A FAITHFUL FRIEND.
Elise's father had not yet returned. She was still alone, but in her
soul there was neither fear nor trembling, but only a defiant grief at
this apparent indifference to the danger which had threatened her, in
common with the rest of Berlin, for the last two days.
She had shut herself up in her room, not that she anticipated any
danger, but because she wished to be alone, because she wished to
avoid Bertram, the faithful friend, who had watched over her during
this time with the most attentive devotion. Truthfully had he remained
in the house, deserted by her father, as a careful watchman; had never
left its door; but, armed with dagger and pistol, he had stationed
himself as a sentinel in the antechamber, ready to hasten at the
slightest call of Elise, to defend her with his life against
any attack or any danger, and Elise felt herself bound to him in
gratitude, and yet this duty of gratitude was a burden to her. It was
distressing and painful to her to see Bertram's quiet and mournful
countenance, to read in his dimmed eyes the presence of a grief so
courageously subdued. But yet she had endeavored to overcome this
feeling, and she had often come to him lately to chat with him about
past times and to reward him with her society for his protection and
faithful presence. And yet Bertram's tender conscience was well aware
of the constraint Elise had put herself under, and the harmless and
cheerful chat was to him all the more painful as it reminded him of
past times and blasted hopes.
He had, therefore, with a melancholy smile of resignation, requested
Elise not to come any more into the hall, as it would be better, by
the anticipated occupation of the enemy, to remain in her room, in the
upper story of the house, and to lock the door in order to secure her
from any possible surprise.
Elise had completely understood the delicacy and nobleness of this
request, and since then had remained quiet and undisturbed in her
room.
Thus the second night had commenced. She passed it like the one
preceding, wandering up and down, not needing sleep, but kept awake by
her thoughts and cares. In the middle of the night she was interrupted
in her anxious reveries by Bertram, who came to her door, and in a low
and timid voice requested permission to enter.
Elise knew very well that she could trust Bertram like a brother, as
an unselfish, disinterested friend. Therefore, fearlessly she opened
the door, and bade him come in. Bertram entered timidly and confused,
almost overpowered by happiness, for this room into which he came was
Elise's bedroom, the sanctuary of maidenhood and beauty, and he felt
disposed to kneel down and pray, so evidently did this room seem to
him a temple of innocence.
It appeared to him as if his unholy foot was not worthy to tread this
ground, nor to approach the bed which, with its white curtains, seemed
to wave before his dazzled eyes like a white swan.
In soft and gentle words he brought to Elise greeting from her father.
He related to her how Gotzkowsky had visited his house, not to take
rest, but to see Elise; how, scarcely arrived there, a messenger
from the Council had called him back to the town-hall. There he had
commissioned Bertram to request his daughter to withdraw from the
front rooms of the house, and to retire into those next to the garden,
where she would be safer and have less to fear from the enemy as he
marched in.
"At last, then, my father has consented to think of me," said Elise,
with a bitter smile. "His patriotism has allowed him leisure to
remember his only daughter, who would have remained solitary and
forsaken in the midst of servants and hirelings if my noble and
faithful brother had not assumed the duties of my father, and watched
over and protected me." She reached out both her hands to Bertram with
a look full of gratitude, but he scarcely touched them; he held them
for a moment lightly and coldly in his, and then let them go. This
slight and transient touch had shot through him like an electric shot,
and reawakened all the sorrows of his soul.
"You will then leave this room?" asked Bertram, approaching the door.
"I will go into the hall immediately next to it."
"All alone?" asked Bertram; and then fearing that she might suspect
him of wishing to force his company upon her, he added, quickly, "You
ought to keep one of your maids near you, Elise."
Smilingly she shook her head. "For what purpose?" asked she. "Bertram
is my protector, and I am quite safe. I have sent my maids to their
rooms. They were tired from long watching and weeping; let them sleep.
Bertram will watch for all of us. I have no fear, and I would not
even leave this room, if it were not that I wished to comply with the
rarely expressed and somewhat tardy desire of my father."
Saying which, she took the silver candelabras from the table and
quietly traversed the room in order to proceed to the adjoining
hall. At the door she stopped and turned round. The full light of the
candles shone on her handsome, expressive face, and Bertram gazed on
her with a mixture of delight and anguish.
"Bertram," said she gently and timidly, "Bertram, my brother, let me
thank you for all your love and constancy. Would that I could reward
you more worthily! In that case all would be different, and we would
not all be so sad and despondent as we now are. But always remember,
my brother, that I will never cease to love you as a sister, and that
if I cannot compel my heart to love you otherwise, yet no other power,
no other feeling can ever lessen or destroy my sisterly affection.
Remember this, Bertram, and be not angry with me." She nodded to him
with a sweet smile, and retreated through the door.
Bertram stood rooted to the floor like one enchanted, and gazed at the
door through which this vision of light had departed. He then raised
his eyes to heaven, and his countenance shone with excitement. "God
grant that she may be happy!" prayed he, softly. "May she never be
tormented by the agonies of error or repentance; may he whom she loves
prove worthy of her!"
Overpowered by bitter and painful thoughts, his head sank upon his
breast, and tears coursed down his cheeks. But he did not abandon
himself long to his sad and anxious thoughts, nor did he allow sorrow
long to take possession of his heart. After a short pause he raised
himself and shook his head, as if to roll off the whole burden of care
and grief with all the power of his will.
"At least I will always be at her side," said he, his countenance
beaming from the noble decision. "I will follow her like a faithful,
watchful dog, and ward off from her every danger and every misfortune
which comes from man and not from God. She has called me her brother!
Well, a brother has both rights and duties, and I will perform them!"
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