On the Cross Part 60

"No, but wherever two human beings stand before a priest in the name of G.o.d, there is a viewless altar."

"Those are subjective Catholic opinions which I do not understand--I do not consider myself married, and you need not do so either."

"Not married? Do you know what you are saying?"

"What I _must_ say, to loose _your_ bonds as well as _mine_."

"Good Heavens, what will it avail if you loose my bonds and at the same time cut an artery so that I bleed to death? No, no, you cannot be so cruel. You cannot be in earnest. Omnipotent Father--you did not say it, take back the words. Lord, forgive her, she does not know what she is doing! Oh, take back those words--I will not believe that my wife, my dear wife, can be so wicked!"

"Moderate your expressions! I guarantee my standpoint; ask whom you choose, you will hear that we are not married!"

Freyer rushed up to her and seized her by the shoulders, shaking her as a tempest shakes a young birch-tree. "Not married--do you know then what you are!" He waited vainly for an answer, he seemed fairly crazed.

"Shall I tell you, shall I? Then for nine years you were a----"

"Do not finis.h.!.+" shrieked the countess, wrenching herself with a desperate effort from the terrible embrace and hurling him from her.

"Yes, I will finish, and you deserve that the whole world should hear and point the finger of scorn at you. I ought to shout to all the winds of Heaven that the Countess Wildenau, who is too proud to be called a poor man's wife, was not too proud to be his----"

"Traitor, ungrateful, dishonorable traitor! Is this your return for my love? Take a knife and thrust it into my heart, it would be more seemly than to threaten me with degradation!" She drew herself up to her full height and raised her hand as if to take an oath: "Accursed be the hour I raised you from the dust to my side. Curses on the false humanity which strove to efface the distinctions of rank, curses on the murmur of 'the eternal rights of man' which removes the fetters from brutishness, that it may set its foot upon the neck of culture! It is like the child which opens the door to the whining wolf to be torn to pieces by the brute. Yes, take yourself out of my life, gloomy shadow which I conjured from those seething depths in which ruin is wrought for us--take yourself away, you have no longer any part in me!--Your right is doubly, trebly forfeited, your spell is broken, your strength recoils from the s.h.i.+eld of a n.o.ble spirit, under whose protection I stand. Dare to lay hands on me again and--you will insult the betrothed bride of the Duke of Barnheim and must account to him."

A cry--a heavy fall--Freyer lay senseless.

The countess timidly stroked the pallid face--a strange memory stole over her--thus he lay prostrate on the ground when he was nailed to the cross. She could not help looking at him again and again: Oh, that all this should be a lie! Those features--that n.o.ble brow, on which the majesty of suffering was throned--the very image of the Saviour! Yet only an image, a mask! She looked away, she would gaze no longer, she would not again fall a victim to the old delusion--she would not let herself be softened by the wonderful, delusive face! But what was she to do? If she called her servants, she would be the talk of the whole city on the morrow. She must aid him, try to restore him to consciousness alone. Yet if she now roused him from the merciful stupor, if the grief and rage which had overwhelmed him should break forth again--would he not murder her? Was it strange that she remained so calm in the presence of this thought? A contemptuous indifference to death had taken possession of her. "If he kills me, he has a right to do so."

She was too lofty to shun punishment which she had deserved, though it were her death. So she awaited her fate.

She brought a little bottle filled with a pungent essence from her sleeping-room, and poured a few drops into his mouth. It was long ere he gave any sign of life--it seemed as though the soul was reluctant to awake, as if it would not return to consciousness. At last he opened his eyes;--they rested as coldly on the little trembling hand which was busied about him as if he had never clasped it, never kissed it, never pressed it to his throbbing heart. The storm had spent its fury--he was calm!

The countess had again been mistaken in him, as usual--his conduct was always unlike her antic.i.p.ations. He rose as quickly as his strength permitted, pa.s.sed his hand over his disordered hair, and looked for his hat: "I beg your pardon for having startled you--forget this scene, which I might have spared you and myself, had I known what I do now. I deeply lament that the error which clouded your life has lasted so long!"

"Yes," she said, and the words fell from her lips with the sharp sound of a diamond cutting gla.s.s: "Yes, it was not _worth_ it!"

Freyer turned and gave her one last look--she felt it through her lowered lids. She had sunk on the sofa and fixed her eyes on the ground. A death-like chill ran through her limbs--she waited in her position as if paralysed. All was still for a moment, then she heard a light step cross the soft carpet of the room--and when she looked up, the door had closed behind Joseph Freyer.

CHAPTER XXIX.

IN THE DESERTED HOUSE.

The night had pa.s.sed, day was s.h.i.+ning 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 crus.h.i.+ng 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, hoa.r.s.ely, at last.

How the minutes pa.s.sed before she entered it--how it was possible for her to a.s.sume, 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.