While such had been the fate of the lover, what was the situation of
Adelaide of Ehrenstein? She, too, had suffered; but not so deeply as
he had. There was something in her heart that supported her; a
conscious innocence of purpose; a degree of faith and trust which man
seldom, if ever, can attain; a readiness for the worst, whatever it
might be; a full assurance that she could not, and that she would not,
survive him whom she loved, if death were to be his fate; and a
fearlessness of death itself, very different from man's bold daring.
In her love there was, as is almost always the case in woman's first
early attachment, a great difference from the passion of her lover. It
was less of the earth than his; and though Ferdinand's was pure, and
true, and bright,--though he would willingly have sacrificed life, and
all that life can give, for her sake,--yet hers was purer and holier
still. He dreamt of long days of joy and happiness with her, in the
midst of the fair scenes and warm blessings of this earth. She might
have such visions also, but they were not so vivid, and they went
beyond. She thought of happiness eternal with the chosen of her
heart--of joy, and peace, and sweet communion with the spirit of her
husband, in that union which could know no change, and never see an
end. It might be hard to cast off all the tender bonds of mortal
affection, to give away the love and bliss we know even for the
promises of eternity. She might feel a longing to spend with him the
ordinary days of existence here, and to pass with him from the
affections of this earth, calmly and peacefully to the brighter fate
of the good beyond the tomb. But yet the thought--ever present, ever
distinct--that existence here is but a brief portion of an endless
being, and that, though the passage may be sharp and full of grief, it
leads to compensation and reward hereafter, was sweet and consolatory
to her in her sorrow, and gave her strength to endure in contemplation
all that might follow.
She had time enough for thought, and for tears, and for prayer; for
during the whole evening, from the time that her father left her in
anger, till the shades of night crept over the sky, her solitude was
only interrupted twice. Once a heavy footfall came to the door, the
key was turned, and there was heard a sharp knock. On saying "Come
in," the form of a common soldier presented itself, bearing some
provisions, and having set his burden down upon the table, he retired
without a word, again locking the door behind him. The second time
another soldier came, affording admission for a few minutes to the
girl, Theresa, who could give her mistress no information, and who was
still drowned in tears of apprehension for herself. Adelaide
questioned her but little, for she had never much trusted her; and
there was an undefined feeling of suspicion in regard to the girl's
attachment to her, which she blamed herself for entertaining, yet
could not banish. All the girl knew was, that Count Frederick of
Leiningen had arrived, and that he and her lord were about to sit down
to supper in the smaller hall; that Ferdinand of Altenburg had been
arrested, and was confined in one of the dungeons; and that all in the
castle were busily talking over the events which had taken place. A
bright colour came into Adelaide's cheek as she heard that her own
conduct was the subject of discussion amongst her father's followers
and his guest's; and very mingled emotions brought tears into her
eyes; but she asked no further questions, and gave no orders, although
it was for the purpose of rendering her any ordinary service that the
girl had been admitted for a short time to her chamber. The soldier
who had remained without soon grew impatient, and called to Theresa to
come away; and Adelaide once more remained alone while the shadows of
gloomy thought came darkening over her mind as those of the evening
crept over the sky. She sat and read the holy book before her, pausing
every now and then to think, as long as there was any light left. But
at length all was darkness; for neither lamp nor taper was brought
her, and she passed the hours in meditation, in tears, and in
listening to the various sounds that stirred in the castle, till all
was silent. Though striving hard to banish painful images, yet fancy
would present to her eyes scenes which might be passing very near the
spot where she sat, without her knowing them or their results. She
pictured to herself the short, brief trial which was all that was
likely to be afforded to him she loved; she saw him standing before
his judges; she heard them pronounce sentence upon him; she beheld him
dragged back to his cell, only to await execution on the following
morning, and her heart sank--oh, how sorrowfully it sank!--at the
thought that she had no power to help him. Her eyes overflowed with
tears again, and, kneeling before the place where the crucifix stood,
she once more had recourse to prayer.
All had seemed silent in the castle for near half an hour, but she was
still upon her knees, with her head bent down, when her father's
well-known step sounded in the neighbouring chamber; and the next
instant he entered with a light. Touched, perhaps, a little, he might
be, at the sight of his daughter's grief and desolation, but still his
frown was not relaxed, and no kindlier feelings shone upon his lip.
"What! have they not brought thee a lamp?" he said, as she rose on his
entrance. "Take this, and go to bed and sleep, for thou must rise
betimes to-morrow. I came to tell thee thy fate--his is sealed. At
early dawn, under the guard of a party of men-at-arms thou goest to
Würtzburg; there to pass the days of thy widowhood in the convent of
the Black Nuns, and to learn, I trust, in penitence and prayer, the
duty and obedience of a daughter."
"The days will be few," answered Adelaide, in an absent tone. "Can
nothing move you, my father?" she continued. "I ask you not to spare
me--I ask you to spare him, to spare yourself; for bitterly, till the
last hour of life, will you regret it if you injure him. Nay, hear, my
father, for I am as calm as you are--but wait a few hours, give no way
to hasty passion, see and hear him who counselled us in what we have
done, and judge not till you have heard."
"I have judged," answered the Count, turning away from her; "and
others have judged who are moved by no hasty passion. Give me no more
words, girl. His doom is fixed, I say. He shall not die till thou art
beyond the hills; but yet to-morrow's sun shall not be one hour old
before he pays with his head for the crime he has committed. No words,
no words;" and, leaving her the lamp he carried, he retired, and
closed the door.
It is with difficulty that a kind and gentle heart realizes in
imagination acts of severity and harshness of which it is itself
incapable. Though Adelaide had feared, and trembled throughout the
day, with vague apprehensions of her father carrying his menaces into
effect; though she knew him to be stern and hard; though through life
fear had mingled with affection, yet she loved him too well to know
him thoroughly; for love has always a power of transfusing, as it
were, the life-blood of our own character into the object of our
affection; and when she was so gentle, she could not believe that he
was so cruel. The words he spoke, however, before he left her, the air
and manner in which they were uttered; the deep depression of her
mind, from long hours of grief and anxiety; the still and gloomy time
of night; all tended to give the vivid semblance of reality to the
deed which he announced to her. Could it be possible? she asked
herself. Could he really imbrue his hands in the blood of him she
loved--of one so kind, so good, so brave, so true? Should she never
see him more? Oh, no, no; it was too horrible to think of. It was
impossible. Her father would never do it.
But as she thus stood on the same spot where he had left her, gazing
earnestly on the ground which she did not see, there was a light knock
at the door, and she started, but without replying. The knock was
repeated, and she said "Come in."
A low, woman's voice, however, answered, "I cannot, lady, the door is
locked. Put down your ear to the keyhole."
Mechanically she did as she was told, asking, "What is it?"
"They have condemned him, lady," said the voice. "I heard them say
myself, 'Worthy of death,' and then they hurried him away. I cannot
stay for fear some one should come," and a retreating step immediately
announced that the speaker had departed.
It was true then--too true. He was judged--he was to die--to die for
love of her--to die for an act in which she had taken willing part;
which she had not only shared, but encouraged. And did her father
expect that she would survive him; that she would see the lover of her
youth, the husband of a night, thus perish for her sake? that she
would live on in the cold world that he had left? Did he expect her to
mingle in its gaieties, to take part in its pageants, to taste its
enjoyments, to laugh with the merry, and sing with the light of heart?
"He knows me not," she said; "he knows me not. The blow that takes my
husband's life, takes mine also. It was unkindness, I do believe, that
brought my mother slowly to her grave, and this cruelty will be more
pitiful in bringing me speedily to mine."
Casting herself into a seat, she remained in the same position for
more than two hours, with her head drooping forward, her beautiful
eyes partly closed, her hands clasped together and fallen upon her
knee. Not a motion was to be seen in that fair statue. One might have
supposed her sleeping or dead. Sleeping, oh, no; sleep was far, far
away. It seemed as if such relief would be banished for ever, and that
grief--aye waking--would never know cessation. Dead! She longed to be
so; but she knew that long suffering must be first. The lamp flickered
at first brightly, showing the exquisite features in their still
motionless repose, and the graceful line of each symmetrical limb, as
it fell in the dull tranquillity of profound grief. From time to time
the ray glittered on a tear--not the quick relief-drop of violent
emotion rushing plentiful and fast from the eyes like a summer shower
no; but the slow, quiet, trickling tear stealing over the cheek, and
pausing here and there, but still swelling over as the fresh supply is
wrung from the eye by the slow agony of the heart. They fell unheeded.
She knew not that she wept.
Not a word escaped her, not a sound passed from her lips. There was no
sigh, no sob, no mark of bitter passion; but there she sat, silent and
motionless, absorbed in the contemplation of the dark reality ever
present to her mind.
The light of the lamp waxed dim and smoky, as the heavy hours rolled
on, but Adelaide sat there still; and in the increasing gloom of the
chamber, where the faint rays were absorbed as soon as they touched
the dark oak wainscotting, her form, clothed in white garments, seemed
like that of a spectre, and all the other objects in the room like the
faint unreal phantasms of a confused dream. But who is that who
suddenly stands beside her?--An old man in a long grey robe, with
sandalled feet, a cowl over his head, and steps so noiseless, that in
the terrible apathy of despair she hears them not.
She started up the next instant, gazing wildly at him, and thrusting
back the glossy masses of neglected curls from off her marble brow.
"I have come to save you, my dear child," said Father George. "Be
quick, cast something over you, and come with me."
The fair girl threw her arms around his neck, and fell upon his bosom,
"Ferdinand! Ferdinand!" she murmured. "Save him, Father, save him.
Mind not me. I can bear my fate, whatever it is. Oh, save him, save
him! They have condemned him to death. If morning dawns, he is lost."
"He is safe, daughter," answered Father George. "Safe, and by this
time, I trust, far away. I have left him to those who will not, and
who cannot fail."
"Oh, but is it sure?" demanded Adelaide. "Did you see him go? My
father's words were dreadful. He would set a sure guard. He would
leave no chance. Are you sure that he is safe?"
"As safe as I am," answered Father George, confidently. "The stones of
this castle would sooner fall, than one hair of his head under your
father's vengeance. Come, my child, come; make no more delay. It is
now near daybreak. Take but your mother's picture, and your veil to
wrap you in, and come away with speed."
Joy was perhaps more overpowering than grief to Adelaide of
Ehrenstein. Her hands trembled, her limbs well nigh refused their
office; but yet she hurried her brief preparation as much as might be;
and then the monk took her by the hand, and blowing out the lamp, led
her on. The door of her chamber was open, though she had not heard it
unlocked. The antechamber without was vacant, and the last rays of the
sinking moon were streaming through the windows against the wall.
Everything in the castle was still as death, and in the wide corridor
all was vacant and silent, with the carved figures on the stone seats
grinning in the pale reflected light that poured from the sky through
the small panes. The feet of both the lady and her guide were
noiseless, for her step, like her heart, was lightened; and though she
trembled still, she hurried on down the wide staircase, and the
narrower flight of steps that led from the lesser hall to the old
stone vestibule near the greater hall. At the door of the latter,
Father George paused, and knocked thrice; and then whispering, "Fear
nothing," he opened the door, and led her in.
There was a light in the hall, streaming from a single lamp at the
farther end. It was faint and dim in the vast space; but Adelaide
started, drew back, and uttered a low cry of surprise, as she saw how
that hall was tenanted. Seated in the great chair of state, at the
end, was a tall and lordly looking man, clothed in arms from head to
heel, and down either side, ranged in long line, were other forms in
armour, some with their swords bare, and some with banners in their
hands, which seemed to her terrified eye the same as those which
usually hung from the vaulted roof above. Every man had his visor
down, and all was profoundly silent; but the stern array daunted the
poor girl's heart, and she turned an eager glance to the countenance
of her companion.
"Fear not," said Father George, in a low voice; "fear not, only come
on quickly," and supporting her shaking steps with his arm, he led her
on through that dark avenue towards the door at the farther end. None
spoke, none moved, as she passed along nearly to the close of the
line; but then the seated figure rose, and bowed his head without a
sound. Hurrying her on towards the door, the monk opened it, and led
her into the stone passage through which she had before passed. There
was a lamp burning on the floor; and quitting his hold of her arm,
Father George whispered, "Stay for me one moment," and then returned
into the hall.
Turning a timid glance back, Adelaide saw him approach the chair of
state and speak for a few moments, in a low voice, to its mailed
occupant. He seemed to receive no answer; and then clasping his hands
together, in the attitude of vehement entreaty, the old man said
aloud, "I beseech, I adjure you! By all that is sacred! In the name of
Christ, forbear."
The figure bowed its armed head: and, exclaiming, "Well," Father
George turned away, and hurried to her side again.