Gloria Victis! Part 39

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 pa.s.ses 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, "G.o.d 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.