Bertram stood on the lowest step of the terrace when this decision
struggled forth from his tempest-tossed soul, that could no longer bear
the torment. A small steep stair led upward from this place, at the
very extremity of the garden, without any landing-places; he hurried
up, taking two and three steps at a time. He had reached the top; next
he turned to the right, across the lawn, in the direction of the
verandah, when suddenly the music was silent within the hall, and
instantly the dancers came forth from the many doors to cool and
refresh themselves in the balmy night air. He did not care to meet the
merry, motley multitude. Here and there isolated couples were
descending the stairs. He withdrew into the darkness of the shrubberies
surrounding the winter garden. It was lighted up; and, as far as he
could judge by a glance through the windows, was deserted; he would
pass through it, and so regain, unseen and undisturbed, the rooms where
the others were.
He entered. Between palm-trees and many broad-leaved plants there was a
narrow passage, bisected in the centre by a shorter and broader one.
Where the two passages met, towered a huge palm, set in a tub of mighty
dimensions, and all but touching the glass-dome above. Behind, within
the enclosure of the wall, was a small recess, furnished with dainty
iron garden-chairs and with a table.
This, he knew, was a favourite spot of Erna's, where, on rainy days,
she was wont to spend hours. He could not resist the temptation of
visiting the spot which on her account was sacred to him. He sank into
one of the chairs, put his folded hands to his head, and let it rest
upon the little table. As he sat thus in the attitude of one praying,
his thoughts became a prayer: and he prayed that Fate would now
determine his lot, now and here, be it bliss or be it--death. He was
willing to submit to either, in all humility, knowing himself subject
to the heavenly powers that would deal with him by their own
inscrutable will.
He lifted his head and rose slowly, hesitatingly, from his stooping,
position. Was his prayer not heard? Could love not work a miracle, like
faith, which was less strong? Surely, she would come, for whom he was
longing with all the force of his heart!
And lo!--as he turned his gaze to the door, the velvet curtain which
draped it was drawn aside, and she appeared on the threshold, a
slender, white-robed figure, bending forward, gazing into the silent
green wilderness before her, listening! And now she was descending the
stairs with lightsome step, moving along the passage that led to the
tall palm-trees, and again she paused, leaning one hand against the
edge of the tub, pressing the other against her bosom.
"Erna!"
He had, for fear of frightening her, uttered her name in a very low
voice; yet she started where she stood, but did not turn to him who was
so near, but stooped, listening, towards the other side; and at the
same moment he heard, the little door open, by which he had himself
entered the winter garden; and now some one was hurrying along the
passage, towards Erna, who made a movement as though she would escape,
but could not.
"Miss Erna!"
She made no answer, and Lieutenant Ringberg seemed to have exhausted
his strength and his presence of mind with these two words, which he
had uttered in a very diffident tone of voice. For a few seconds they
both stood motionless. Then Erna said--
"Fraeulein von Aschhof has told me that you wished to speak to me. I
only came to request you not to honour Fraeulein von Aschhof any longer
with your confidence. I--I am indignant that you could do so at all."
"By Heaven! there is some misunderstanding here. I should never have
dared to apply to Fraeulein von Aschhof. She began, and spoke so
confidently that no doubt ever arose in me. I could not but believe
that you--that yourself, Miss Erna...."
"This is too much!"
The breathless listener heard the rustling of her robe, and then some
hurried words of entreaty which again chained her to the spot.
Meanwhile they had somewhat changed their position; the dense foliage
of some shrubs now intervened between himself and them, and he could
now scarcely see anything of them, but he could hear every word even
better than before.
"You must not let me suffer for a misunderstanding of which--I swear
it--I am so innocent, that I cannot even guess how it has come about.
But be this as it may, I bless it as a heavenly favour, for surely
Heaven would not have me condemned unheard. I pray and entreat you:
listen!"
"What have you to say?"
"What I wrote in my last letter. If you will not believe in my
assurances--and indeed I can understand that, as things are,
appearances are against me--give me time--only a little time, until
these unfortunate circumstances have become clearer, and those
appearances will dissolve themselves into nothing. Only this much I
can, I must say, I am not in love with the Princess, and I never have
been, I have never felt anything for her but sympathy, respect,--and
friendship, if you will,--feelings which that rarely-gifted woman will
awaken in all who come to know her intimately. She is here for no other
purpose but to plead for me, to clear up this wretched mystery which
condemns me to silence, at the sacrifice of considerable personal
advantages to herself. But she has met with resistance which she cannot
overcome, and which compels her, and compels me also, to remain in this
miserably odd position. Therefore, once more, give me time--give me a
respite. A criminal gets that, and I am free from guilt, unless it be a
crime that I look upon those duties which gratitude and the friendship
of years impose upon me as sacred, even now, when it is so unspeakably
hard for me, and when it puts me to the risk of forfeiting the
happiness of my life!"
"Is this all you have to say to me?"
"All; for what else. I might say would find no credence, if your faith
in my veracity does not go even this length."
"Good-bye."
"Erna! is it possible? Is every voice silent in your heart? Does
nothing stir, nothing plead for one whom once you--I dare not say the
word any longer, for I must fear to offend you again if I remind you of
what once was? Great heavens! and I had thought, that if my pen were
powerless, and my pleading on paper appeared clumsy and lifeless, I
should but require to be once more face to face with you, looking into
your loved eyes whilst you looked into mine, and that then you would
believe me even before I uttered a word. And now, now, my glance is
powerless, my words are mere sound. I no longer know what to say; I am
standing here like a beggar who has been telling his story of bitter
woe, and in whose face people close the door at which he has knocked
with trembling hand. Have I become so poor? Well, I am most unwilling
to appeal to a friend for help, but you leave me no choice. There is,
living in your own circle, a gentleman who is in the secret, to whom
the Princess has told it, half involuntarily; drawn on by the vivacity
of her temperament, which she has never learned to control, half
voluntarily, hoping that she was not betraying anything which all, or
at least all concerned, would not know to-day. Well, this hope of hers
has not been fulfilled. The gentleman in question knows it; and not
deeming himself, under the circumstances, justified in speaking, he
will, if I judge him correctly, be silent, although the Princess has
already given him full liberty, nay, has entreated him to tell you all.
I must confess, I was much taken aback when, a little time ago, she
came and told me this; apart from other considerations, it was painful
to me to know that the key to the fatal enigma was in the hands of a
third person. But now, when, to my sorrow, I realise my impotence, let
him plead for me, if he will. He will do it, if I, too, entreat him. I
have barely exchanged three words with him, but looks like his, so
imbued with the true nobility of the soul, cannot lie. Ask him--you
will believe him!"
"Never!"
"You will not believe him?"
"I will die rather than hear from him, speak to him of ... It is a
shame, a shame! This is going too far. What happened before was ... but
this, this ..."
"How now? By the heavens above us, what is the meaning of this?"
"The meaning is this: my last word to you is, Begone!"
"I go. But one thing more, and let it be my last word. It is very
bitter to have to say it. There is one greater misfortune yet than to
see one's love misjudged, scorned, rejected, and that is, to have to
say to one's self that she whom one had loved more,--a thousand times
more than one's self,--is surpassed by other women, whom one had never
dared to put on the same level as her, had barely dared to compare with
her, in kindness and in generosity."
There was a quick step passing away over the tiled passage, then the
sound of the little garden-door being opened and closed, and then a cry
of anguish, half suppressed, and all the more terrible on that account,
the cry of one who had met with a deadly hurt.
Bertram hurried round the intervening shrubs to where Erna stood with
her arms raised on high, with wild staring eyes.
And then she gave another cry, and the next moment she lay in his arms,
clutching him, clinging to him, as a drowning man would clutch, would
cling to, a rock.
"Uncle Bertram! dear, dear Uncle Bertram!"
"My sweet child!"
"Save me! save me!!"
A great gush of tears relieved her. She was now sobbing aloud, bending
over his shoulder. Thus had come to pass that for which, but a brief
time before, he had longed as the greatest bliss; a bliss he would fain
taste for a moment, and for which he would willingly die, after having
tasted it. He held her close to his heart, held the slender maiden's
frame, the tender, heaving bosom; her sweet breath was floating around
his heated cheek, and he knew she was his, was in his keeping; he had
the power to hold her now, and it would cost him but one word. And yet
it was all a dream-gift, which one may retain for a second or two by
keeping one's eyes closed, but which fades away, to return no more, as
soon as the eyes re-open.
"Yes, I will save you, save you from yourself; you have lost yourself,
and I will restore you."
She lifted her head and looked at him, confused, questioning.
"Not to-day, my sweet child, to-morrow; but you must be a good and
obedient girl."
"I will do all that you wish, that you command, dear one, beloved one!
For there is none as good, as noble as you, not one, and I love no one
as I love you!"
Again she clasped him, more violently even than before, and pressed her
hot, quivering lips, to his.
But he did not return her kiss, and a gentle, melancholy smile played
about his mouth as he said, putting her gently from him, and stroking
her dark hair--
"And never did father love his dearest child better than I love you."
And again she gazed up to him with a strange expression of fear and
shame.
"Now go, my child; to-morrow we will talk together. I shall not leave
to-morrow. I shall not go until you need me no longer. Good-bye till
then. And then your dear eyes are to weep no more."
She clung to him still, but hesitatingly, shyly now; he disengaged
himself gently, and repeated--
"Go, my child, go."
She went, slowly, reluctantly, holding her head very low. On the
topmost step, in the doorway leading to the tea-room, she paused and
turned, as though expecting that he would summon her back.