IN THE DESERTED HOUSE.
The night had passed, day was shining through the closed curtains--but
Countess Wildenau still sat in the same spot where Freyer had left her.
Yes, he had gone "silently, noiselessly as a shadow"--perhaps vanished
from her life, as he had said! She did not know what she felt, she
would fain have relieved her stupor by tears, but she dared not
weep--why should she? Everything was proceeding exactly as she wished.
True, she had been harsh, too severe and harsh, and words had been
uttered by both which neither could forgive the other! Yet it was
to be expected that the bond between them would not be sundered without
a storm--why was her heart so heavy, as if some misfortune had
happened--greater than aught which could befall her. Tears! What would
the duke think? It would be an injustice to him. And it was not true
that she felt anything; she had no emotion whatever, neither for the
vanished man nor for the duke! Honor--honor was the only thing which
could still be saved! But--his sudden silence when she mentioned her
betrothal to the duke--his going thus, without a farewell--without a
word! He despised her--she was no longer worthy of him. That was the
cause of his sudden calmness. There was a crushing grandeur and dignity
in this calmness after the outbursts of fierce despair. The latter
expressed a conflict, the former a victory--and _she_ was vanquished,
hers was the shame, the pangs of conscience, and a strange,
inexplicable grief.
So she sat pondering all night long, always imagining that she had seen
what she had not witnessed, the last look he had fixed upon her, and
then--his noiseless walk through the room. It seemed as though time had
stopped at that moment, and she was compelled, all through the night,
to experience that _one_ instant!
Some one tapped lightly on the door, and the maid entered with a
haggard face. "I only wanted to ask," she said, in a weary, faint tone,
"whether I might go to bed a little while. I have waited all night long
for Your Highness to ring--"
"Why, have you been waiting for me?" said the countess, rising slowly
from the sofa. "I did not know it was so late. What time is it?"
"Nearly six o'clock. But Your Highness looks so pale! Will you not
permit me to put you to bed?"
"Yes, my good Nannie, take me to my bedroom. I cannot walk, my feet are
numb."
"You should lie down at once and try to get warm. You are as cold as
ice!" And the maid, really alarmed by the helplessness of her usually
haughty mistress, helped the drooping figure to her room.
The countess allowed herself to be undressed without resistance,
sitting on the edge of the bed as if paralysed and waiting for the maid
to lift her in. "I thank you," she said in a more gentle tone than the
woman had ever heard from her lips, as the maid voluntarily rubbed the
soles of her feet. Her head instantly sank upon the pillows, which bore
a large embroidered monogram, surmounted by a coronet. When her feet at
last grew warm, she seemed to fall asleep, and the maid left the room.
But Madeleine von Wildenau was not asleep, she was merely exhausted,
and, while her body rested, she constantly beheld _one_ image, felt
_one_ grief.
The maid had determined not to rouse her mistress, and left her
undisturbed.
At last, late in the morning, the weary woman sank into an uneasy
slumber, whence she did not wake until the sun was high in the heavens.
When she opened her eyes, she felt as if she was paralysed in every
limb, but attributed this to the terrible impressions of the previous
day, which would have shaken even the strongest nature.
She rang the bell for the maid and rose. She walked slowly, it is true,
and with great effort--but she _did_ walk. After she had been dressed
and her breakfast was served she wrote:
"The footman Franz is dismissed for rude treatment of the steward
Freyer, and is not to appear in my presence again. The intendant is to
settle the matter of wages.
"Countess Wildenau."
Another servant now brought in a letter on a silver tray.
The countess' hand trembled as she took it--the envelope was one of
those commonly used by Freyer, but the writing was not his.
"Is any one waiting for an answer?" she asked in a hollow tone.
"No, Your Highness, it was brought by a Griess woodcutter."
The countess opened the letter--it was from the maid-servant at the
hunting castle, and contained only the news that the steward had left
suddenly and the servants did not know what to do.
The countess sat motionless for a moment unable to utter a word.
Everything seemed whirling around her in a dizzy circle, she saw
nothing save dimly, as if through a veil, the servant clearing away the
breakfast.
"Let old Martin put the horses in the carriage," she said, hoarsely, at
last.
How the minutes passed before she entered it--how it was possible for
her to assume, in the presence of the maid, the quiet bearing of the
mistress of the estate, who "must see that things were going on right,"
she did not know. Now she sat with compressed lips, holding her breath
that she might seem calm in her own eyes. What will she find on the
height? Two graves of the past, and the empty abode of a former
happiness. She fancied that a dark wing brushed by the carriage window,
as if the death angel were flying by with the cup of wormwood of which
Freyer had once spoken!
She had a horror of the deserted house, the spectres of solitude and
grief, which the vanished man might have left behind. When a house is
dead, it must be closed by the last survivor, and this is always a
sorrowful task. But if he himself has driven love forth, he will cross
the deserted threshold with a lagging step, for the ghost of his own
act will stare at him everywhere from the silent rooms.
Evening had closed in, and the shadows of the mountain were already
gathering around the house, from whose windows no loving eye greeted
her. The carriage stopped. No one came to meet her--everything was
lifeless and deserted. Her heart sank as she alighted.
"Martin--drive to the stable and see if you can find the maid servant,"
said the countess in a low tone, as if afraid of rousing some shape of
horror. Martin did not utter a word, his good natured face was
unusually grave as he drove off around the house in the direction of
the stables.
The countess stood alone before the locked door. The evening wind swept
through the trees and shook the boughs of the pines. A few broken
branches swayed and nodded like crippled arms; they were the ones from
which Freyer had taken the evergreen for the child's coffin. At that
time they were stiff with ice, now the sap, softened by the Spring
rain, was dripping from them. Did she understand what the boughs were
trying to tell her? Were her cheeks wet by the rain or by tears? She
did not know. She only felt unutterably deserted. She stood on the
moss-grown steps, shut out from her own house, and no voice answered
her call.
A cross towered above the tree-tops, it was on the steeple of the old
chapel where they both lay--Josepha and the child. A bird of prey
soared aloft from it and then vanished in the neighboring grove to
shield its plumage from the rain. It had its nest there.
Now all was still again--as if dead, only the cloud rising above the
wood poured its contents on the Spring earth. At last footsteps
approached. It was the girl bringing the keys.
"I beg the countess' pardon--I did not expect Your Highness so late, I
was in the stable unlocking the door," she said. Then she handed her
the bunch of keys. "This one with the label is the key of the steward's
room, he made me promise not to give it to anybody except the countess,
if she should come again."
"Bring a light--it is growing dark," replied the countess, entering the
sitting-room.
"I hope Your Highness will excuse it," said the girl. "Everything is
still just as it was left after the funerals of Josepha and the child.
Herr Freyer wouldn't allow me to clear anything away." She left the
room to get a lamp. There lay the dry pine branches, there stood the
crucifix with the candles, which had burned low in their sockets.
_This_ for weeks had been his sole companionship. Poor, forsaken one!
cried a voice in the countess' heart, and a shudder ran through her
limbs as she saw on the sofa a black pall left from Josepha's funeral.
It seemed as if it were Josepha herself lying there, as if the black
form must rise at her entrance and approach threateningly. Horror
seized her, and she hurried out to meet the girl who was coming with a
light. The steward's room was one story higher, adjoining her own
apartments. She went up the stairs with an uncertain tread, leaving the
girl below. She needed no witness for what she expected to find there.
She thrust the key into the lock with a trembling hand and opened the
door. Sorrowful duty! Wherever she turned in this house of mourning,
she was under the ban of her own guilt. Wherever she entered one of the
empty rooms, it seemed as if whispering, wailing spirits separated and
crept into the corners--to watch until the moment came when they could
rush forth as an avenging army.
At her entrance the movement was communicated through all the boards of
the old floor until it really seemed as if viewless feet were walking
by her side. For a moment she stood still, holding her breath--she had
never before noticed this effect of her own steps, she had never been
here _alone_. Her sleeping-room was beside her husband's--the door
stood open--he must have been in there to bid farewell before going
away. She moved hesitatingly a few steps forward and cast a timid
glance within. The two beds, standing side by side, looked like two
coffins. She felt as if she beheld her own corpse lying there--the
corpse of the former Countess Wildenau, Freyer's wife. The woman
standing here now was a different person--and her murderess! Yet she
grieved for her and still felt her griefs and her death-struggle. She
hastily closed and bolted the door--as if the dead woman within might
come out and call her to an account.
Then she turned her dragging steps toward Freyer's writing-desk, for
that is always the tabernacle where a lonely soul conceals its secrets.
And--there lay a large envelope bearing the address: "To the Countess
Wildenau. To be opened by her own hands!"
She placed the lamp on the table, and sat down to read. She no longer
dreaded the ghosts of her own acts--_he_ was with her and though he had
raged yesterday in the madness of his anguish--he would protect her!
She opened the envelope. Two papers fell into her hands. Her marriage
certificate and a paper in Freyer's writing. The lamp burned unsteadily
and smoked, or were her eyes dim? Now she no longer saw the mistakes in
writing, now she saw between the clumsy characters a noble, grieving
soul which had gazed at her yesterday from a pair of dark eyes--for the
last time! Clasping her hands over the sheet, she leaned her head upon
them like a penitent Magdalene upon the gospel. It was to her also a
gospel--of pain and love. It ran as follows:
"Countess:
"I bid you an affectionate farewell, and enclose the marriage
certificate, that you may have no fear of my causing you any annoyance
by it--
"Everything else which I owe to your kindness I restore, as I can make
no farther use of it. I am sincerely sorry that you were disappointed
in me--I told you that I was not He whom I personated, but a poor,
plain man, but you would not believe it, and made the experiment with
me. It was a great misfortune for both. For you can never be happy, on
account of the sin you wish to commit against me. I will pray God to
release you from me--in a way which will spare you from taking this
heavy sin upon you--but I have still one act of penance to perform
toward my home, to which I have been faithless, that it may still
forgive me in this life. I hear that the Passion Play cannot be
performed in Ammergau next summer, because there is no Christus--that
would be terrible for our poor parish! I will try whether I can help
them out of the difficulty if they will receive me and not repulse me
as befits the renegade." (Here the writing was blurred by tears) "Only
wait, for the welfare of your own soul, until the performances are
over, and I have done my duty to the community. Then God will be
merciful and open a way for us all.
"Your grateful
"Joseph Freyer.
"Postscript:--If it is possible, forgive me for all I did to offend you
yesterday."
There, in brief, untutored words was depicted the martyrdom of a soul,
which had passed through the school of suffering to the utmost
perfection! The most eloquent, polished description of his feelings
would have had less power to touch the countess' heart than these
simple, trite expressions--she herself could not have explained why it
was the helplessness of the uncultured man who had trusted to her
generosity, which spoke from these lines with an unconscious reproach,
which pierced deeper than any complaint. And she had no answer to this
reproach, save the tears which now flowed constantly from her eyes.
Laying her head upon the page, she wept--at last wept.
She remained long in this attitude. A sorrowful peace surrounded her,
nothing stirred within or without, the spirits seemed reconciled by
what they now beheld. The dead Countess Wildenau in the next room had
risen noiselessly, she was no longer there! She was flying far--far
beyond the mountains--seeking--seeking the lost husband, the poor,
innocent husband, who had resigned for her sake all that constitutes
human happiness and human dignity, anxious for one thing only, her
deliverance from what, in his childlike view of religion, he could not
fail to consider a heavy, unforgivable sin! She was flying through a
broad portal in the air--it was the rainbow formed of the tears of love
shed by sundered human hearts for thousands of years. Even so looked
the rainbow, which had arched above her head when she stood on the peak
with the royal son of the mountains, high above the embers of the
forest, through which he had borne her, ruling the flames. They had
spared him--but _she_ had had no pity--they had crouched at his feet
like fiery lions before their tamer, but the woman for whom he had
fought trampled on him. Yet above them arched the rainbow, the symbol
of peace and reconciliation, and under _this_ she had made the oath
which she now intended to break. The dead Countess Wildenau, however,
saw the gleaming bow again, and was soaring through it to her husband,
for she had no further knowledge of earthly things, she knew only the
old, long denied, all-conquering love!
Suddenly the clock on the writing-table began to strike, the penitent
dreamer started. It was striking nine. The clock was still going--he
had wound it. It was a gift from her. He had left all her gifts, he
wrote. That would be terrible. Surely he had not gone without any
means? The key of the writing-table was in the lock. She opened the
drawer. There lay all his papers, books, the rest of the housekeeping
money, and accounts, all in the most conscientious order, and beside
them--oh, that she must see it--a little purse containing his savings
and a savings-bank book, which she herself had once jestingly pressed
upon him. The little book was wrapped in paper, on which was written:
"To keep the graves of my dear ones in Countess Wildenau's chapel."
"Oh, you great, noble heart, which I never understood!" sobbed the
guilty woman, restoring the little volume to its place.
But she could not rest, she must search on and on, she must know
whether he had left her as a beggar? Against the wall beside the
writing-table, stood a costly old armoire, richly ornamented, which had
seen many generations of the Prankenbergs come and pass away. Madeleine
von Wildenau turned the lock with an effort--there hung all his
clothing, just as he had received it from her or purchased it with his
own wages; nothing was missing save the poor little coat, hat and cane,
with which he had left Ammergau with the owner of a fortune numbering
millions. He had wandered forth again as poor as he had come.
Sinking on her knees, she buried her face, overwhelmed with grief and
shame, in her clasped hands.
"Freyer, Freyer, I did not want this--not this!" Now the long repressed
grief which she had inflicted upon herself burst forth unrestrained.
Here she could shriek it out; here no one heard her. "Oh, that you
should leave me thus--unreconciled, without a farewell, with an aching
heart--not even protected from want! And I let you go without one kind
word--I did not even return your last glance. Was it possible that I
could do it?"
The old Prankenberg lion on the coat of arms on the armoire had
doubtless seen many mourners scan the garments whose owners rested
under the sod--but no one of all the women of that failing race had
wept so bitterly over the contents of the armoire--as this last of her
name.
The candle had burned low in the socket, a star glinting through the
torn clouds shone through the uncurtained windows. Beyond the forest
the first flashes of spring lightning darted to and fro.
Madeleine von Wildenau rose and stood for a while in the middle of the
room, pondering. What did she want here? She had nothing more to find
in the empty house. The dead Countess Wildenau was once more sleeping
in the adjoining room, and the living one no longer belonged to
herself. Was it, could it be true, that she had thrust out the peaceful
inmate of this house? Thrust him forever from the modest home she had
established for him? "Husband, father of my child, where are you?" No
answer! He was no longer hers! He had risen from the humiliation she
inflicted upon him, he had stripped off the robe of servitude, and gone
forth, scorning her and all else--a poor but free man!
She must return to the slavery of her own guilt and of prosaic
existence, while he went farther and farther away, like a vanishing
star. She felt that her strength was failing, she must go, or she would
sink dying in this place of woe--alone without aid or care.
She folded the marriage certificate and Freyer's letter together, and
without another glance around the room--the ghost of her awakened
conscience was stirring again, she took the dying candle and hurried
down. The steps again creaked behind her, as though some one was
following her downstairs. She had ordered the carriage at nine, it must
have been waiting a long time. Her foot faltered at the door of the
sitting-room, but she passed on--it was impossible for her to enter it
again--she called--but the maid-servant had gone to her work in the
stables--nothing save her own trembling voice echoed back through the
passages. She went out. The carriage was standing at the side of the
house. The rain had ceased, the forest was slumbering and all the
creatures which animated it by day with it.
The countess locked the door. "Now interweave your boughs and shut it
in!" she said to the briers and pines which stood closely around it.
"Spread out your branches and compass it with an impenetrable hedge
that no one may find it. The Sleeping Beauty who slumbers here--nothing
must ever rouse!"