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!"
