When the servant from Lindhof rang the bell at the gate in the wall,
Elizabeth was sitting in the hall. She was weaving a long garland of
evergreens and ivy, and Miss Mertens, sitting beside her, had in her
hand a half-finished wreath of asters. The grave had been made ready in
the Lindhof church-yard, and in the afternoon, between five and six
o'clock, the leaden coffin containing the mortal remains of the
beautiful Lila was to be consigned to the earth. If Jost's dreaded eyes
could have gazed upon his lovely descendant, they would certainly have
beamed with a mild and tender light to see her engaged in preparing an
offering of fresh flowers and green vines with which to adorn the bier
of his idolized love.
After consulting her mother, Elizabeth accepted the invitation, all the
more willingly as it referred only to "an hour's talk." Soon after the
servant's departure, Reinhard appeared. He looked very grave, and told
Miss Mertens that his master had returned from Thalleben in the
strangest state of mind.
"He must have been greatly shocked by the misery that he witnessed in
the desolate home," he remarked, "for I really do not recognize my kind
master. I had several unavoidable communications to make to him, but I
saw that I spoke in vain; he did not listen, but sat opposite me,
looking utterly crushed, evidently lost in the most painful reflections.
He started up hastily when I began at last to tell him of our discovery
up here in the ruins, and interrupted me angrily with 'I have heard all
about that matter already; I pray you leave me alone.'"
Miss Mertens plainly perceived that Reinhard was really wounded by Herr
von Walde's manner towards him.
"Dear friend," she said soothingly, "in moments of great mental
suffering we either are not aware of the external world, or the
consciousness of it increases our pain; we cannot endure that all around
us should pursue its customary course while all within has received such
a shock, a shock that we cannot recover from. Herr von Walde was
doubtless warmly attached to his unfortunate friend, and--but, good
Heavens! Elizabeth, what are you doing?" she interrupted herself, "do
you really think that looks well?"
She pointed to the garland. In fact, whilst Reinhard had been speaking
Elizabeth had, with trembling hands, picked up two or three large
dahlias and woven them into her graceful green wreath. She now looked
down, and was aware for the first time of what she had been doing. The
poor flowers were instantly torn from the soft green pillow where they
had laid their heavy heads so comfortably, and treated with as much
severity as if they had insisted on going where they were not wanted.
Three o'clock had long since struck in the Lindhof church-tower when
Elizabeth hurried down the mountain. Her uncle had detained her in
conversation; he was provoked that she had accepted the invitation.
"For," he said, and with some justice, "surely the poor creature whom we
consign to her resting-place to-day deserves that we should consecrate
at least one day to her memory." He had no idea of what was passing in
the heart of his niece. He did not dream that for the last few days his
darling had counted the hours which must pass before she could think,
"He is at home again;" and, to his vexation, his usually obedient child
slipped from him and vanished through the garden gate.
Her feet scarcely touched the ground. She hoped by walking quickly to
overtake the time which she had lost, and could have cried, when her
thin dress caught upon a bramble, and could only be extricated by
patience and skill. At last, almost out of breath, she reached the
pavilion. Both of the folding-doors were open; the room was still
empty. Upon the table stood a salver of refreshments, and Helene's
corner of the sofa was arranged for her.
Much relieved, Elizabeth entered, and was leaning against one of the
opposite windows which looked out upon some tall shrubbery, when she
heard, a slight noise behind her. Hollfeld had hitherto been concealed
by one of the open folding-doors, and he now approached her. She turned
to leave the apartment without even honouring the object of her aversion
by a look; but he placed himself in her path, although his manner was no
longer insolent,--on the contrary, it was respectful and even
submissive, as he assured her that the ladies would appear directly.
Elizabeth looked up surprised; there was not in his voice the faintest
trace of that impertinent tone that had so irritated and outraged her.
"I give you my word that Fraeulein von Walde will be here in one
moment!" he repeated, as she again attempted to reach the door. "Is my
presence, then, so disagreeable to you?" he added more gently, with a
tinge of sadness.
"Most assuredly it is," Elizabeth replied coldly and decidedly; "if you
will remember your late conduct towards me, you will know that to be
left one moment alone with you must be odious to me."
"How stern and implacable that sounds! Must, then, my punishment for my
thoughtless jest be so severe?"
"I advise you, in future, to be more prudent in your choice of those
with whom you wish to jest."
"Good Heavens! I see now that it was a mistake; I regret my
impetuosity, but how could I dream----"
"That any respect was due to me?" Elizabeth interrupted him, with
flashing eyes.
"No, no!----, I never doubted that!--Heavens! how angry you can be! But
I could not possibly know that you possessed the right to claim more,
far more, than mere respect."
Elizabeth looked at him inquiringly; she evidently did not understand
him.
"Can I do more than sue on my knees for pardon?" he continued.
"It shall be granted upon condition that you leave me instantly."
"What cruel obstinacy! I should be a fool indeed to lose this precious
moment. Elizabeth, I have told you already that I love you
ardently,--that I am dying of love for you!"
"And I am quite aware of having distinctly told you that it is a matter
of utter indifference to me." She began to tremble, but her glance was,
nevertheless, firm and composed.
"Elizabeth, do not drive me to extremities!" he cried in great
agitation.
"I would especially request you to remember the common rules of
politeness, which require us not to address strangers by their Christian
names."
"You are a very imp of coldness and malice!" he cried, now trembling
with rage. "Well, I grant that there is some show of reason for your
irritation with me," he added, controlling himself by an effort; "my
conduct towards you has not been what it should be, but I will atone for
it abundantly. Listen to me quietly for one moment, and you will relax
your severity. I offer you my hand. You must know that I can give a
brilliant position, as far as rank and wealth are concerned, to my
future wife."
He looked down at her with a smile of triumph. It was so natural that
his lovely opponent should be paralyzed with joyful surprise at this
unexpected disclosure of his intentions; yet, strange to say, the result
that he anticipated did not ensue. Elizabeth stood proudly erect, and
retreated a pace or two.
"I regret this, Herr von Hollfeld," she said with quiet dignity. "You
might have spared yourself this humiliating moment. After all that I
have hitherto said to you, I scarcely comprehend what you have just
declared. Since you force me to it, I must tell you most emphatically
that our paths in life lie in opposite directions; and----"
"What!"
"And that nothing could induce me to connect my lot with yours."
He stared at her for a moment vaguely, as though perfectly incapable of
understanding her words. His face grew livid, and his white teeth were
buried in his underlip.
"And would you really carry the farce so far as to give me such an
answer?" he asked at last in a hoarse voice.
Elizabeth smiled contemptuously, and turned away. Her behaviour
transported him with rage.
"Your reasons? I will know your reasons!" he ejaculated, stepping
between Elizabeth and the door which she was trying to reach. He caught
at her dress to detain her. She shrunk from him, and retired a few
steps farther into the room.
"Leave me!" she cried, gasping for breath. Terror almost choked her
utterance; hut, nevertheless, she once more took courage, and raised her
head proudly, with an air of command. "If there is no spark of honour
in you to which I can appeal, you force me to use the only weapons at my
command, by declaring to you that I thoroughly despise you; I detest the
sight of you; the hiss of a poisonous viper could not inspire me with
the aversion and disgust with which I listen to the words by which you
would awaken my affection. I have never harboured one sentiment of
regard for you; but, if I had, it must have been instantly annihilated
by your despicable conduct towards me. Let me go now in peace, and----"
He did not allow her to finish her sentence. "That I shall certainly
not do," he hissed between his teeth; his face that had hitherto been so
pale, flushed crimson, and his eyes flashed as he darted towards her,
like some raging wild beast. She fled to the window, as she saw it was
impossible to reach the door, and tried to lift the sash, hoping to be
able to leap from the low sill to the ground without. But she stood
still, transfixed with horror. A terrible face was looking into the
room from the shrubbery outside. The features were deadly pale, and
distorted by a fiendish grin, while the fire of madness gleamed in the
eyes that were riveted upon Elizabeth's face. She hardly recognized in
the dreadful apparition dumb Bertha; shivering with terror, she
recoiled; Hollfeld's extended arms encircled her form,--blinded by
passion, he did not perceive the ghastly face at the window. Elizabeth
pressed her ice-cold fingers upon her closed eyes to shut out the
horrible sight; she felt her persecutor's hot breath upon her hands; his
hair brushed her cheek; she shuddered, but her physical force failed
her; she succumbed beneath the twofold horror,--no sound escaped her
lips. At sight of Hollfeld, Bertha raised her clenched fists as though
to dash them through the window panes,--then, suddenly she paused as if
listening to some noise near, dropped her hands, and with a shrill
laugh, vanished among the shrubbery.
All this was the work of a few seconds. The sound of the shrill
laughter startled Hollfeld, and he looked up. For one moment, his gaze
sought to penetrate the bushes, behind which Bertha had disappeared, and
then it returned to the form which lay in his arms, and which he clasped
to his heart. His cunning foresight, his prudent hypocrisy, that had
always enabled him to conceal his baseness from the eyes of the world,
were all forgotten. He did not remember that the time that Helene had
appointed had arrived,--that through the wide open door the gardener, or
any of the servants, might enter the room; his passion had mastered him,
and he never observed that, in fact, Fraeulein von Walde was standing
upon the threshold of the door, leaning on her brother's arm, while,
behind them, the baroness was stretching out her long neck, with an
unmistakable air of great displeasure.
"Emil!" she cried, her voice vibrating with anger. He started, and
looked wildly around; involuntarily he opened his arms; Elizabeth's
hands dropped from her eyes, and she staggered towards the nearest
couch. The harsh, rude voice of the baroness sounded like sweet music
in her ears, for it brought her succour. There too stood the tall,
manly form, at sight of which her failing pulses throbbed wildly again.
She could have thrown herself at his feet, and prayed him,--"Save me
from that man, whom I detest and flee from, as I would from sin itself."
But what a look met hers! Did that annihilating glance really come from
the same eyes that a few days previously had so tenderly sought her own?
Was this man, with the stern, erect head, and the pale, cold brow, the
same who had bent over her, saying with such unutterable
gentleness,--"may my good angel whisper in your ear the word that will
unlock that fairy realm for me?" He stood there now like an evil angel,
whose mission is to avenge and to crush to the dust some poor,
quivering, human heart.
Helene, who had stood as though lifeless or rooted to the ground during
the scene in the interior of the apartment, now withdrew her arm from
her brother's and approached Elizabeth; she did not for one instant
doubt that Hollfeld had prospered in his wooing, and that the matter had
been happily concluded.
"A thousand welcomes to you, dearest Elizabeth!" she cried in great
agitation, and, while tears broke from her eyes, she took the young
girl's trembling hands between her own. "Emil brings me a dear
sister,--love me as a sister, and I shall be grateful to you as long as
I live. Do not look so stern, Amalie," she turned beseechingly to the
baroness, who was standing like a pillar of stone just outside the
pavilion; "Emil's future happiness is at stake. Look at Elizabeth!
Does she not satisfy every desire that you can have with regard to the
one who will occupy such a close relation to you? Young, richly endowed
by nature, of an ancient family and distinguished name."
She stopped, startled. At last the life seemed to return to Elizabeth's
stiffened limbs, and she was capable of understanding what was said. By
a hasty movement she released her hands from Helene's, and stood erect
before her.
"You are mistaken, gracious lady," she said in a clear ringing voice; "I
have no claim to such distinction."
"What! have you not an undeniable claim to the name of von Gnadewitz?"
"Doubtless; but that claim will never be asserted."
"Would you really reject such happiness?"
"I cannot see that true happiness has anything to do with an empty
sound." Her endeavour to lend firmness to her faithless voice was
distinctly perceptible.
Meanwhile the baroness had drawn near. She was inwardly furious that
her son had made his choice without in the faintest degree consulting
her, or asking her maternal consent; besides, the object of his choice
was detestable to her. But she knew well that her interference would
accomplish nothing,--her son would shrug his shoulders, perhaps smile
contemptuously, and be confirmed in his resolve. It was most fortunate,
too, for her and her interests, that Helene had taken up the matter as
she had, determined, as it seemed, to carry it through with an
enthusiastic degree of self-sacrifice. Although she was thoroughly in
the dark as to the little lady's motives for such a line of conduct, she
could not fail to perceive that she was in earnest, and therefore,
however discontented at heart, she resolved to put a good face upon the
matter, and to play the part of a forgiving and blessing parent.
Elizabeth's replies suddenly closed her lips. She conceived a hope that
Elizabeth might put a stop to the matter by her own obstinacy; if so,
she would pour oil on the flames.
"We have to contend here with a plebeian prejudice, my love," she said
to Helene, who had listened in amazement to Elizabeth's answers. "You
may, however, have most excellent reasons for shunning the light of
loftier realms," the lady continued, in a cutting tone, turning to
Elizabeth.
"I have no reason to shun that light," the young girl replied, "even
should it suddenly reveal faults hitherto unsuspected, as it sheds a
brilliant glare on the stains upon the crest of the Gnadewitzes. But we
love our name because it is true and honest, and we would not exchange
this stainless inheritance for a title made famous by the tears and toil
of others!"
"Heavens, what exalted sentiments!" cried the baroness with a sneer.
"You cannot be serious, Elizabeth," said Helene. "Do not forget that
the earthly happiness of two human beings hangs upon your decision."
She cast a meaning glance at Elizabeth, which of course was utterly
incomprehensible to her. "You must bring a noble name with you into the
sphere to which you will now belong, and you certainly would not destroy
your own hopes and those of others?"
"I am utterly at a loss to understand you,"' said Elizabeth with some
irritation. "It never occurred to me to connect the name of von
Gnadewitz with any hopes whatever; least of all can I conceive how the
wishes or happiness of others can depend upon the resolution of such a
poor, insignificant girl as I."
"You are not poor, dear child," rejoined Helene. "Come," she continued,
with emotion, "let us from to-day be sisters indeed! You too, dear
Rudolph," and she turned with some embarrassment to her brother; "you
will welcome Emil's bride into our family, and permit me to share
everything with her like a sister?"
"Yes," was the reply, spoken sternly, but firmly.
Elizabeth put her hand to her forehead; what she had heard sounded so
incredible. "Emil's bride" was what Fraeulein von Walde had said; was
she speaking of her?--impossible! Had these people conspired to terrify
her thus? And he,--he who knew how she detested Hollfeld, had sided
with them; he was standing there with folded arms, the perfect image of
implacable sternness and reserve. He had been, hitherto, quite silent,
and had opened his lips only to utter the "yes," which had so crushed
her. Had he not, previously, endeavoured almost rudely to prevent his
cousin's advances? At thought of that, it suddenly flashed upon her
that she was now of noble rank,--that explained everything. Hollfeld's
nobility could not be dishonoured now by an alliance with her; his
relatives were, therefore, all quite willing to accede to his suit, and
Helene's surprise at her announcement that she despised the name which
they thought noble, was perfectly natural; still, how they could
possibly imagine an understanding, upon her part, with the man whom she
detested, was utterly beyond her comprehension, for her brain reeled
with the wild uproar of her thoughts. One thing only was quite clear,
she must immediately convince them of their error.
"I find myself the object of a misunderstanding, the origin of which I
cannot possibly comprehend," she said hastily. "It is Herr von
Hollfeld's duty to make an explanation here; but as he prefers to be
silent, I am forced to declare that he has had no encouragement whatever
from me."
"But, dear child," said Helene, in great confusion, "did we not see with
our own eyes as we entered that----" she did not proceed.
These words sounded like a thunder clap in Elizabeth's ears. The idea
that that moment of helpless terror could be misunderstood by any one,
had never entered her pure and innocent mind. And now she found, to her
unutterable pain, that it had placed her in a hatefully false light. She
turned, for an instant, toward Hollfeld, but one glance convinced her
that she had no satisfaction,--no concern for her honour, to look for
from him. With his back turned to the rest, he was standing at the
window like a detected school-boy. If the ladies only had been present,
he would doubtless have extricated himself by some bold and cunning lie;
but Herr von Walde was there, and he was utterly at a loss. He
contented himself by preserving an ambiguous silence, which gave
unlimited scope for conjecture.
"God in heaven, how terrible!" cried the young girl, wringing her hands.
"As you entered you saw," she continued, averting her face, and drawing
a deep breath, "a defenceless girl striving vainly to repel the
insolence of a man lost to all sense of honour. The reiterated
declaration on my part that I thoroughly despise and utterly detest him
was of no avail in freeing me from his presence. I have never concealed
these sentiments from Herr von Hollfeld,--on the contrary----"
Here she was interrupted by a loud noise. Helene had sunk back upon the
couch, and her right hand clutched the table near her, shaking it so
that the china and glass upon it rattled. The little lady's face was
ashy-pale,--her despairing glance sought Hollfeld. In vain she
endeavoured to conquer her agitation. The light that suddenly revealed
such a hateful web of intrigue was too lurid,--its glare had the
annihilating effect upon her hitherto unsuspicious mind of a flash of
lightning.
Elizabeth, although she was herself much agitated, and prepared to give
further expression to her indignation, felt her heart melt with sympathy
at sight of the little lady. In vindicating her own honour she had torn
the bandage from Helene's eyes, and she was filled with sorrow for her,
although she knew that she must have been undeceived sooner or later.
She hastily approached her, and took the icy little hands, which had
dropped from the table, between her own.
"Forgive me if I have terrified you by my hasty words," she said
beseechingly, but firmly. "You can readily understand my position. A
few explanatory words from Herr von Hollfeld would have sufficed to
clear me from every degrading suspicion. I should not then have been
forced to declare so emphatically what I thought of his character and
conduct. I regret what has happened, but I cannot retract one word that
I have said."
She kissed Helene's hand, and silently left the pavilion. She fancied
that Herr von Walde extended his hand to her as she passed him, but she
did not look up.
Outside, she followed the narrow, winding way that led through a grove
to the pond. She passed by the castle, along the broad gravel-walk, and
entered the little forest-path leading to the convent tower, without
knowing whither she was going, or remembering that every step took her
farther from her home.
She was in a state of fearful excitement. A wild chaos was seething in
her brain. Hollfeld's offer of marriage,--his insolent
passion,--Bertha's sudden appearance at the window of the pavilion,--the
inconceivable fact that Helene had received her with joy as the bride of
the man whom she herself loved,--all these things passed through her
mind, and in the midst of the confusion she distinctly heard Herr von
Walde's "yes." He too, then, would have welcomed her as Herr von
Hollfeld's bride! It would have cost him nothing to see her his
cousin's wife. This marriage had doubtless been decided upon in family
conclave. Herr von Walde had weighed the for and against with his usual
cool judgment, and had finally agreed with Helene that Emil's choice
would not prove a blot upon the von Hollfeld escutcheon. She could be
graciously received, and they would themselves provide the dowry which
the bride was deficient in.
At these thoughts Elizabeth set her teeth, as if she were enduring
physical agony. She was filled with unutterable bitterness; her sincere
and ardent sentiments had been misunderstood and crushed under foot by
that cold-blooded, calculating aristocrat. How could she ever have
imagined that he could sympathize in the least with a young, earnest
heart, enamoured of freedom, and giving no heed to the belittling, often
ridiculous institutions of the world,--he who found the pride and glory
of woman only in the ruins and ashes of a long ancestral line?
Several times she paused, lost in thought, and then she walked on
quickly, heedless that she was traversing the same path along which she
had gone in such confusion by his side a few days before. The
overhanging boughs and branches brushed her forehead; she forgot how he
had bent them aside, lest they should annoy her. The underbrush was
still trodden down, and the stripped leaves were not quite withered upon
the spot where Fraeulein von Quittelsdorf and Hollfeld had broken
through the bushes to reach the two lonely wanderers. Here was the
place where the unfinished birthday greeting had been whispered;
Elizabeth passed unheeding by, and it was well that she did so, for
there were no tears in her burning eyes; here where she could have wept
her very heart out.
At last she looked around her with surprise. She stood before the
convent tower. Hers was perhaps the first human foot that had pressed
this turf since the place had been deserted by the latest guests or the
weary servants on the night of the fete.
It looked sadly out of order; the grass had been trodden down by the
dancers, whose tread had not been fairy-like. The two hemlocks, which
had sustained the refreshment tent, lay prostrate upon the ground in the
midst of fragments of broken bottles and the remains of the fireworks.
Above, the shrivelled garlands were still hanging between the tower and
the oaks, while a gentle breeze swept whispering among the poor flowers,
which hung crushed together in the air, their short season of triumph
long since ended.
It was already twilight beneath the oaks, although a golden light
illumined their topmost boughs, and played upon the gray roof of the
tower.
It was with a slight shudder that Elizabeth became aware of her
loneliness in the heart of the dim, silent forest; nevertheless she was
irresistibly drawn towards the spot where Herr von Walde had taken leave
of her. She stepped across the trampled sward,--then stood for an
instant as if rooted to the earth,--for the evening breeze brought to
her ear single broken tones of a human voice. At first she seemed to
hear something like a distant ejaculatory cry for help; then gradually
the sounds grew more connected, and rapidly drew near. It was a shrill,
piercing, female voice, shouting, rather than singing, a hymn.
Elizabeth could hear that the singer, whoever she might be, was running
quickly as she sang.
All at once the melody ceased, or rather it was interrupted by a burst
of horrid laughter, and then by a shriek, which ran through a perfect
scale of scorn, triumph, and bitter agony.
A foreboding of evil filled Elizabeth's mind. She looked anxiously in
the direction, in the dark wood, whence the noise was approaching. It
was hushed for a moment, and then the hymn began again, while the singer
came rushing on like the wind.
Elizabeth stepped within the open door of the tower, for she did not
wish to encounter the strange singer; scarcely had she crossed the
threshold, when the laughter was repeated close at hand.
On the opposite side of the open sward Bertha rushed out of the thicket,
and by her side ran Wolf, the forester's savage watch-dog.
"Wolf, seize her!" she shrieked, pointing with both hands to Elizabeth.
The animal came tearing, barking, across the open space.
Elizabeth shut the door behind her, and ran up the tower stairs. She
thus gained a moment's advantage; but before she had reached the roof of
the tower the door below was opened. The growling dog rushed up the
stairs followed by the maniac cheering him on.
The terrified and hunted girl reached the topmost stair,--she heard the
growl of the savage brute behind her,--he was just at her heels,--with
one last effort she stepped out upon the roof, closed the oaken door,
and leaned her whole weight against it.
For a few moments Bertha rattled at the latch upon the other side,--it
did not yield. She raved, and threw herself against the oaken panels,
while Wolf, barking and growling, scratched at the threshold.
"Amber witch out there!" she shrieked. "I'll throttle you! I'll drag
you through the thicket by your long, yellow hair! You have stolen his
heart from me, with your moonshine face,--vile hypocrite that you are!
Seize her, Wolf, seize her!"
The dog whined, and tore at the door with his paws.
"Tear her in pieces, Wolf; bury your teeth in her white fingers that
have bewitched him with their devilish music! curse her! cursed be the
tones that come from her fingers! may they turn to poisonous arrows, and
bury themselves in her own heart and destroy it!"
Again she threw herself against the door; the old oaken planks creaked
and groaned, but it did not yield to the little powerless feet.
Elizabeth meanwhile leaned against the door on the other side, with lips
tightly closed and a face pale as death. She had seized a piece of wood
that lay at her feet that she might defend herself, if need should be,
against the dog. Her whole frame shuddered at the curses which Bertha
shrieked out, but she nerved herself with new resolution.
Had she only glanced at the latch of the door, she would have seen that
any effort upon her part to keep it closed was wholly needless,--a huge
bolt had slipped forward, against which the maniac's utmost strength
could avail nothing.
"Open the door!" Bertha shouted again. "Transparent, brittle creature!
Ha! ha! Old Bruin, whom I hate, calls her Gold Elsie. The old fellow
despises heaven, and may go to hell for all I care, for I shall be
blessed, eternally blessed. He calls her Gold Elsie because she has
hair of amber. Fie! how ugly you are! my hair is black as the raven's
wing. I am a thousand times the fairer. Do you hear me, moonlight
face?"
She paused exhausted, and Wolf, too, ceased his whining and scratching
at the threshold.
At the same moment the tolling of a distant bell broke the evening
silence of the forest. Elizabeth well knew what it signified,--a
funeral train was descending the mountain from the ruins of old Castle
Gnadeck. Lila's mortal remains were leaving the walls which had once
echoed the sighs and groans of the lovely gypsy girl. She was borne
through the forest, in longing for which her heart had broken two
centuries before.
Bertha, too, seemed to listen to the sound of the bell; for a moment she
did not stir.
"They are ringing," she cried suddenly; "come, Wolf, let us go to
church; let her stay up here with the clouds that will fall upon her in
the night,--the tempest will tear her hair, and the ravens will come and
pick out her eyes, for she is accursed, accursed!"
And then she began the hymn again. Her terrible voice echoed eerily
against the narrow walls of the tower. She ran down and out of the door
below, then rushed singing across the open space, and disappeared in the
thicket whence she had issued at first,--the dog following her. She
never once turned round towards the tower. As soon as she turned her
back upon it she seemed to forget entirely that the object of her hatred
was standing up there upon the gray stone platform. Elizabeth caught a
last glimpse of her scarlet jacket among the dark bushes, and then, with
her savage companion, she was seen no more. Gradually her song died
away, and soon the gentle breeze wafted only the tolling of the bell to
the ears of the lonely girl upon the roof of the tower.
With a deep-drawn breath of relief she relinquished her constrained
position, which she had until now retained mechanically, and tried to
lift the latch of the door. It was rusty and resisted her efforts as it
had Bertha's. She now discovered with alarm that the bolt had
sprung,--it had, indeed, defended and protected her, but it was also her
jailer,--for she could not possibly stir it; worn out at last with her
fruitless attempts to withdraw it, she dropped her hands at her sides.
What was to be done? She thought with distress of her parents who had
probably been made anxious by her prolonged absence,--for they knew that
she fully intended to be present at the interment of her ancestress.
Around her were grouped the mighty monarchs of the forest, their topmost
boughs still tipped here and there by the fading western light. Far in
the distance gleamed a strip of light,--there lay L---- with its lofty
castle, whose long rows of windows glittered for a few moments, and then
disappeared in gloom. And there towered the mountain crowned by the
ruin of Gnadeck; but the forest hid from her her dear home, she could
not even see the lofty flagstaff.
Elizabeth soon relinquished all hope of being seen by passers-by,--and
she knew that her feeble cry for help must die away unheard, for the
tower lay hidden in the depths of the forest; no frequented road passed
near it; and who would be likely to be walking at nightfall in the quiet
path which led nowhere except to the convent tower?
Nevertheless she made one attempt, and uttered a loud cry. But how weak
it sounded! It seemed to her that the boughs of the nearest tree
absorbed it entirely; it only startled some ravens in the vicinity, and
they flew croaking away overhead; then all was still again,--fearfully
still. The Lindhof church bells were silent. A faint red yet glimmered
in the west, tinging a few little floating clouds,--the forest lay in
deep shadow.
Utterly at a loss, Elizabeth walked to and fro upon the flat roof.
Sometimes she stood still at the corner looking toward Castle Lindhof,
which was the nearest inhabited mansion, and raised her voice in a vain
cry for help. At last she ceased all such efforts, and seated herself
upon the bench which was set into the outer wall of the small landing,
at the top of the stairs, and which was tolerably protected by the
projecting roof from wind and weather.
She was not afraid of passing the night here, for she did not doubt that
search would be made for her in the forest; but how many anxious hours
her friends must pass before she could be found!
This thought troubled her greatly and increased her nervous agitation.
She had passed through so much during the day, and had had no
assistance, nothing but her own force of character to sustain her. She
was still trembling from the terror of the last shock. What could have
caused poor Bertha's outbreak of insanity? She had spoken of a heart
which Elizabeth had stolen from her,--was it possible that Hollfeld had
played some part in this sad story, as Frau Ferber had lately so often
insisted?
Such a suspicion revived all the painful sensations that had before
possessed her. But now, sitting motionless against the old wall, while
the darkening heavens seemed to draw near her, and nothing spoke of life
around save the damp night air that swept soothingly across her hot
cheek,--now her moistened eyes bore witness that the stern stoicism with
which her crushed heart had armed itself, had vanished. All, all was
over; she had broken with the inmates of Lindhof forever. She had
shattered Helene's ideal, and she had thrown back to Herr von Walde the
gift of his consent to her marriage which he had offered her; doubtless
his pride had been mortally wounded. Most probably she should never see
him again. He would soon set out upon his travels, glad to efface the
impression made upon him by the ingratitude of the poor music-teacher.
She covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled through the
slender white fingers.
In the mean time the night had fallen, still it was not quite dark. The
crescent moon was reigning in the skies, where all the other shining
wanderers appeared and went their way, never heeding that their sister
planet, the earth, careering in space with them, contained millions of
little worlds, each inclosing in its sphere heights and depths, tossing
waves with their ebb and flow, mighty storms, and only too rarely a
sacred repose.
And now life began to stir in the old tower. There was a low murmur and
moaning upon the stairs; slight blows were struck from within upon the
oaken door, and wings brushed the inner wall; the owls and bats were
longing to be abroad, and could not find their accustomed place of
egress. And in the forest below there arose a rustling and
crackling,--the deer broke through the thicket and roamed about in
entire security. From the distant east, where the forest almost in its
primeval luxuriance descended into the valley and then again climbed an
opposing range of mountains, a faint shot was occasionally heard. Every
time Elizabeth heard the sound she nestled closer against the wall
beneath the protecting roof, as if in fear lest she should be discerned
by some unfriendly eye gazing thence;--those hunting there were outlaws.
Still no succour came. Her fear, then, lest her parents should be
anxious, had been unfounded. Of course, they supposed her to be yet at
the castle,--perhaps they were displeased at her long absence from home;
but they would possibly wait until ten o'clock for her return. It might
be midnight before she was released.
It grew quite cold. With a shiver, she drew her thin shawl close about
her, and tied a handkerchief around her throat. She was obliged to
leave her seat, and walk to and fro on the roof, to prevent herself from
becoming chilled. Occasionally she leaned over the balustrade and
looked down.
White cloud-like phantoms were hovering hither and thither over the open
space beneath,--the mists rising from the damp ground. Elizabeth no
longer thought of the motley spectacle,--the ostentation and vanity that
had filled this place a few days before. She forgot the countless idle
words that had filled the air, causing such a confusion of tongues that
the old tower, instead of standing upon honest Thuringian soil, might
have challenged the skies upon the banks of the Euphrates. Forth from
the billows of mist floated the shadowy forms of the nuns buried under
these walls, their features pale and passionless, their desolate hearts
stilled within their long-flowing robes, and their waxen brows, beneath
their white bands, haunted no longer by restless doubts and longings.
They would fain have trodden the path leading from the world to heaven,
had they not been so often dragged down to earth again.
Elizabeth thought of those dark times, when these gloomy walls were
erected in expiation of the crime of a knightly assassin,--cold stone
walls to appease Him from whom has come the Word made life,--who is the
source of Eternal Love. Could all the prayers, breathed by the inmates
of that living tomb,--all the masses,--the organs rolling thunder, blot
out the stain of blood which the criminal carried to the foot of the
eternal throne? No, a thousand times no! He heeds no incense wafted
before the shrine of Baal. His eternal edicts are not reversed by the
creatures whom He has made.
What a terrible episode in the family history of the Gnadewitzes those
crumbling ruins commemorated! And could it be possible that a being,
conscious of a fervent desire for moral elevation and spiritual growth,
should be duly respected only when permitted to bear that name? Must
she learn that a spotless life was nought, laid in the balance with a
human device, which was, in fact, a phantom of the brain,--an absolute
nothing?
Was the superstition that committed witches to the flames darker than
this delusion of the privileges of birth, by which many a true and
richly-gifted human life is as ruthlessly destroyed as by the faggot of
the executioner,--the delusion, that flatly contradicts the Almighty
decree, which declares all God's children to come alike from His
creating hand,--alike in outward form, in physical structure, in the
possession of senses, whereby both king and beggar enjoy and suffer,
alike in the possession of that vital spark that animates these outward
shapes? Where is there a soul, even although it has attained the summit
of human perfection, that is not conscious of some weakness, or a human
being so depraved, that one good quality at least does not glimmer forth
from the slough of vice into which he has sunk?--And can he be
influenced by such narrow prejudice,--he, whose brow bears the impress
of high intelligence, whose glance and voice can melt with a tenderness
that reveals a soul alive to the best and deepest emotions of our
nature? Could he rank the hollow form above the immortal rights of
humanity, which accord freedom of thought and action to all? Did not
that false system continually crush out the highest and holiest
sentiment of the human heart, love? If Elizabeth had loved Hollfeld,
what would her lot have been without the discovery in the ruins? And
if,--here a sarcastic smile hovered upon her quivering lips,--if one
thought of affection for her had ever stirred Herr von Walde's heart,
and he should come now and offer his hand?----Never, never would she
consent to give herself to him, with the consciousness that her
unutterable love had only been returned when such return was no longer
forbidden by the old worn-out laws of society. The pain of renunciation
lost much of its torture, contrasted with the torment that would be the
result of such a life.
With looks full of gloom, Elizabeth once more walked to the corner of
the balustrade looking towards Castle Lindhof, and stood gazing in that
direction. One and the same star rose above that graceful pile and the
poorest hut in the neighbouring village, casting its mild light
impartially upon each,--or was there really a stronger gleam upon the
spot where the park opened into the forest? No; that light came from
below, and penetrating quickly farther and farther into the forest,
faintly tinged the boughs above with its rays. It was most certainly a
torch borne along the narrow path by which Elizabeth had reached the
convent tower.
Once the light was, for an instant, immovable, and a faint shout reached
her ears. She felt convinced now that help was at hand,--that search
was made for her,--and she raised her voice in reply, although she knew
that the faint sound could not reach the bearer of the torch. The light
hesitated but for a moment, and then quickly came nearer and nearer.
She could soon plainly distinguish the flame of the torch, and see the
shower of sparks that fell from it to the ground.
"Elizabeth!" suddenly resounded through the forest.
The voice thrilled through her every nerve,--for it was his voice. Herr
von Walde was calling her in tones of unutterable anxiety.
"Here," she called down to him; "I am here, upon the convent tower."
The torch-bearer plunged through the thickets and hurried across the
open sward. In a few moments he stood upon the landing without, shaking
the door with a powerful hand. Several stout blows followed, and the
old planks were burst open.
Herr von Walde stepped out upon the roof. In his left hand he held the
torch, while with his right he drew Elizabeth within the circle of its
light. His head was uncovered, his dark hair lay in dishevelled locks
upon his forehead, and his face was very pale. He hastily scanned her
figure, as if to convince himself that she was unhurt. He was evidently
in a state of great agitation, the hand which grasped her arm trembled
violently, and for a moment he could not speak.
"Elizabeth, poor child!" he ejaculated at last, with a gasping sigh,
"did the insult that you received in my house to-day drive you hither to
this dreary ruin, and the gloomy night?"
Elizabeth explained to him that her stay here had not been voluntary on
her part, as the bolted door testified, and related in a few words, as
she descended the stairs, all that had occurred. He went before and
offered her his hand to support her, but she took hold of the rope which
served for a hand-rail, and turned away her eyes that she might ignore
his proffered aid.
At this moment a strong draught of air extinguished the torch, which had
burnt only dimly, and all was enveloped in darkness.
"Now give me your hand!" he said, in the tone of command which she knew
so well.
"I can take hold of the rope, I need no other support," she replied.
The last word had scarcely left her lips when she felt herself lifted
from the ground like a feather by two strong arms and carried down the
steps.
"Foolish child!" he said, as he set her down upon the grass outside. "I
will not have you dashed to pieces upon the stone pavement of that
dreary tower."
She entered the path which led directly to Castle Lindhof,--it was the
shortest. Herr von Walde walked silently by her side.
"Do you intend to leave me to-night without saying one kind word to me?"
he suddenly asked, standing still. Pain and suppressed auger strove in
his voice for the mastery. "Have I had the misfortune to offend you?"
"Yes, you have wounded me grievously."
"Because I did not instantly chastise my cousin?"
"You could not,--his suit had your entire approbation. You, as well as
the others, would have forced me to accept Herr von Hollfeld."
"I force you? Oh, child, how little you understand a man's heart? I
was the victim of a terrible error when I uttered that 'yes.' I longed
to try if it were a delusion, and to free myself from it. Now you shall
learn that I will banish everything that can remind you of to-day's
terror. You like Lindhof?"
"Yes."
"The Baroness Lessen is about to leave the castle. Let me entreat you to
be my sister's stay and support when I leave her again, when I begin my
wanderings anew. Will you consent?"
"I cannot promise to do so."
"And why not?"
"Fraeulein von Walde will not desire my society, and even if----. I
have already declared once to-day that I shall not bear the new name."
"What a strange reply! What has that to do with the matter? Ah, now I
understand. At last I begin to see clearly. Then you think that I
agreed to Hollfeld's suit because you suddenly had a right to an ancient
name? Speak, is not this the fact?"
"Yes, I believe this to be the fact."
"And you suppose further, that the same reason leads me to desire your
companionship for my sister. You are convinced that aristocratic pride
prompts all my thoughts and actions?"
"Yes, yes."
"Pray let me inquire of you what name you bore when I asked you for a
birthday greeting, when we last walked together here in this path?"
"Then we did not know of the secret hidden in the ruins," said
Elizabeth, in an almost inaudible tone.
"Have you forgotten the words which I dictated to you that afternoon?"
"No,--I remember every syllable of them with the greatest distinctness,"
she replied quickly.
"And do you think it possible that such words can end with, 'I hope the
coming year will prove a happy one,' or the like?"
The girl did not speak, but looked up at him with a crimson blush.
"Listen to me quietly for one moment, Elizabeth," he continued, but he
himself was so far from quiet that his voice sounded faint and
faltering, as though half stifled by the throbbing of his heart, "a man
who might have been regarded as fortune's favourite, so richly did she
endow him in his cradle with rank and wealth, mistrusted these
advantages when he arrived at years of discretion. He feared that they
would stand in the way of what he considered the true happiness of his
life. He had created for himself an ideal of her by whose side alone he
could find real peace,--not that he required extraordinary physical
beauty or intellectual power,--he sought a pure, true heart, that should
be influenced by no consideration of worldly advantages, but should give
herself to him for his own sake alone. He gradually arrived at the
conviction that his ideal must remain an ideal, for in his search for
its realization, he came to be thirty-seven years old. When hope has
folded her wings, and night is falling around us, there is something
overpowering in the sudden flushing of a morning light, at the eleventh
hour. The mind is unhinged, the long, weary waiting has rendered it
almost incapable of believing in great, unexpected happiness. At last,
Elizabeth, he found the heart he had sought,--a heart accompanied by a
clear, well-balanced intellect that was infinitely superior to all
narrow, sordid considerations,--but this heart throbbed in a youthful
form adorned with every imaginable grace. Was it to be wondered at that
the man of riper years, possessing, as he knew, no personal advantages,
regarded with mistrust another who could lay in the balance youth and a
fine person? Was it to be wondered at that he allowed himself to be
carried away one moment, inspired by the boldest hopes, by some word,
some act on the young girl's part, only to be cast down utterly the
next, when he saw that other in her society? Was it not natural that he
should fear that youth only could attract youth? Never did heart of man
long more wildly than his for the accomplishment of his desire,--never
was there a man more possessed, in moments of despair, by a cowardly
doubt as to its fulfilment. And when they told him that his little
idolized darling belonged to that other, he emptied the bitter cup to
the dregs, and said 'yes' because he imagined that she had already said
it. Elizabeth, I stood on the threshold of the pavilion to-day in a
state of utter despair. You do not know what it is, when a merchant
heaps all his treasure, every jewel that he possesses, in a single ship,
and sees it sink before his eyes. Shall I try to tell you what I felt
when you so decidedly rejected the rank which you might have claimed,
and so made an alliance with Hollfeld impossible? Shall I tell you that
my sister's condition, and consideration for you yourself, alone
prevented me from chastising that scoundrel upon the spot? He has
already left Lindhof, and will never cross your path again. Will you
forget the insult that you received in my house to-day?"
He had taken her hands in his, and held them pressed close to his
breast. Without withdrawing them she assented to his question with
trembling lips.
"And shall we not forget everything, my darling little Gold Elsie, that
has occurred between the beginning and the conclusion of the birthday
wish? My golden darling, the delight of my eyes, my own Elizabeth
Ferber stands again before me, and will repeat after me what I say, will
she not? The last sentence which was so cruelly interrupted--tell me
what it was."
"Here is my hand as the pledge of an unutterable bliss," faltered
Elizabeth.
"In life, in death, and for all eternity, I will be your own."
But she opened her lips in vain to repeat after him the words which he
uttered so solemnly, with the most profound emotion. She burst into
tears and threw her arms around the neck of her lover, who clasped her
to his heart.
"This divine dream must not fade," he said with a sigh, as Elizabeth
gently extricated herself from his embrace. "Leave me your hand at
least, Elizabeth, I must learn to believe in my bliss. If you leave me
now, I shall be crushed by doubt again to-night. You are thoroughly
conscious that you are irrevocably mine? Do you know that you must
leave father and mother, and the dear home upon the mountain, for my
sake?"
"I know it, and will do so gladly, Rudolph," she said smiling, but firm.
"God bless you, my darling, for those words! But you must know the
depths of my doubt. Is it not pity for my boundless love that induces
you to yield your consent to my suit?"
"No, Rudolph, it is love,--a love which first awoke in my heart,--does
not this sound strangely,--when I saw in your angry eyes, and heard in
the tones of your voice, how you detested cruelty and injustice! And
since that moment it has never left me; on the contrary, it has
increased and grown stronger, in spite of all my efforts to destroy it,
notwithstanding all the harsh words that have so often wounded it
sorely."
"Who spoke such words?"
"You, yourself; you were harsh and unkind to me."
"Oh, child, those were the outbreaks of insane jealousy! I have
struggled for and exercised self-control all my life long, but I could
not conceal how I was tortured then. And would you, on that account,
have closed upon me the heaven that is opening before me?"
"Not on that account,--for one kind look from you made me happy again;
but another obstinate opponent entered the lists,--my reason. It had
grown well aware of everything that report declared concerning your
incredible aristocratic arrogance, and, at every wild throb of my heart,
dinned into my ears your reasons for refusing the alliance which the
prince proposed to you."
"Ah! those sixteen quarterings!" cried Herr von Walde, smiling, "But
see, my little Gold Elsie, what a Nemesis that was!" he continued more
gravely. "To avoid annoyance, I seized upon the first means at hand,
and, as I now know, it almost cost me the happiness of my life. I like
the Prince of L----, but any residence at his court was rendered, for a
time, utterly odious to me, by the matrimonial alliances proposed for
me, principally by the Princess Catharine. She had taken it into her
head that I must marry one of the ladies of her court. No one could
believe that the girl was entirely indifferent to me, for she passed for
a brilliant beauty, and had broken many a heart. All that I could say
was of no avail; they continued to plot and intrigue, and so one day I
cut the whole matter short by declaring to her Highness that her plan
for me would cost me one of my estates, since, as is true, by my uncle's
will it was devised to the State if I should marry a wife who could not
show sixteen quarterings in her escutcheon. This declaration put an end
to my torment; no such person was to be found in the length and breadth
of the little kingdom, and all thought it natural that I should wish to
retain my estate."
"And will you suffer this loss for my sake?" cried Elizabeth, in
surprise.
"It is no loss, Elizabeth; it is an exchange,--an exchange by which I
gain a priceless treasure,--the happiness of an entire existence."
A torch glimmered through the thicket.
"Halt! this way!" cried Herr von Walde.
In a few moments one of the servants appeared, and was ordered to hasten
as quickly as possible to Gnadeck and announce Fraeulein Ferber's
safety.
The servant hurried away.
"I have been very selfish, Elizabeth," said Herr von Walde, putting her
hand within his arm, and no longer loitering. "I knew that your family
was most anxious about you; that your father and uncle were ranging the
forest in search of you, while my people, and many of the Lindhof
peasants, were traversing the country in all directions upon the same
errand, and yet I forgot everything when I found you."
"My poor father and mother!" sighed Elizabeth, not without a slight
twinge of conscience; the whole world had ceased to exist for her when
he appeared.
"Friedrich runs quickly," von Walde said, soothingly; "he will reach the
summit of the mountain long before us, and tell them you are safe."
They entered the park and passed by the castle. It lay in darkness and
silence. Only from Helena's chamber window gleamed a faint light.
"There is a life-and-death struggle going on there," murmured Herr von
Walde, looking up. "She loved that wretch devotedly; how fearful her
awakening must be!"
"Go and comfort her," begged Elizabeth.
"Comfort her? At such a moment? My child, who could have come to me
with comfort when I thought I had lost you? Helene shut herself in her
room when I ordered Herr von Hollfeld's horse to be brought to the door;
her maid is near her. A long time must elapse before she wishes to see
me; when we have been grossly deceived we do not immediately turn to
those who warned us of the deceit. Besides, I will not enter my house
again until I am sure that your parents will not snatch you from me."
The path branched aside to the well-known bank in the forest.
"Do you remember?" asked Elizabeth, smiling, as she pointed to it.
"Yes, yes. There you told me so bravely of your determination to go out
into the world as a governess, and I took the liberty of declaring to
myself that I never would permit it. I had to exert all my self-control
to prevent myself from then and there clasping my little bird in my arms
and pressing its golden head, filled with such bold resolve, to my
breast. And there I drew from you the unconscious naive confession that
your parents still held the first place in your heart. But you adopted
a cold, repellant demeanour, as soon as I attempted to be confidential."
"It was shyness,--and I am not yet quite sure that to-morrow, when I see
your stern face by daylight, I shall not fall into the same
embarrassment."
"It will never be stern again, my child; joy has touched it with its
gentle finger."
Soon afterwards, the old beeches which look in at the windows of the
Ferber's dwelling-room saw a strange sight. A man of fine presence, his
face pale with profound emotion, conducted the daughter to her parents,
and then asked them to give her back to him as his future wife,--his
other self. The old beeches saw him take his young love in his arms,
and receive the blessing of her agitated parents. They saw the mother's
face, smiling through tears, raised gratefully to Heaven, and little
Ernst shaking the canary's cage, that he might awaken that sleepy
songster and announce to him, with great solemnity, that Elsie was
betrothed.