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"A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all!
shut up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a
prison. I must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls--a
straiter captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed--the
scanty liberty I found means to enjoy!"
She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and
looked at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no
light fell upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked
the outlines of objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and
the sun were there, were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence
reigned around. In view of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes
of happiness could hardly enter the heart. Christine was in a fever:
she felt oppressed and crushed by unkindly influences, by the
indifference of friends, by a tyrant's will, even by the cold and
mournful night. The young girl's heart beat quickly and rebelliously.
"Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may
render me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by
persecution. Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so
much. But they rob me of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel
proud that my heart still throbs with joy in the midst of so many
evils. My sufferings will hallow my love, will compel the respect of
those who scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! dear Herbert! where are
you at this moment? Do you joyfully anticipate to-morrow's dawn: are
you busy with your boat, preparing it for its early cruise? Or do you
sleep, dreaming of the old willows in the meadow, hearing the waters
murmur through their branches, and the voice of Christine promising
her return? But no; it cannot be; our hearts are too united for their
feelings thus to differ! You are sad, my love, and you know not why; I
am sad with knowledge of our misfortune--'tis the sole difference
separation can establish between us. When shall we meet again,
Herbert? Alas! I know not, but meet we assuredly shall. If God lets me
live, he will let me love you."
Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without
undressing. It was cold; she wrapped herself in her mantle, and
gradually her head sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed
against each other, opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep,
like an infant, in the midst of her tears.
The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who
sprang hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed.
At her age memory is better for joy than for sorrow. For her the dawn
of day was still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to
the consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out
as on the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner
of the heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud.
The pale foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled
the leaves without bending the branches; the long fine grass of the
meadow was seen through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun.
The sounds of awakening nature had not yet begun, when a white sail
stood out upon the surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like
the open wing of a graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the
meadow; was lowered before the trees, and then again displayed,
bending the boat's gunwale to the water's surface, hovering
continually around a point of the bank, as though confined within the
circle of an invisible fascination. At long intervals the wind brought
a faint and scarce perceptible sound, like the last notes of a song;
then the little bark again manœuvred, and its sail flapped in the
air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the warmer sunbeams;
passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats ascended the river;
the windows of the red brick house opened as if to inhale the morning
air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly away at the will of
the current. Christine looked after it and wept.
Twice during that day, Gothon opened the door of the young girl's
chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart
without uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude.
Christine knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before
the crucifix, her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised
towards the cross, and prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see
him again; she never dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took
down the guitar, passed round her neck the faded blue riband, tied on
it at Seville, and which her mother would never allow to be changed.
She struck a few chords of the songs she best loved; but her voice was
choked, and her tears flowed more abundantly when she tried to sing.
She collected the little sprays of willow, and placed them in a book
to dry and preserve them. But the day was very long; and the poor
child fluttered in her prison like a caged bird, with an anguish that
each moment increased. Her head burned, her bosom throbbed. At last
night came. Seated near the open window, the cold calmed her a little.
They brought her no light, and time passed more slowly than ever. She
went to bed, but, deprived of her accustomed exercise, tormented by a
thousand anxieties, she could not sleep; she got up, walked about in
the darkness, and again lay down; slumber still avoided her. This time
her eyes, red with tears and watchfulness, beheld the sunrise without
illusion; she did not for a moment forget her captivity, but looked
mournfully out at the little sail which, faithful to its rendezvous,
came each morning with the sun. Again, none but Gothon disturbed her
solitude. During another long day, Christine, alternately desponding
and excited, walked, wept, lamented, and prayed. Night came again.
Nothing broke the silence; the lights in the red house were
extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness covered the earth.
Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold. Suddenly she
started: she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the foot of the
wall. She listened.
"Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice.
"Mother," exclaimed Christine, "you out in this dreadful weather! I
conjure you to go in!"
"I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night
I am better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you,
who are my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to
leave me; it would have killed me. How are you, dear Christine? Have
you all you require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?"
"Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold;
it will be your death!"
"Your voice warms me; it is far from you that I feel chill and faint.
Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses."
"I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you.
But, when shall I see you again?"
"When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you
are forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is
your duty."
"Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never
felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and
that your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I
should be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your
tenderness. If my malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman,
suffering and self-sacrificing. Good God! How is it you do not
understand that?"
"I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone, that she
was sure her daughter could not hear her.
"Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage
which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him,
tell him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my happiness."
"I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror, "I brave M. Van Amberg, and
oppose his will!"
"Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart to understand what mine
experiences; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may
cease, but not my love. Who can do it, if you cannot? I am a captive.
My sisters know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It
needs a woman's voice to express a woman's feelings."
"Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my
strength."
"I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me."
"I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word."
Christine started and trembled. "Do not go then, dearest mother.
Forgive my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such
terrible power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but
God."
There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I
am your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your
aid, I will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven."
Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely
grasped her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her
to the house door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made
her pass before him into the parlour. A lamp burned dimly upon the
table, its oil nearly exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash,
and then suddenly became nearly extinguished. The corners of the room
were in darkness, the doors and windows closed, perfect silence
reigned; the only object on which a strong light fell, was the
countenance of M. Van Amberg. It was calm, cold, motionless. His great
height, the piercing look of his pale gray eyes, the austere
regularity of his features, combined to give him the aspect of an
implacable judge.
"You would speak with me, madam," said he to Annunciata, "I am here,
speak!"
On entering the parlour, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her
clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her
shoulders, her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse
rather than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory, even of
what had just occurred, her mind was confused, she felt only that she
suffered horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of
her ideas; the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort,
rallied her strength, and rose to her feet.
"Now then," she murmured, "since it must be so!"
M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his
eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by
word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata
looked long at him before speaking; she hoped that at sight of her
tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her.
She threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her
husband's countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence.
"I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful
effort to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed
to speak first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion
on a trembling woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak.
Christine's happiness is in your hands. The poor child implores me to
soften your rigour.... Did I refuse, not a creature upon earth would
intercede for her. This is why I venture to petition you, sir."
M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her
cheeks, and resumed with more courage.
"The poor child is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you
blame in me. Believe me, sir, I have laboured hard to check them in
the bud. I have striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither
advice nor prayers, but all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare
me this new grief. Her nature is unchangeable; she is to blame, but
she is also much to be pitied. Christine loves with all her soul.
Women die of such love as hers, and when they do not die, they suffer
frightfully. For pity's sake, sir, let her marry him she loves!"
Annunciata covered her face with her hands, and awaited in an agony of
anxiety her husband's reply.
"Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is still a child; she has
inherited, as you say, a character that needs restraint. I will not
yield to the first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is
only two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his character. Your daughter
requires a protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither
family, fortune, nor position. He shall never be the husband of a
woman who bears the name of Mademoiselle Van Amberg!"
"Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with
emotion, "Sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with
the man she loves! It is her best safeguard, it strengthens her
against the cares of the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame
Van Amberg, falling upon her knees, "have compassion on my daughter!
Do not render duty a torture; do not exact from her too much courage!
We are weak creatures: we have need both of love and virtue. Place her
not in the terrible necessity of choosing between them. Pity, Karl,
pity!"
"Madam," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by
a slight nervous trembling, "Madam, you are very bold to speak to me
thus! You! you! to dare to hold such language to me! Silence! and
teach your daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and
evil. Do that, instead of weeping uselessly at my feet."
"Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found
courage in suffering. I am ill,--in pain,--my life is worthless, save
as a sacrifice--let my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate
is in your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute
judge and master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning
will be asked of him! Be merciful to my child!"
M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand
on her mouth, and said:--
"Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and
whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not
disturb their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them.
Silence! You had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you.
Never dare again to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must
obey, I whom you must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and
to-morrow let me find you what you yesterday were."
M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from
the room.
"Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing have I
been able to do for you! Merciful Father! what will become of me,
placed between him and her, both inflexible in their resolves!"
The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly
went out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain
beat against the windows,--the wind howled,--the house clock struck
four.
Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her
away with him; afterwards, she had distinguished, through the slight
partitions of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties,
and reproaches. She understood that her fate was deciding,--that her
poor mother had devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the
stern ruler whose look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine
passed the night in terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately
to discouragement and to joyful hopes. At her age it is not easy to
despair. Fear, however, predominated over every other emotion, and she
would have given years of existence to learn what had passed. But the
day went by like the previous one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she
ventured to question, but the old servant had orders not to answer.
Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no
friendly voice reached her ear, no kind hand lifted the veil shrouding
her future. The poor girl was exhausted, she had not even the energy
of grief. She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night
came, and she fell asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely
slept an hour when she was awakened by the opening of the door, and
Gothon, lamp in hand, approached her bed. "Get up, Mademoiselle," said
the servant, "and follow me."
Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and hastily followed Gothon,
who conducted her to her mother's room, opened the door and drew back
to let her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's eyes.
Annunciata, pale and almost inanimate, lay in the agonies of death.
Her presentiment had not deceived her; suffering and agitation had
snapped the slender strings that bound her to the earth. The light of
the lamp fell full upon her features, whose gentle beauty pain was
impotent to deface. Resignation and courage were upon her countenance,
over which came a gleam of joy when Christine appeared. Wilhelmina and
Maria knelt and wept at the foot of their mother's bed. William stood
a little apart, holding a prayer-book, but his eyes had left the page
to look at Annunciata, and two large tears trembled on their lids. M.
Van Amberg, seated beside his wife's pillow, had his face shaded by
his hand, so that none could see its expression.
With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who
received her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against
Annunciata's, "it is I who have killed you! For love of me you have
exceeded your strength."
"No, my beloved child, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter
between each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die
happy, since I once more clasp you in my arms."
"And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly
raising her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for
other sorrows than yours, my mother!"
"Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very
sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil
my religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God.
Now I can abandon myself to the embraces of my children." And she
clasped her weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she,
"God is full of mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's
benediction. I bless you, my daughters; remember and pray for me."
The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and
replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell.
"My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, "My good brother,
we have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted
friend, indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!"
William averted his head to conceal his tears, but a deep sob escaped
him, and he turned his venerable face towards Annunciata.
"Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I
loved you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My
sister, you will still live for the happiness of us all."
Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband as if
she would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired
on her lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and then closed her
eyes, to check the starting tears. She grew visibly weaker, and as
death approached, a painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned,
she was not calm. It was ordained her soul should suffer and be
troubled to the end. The destiny of one of her daughters disturbed her
last moments; she dared not pronounce the name of Christine, she dared
not ask compassion for her; a thousand conflicting doubts and fears
agitated her poor heart. She died as she had lived, repressing her
tears, concealing her thoughts. From time to time she turned to her
husband, but his head continued sunk upon his hand; not one look of
encouragement could she obtain. At last came the spasm that was to
break this frail existence. "Adieu! Adieu!" she murmured in
unintelligible accents. Her eyes no longer obeyed her, and none could
tell whom they sought. William approached his brother, and placed his
hand upon his shoulder. "Karl!" he whispered in tones audible but to
him he addressed, "she is dying! Have you nothing to say to a poor
creature who has so long lived with you and suffered by you? Living,
you loved her not; do not let her die thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest
this woman, oppressed and slighted by you, should expire with a leaven
of resentment in her heart? Crave her pardon before she departs."
For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata,
her head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a
sudden, she moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards
M. Van Amberg, and groped for his hand as though she had been blind.
When she found it, she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and
expired in that last kiss.
"On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees, she is in heaven! let
us implore her intercession!" And all knelt down.
Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial,
not one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart,
when a beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the
first time, in the presence of its Creator.