the head the little army of cream-pitchers and jugs, over which the Countess Zriny was presiding.

"A cup of coffee?" the old canoness asked the newcomer.

"No, no, thanks," he said. Something in his voice told Harry everything.

The Baron tried to take his place at table, that the moment for explanation might be postponed, but Harry could not wait.

"Something has occurred to-day upon the farm about which I want to consult you, sir," he said. "Will you not come with me for a moment?" And he made a miserably unsuccessful attempt to look as if it were a matter of small importance. The two men went into the next room, where it was already so dark that they could not see each other's faces distinctly. Harry lit a candle, and placed it on the table between his father and himself.

"Well, father?"

"My dear boy, there was nothing to be done," the Baron replied, hesitating. For a moment the young man's misery made an impression upon him, but then his invincible loquacity burst forth. "There was nothing to be done, Harry," he repeated. And, with a wave of his hand implying true nobility of sentiment, he went on: "A betrothal is a contract sealed by a promise. From a promise one may be released; it cannot be broken. When the Harfinks refused to see the drift of my hints, and release you from your promise, there was nothing left for me save to acquiesce. As a man of honour, a gentleman, I could do no less; I could not possibly demand your release."

Baron Karl looked apprehensively at his son, with whose quick temper he was familiar, expecting to be overwhelmed by a torrent of reproaches, of bitter, provoking words, sure that the young man would be led into some display of violence; but nothing of the kind ensued. Harry stood perfectly quiet opposite his father, one hand leaning upon the table where burned the candle. His head drooped a little, and he was very pale, but not a finger moved when his father added, "You understand that I could do nothing further?"

He murmured, merely, "Yes, I understand." His voice sounded thin and hoarse, like the voice of a sick child; and then he fell silent again. After a pause, he said, in a still lower tone, "Uncle Paul has sent the wagon for Zdena, with a note asking me to drive her back to Zirkow. It has been waiting for an hour and a half, because Zdena did not want to leave before your return. Pray, do me the favour to drive her home in my place: I cannot."

Then the young fellow turned away and went to a window, outside of which the old apricot-trees rustled and sighed.

Baron Karl was very sorry for his son, but what else could he have done? Surely his case was a hard one. He seemed to himself a very Junius Brutus, sacrificing his son to his country. And having succeeded finally in regarding in this magnanimous light the part he had played, he felt perfectly at peace with himself again.

He left the room, promising to attend to Zdena's return to Zirkow. But Harry remained standing by the window, gazing out into the gathering gloom. The very heart within his breast seemed turning to stone. He knew now that what he had at first held to be merely a ridiculous annoyance had come to be bitter earnest,--yes, terrible earnest! No escape was possible; he could see no hope of rescue; a miracle would have to occur to release him, and he did not believe in miracles.