The death of the young man excited universal sympathy. He was mourned
not only by his relatives and friends, but by all his dependants, the
peasants on his estates, nay, even by strangers to whom he had only
been pointed out as he passed by. And on the day when he was buried,
with all the honours befitting the noble name which he had borne so
worthily, there was in the whole country round no little child whose
hands were not folded in prayer for him, no poor labouring woman who
had ever met him in the road, and whose existence his kindly smile had
helped to lighten, who did not wear a black apron or a black kerchief,
in loving memory of him. No one, perhaps, could have told what he or
she had expected of the young Count, but all felt that with him some
hope had died, some sunshine had been buried.
Fritz Malzin, the only witness of the insult offered to the Conte, died
the night before the duel; nothing therefore was known save what the
Conte chose to tell; the versions of the reasons that had induced
Oswald's rash acceptance of the Conte's challenge were many and widely
differing, but not one of them bore the least relation to the truth.
As Oswald had foreseen, his relatives overwhelmed Georges with
reproaches for the part he had borne in a duel between his cousin and a
parvenu. But the letter to Truyn which Oswald left behind, exculpated
Georges completely.
People declared, to be sure, that Georges ought to have restrained the
folly of his hot-tempered cousin, but the unaffected grief evinced by
the man, hitherto regarded as careless and indifferent, disarmed every
one. His devotion to his dead cousin revealed itself in his every
action, in the exquisite tenderness of his treatment of Oswald's
wretched mother, and his management of the estates thus suddenly fallen
to him, absolutely in accordance as it was with all Oswald's wishes,
soon won him the warmest sympathy from all.
Of course the Conte was denounced; Oswald's associates in his own rank
regarded the man as no better than a murderer. But he coldly defied
public opinion, and held his head higher than ever; he seemed even to
pride himself upon his deed, and several newspapers defended him.
CONCLUSION.
When in May a white-edged, black cloud discharges a storm of hail upon
the fresh, green wheat, the tender blades break and are buried out of
sight beneath heavy sleet; when the storm is past, and the ice melted,
and the sun once more beaming bright and warm in cloudless skies, the
bruised blades think they cannot bear the light, and lying close upon
the ground would fain die. Then over the fields thus laid waste many a
head is shaken, and many a sigh is breathed for the broken promise of
the harvest.
But some there are who, seeing farther and knowing better, shrug their
shoulders, and say "A hailstorm in spring prostrates, but does not
kill!" and they look forward hopefully to the future.
Gradually, and very slowly, the warm sunshine penetrates the crushed
blades, awakening and strengthening within them the benumbed forces of
youth. Before the summer is fully abroad in the land, the wheat stands
erect and tall, to the inexperienced eye all unharmed, but the
husbandman can detect the callous ring where the blade was bent, and
says: "The wheat has been shot in the knee."
Thus it is with youthful souls, crushed to the earth in the spring-time
of life by some fierce tempest. Slowly but surely the spirit, well-nigh
wounded to death, recovers, and God grants to the hearts of those whom
he loves a glorious resurrection.
Gabrielle recovered from the fearful blow that had befallen her,--very
slowly, and painfully to be sure, but at last. At first indeed, her
grief was so profound, she suffered so silently, so tearlessly, that
they feared for her reason, and then, when all seemed darkest to her,
she was suddenly possessed by an intense, inexplicable yearning to
return to the pretty home in the Avenue Labedoyere in which the fairest
hours of her shattered bliss had been spent.
Her desire was complied with; and for many a long winter night Zinka
sat beside her by the same little white bed where the girl had once
whispered to her in the delirium of her happiness that it seemed as if
her heart would break with joy. With tenderest sympathy the young
stepmother talked of the departed unweariedly with the girl, allowing
her tears free course, without ever cruelly attempting to restrain the
expression of her grief. And when Truyn, in despair over such endless
grieving, unreasonably taxed his wife with exciting Ella's emotion, and
with hindering her from forgetting, Zinka replied gently, "Let me
alone; I know what I am doing. There is nothing more terrible, more
dreadful than the spectre of a grief that has been violently stifled;
it lurks in wait for us, and persecutes us all the more persistently,
the more resolutely we thrust it from us. The memory of our beloved
dead must not be banished, it must be tenderly welcomed and cherished,
until in time it loses all bitterness, and is ever with us, sad, but
very dear."
Truyn listened incredulously, but a few weeks later he perceived with
surprise, and with trembling delight that Gabrielle's pale cheeks began
to show a faint colour, and that her weary gait grew more elastic. Then
when he was alone with Zinka he kissed her gratefully, saying "I see
you understand better than I how to comfort."
"And from whom did I learn the art?" she asked in reply, with a loving
glance, "do you not see that I am only repaying old debts?"
With the first snowdrops in February came a golden-haired little
brother for Gabrielle, who, by Zinka's desire was christened "Ossi."
Thus Gabrielle learned to utter her dead lover's name without tears.
She idolizes the little one, and sometimes smiles when she has him in
her arms; he has given her a fresh interest in life. Georges who came
to Paris the last of May, only to see the Truyns, and to find out
especially how Gabrielle was, perceived this with pleasure, and said
much that was encouraging to Truyn, who is still anxious about his
sorrowing child. A hailstorm in spring prostrates, but does not kill.
* * *
But when a storm of hail just before harvest beats down the ripened
ears, the grain never recovers. Bowed down to the earth, broken and
blasted by the weight of the hailstones, the crop lies prostrate in the
fields, only awaiting the hand that shall clear it away.
* * *
Never again will the Countess Lodrin rally. Had her health been less
vigorous she might have died of agony, had her mind been less strong,
she might have forgotten. But her health is perfect, and her mind clear
as daylight.
She occupies her modest suite of apartments at Tornow, which Georges
has prayed her always to consider as her home. Her rooms are but a
shrine for relics and memorials of the dead. Every object which
Oswald's hand ever touched is sacred for her. Every benevolent scheme
devised by Oswald in his generous desire, 'to brighten the existence of
as many people as possible,' she promotes. She heaps his former
servants with benefits, his faithful Newfoundland is her constant
companion. She tried to employ her widow's jointure in buying back
Schneeburg for poor Fritz's children, but her agent could effect
nothing against Capriani's obstinacy and millions. At least she
succeeded in buying Malzin's children of their mother.
Charlotte married again, another secretary of Capriani's. The little
Malzins live at Tornow under the care of an English governess, and
thrive apace. The Countess attends to every detail of their education
and training, and sees them every day although only for a short time;
there is no close tie between them. In spring when she hears their
sweet voices resounding with merriment in the park, she winces, and
grows paler than usual. She avoids them, but if she encounters them by
chance she never fails to speak a kind word to them, or to bestow upon
them a gentle caress. She is no longer capable of a fervent affection
for any living being. Her heart is a tomb, completely filled by a
single, idolized, dead son, but for his dear sake she does all the good
that she can to the living. Thus, even after his departure, she seems
striving for his approval.
She devotes the greatest part of her income and of her time to the most
self-sacrificing benevolence. There is no misery in all the country
round which she does not search out, and try to alleviate, going from
hut to hut, and never shrinking from even the most menial services to
the sick. She is revered as a saint throughout the district. In her
social intercourse with her peers, which grows less year by year, her
son's name never passes her lips; if others mention it she turns the
conversation. But when the country-people utter his name with
blessings, and recall his constant kindliness and readiness to
aid;--when the peasants and day-labourers kiss the hem of her dress,
with tears, saying, "God give him his reward in Heaven, we shall never
have another such master!" she lifts her head and her eyes gleam with
intense, sacred pride. Those who meet her then walking erect and with
beaming looks on her way back to the castle, think her wonderfully
recovered, and never dream how utterly shattered her life is. But could
they see her later, when, exhausted by the temporary exaltation, she
takes refuge in her chamber and sinks into the arm-chair wherein she
fell asleep on that horrible night, they would be horror-struck by the
fearful misery of her expression.
There she sits for hours, erect, her elbows close pressed, her hands
folded in her lap. Her whole life is but a protracted, lingering agony;
with fixed gaze she seems listening for the rustling wings of the
messenger who shall release her: the Angel of Death.