Three years have passed since Linda left her father's house, and was no
longer condemned to be called Harfink--three years and seven months.
The trees have only recently lost their snowy blossoms; all are wrapped
in soft young green, the whole earth seems bathed in new hope. It is a
day in which death and misfortune seem like ghost stories, invented by
old women--no one believes them. The birds twitter joyously, and
without all is fragrance, sunshine and flowers. Fragrance and sunshine
fill the room where Elsa sits, her youngest child in her lap.
Elsa looks youthful and girlish, quite as much so as at the time when
we first made her acquaintance. The same heavy brown hair, as if
sprinkled with gold, clusters at her temples, and her eyes still shine
with the old dreamy light of happiness, but her cheeks are thinner, her
figure frail and thin.
The existence of the little creature in her lap has deprived her of so
much health. She has not yet recovered since baby's birth, and has not
had time to think of her health, for baby was a sickly child, and great
skill was required to bind the little soul, which seemed so anxious to
fly back to heaven, to this earth. Day and night, in spite of her own
delicateness, Elsa has nursed and cared for the child, holding her
tender mother-hand protectingly before the little light which every
breath of air threatened to extinguish.
Erwin, who usually had such influence with her, this time could not
induce her to spare her weakened strength.
Now the little girl is a year old, and laughs and smiles at her mother
gayly, and the physician said recently, "You may be proud of the child,
Baroness. How you have raised her, God only knows. All doctors can
learn from a mother. But now think of yourself a little."
And the physician shook his head as he looked at the young woman.
Yes, the air is full of perfume and sunshine, but, in the midst of the
charming spring life, Elsa looks like a frail white flower.
She has bathed baby, put on her little embroidered shirt, and wrapped
her in a flannel slumber-robe, and now, with a fine towel, wipes the
last drops from the tender pink little feet, and the little neck on
which the water drops down from the small golden head. The nurse is
meanwhile busy removing the bathing utensils, while Litzi, who is now a
big girl, wearing long stockings, stands near her little sister and
holding perfectly still, allows her long hair to be pulled.
"Fie, you wild little thing, you will hurt her!" cries Elsa at last, as
baby pulls harder and harder, and winds her tiny fist in Litzi's hair.
Then baby throws her head back, shows her four teeth, laughs with all
her little body, and finally leans her cheek sleepily against mamma's
shoulder.
"Go down-stairs, my Litzi, go to Miss Sidney; baby wishes to go to
sleep," whispers Elsa to her big daughter, whereupon Litzi goes away on
tip-toes.
Dreamily humming a lullaby, Elsa cradles the child in her arms, and
then lays it down in its pretty white bed. But when she thinks it
asleep, it opens its blue eyes, and stretching out its arms, murmurs
something which, with a vivid imagination, one can declare to be
"Papa."
"Did you hear him come sooner than I, baby?" says Elsa, while Garzin,
sitting on the edge of the bed, strokes the child's head until she
closes her eyes. There she lies, her hair full of golden lights, the
unusually long, black lashes resting on the round cheeks, lengthened by
their own shadow, the full little mouth half open, like the calyx of a
red flower, one fat little arm thrown up over its head.
"She is pretty, my little one, is she not?" says Elsa proudly, as she
sees the quiet smile with which her husband watches the child. "And the
doctor thinks I need have no more anxiety about her."
"Yes, the little rogue is healthy enough," says Erwin, sighing, as he
softly leaves the nursery with Elsa. "I wish I could say the same of
her mamma. Poor Elsa, how thin you are."
"Do I not please you any longer?" she replies, half laughing.
"You are not very sensible!"
"Probably not," replies she seriously. "With such old married people as
we are, there can be no more talk of 'pleasing.'"
"Do you think so?"
"And if I should have small-pox, would it make any difference to you?"
she asks him, looking at him curiously; the noblest woman is not
ashamed to be loved a little because of her beauty.
"Certainly," he replies, "I should love you just as much as before, but
I would be bitterly sorry for your pretty face." Jestingly he passes
his finger over her cheeks.
They go into the garden; all is gay as if for a feast, the whole earth
with her blooming mixture of white, blue and violet elder, golden rain
and red acacias--a gay, shimmering picture under an endless blue sky.
Everything lives and breathes. The birds twitter, the insects hum,
every blade of grass seems to have a voice, and join in the great
triumphal chorus of the newly-risen nature.
There is a rustling, a murmuring, a whispering, a nodding, a quiver of
life and pleasure, and in the enchanting music suddenly mingles a soft
crackling, the crackling of dead leaves, which play at the foot of the
trees.
Garzin has led his wife to a bench, over which an elder tree bends its
branches of bushy white blossoms. Elsa gazes before her at the lovely
nature, the mixture of luxuriant green and gay blossoms, of short black
shadows amid dazzling light.
"How young the earth looks," says she dreamily.
Erwin draws her to him. I do not know whether he loves her even more
now when she is pale and ill; at any rate he is more conscious of his
feeling for her, and treats her more tenderly, is more thoughtful of
her, and she leans on him like a sick child. Her whole being has become
softer, less independent.
"I received a letter from Felix to-day," says Garzin after a pause.
"Ah!" murmurs Elsa somewhat bitterly. "Does he write for money again?"
"Yes, I am to raise some money for him," says Erwin looking troubled.
"Ah!"
"He has a fine property, but that cannot last," he remarks
thoughtfully.
"If it makes him happy," Elsa shrugs her shoulders, and her voice
sounds harsh.
"Hm! To ruin one's self is at the time a very pleasant occupation, but
to be ruined--a very unpleasant condition, especially with a wife like
Linda. I do not believe that Felix will be willing to live on the
income of his wealthy wife."
During this remark Elsa continues silent.
"Do you believe that Felix is happy?" Erwin continues; "his letters
give a desperately depressed impression. Did you ever hear a really
happy man assure one in every letter: 'I am very happy'--'Everything
goes well with us'--'I am very contented.' Happy people are silent
about their happiness."
Elsa lowers her head, and remembers that in the first years of her
marriage she had never written anything to her brother but: "I cannot
express how I feel!"
"As I know him," continues Erwin, "his present frequent contact with
the world must be a continual torment."'
Elsa frowns and grows very pale. "I do not understand Linda!" she
cries. "How can she under--under the circumstances rush into society? I
no longer try to understand Felix. Hm!--he is weak--could never refuse
a woman anything; if one had asked him for his hand, he would have let
it be cut off for her. As far as I am concerned he can give her his
hand--but--but----"
A strange fire glows in Elsa's eyes, her face takes on a rigid
expression and she grows stiff and clutches both elbows convulsively.
"Poor devil!" murmurs Erwin.
"You pity him for my sake!" cries Elsa, bitterly. "It is not necessary.
I know that you think his conduct unanswerable--that you must think so.
He has forfeited all the sympathy which his blameless conduct for years
had won. I will never forget the tone in which Marie Dey said to me
last spring, when she returned from Rome: 'I have often met your
sister-in-law; she goes a great deal into society--one sees her
everywhere. Your brother does not seem to find as much pleasure in
society as his wife!' And Marie was always a friend to Felix. I know
that in Parisian society Felix is called '_le revenant_,' for which
name he has naturally to thank some kind Austrian. Evidently the whole
story, which was forgotten, has been warmed up again."
"The world is very malicious," says Erwin, evasively.
"Certainly! But after one has passed sixteen years, one knows it, and
guards one's self!" cries Elsa, and adds with a bitter smile: "I
suppose he is a great philosopher and thinks nothing of it."
"Elsa! Elsa!" admonished Erwin.
She shook her head. "See!" said she, dully, "to spare Felix a
humiliation, I would give my life, but now I cannot think of him
without anger. Heavens, when I think of his return I tremble! I know he
will be very badly received, and as his wife's whole existence turns
upon being received----"
Erwin bites his lips. "Felix writes me that his wife plans to return in
the latter part of June or the first of July. He will come to Traunberg
with his little son somewhat sooner."
"He will return?" murmurs Elsa, slowly.
"Well, he must sooner or later."
"Certainly!" cries Elsa, with a shudder. "Erwin, what will strangers
think of his return, if I myself am not able to rejoice?"
"Strangers do not take the situation so tragically," says Erwin,
hastily and precipitately, looking away.
"Well, to be sure!" sighs Elsa. "It is of no consequence to strangers
whether he has acted without any tact, yes, unresponsibly. To think
evil of one who is far from one is a pleasure to malicious people, and
to the best is simply indifferent. But to be forced to think evil of
one whom one loves is the most painful thing in the world."
For a moment she is silent. "If Felix insists upon coming," she then
continues, "I will do my utmost to make life endurable for him and his
wife. I cannot persuade him to return."